"Jack! Dost thou nothing regard folks' thoughts of thee?"

"Certes. I regard thine full diligently."

"But other folks, that be nought to thee, I would say."

"If the folks be nought to me, wherefore should the thoughts be of import? Securely, good wife, but very little. I shall sleep the sweeter for those fardels: and I count I should sleep none the worser if man laughed at me. The blessing of the poor and the blessing of the Lord be full apt to go together: and dost thou reckon I would miss that--yea, so much as one of them--out of regard for that which is, saith Solomon, '_sonitum spinarum sub olla_'? [Ecclesiastes chapter seven, verse 6]. _Ha, jolife_! let the thorns crackle away, prithee; they shall not burn long."

"Jack," said I, "thou _art_ the best man ever lived!"

"Rhyme on, my fair _trouvere_," quoth he. [Troubadour. Their lays were usually legends and fict.i.tious tales.] "But, Sissot, to speak sooth, I will tell thee, if thou list to hearken, what it is keepeth my steps from running into many a by-way, and mine heart from going astray after many a flower sown of Satan in my path."

"Do tell me, Jack," said I.

"There be few days in my life," saith he, "that there cometh not up afore mine eyes that Bar whereat I shall one day stand, and that Book out of the which all my deeds shall be read afore men and angels. And I have some concern for the thoughts of them that look on, that day, rather than this. Many a time--ay, many a time twice told--in early morn or in evening twilight, have I looked up into heaven, and the thought hath swept o'er me like a fiery breeze--'What if our Lord be coming this minute?' Dost thou reckon, Sissot, that man to whom such thoughts be familiar friends, shall be oft found sitting in the alebooth, or toying with frothy vanities? I trow not."

"But, Jack!" cried I, letting all else drop, "is that all real to thee?"

"Real, Sissot? There is not another thing as real in life."

I burst forth. I could not help it.

"O Jack, Jack! Don't go and be a monk!"

"Go and be a monk!" saith Jack, with an hearty laugh. "Why, Wife, what bees be in thine hood? I thought I was thine husband."

"So thou art, the saints be thanked," said I. "But thou art so good, I am sore afraid thou wilt either die or be a monk."

"I'll not be a monk, I promise thee," quoth he. "I am not half good enough, nor would I lose my Sissot. As to dying, be secure I shall not die an hour afore G.o.d's will is: and the Lord hath much need of good folks to keep this bad world sweet. I reckon we may be as good as we can with reasonable safety. I'll try, if thou wilt."

So I did, and yet do: but I shall never be match to Jack.

Well, by this time we had won back to the Queen's lodging; and at foot of degrees I bade good-night to Jack, being that night appointed to the pallet--a business I never loved. I was thinking on Jack's last words, as I went up, and verily had for the nonce forgat that which went afore, when all at once a voice saith in mine ear--

"Well, Dame Cicely! Went you forth in such haste lest you should be clapped into prison for stealing? Good lack, but mine heart's in my mouth yet! Were you wood [mad], or what ailed you?"

"Dame Elizabeth," said I, as all came back on me, "I have been to visit Hilda's mother."

"Dear heart! And what found you? Was she a-supping on goose and leeks?

That make o' folks do alway feign to be as poor as Job, when their coffers be so full the lid cannot be shut. You be young, Dame Cicely, and know not the world."

"Maybe," said I. "But if you will hearken me, I will tell you what I found."

"Go to, then," saith she, as she followed me into our chamber.

"Whate'er you found, you left me too poor to pay the jeweller. I would fain have had a sapphire pin more than I got, but your raid on my purse disabled me thereof. The rogue would give me no credit."

"Hear but my tale," said I, "and if when it be told you regret your sapphire pin, I beseech you say so."

So I told her in plain words, neither 'minishing nor adding, how I had found them, and the story I had heard from the poor woman. She listened, cool enough at first, but ere I made an end the water stood in her eyes.

"_Ha, chetife_!" said she, when I stayed me. "I'll pay the maid another time. Trust me, Dame Cicely, I believed not a word. If you had been cheated as oft--! Verily, I am sorry I sent not man to see how matters stood with them. Well, I am fain you gave her the money, after all.

But, trust me, you took my breath away!"

"And my own belike," said I.

I think Hilda and hers stood not in much want the rest of that winter.

But whenever she came with work for me, either Margaret my maid, or Jack's old groom, a sober man and an ancient, walked back with her.

Meantime Sir Roger de Mortimer played first viol in the Court minstrelsy. Up and yet higher up he crept, till he could creep no further, as I writ a few leaves back. On the eve of Saint Pancras was crowned the new Queen of France in the Abbey of Saint Denis, which is to France as Westminster Abbey to us: and there ramped my Lord of Mortimer in the very suite of the Queen herself, and in my Lord of Chester's own livery. Twice-banished traitor, he appeared in the self presence of the King that had banished him, and of the wife of his own natural Prince, to whom he had done treason of the deepest dye. And not one voice said him nay.

