In Convent Walls.

by Emily Sarah Holt.

PREFACE.

The historical portion of this tale has been partially narrated in one of my previous volumes, "In All Time of our Tribulation," in which the Despenser story is begun, and its end told from another point of view.

That volume left Isabelle of France at the height of her ambition, in the place to reach which she had been plotting so long and so unscrupulously. Here we see the Nemesis come upon her and the chief partner of her guilt; the proof that there is a G.o.d that judgeth in the earth. It is surely one of the saddest stories of history--sad as all stories are which tell of men and women whom G.o.d has endowed richly with gifts, and who, casting from them the Divine hand which would fain lift them up into the light of the Golden City, deliberately choose the pathway of death, and the blackness of darkness for ever. Few women have had grander opportunities given them than Isabelle for serving G.o.d and making their names blessed and immortal. She chose rather to serve self: and thereby inscribed her name on one of the blackest pages of England's history, and handed down her memory to eternal execration.

For "life is to do the will of G.o.d"--the true blessedness and glory of life here, no less than the life hereafter.

"Oh, the bitter shame and sorrow, That a time should ever be When I let the Saviour's pity Plead in vain, and proudly answered-- 'All of self, and none of Thee!'

"Yet He found me; I beheld Him Bleeding on the accursed tree,-- Heard Him pray, 'Forgive them, Father!'

And my wistful heart said faintly, 'Some of self, and some of Thee!'

"Day by day, His tender mercy, Healing, helping, full and free, Sweet and strong, and, ah! so patient, Brought me lower, while I whispered, 'Less of self, and more of Thee!'

"Higher than the highest heaven, Deeper than the deepest sea, Lord, Thy love at last hast conquered: Grant me now my heart's desire-- 'None of self, and all of Thee!'"

PART ONE.

CHAPTER 1.

WHEREIN DAME CICELY DE CHAUCOMBE SCRIBETH SOOTHLINESS (1360).

WHEREIN COMMENCE THE ANNALS OF CICELY.

"Heaven does with us, as we with torches do-- Not light them for themselves."

Shakespeare.

"It is of no use, Jack," quoth I. "I never did love her, I never can, and never shall."

"And I never bade you, Sissot," answered he. "Put that in belike, prithee."

"But you bade me write the story out," said I. "Ay, I did so. But I left you free to speak your mind of any body that should come therein, from a bishop to a baa-lamb," said he.

"Where shall I go for mine ink?" I made answer: "seeing that some part of my tale, to correspond to the matter, should need to be writ in vernage, [Note 1] and some other in verjuice."

"Keep two quills by you," saith he, "with inkhorns of the twain, and use either according to the matter."

"Ay me!" said I. "It should be the strangest and woefullest tale ever writ by woman."

"The more need that it should be writ," quoth Jack, "by them that have lived it, and can tell the sooth-fastness [truth] thereof. Look you, Sissot, there are men enough will tell the tale of hearsay, such as they may win of one and another, and that is like to be full of guile and contrariousness. And many will tell it to win favour of those in high place, and so shall but the half be told. Thou hast lived through it, and wist all the inwards thereof, at least from thine own standing-spot.

Let there be one tale told just as it was, of one that verily knew, and had no purpose to win gold or favour, but only to speak sooth-fastness."

"You set me an hard task, Jack!" I said, and I think I sighed.

"Easier to do, maybe, than to reckon on," saith he, in his dry, tholemode [Note 2] way. "Thou needest write but one word at once, and thou canst take thine own time to think what word to write."

"But I have no parchment," said I. I am a little afraid I coveted not any, for I fancied not the business at all. It was Jack who wanted the story writ out fair, not I.

"Well, I have," saith Jack calmly.

"Nor any quills," said I.

"I have," saith Jack, after the same fashion.

"And the ink is dried-up."

"Then will we buy more."

"But--" I stayed, for I thought I had better hold my tongue.

"But--I have no mind to it," saith Jack. "That might have come first, Sissot. It shows, when it doth, that thou hast come to an end of thine excuses. Nay, sweet heart, do but begin, and the mind will have after."

