Part 1—- Chapter 6.
Nemesis.
“The mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small.”
Longfellow.
After this, the Queen kept the King well in hand. To speak sooth, I should say the old Queen, or Queen Isabel, for now had we a young Queen. But verily, all this time Queen Philippa was treated as of small account; and she, that was alway sweet and gent, dwelt full peaceably, content with her babe, our young Prince of Wales, that was born at Woodstock, at Easter of the King’s fourth year (Note 1), and the old Queen Isabel ruled all. She seemed fearful of letting the King out of her sight. When he journeyed to the North in August, she went withal, and came back with him to Nottingham in October. It was she that writ to my Lord of Hereford that he should not fail to be at the Colloquy (note 2) to be held in that town the fifteenth of October. With her was ever my Lord of March, that was as her shadow: my Lady of March, that might have required to have her share of him with some reason, being left lone with her childre in Ludlow Castle. It was the 13th of October that we came to Nottingham. My Lord of Hereford, that was Lord High Constable, was at that time too sick to execute his office (or thought he was); maybe he desired to keep him well out of a thing he foresaw: howbeit, he writ his excuse to the King, praying that his brother Sir Edward de Bohun might be allowed his deputy. To this the King assented: but my Lord of March, that I guess mistrusted more Sir Edward than his brother (the one having two eyes in his head, and the other as good as none), counselled the Queen to take into her own hand the keys of the Castle. Which she did, having them every night brought to her by Sir William Eland, then Constable thereof, and she laid them under her own pillow while the morning.
The part of my tale to follow I tell as it was told to me, in so far as matters fell not under mine eye.
The King, the old Queen, the Earl of March, and the Bishop of Lincoln, were lodged in the Castle with their following: and Sir Edward de Bohun, doing office for his brother, appointed my Lord of Lancaster to have his lodging there likewise. Whereat my glorious Lord of March was greatly angered, that he should presume to appoint a lodging for any of the nobles so near the person of Queen Isabel. (He offered not to go forth himself.) Sir Edward smiled something grimly, and appointed my Lord of Lancaster his lodging a mile forth of the town, where my Lord of Hereford also was.
That night was dancing in the hall; and a little surprised was I that Sir William de Montacute (Note 3) should make choice of me as his partner. He was one of the bravest knights in all the King’s following—a young man, with all his wits about him, and lately wed to the Lady Katherine de Grandison, a full fair lady of much skill (Note 4) and exceeding good repute. It was the pavon (Note 5) we danced, and not many steps were taken when Sir William saith—
“Dame Cicely, I have somewhat to say to you, under your good leave.”
“Say on, Sir William,” quoth I.
“Say I well, Dame, in supposing you true of heart to the old King, as Dame Alice de Lethegreve’s daughter should be?”
“You do so, in good sooth,” I made answer.
“So I reckoned,” quoth he. “Verily, an’ I had doubted it, I had held my peace. But now to business:—Dame, will you help me?”
I could not choose but laugh to hear him talk of business.
“That is well,” saith he. “Laugh, I pray you; then shall man think we do but discourse of light matter. But what say you to my question?”
“Why, I will help you with a very good will,” said I, “if you go about a good matter, and if I am able, and if mine husband forbid me not.”
“Any more ifs?” quoth he—that I reckon wished to make me to laugh, the which I did.
“Not at this present,” made I answer.
“Then hearken me,” saith he. “Can you do a deed in the dark, unwitting of the cause—knowing only that it is for the King’s honour and true good, and that they which ask it be true men?”
I meditated a moment. Then said I,—“Ay; I can so.”
“Will you pass your word,” saith he, “to the endeavouring yourself to keep eye on the Queen and my Lord of March this even betwixt four and five o’ the clock? Will you look from time to time on Sir John de Molynes, and if you hear either of them speak any thing as though they should go speak with the King, will you rub your left eye when Sir John shall look on you? But be you ware you do it not elsewise.”
“What, not though it itch?” said I, yet laughing.
“Not though it itch to drive you distraught.”
“Well!” said I, “’tis but for a hour. But what means it, I pray you?”
“It means,” saith he, “that if the King’s good is to be sought, and his honour to be saved, you be she that must help to do it.”
Then all suddenly it came on me, like to a levenand (lightning) flash, what it was that Sir William and his fellows went about to do. I looked full into his eyes. And if ever I saw truth, honour, and valour writ in man’s eyes, I read them there.
“I see what you purpose,” said I.
“You be marvellous woman an’ you do,” answered he.
“Judge you. You have chosen that hour to speak with the King, and to endeavour the opening of his eyes. For Queen Isabel or my Lord of March to enter should spoil your game. Sir John de Molynes is he that shall give you notice if such be like to befall, and I am to signify the same to him.”
