Earl Hubert's Daughter Part 10

Yet how was it, if the Church were the mouthpiece of G.o.d, that the commands issued by the One were diametrically at variance with the recommendations given by the other? If G.o.d did not change,--if the Church did not change,--when had they been in accord, and how came they to differ?

Doucebelle had now reached a point where she could neither turn round nor go further. The more she cogitated on her problem, the more insoluble it appeared to her. Yet her instinctive feeling told her that to refer it to Father Nicholas would be of no service. He was one of the better cla.s.s of priests,--a man of respectable character, with literary proclivities, which had in his case the effect of keeping him from vice on the one hand, and of deadening his spiritual sensibilities on the other. To him, the religion he taught, and had himself been taught, was sufficient for all necessities, and he could not understand any one wanting more. When a man's mind has never been disturbed by the question, it is no cause for wonder that he has never sought for the answer.

That Father Nicholas would have listened to her, Doucebelle knew; for he was by no means an unkind or disobliging man. But she had sense to perceive that he was incapable of understanding her, and that his only idea of dealing with such queries would be not to solve, but to suppress them.

Doucebelle pa.s.sed in mental review every person in the Castle: and every one, in turn, she dismissed as unsuitable for her purpose. The other chaplain of the Earl, Father Warner, was a stern, harsh man, of whom she, in common with all the young people, was very much afraid; she could not think of putting such queries to him. The chaplain of the Countess, Father Elias, had just resigned his post, and his successor had not yet been appointed. Master Aristoteles, the household physician, was an excellent authority on the virtues of comfrey or frogs' brains, but a very poor resource on a theological question. The Earl was not at home. The Countess would be likely to enter into Doucebelle's perplexities little better than Father Nicholas, and would playfully chide her for entertaining them. All the young people were too young except Sir John de Burgh and Hawise. Sir John had not an idea beyond war, politics, and falconry; and Hawise was accustomed to decline mental investigations altogether. So Doucebelle was shut up to her thoughts and her Psalter. Perhaps she might have been worse situated.

On the 7th of February 1235, died Hugh, Bishop of Lincoln, "the enemy of all monks." He had not, however, by any means been the enemy of all superst.i.tion. He was remarkably easy to take in by young women who had sustained personal encounters with Satan, nuns who had been favoured with apparitions of the Virgin, and monks to whom Saint Peter or Saint Lawrence had made revelations. It is little wonder that he was canonised, and perhaps not much that a touch of his bones, or a shred of his chasuble, were a.s.serted to be possessed of miraculous power. A very different man filled the see of Lincoln in his stead. On the 3rd of June following, Robert Grosteste was appointed to the vacant episcopal throne.

Grosteste was a man who had learned his life-lessons, not from priest or monk, from Fathers or Decretals, but direct from G.o.d. I do not presume to say that he held no false doctrine, or that he made no mistakes: but considering the time at which he lived, and the corruption all around him, his teaching was singularly free from "wood, hay, stubble"-- singularly clear, evangelical, and true to the one Foundation.

Especially he set himself in opposition to the most popular doctrine of the day--that which was termed grace of congruity. And for a man in such a position to set himself in entire and active opposition to popular taste and belief, and to persevere in it, requires supplies either of vast pride from Satan, or of great grace from G.o.d. Grace of congruity is simply a variety of the old heresy of human merit. It clad its proud self in the silver robe of humility, by professing to possess only an _imperfect_ degree of qualification for the reception of G.o.d's grace. Grace of condignity, on the other hand, put itself on an equality with the Divine gift, by its pretension to possess that qualification to the uttermost.

The summer was chiefly occupied by pageants and feasts, for there were two royal marriages, that of the Princess Marjory of Scotland with Gilbert de Clare, and that of the Princess Isabel of England with the Emperor Frederic the Second of Germany. The latter ceremony did not take place in England, but the gorgeous preparations did: for Henry the Third, who delighted in spending money even more than in acquiring it, provided his sister with the most splendid trousseau ever known even for a royal bride. Her very cooking-vessels were all of silver, and her reins and bridles were worked in gold. She was married at Worms, in June: the wedding of the Princess Marjory took place on the first of August. Abraham and Belasez were faithful to their promises, and the beautiful scarf, wrought in scarlet and gold, was delivered into Marjory's hands in time to be worn at the wedding. The young people of the Castle were naturally interested in the stereotyped rough and silly gambols which were then the invariable concomitants of a marriage: and the stocking, skilfully flung by Marie, hit Margaret on the head, to the intense delight of the merry group around her. The equally amusing work of cutting up the bride-cake revealed Richard de Clare in possession of the ring, supposed to indicate approaching matrimony, Marie of the silver penny which denoted riches, and Doucebelle of the thimble which doomed her to celibacy.

"There, now! 'Tis as plain to be seen as the church spire!" said Eva, clapping her hands. "Margaret is destined by fate to wed with my cousin Sir Richard."

"Well, if 'fate' mean my wish and intention, so she is," whispered the Countess to her sister the bride.

"Doth thy Lord so purpose it?" asked Marjory.

"Oh, hus.h.!.+" responded the Countess, laughing. "He knows nothing about it, and I don't intend that he shall, just yet. Trust me to bring things about."

"But suppose he should be angry?"

"_Pure foy_! He is never angry with me. Oh, thou dost not understand, my dear Madge,--at present. Men always want managing. When thou hast been wed a year, thou wilt know more about it."