Thus went matters on till the beginning of September, 1326. The Queen abode at Paris; the King of France made no sign: our King's trusty messager, Donald de Athole, came and went with letters (and if it were not one of his letters the Queen dropped into the brasier right as I came one day into her chamber, I marvel greatly); but nought came forth that we her ladies heard. On the even of the fifth of September, early, came Sir John de Ostrevant to the Palace, and had privy speech of the Queen--none being thereat but her confessor and Dame Isabel de Lapyoun: and he was scarce gone forth when, as we sat in our chamber a-work, the Queen herself looked in and called Dame Elizabeth forth.

I thought nought of it. I turned down hem, and cut off some threads, and laid down scissors, and took up my needle to thread afresh--in the Hotel de Saint Pol at Paris. And that needle was not threaded but in the Abbey of Saint Edmund's Bury in Suffolk, twenty days after. Yet if man had told me it should so be, I had felt ready to laugh him to scorn.

Ah me, what feathers we be, that a breath from G.o.d Almighty can waft hither or thither at His will!

Never but that once did I see Dame Elizabeth to burst into a chamber.

And when she so did, I was in such amaze thereat that I fair gasped to see it.

"Good lack!" cried I, and stared on her.

"Well may you say it!" quoth she. "Lay by work, all of you, and make you ready privily in all haste for journeying by night. Lose not a moment."

"Mary love us!" cries Isabel de la Helde. "Whither?"

"Whither the Queen's will is. Hold your tongues, and make you ready."

We lay that night--and it was not till late--in the town of Sessouns, in the same lodging the Queen had before, at Master John de Gyse's house.

The next night we lay at Peronne, and the third we came to Ostrevant.

Dame Isabel told us the reason of this sudden flight. The Queen had heard that her brother the King of France--who for some time past had been very cool and distant towards her--had a design to seize upon her and deliver her a prisoner to King Edward: and Sir John of Hainault, Count of Ostrevant, who came to bring her this news, offered her a refuge in his Castle of Ostrevant. I believed this tale when Dame Isabel told it: I have no faith in it now. What followed did away entirely therewith, and gave me firm belief that it was nothing save an excuse to get away in safety and without the King of France's knowledge.

Be it how it may, Sir Roger de Mortimer came with her.

We were not many days at Ostrevant: only long enough for the Count to raise his troops, and then, when all was ready, the Queen embarked for England. On the 22nd of September we came ash.o.r.e at Orwell, and had full ill lodging; none having any shelter save the Queen herself, for whom her knights ran up a shed of driftwood, hung o'er with carpets.

Never had I so discomfortous a night--the sea tossing within a few yards, and the wind roaring in mine ears, and the spray all-to beating over me as I lay on the beach, lapped in a mantle. I was well pleased the next morrow, when the Queen, whose rest had been little, gave command to march forward to Bury. But afore we set forth, come nearhand an army of peasants into the presence, 'plaining of the Queen's officers, that had taken their cows, chickens, and fruits, and paid not a penny. The Queen had them all brought afore her, and with her own hands haled forth the money due to each one, bidding them bring all oppressions to her own ears, and straitly commanding her officers that they should take not so much as an egg without payment. By this means she won all the common people to her side, and they were ready to set their lives in pledge for her truth and honour.

At that time I was but little aware how matters verily stood. I said to Dame Joan de Vaux that the Queen showed her goodness hereby--for though I knew the Mortimer by then to be ill man, I wist not that she knew it, and reckoned her yet as innocent and beguiled woman.

"Doth she so?" answered Dame Joan. "How many grapes may man gather of a bramble?"

"Nay!" said I, scarce perceiving her intent, "but very grapes come not of brambles."

"Soothly," saith she: "neither do very brambles bear grapes."

Three days the Queen tarried at Bury: then, with banners flying, she marched on toward Ess.e.x. I thought it strange that even she should march with displayed banners, seeing the King was not of her company: but I reckoned she had his order, and was acting as his deputy.

Elsewise had it been dread treason [Note 1], even in her. I was confirmed in my thought when my Lord of Lancaster, the King's cousin, and my Lord of Norfolk, the King's brother, came to meet her and joined their troops to her company; and yet more when the Archbishop of Dublin, and the Bishops of Hereford, Lincoln, and Ely, likewise joined them to her. Verily, such holy men could not countenance treason.

Truth enough: but that which was untrue was not the treason, but the holiness of these Caiaphases.

And now began that woeful Dolorous Way, which our Lord King Edward trod after his Master Christ. But who knoweth whither a strange road shall lead him, until he be come to the end thereof? I wis well that many folk have said unto us--Jack and me--since all things were made plain, How is it ye saw not aforetime, and wherefore followed ye the Queen thus long? They saw not aforetime, no more than we; but now that all is open, up come they with wagging heads and snorkilling noses, and--"Verily, we were sore to blame for not seeing through the mist"-- the mist through the which, when it lay thick, no man saw. _Ha, chetife_! I could easily fall to prophesying, myself, when all is over.

Could we have seen what lay at the end of that Dolorous Way, should any true and loyal man have gone one inch along it?