"Lack-a-daisy!" said I, trying to laugh, though I felt somewhat irked [worried, irritated]: "I reckon, then, I had best do mine husband's bidding without more ado."

"There spake my Sissot," saith he. "Good dame!"

So here am I, sat at this desk, with a roll of parchment that Jack hath cut in even leches [strips] for to make a book, and an inkhorn of fresh ink, and divers quills--O me! must all this be writ up?

Well, have forth! I shall so content Jack, and if I content not myself, that shall pay me.

It was through being one of Queen Isabel's gentlewomen that I came to know these things, and, as Jack saith, to live through my story. And I might go a step further back, for I came to that dignity by reason of being daughter unto Dame Alice de Lethegreve, that was of old time nurse to King Edward. So long as I was a young maid, I was one of the Queen's sub-damsels; but when I wedded my Jack (and a better Jack never did maiden wed) I was preferred to be damsel of the chamber: and in such fashion journeyed I with the Queen to France, and tarried with her all the time she dwelt beyond seas, and came home with her again, and was with her the four years following, until all brake up, and she was appointed to keep house at Rising Castle. So the whole play was played before mine own eyes.

I spake only sooth-fastness when I told Jack I could never love her.

How can man love whom he cannot trust? It would have been as easy to put faith in a snake because it had lovesome marks and colouring, as in that fair, fair face--ay, I will not deny that it was marvellous fair-- with the gleaming eyes, which now seemed to flash with golden light, and now to look like the dark depths of a stagnant pool. Wonderful eyes they were! I am glad I never trusted them.

Nor did I never trust her voice. It was as marvellous as the eyes. It could be sweet as honey and sharp as a two-edged sword; soft as dove's down, and hard as an agate stone. Too soft and sweet to be sooth-fast!

She meant her words only when they were sword and agate.

And the King--what shall I say of him? In good sooth, I will say nothing, but leave him to unfold himself in the story. I was not the King's foster-sister in sooth, for I was ten years the younger; and it was Robin, my brother, that claimed kin with him on that hand. But he was ever hendy [amiable, kindly, courteous] to me. G.o.d rest his hapless soul!

But where shall my tale begin? Verily, I have no mind to set forth from the creation, as chroniclers are wont. I was not there then, and lived not through that, nor of a long while after. Must I then begin from my creation? aswhasay [as who should say--that is to say], as near it as my remembrance taketh me. Nay, I think not so: for then should I tell much of the reign of King Edward of Westminster [Edward the First], that were right beside the real story. I think I shall take date from the time of the Queen's first departure to France, which was the year of our Lord G.o.d, 1324.

I was a young maid of seventeen years when I entered the Queen's household,--her own age. But in another sense, I was tenfold the child that she was. Indeed, I marvel if she ever were a child. I rather think she was born grown-up, as the old heathen fabled Minerva to have been. While on waiting, I often used to see and hear things that I did not understand, yet which I could feel were disapproved by something inside me: I suppose it must have been my conscience. And if at those times I looked on my mother's face, I could often read disapproval in her eyes also. I never loved the long secret discourses there used to be betwixt the Queen and her uncle, my Lord of Lancaster: they always had to me the air of plotting mischief. Nor did I ever love my Lord of Lancaster; there was no simplicity nor courtesy in him. His natural manner (when he let it be seen) was stern and abrupt; but he did very rarely allow it to be seen; it was nearly always some affectation put on. And I hate that, and so doth Jack.

At that time I loved and hated instinctively, as I think children do; and at seventeen years, I was a child in all things save by the almanac.

I could rarely tell why I did not love people--only, I did not love them. I knew oftener why I did. I never thought much of Sir Piers de Gavaston, that the King so dearly affected, but I never hated him in a deadly fashion, as some did that I knew. I loved better Sir Hugh Le Despenser, that was afterwards Earl of Gloucester, for he--

"Sissot," saith a voice behind me, "what is the name of that chronicle?"

"I cannot tell, Jack," said I. "What wouldst have it called?"

"'The Annals of Cicely,'" quoth he; "for she is beginning, middle, and end of it."