Right at that minute I had to take a volt (jump), and turn to the right round Sir John Neville. When I returned back to my partner, saith he, so that Sir John could hear—
“Dame Cicely, you vault marvellous well!”
“That was not so ill as might have been, I reckon,” quoth I.
“Truly, nay,” he made answer: “it was right well done.”
I knew he meant to signify that I had guessed soothly.
“Will you try it yet again?” saith he.
“That will I,” I said: and I saw we were at one thereon.
“Good,” saith he. “I reckoned, if any failed me at this pinch, it should not be Dame Alice’s daughter.”
That eve stood I upon tenterhooks. As the saints would have it, the Queen was a-broidering a certain work whereon Dame Elizabeth wrought with her: and for once in my life I thanked the said hallows (saints) for Dame Elizabeth’s laziness.
“Dame Cicely,” quoth she, “an’ you be not sore pressed for time, pray you, thread me a two-three needles. I wis not how it befalleth, but thread a neeld can I never.”
I could have told her well that how, for whenso she threadeth a neeld she maketh no bones of the eye, but thrusteth forward the thread any whither it shall go, on the chance that it shall hit, which by times it doth: I should not marvel an’ she essayed to thread the point. Howbeit, her ill husbandry was right then mine encheson (Note 6).
“Look you,” said I, “I can bring my work to that end of the chamber; then shall I be at hand to thread your neeld as it shall be voided.”
“Verily, you be gent therein,” saith she.
The which I fear I was little. Howbeit, there sat I, a-threading Dame Elizabeth her neeld, now with red silk and now with black, as she lacked, and under all having care that I rubbed not my left eye, the which I felt strong desire to frote (rub). I marvel how it was, for the hour over, I had no list to touch it all the even.
My task turned out light enough, for my Lord of March was playing of tables (backgammon) with Sir Edward de Bohun, and never left his seat for all the hour: and the Queen wrought peacefully on her golden vulture, and moved no more than he. When I saw it was five o’ the clock (Note 7), I cast an eye on Sir John de Molynes, which threw a look to the clock, and then winked an eye on me; and I saw he took it we had finished our duty.
The next morrow, which was Saint Luke’s even (October 17th), came a surprise for all men. It was found that the Constable of the Castle, with Sir William de Montacute, Sir Edward de Bohun, Sir John de Molynes, the Lord Ufford, the Lord Stafford, the Lord Clinton, and Sir John Neville, had ridden away from the town the night afore, taking no man into their counsel. None could tell wherefore their departure, nor what they purposed. I knew only that the King was aware thereof, though soothly he counterfeited surprise as well as any man.
“What can they signify?” saith Sir Edmund de Mortimer, the eldest son of my Lord of March—a much better man than his father, though not nigh so crafty.
“Hold thy peace for a fool as thou art!” saith his father roughly. “They are afraid of me, I cast no doubt at all. And they do well. I could sweep them away as lightly as so many flies, and none should miss them!”
He ended with a mocking laugh. Verily, pride such as this was full ready for a fall.
We knew afterward what had passed in that hour the day afore. The King had been hard to insense (cause to understand: still a Northern provincialism) at the first. So great was his faith in his mother that he ne could ne would believe any evil of her. As to the Mortimer, he was ready enough, for even now was he a-chafing under the yoke.
“Be he what he may—the very foul fiend himself an’ you will,” had he said to his Lords: “but she, mine own mother, my beloved—Oh, not she, not she!”
Then—for themselves were lost an’ they proved not their case—they were fain to bring forth their proofs. Sir William de Montacute told my Jack it was all pitiful to see how our poor young King’s heart fought full gallantly against the light as it brake on his understanding. Poor lad! for he was but a lad; and it troubled him sore. But they knew they must carry the matter through.
“Oh, have away your testimonies!” he cried more than once. “Spare her—and spare me! Mother, my mother, mine own dear Lady! how is this possible?”
At the last he knew all: knew who had set England in flame, who had done Sir Hugh Le Despenser and his son to death, who had been his own father’s murderer. The scales were off his eyes; and had he list to do it, he could never set them on again. They said he covered his face, and wept like the child he nearhand was. Then he lifted his head, the tears over, and in his eyes was the light of a settled purpose, and in his lips a stern avisement. No latsummes (backwardness, reluctance) was in him when once fully set.
“Take the Mortimer,” quoth he, firm enough.
“Sir,” quoth Sir William de Montacute, “we, not being lodged in the Castle, shall never be able to seize him without help of the Constable.”
“Now, surely,” saith the King, “I love you well: wherefore go to the Constable in my name, and bid him aid you in taking of the Mortimer, on peril of life and limb.”
