But Levina had forgotten, as older people sometimes do, that Margaret was no longer a child to be kept in silent subjection. Girls of fifteen--and she was nearly that now--were virtually women in the thirteenth century. Margaret turned to the scoffing Levina, with an air of dignified displeasure which rather startled the latter.

"Levina! thou hast forgotten thyself. Do as thou art bid."

And Levina disappeared without venturing a reply.

"What have they done to thy brother, Belasez?" asked Margaret.

"They beat him sorely. Damsel, and turned him forth into the street."

"Where did he go?"

"That is known to the Blessed One. Out in the fields somewhere. It is not the first time that a Jew hath lain hidden for a night or more, until the fury of the Christians should pa.s.s away."

Doucebelle de Vaux was a grave and thoughtful girl, beyond her years.

She sat silent now, trying to recall, from the stores of a memory not too well furnished, whether Christ, whom these Christians professed to follow, had ever treated people in such a manner as this. At length she remembered that she had seen a picture at Thetford of His driving sundry people out of the Temple with a scourge. But was that because they were Jews? Doucebelle thought not. She was too ignorant to be sure, but she fancied they had been doing something wrong.

"I should think," said Margaret warmly, "that you Jews must hate us Christians."

"Christians are not all alike," said Belasez with a faint smile.

"But do you not hate us?" persisted Margaret.

"Delecresse does, I am afraid," replied Belasez, colouring.

"But thyself?"

"No. O my Damsel, no!" She warmed into vivid life for an instant, to make this reply; then she sank back against the wall, apparently overpowered by utter weariness.

"I am glad of that," said Margaret, with her usual outspoken earnestness.--"What can Levina be doing? Doucebelle, do go and see.-- And hast thou been hard at work at Norwich all the summer, Belasez?"

"No, if it please my Damsel. I have dwelt all this summer at Lincoln, with my mother's father."

"'The Devil overlooks Lincoln,' they say," remarked Margaret, laughingly. "I hope he did thee no mischief, Belasez. But, perhaps Jews do not believe in the Devil?"

"Ah! We have good cause to believe in the Devil," answered Belasez gravely. "Nay, Damsel, he did me no mischief. Yet--what know I? The Holy One knoweth all things."

Belasez's tone struck Margaret as hinting at some one thing in particular. But she did not explain further. Perhaps she was too tired.

Doucebelle returned at this point, followed by Levina, who carried a plate of manchet-bread and a bowl of milk. And though Belasez did not know it, she owed thanks to Doucebelle that it was not skim milk. The young Jewess ate as if she were very faint as well as weary.

"Then hast thou come here all the way from Lincoln?" inquired Margaret when the bowl was emptied.

"If it please my Damsel, no. I had returned home only two days before the riot."

"Is thy mother living?" asked Margaret abruptly.

"Yes. She abode at Lincoln with my grandfather. He is very old, and will not in likelihood live long. When he dies, my mother will come back to us."

"Do go to bed, Belasez. Thou canst scarcely hold thine head up, nor thine eyes open," said Margaret compa.s.sionately: and Belasez accepted the invitation with thanks. Doucebelle went with her, and silently noticed two facts: that Belasez stood for a few minutes in silent prayer, with her face turned to the wall, before she offered to undress; and that she was fast asleep almost as soon as her head had touched the pillow.

Doucebelle stood still and looked at the sleeping girl. Why was it so wicked to be a Jew? Had Belasez been a Christian of n.o.ble birth, or even of mean extraction, she would have been regarded as an ornament of any Court in Christendom. Some n.o.bleman or knight would very soon have found that lovely face, and her refined and dignified manners were fit for any lady in the land. Why must she be regarded as despicable, and treated with abuse and loathing, merely because she had been born a Jewess? Of course Doucebelle knew the traditionary reason--because the Jews had crucified Christ. But Belasez had not been one of them. Why must she bear the shame of others' sins? Did none of my ancestors, thought Doucebelle, ever do some wicked deed? Yet people do not despise me on that account. Why do they scorn her?

Belasez stirred in her sleep, and one or two broken words dropped from her unconscious lips. Greatly interested, and a little startled, Doucebelle bent over her. But she could make out nothing connected from the indistinct utterances. It sounded as if Belasez were dreaming about somebody whose face she could not see. "Hid faces," Doucebelle heard her murmur. It was probably, she thought, some reminiscence connected with the tumults which had brought her to seek shelter at the Castle.

Doucebelle drew the coverlet higher over the weary sleeper, and went to seek rest in her own bed.

CHAPTER FIVE.

NOT WISELY.

"I love but one, and only one,-- O Damon, thou art he; Love thou but one, and only one, And let that one be me."

[Note 1.]