"But can all women manage men?" asked Marjory in an amused tone.

"_Ha, chetife_! No, indeed. And there are some men who can't be managed,--worse luck! But my Lord is not one of the latter, the holy saints be thanked."

"And thou art one of the women who can manage men," answered Marjory, laughing. "I wonder at thee, Magot, and have done so many times,--thou hast such a strange power of winning folks to thy will."

"Well, that some have, and some have not. I have it, I know," said the Countess, complacently. "But I will give thee a bit of counsel, Madge, which thou mayest find useful. First, have a will: let it be clear and distinct in thine own mind, what thou wouldst have done. And, secondly, let people see that thou takest quietly for granted that of course they will do it. There is a great deal in that, with some people. A weak will always bends to a strong."

"But when two strong ones come in collision, how then?"

"Why, like wild animals,--fight it out, and discover which is the stronger."

"A tournament of wills!" said Marjory. "I should hardly care to enter those lists, I think."

The Countess laughed, and shook her head. She knew that among the strong-willed women Marjory was not to be reckoned.

A tournament of that cla.s.s was being held all that summer between the regular priests and the newly-inst.i.tuted Predicant Friars. The priests complained that the friars presumed to hear confessions in the churches, which it was the prerogative of the regularly appointed priests to do: and wrathfully alleged that the public were more ready to confess to these travelling mendicants than to the proper authorities. It is possible that the cause may be traced to that human proclivity which inclines a man to confide rather in a stranger whom he may never meet again, than in one who can remind him of uncomfortable facts at inconvenient times: but also it is possible that the people recognised in the teaching of the Minorite Friars, largely recruited as they were from the ranks of the Waldenses, somewhat more of that good news which Christ came to bring to men, than of the endless, unmeaning ceremonies which enc.u.mbered the doctrine of the regular priests.

The summer had given place to autumn. The courtyard of Bury Castle was strewn with golden and russet leaves; the Countess was preparing a new dress for the feast of Saint Luke. A foggy day had ended in a dark night, and Eva threw down her work and rethreaded her needle with a long-drawn sigh. "Tired of sewing, Eva?"

"Very tired, Lady. I almost wish b.u.t.tons grew on robes, and required no sewing."

"Lazy maiden!" said the Countess playfully. "Then I am lazy too,"

interposed Margaret; "for I do hate sewing."

"If it please the Lady," said Levina's voice at the door, "an old man and woman entreat the honour of laying a pet.i.tion before her."

"An old man and woman?--such a night as this! Do they come from the town?"

"If it please the Lady, I do not know."

"Very well. If the warder thinks them not suspicious persons, they can come into the hall. I shall be down shortly."

When the Countess descended, followed by Margaret and Doucebelle, she found her pet.i.tioners awaiting her. Most unsuspicious, harmless, feeble creatures they looked. The old man had tottered in as if barely able to stand; the old woman walked with a stout oaken staff, and was bent nearly double.

"Well, good people!--what would ye have?" asked the Countess.

In answer, the old man lifted his head, pulled away a ma.s.s of false grey hair and a wax mask from, his face, and the old Jew pedlar, Abraham of Norwich, stood before the astonished ladies.

"I am come," he said in a voice broken by emotion, "to claim my Lady's promise."

"What promise, old man?"

"My Lady was pleased to say, that if the robbers broke into the nest, or the hawk hovered over it, the young bird should be safe in her care."

"Thy daughter? I remember, I did say so. Where is she?"

At a signal from Abraham, the aged woman at his side suddenly straightened herself, and the removal of another wax mask and some false white hair revealed the beautiful face of Belasez.

"Welcome, my maiden," said the Countess kindly. "And what troubles have a.s.sailed thee, old Abraham, which made this disguise and flight necessary?"

"My Lady is good to her poor servants,--may the Blessed One bind her in the bundle of life! But not all Christians are like her. Lady, there is this day sore trouble, and great rebuke and blasphemy, against the sons of Israel that dwell in Norwich. They accuse us of having kidnapped and crucified a Christian child. They lay too much to us, Lady,--too much! We have never done such a thing, nor thought of it.

But the house of my Lady's servant is despoiled, and his son ill-treated, and his brother in the gaol at Norwich for this cause: and to save his beautiful Belasez he has brought her to his gracious Lady.

Will she give his bird shelter in her nest, according to her word?"

"Indeed I will," answered the Countess. "Margaret, take the maid up to thine ante-chamber, and bid Levina bring her food. She must stay here a while. And thou, sit thou down, old Abraham, and rest and refresh thee."

"Truly, my Lady is as one of the angels of the Holy One to her tried servants!" said Abraham thankfully.

Belasez kissed the hand of the Countess, and then turned and followed Margaret to the ante-chamber.

"Art thou very tired, Belasez?"

"Very, very weary, my Damsel. We have come fourteen miles on foot since yesterday."

Very weary Belasez looked. Now that the momentary excitement of her arrival and reception was over, the light had died out of the languid eyes, and her head drooped as if she could scarcely hold it up.

"Go to bed," said Margaret; "that is the best place for over-tired people.--Levina! My Lady and mother wills thee to bring the maid some food."

Levina appeared at the door, with an expression of undisguised annoyance.

"_Ha, chetife_!--if here is not my Lady Countess Jew come again! What would it please her sweetest Grace to take?"