“Sir, then God grant us speed!” saith Sir William.
So to the Constable they went, and brake the matter, only at first bidding him in the King’s name (having his ring for a token) to aid them in a certain enterprise which concerned the King’s honour and safety. The Constable sware so to do, and then saith Sir William—
“Now, surely, dear friend, it behoved us to win your assent, in order to seize on the Mortimer, sith you are Keeper of the Castle, and have the keys at your disposal.”
Then the Constable, having first lift his brows and made grimace of his mouth, fell in therewith, and quoth he—
“Sirs, if it be thus, you shall wit that the gates of the Castle be locked with the locks that Queen Isabel sent hither, and at night she hath all the keys thereof, and layeth them under the pillow of her bed while morning: and so I may not help you into the Castle at the gates by any means. But I know an hole that stretcheth out of the ward under earth into the Castle, beginning on the west side (still called Mortimer’s Hole), which neither the Queen nor her following nor Mortimer himself, nor none of his company, know anything of; and through this passage I will lead you till you come into the Castle without espial of enemies.”
Thereupon went they forth that even, as though to flee away from the town, none being privy thereto save the King. And Saint Luke’s Day passed over quiet enough. The Queen went to mass in the Church of the White Friars, and offered at the high altar five shillings, her customary offering on the great feasts and chief saints’ days. All peaceful sped the day; the Queen gat her abed, and the keys being brought of the Constable’s deputy, I (that was that night in waiting) presented them unto her, which she received in her own hands and laid under the pillow of her bed. Then went we, her dames and damsels, forth unto our own chambers in the upper storey of the Castle: and I, set at the casement, had unlatched the same and thrown it open (being nigh as warm as summer), and was hearkening to the soft flow of the waters of the Leene, which on that side do nearhand wash the Castle wall. I was but then thinking how peaceful were all things, and what sore pity it were that man should bring in wrong, and bitterness, and anguish, on that which God had made so beautiful—when all suddenly my fair peace changed to fierce tumult and the clang of armed men—the tramp of mail-clad feet and the hoarse crying of roaring voices. I was as though I held my breath: for I could well guess what this portended. Then above all the routing and bruit (shouting and noise), came the voice of Queen Isabel, clear and shrill.
“Now, fair Sirs, I pray you that you do no harm unto his body, for he is a worthy knight, our well-beloved friend, and our dear cousin.”
“They have him, then!” quoth I, scarce witting that I spake aloud, nor who heard me.
“‘Have him!’” saith Dame Joan de Vaux beside me: “whom have they?”
Then, suddenly, a word or twain in the King’s voice came up to where we stood; on which hearing, an anguished cry rang out from Queen Isabel.
“Fair Son, fair Son! have pity on the sweet Mortimer!” (Note 8.)
Wala wa! that time was past. And she had shown no pity.
I never loved her, as in mine opening words I writ: yet in that dread moment I could not find in mine heart to leave her all alone in her agony. I have ever found that he which brings his sorrows on his own head doth not suffer less thereby, but more. And let her be what she would, she was a woman, and in sorrow, not to say mine own liege Lady: and signing to Dame Joan to follow me, down degrees ran I with all haste, and not staying to scratch on the door (Note 9), into the chamber to the Queen.
We found her sitting up in her bed, her hands held forth, and a look of agony and horror on her face.
“Cicely, is it thou?” she shrieked. “Joan! Whence come ye? Saw ye aught? What do they to him? who be the miscreants? Is my son there? Have they won him over—the coward neddirs (serpents) that they be! Speak I who be they?—and what will they do? Ah, Mary Mother, what will they do with him?”
Her voice choked, and I spake.
“Dame, the King is there, and divers with him.”
“What do they?” she wailed like a woman in her last agony.
“There hath been sharp assault, Dame,” said I, “and I fear some slain; for as I ran in hither, I saw that which seemed me the body of a dead man at the head of degrees.”
“Who?” She nearhand screamed.
“Dame,” I said, “I think it was Sir Hugh de Turpington.”
“But what do they with him?” she moaned again, an accent of anguish on that last word.
I save no answer. What could I have given?
Dame Joan de Vaux saith, “Dame, the King is there, and God will be with the King. We may well be ensured that no wrong shall be done to them that have done no wrong. This is not the contekes (quarrel) of a rabble rout; it is the justice of the Crown upon his enemies.”
“His enemies?—whose? Mine enemies are dead and gone. All of them—all! I left not one. Who be these? who be they, I say? Cicely, answer me!”
Afore I could speak word, I was called by another voice. I was fain enough of the reprieve. Leaving Dame Joan with the Queen, I ran forth into the Queen’s closet, where stood the King.