The pedlar, Abraham, declined to remain at the Castle. There were plenty of places, he said, where an old man could be safe: it was quite another thing for a young girl. If his gracious Lady would of her bounty give his bird shelter until the riot and its consequences were over, and every thing peaceable again, Abraham would come and fetch her as soon as he deemed it thoroughly prudent. Meanwhile, Belasez could work for the Lady. The Countess was only too pleased to procure such incomparable embroidery on such easy terms. She set Belasez to work on the border of an armilaus, intended as a present for the new Queen: for the hitherto unmarriageable King had at last found a Princess to accept him. She was the second daughter of a penniless Provencal Count; but she was a great beauty, though an extremely young girl; and her eldest sister was Queen of France. She proved a costly bargain. Free from all visible vices except two, which, unfortunately, were two cultivated by Henry himself--unscrupulous acquisition and reckless extravagance--she nevertheless contrived to do terrible mischief, by giving her husband no advice in general, and bad advice whenever she gave it in particular.

His ivy-like nature wanted a strong b.u.t.tress upon which to lean; and Eleonore of Provence was neither stronger nor more stable than himself.

Her one idea of life was to enjoy herself to the utmost. When she wanted a new dress, she had not the slightest notion of waiting till she had money to pay for it. What were the people of England in her eyes, but machines for making it--things to be taxed--a vast and inexhaustible treasury, of which you did but turn the handle, and coins came showering out?

So the tax-gatherers went grinding on, and the land cried to G.o.d, and the Court heard no sound. The man who was to be G.o.d's avenger upon them was an obscure foreigner as yet. And the English n.o.ble who above all others was to aid him in that vengeance, was still only a fair-haired youth of fifteen, whose thoughts were busy with a very different subject. But out of the one, the other was to grow, watered by tears and blood.

He was standing--young Richard de Clare--in one of the recessed windows of the great hall, with Margaret beside him. They were talking in very low tones. Richard's manner was pleading and earnest, while Margaret's eyes were cast down, and she was diligently winding round her finger a shred of green sewing-silk, as though her most important concern were to make it go round a certain number of times.

It was the old story, so many times repeated in this world, sometimes to flow smoothly on like waters to their haven, sometimes to end in stormy wreckage and bitter disappointment.

They were very young lovers. We should term them mere boy and girl, and count them unfit to consider the matter at all. But in the thirteenth century, when circ.u.mstances forced men and women early to the front, and sixty years was considered ripe old age, fifteen was equivalent at least to twenty now.

In this instance, the course of true love--for it was on both sides very true--seemed likely to be smooth enough. The King had granted the marriage of Richard to Earl Hubert; and, as was then well understood, the person to whom he would most probably marry his ward was his own daughter. The only irregular item of the matter was that the pair should fall in love, or should broach the subject at all to each other.

But human hearts are unaccountable articles; and even in those days, when matrimony was an affair of rule and compa.s.ses, those irregular things did occasionally conduct themselves in a very irregular manner, leading young people to fall in love (and sometimes to run away) with the wrong person, but happily and occasionally, as in this instance, with the right one.

Half an hour later, Margaret was kneeling on a velvet cushion at the feet of the Countess, who was (with secret delight) receiving auricular confession concerning the very point on which she had set her heart.

This mother and daughter were great friends,--a state of things too infrequent at any time, and particularly so in the Middle Ages.

Margaret, the only one of her mother, was an unusually cherished and petted child. The result was that she had no fear of the Countess, and looked upon her as her natural confidante. Perhaps, if more daughters would do so, there might be fewer unhappy marriages. At the same time it must be admitted, that some mothers by no means invite confidence.

The Countess of Kent, sweet as she was, had one great failing,--a fault often to be found in very gentle and amiable natures. She was not sufficiently straightforward. Instead of honestly telling people what she wanted them to do, she liked to manage them into it; and this managing involved at most times more or less dissimulation. She dearly loved to conduct her affairs by a series of little secrets. This is a temperament which usually rests on a mixture of affection and want of courage. We cannot bear to grieve those whom we love, and we shrink from calling down their anger on ourselves, or even from risking their disapprobation of our conduct, past or proposed. Now, it had been for some years the dearest wish of the Countess's heart that her Margaret should marry Richard de Clare. But she never whispered her desire to any one,--least of all to her husband, with whom, humanly speaking, it lay mainly to promote or defeat it. And now, when Margaret's blushing confession was whispered to her, the Countess privately congratulated herself on her excellent management, and thought how much better it was to pull unseen strings than to blaze one's wishes abroad.

"And, Lady, will you of your grace plead for us with my Lord and father?" said Margaret in a coaxing tone at last.

"Oh, leave it all to me," replied her mother. "I will manage him into it. Never tell a man anything, my dove, if thou wouldst have him do it.

Men are such obstinate, perverse creatures, that as often as not they will just go the other way out of sheer wilfulness. Thou must always contrive to manage them into it."

Margaret, who had inherited her father's honesty with her mother's amiability, was rather puzzled by this counsel.

"But how do you manage them?" said she.

"There is an art in that, my dear. It takes brains. Different men require very different kinds of management. Now thy father is one who will generally consent to a thing when it is done, though he would not if it were suggested to him at first. He rather likes his own way; still, he is very good when he is well managed,"--for instance after instance came floating back to the wife's mind, in which he had against his own judgment given way to her. "So that is the way to manage him.

Now our Lord King Henry requires entirely different handling."