What change had come over him in those few hours! No longer a bashful lad that was nearhand afraid to speak for himself ere he were bidden. This was a young man (he was now close on eighteen years of age) that stood afore me, a youthful warrior, a budding Achilles, that would stand to no man’s bidding, but would do his will. King of England was this man. I louted low before my master.
He spake in a voice wherein was both cold constrainedness, and bitterness, and stern determination—yet under them all something else—I think it was the sorely bruised yet living soul of that deep unutterable tenderness which had been ever his for the mother of his love, but could be the same never more. Man is oft cold and bitter and stern, when an hour before he hath dug a grave in his own heart, and hath therein laid all his hopes and his affections. And they that look on from afar behold the sheet of ice, but they see not the grave beneath it. They only see him cold and silent: and they reckon he cares for nought, and feels nothing.
“Dame Cicely, you have been with the Queen?”
“Sir, I have so.”
“Take heed she hath all things at her pleasure, of such as lie in your power. Let my physician be sent for if need arise, as well as her own; and if she would see any holy father, let him be fetched incontinent (immediately). See to it, I charge you, that she be served with all honour and reverence, as you would have our favour.”
He turned as if to depart. Then all suddenly the ice went out of his voice, and the tears came in.
“How hath she taken it?” saith he.
“Sir,” said I, “full hardly as yet, and is sore troubled touching my Lord of March, fearing some ill shall be done him. Moreover, my Lady biddeth me tell her who these be. Is it your pleasure that I answer the same?”
“Ay, answer her,” saith he sorrowfully, “for it shall do no mischief now. As for my Lord of March, no worser fate awaits him than he hath given better men.”
He strade forth after that kingly fashion which was so new in him, and yet sat so seemly upon him, and I went back to the Queen’s chamber.
“Cicely, is that my son?” she cried.
“In good sooth, Dame,” said I.
“What said he to thee?”
I told her the King had bidden me answer all her desire; that if she required physician she should be tended of his chirurgeon beside her own, and she should speak with any priest she would. I had thought it should apay (gratify) her to know the same; but my words had the contrariwise effect, for she looked more frightened than afore.
“Nought more said he?”
“Dame,” said I, “the Lord King bade me to serve you with all honour and reverence. And he said, for my Lord of March—”
“Fare forth!” (go on) she cried, though I scarce knew that I paused.
“He answered, that no worser should befall him than he had caused to better men than he.”
“Mary, Mother!”
I thought I had scarce ever heard wofuller wail than she made then. She sank down in the bed, clutching the coverlet with her hands, and casting it over her, as she buried her face in the pillows. I went nigh, and drew the coverlet full setely (properly, neatly) over her.
“Let be!” she saith in a smothered voice. “It is all over. Life must fare forth, and life is of no more worth. My bird is flown from the cage, and none can win him back. Is there so much as one of the saints will speak for me? As I have wrought, so hast Thou paid me, God!”
Not an other word spake she all the livelong day. Never day seemed longer than that weary eve of Saint Ursula (October 20th). That morrow were taken in the town the two sons of my Lord of March, Sir Edmund and Sir Geoffrey, beside divers of his friends—Sir Oliver Byngham, Sir Simon de Bereford, and Sir John Deveroil the chief. All were sent that same day under guard to London, with the Mortimer himself.
No voice compassionated him. Nay, “my Lord of March” was no more, but in every man’s mouth “the Mortimer” as of old time. Some that had seemed his greatest losengers (flatterers) now spake of him with the most disdain, while they that, while they allowed him not (did not approve of him), had yet never abused ne reviled him, were the least wrathful against him. I heard that when he was told of all, my Lord of Lancaster flung up his cap for joy.
Some things afterward said were not true. It was false slander to say, as did some, that the Mortimer was taken in the Queen’s own chamber. He was arrest in the Bishop of Lincoln’s chamber (which had his lodging next the Queen), and in conference with the said Bishop. They took not that priest of Baal; I had shed no tears had they so done. Sir Hugh de Turpington and Sir John Monmouth, creatures of the Mortimer, were slain; Sir John Neville, on the other side, was wounded.
Fourteen charges were set forth against the Mortimer. The murder of King Edward was one; the death of my Lord of Kent an other. One thing was not set down, but every man knew how to read betwixt the lines, when the indictment writ that other articles there were against him, which in respect of the King’s honour were not to be drawn up in writing. Wala wa! there was honour concerned therein beside his own: but he was very tender of her. His way was hard to walk and beset with snares, and he walked it with cleaner feet than most men should. Never heard I from his lips word unreverent toward her; and if other lips spake the same to his knowing, they forthank (regretted) it.
That same day the King departed from Nottingham for Leicester, on his way to London. He left behind him the Lord Wake de Lydel, in whose charge he placed Queen Isabel, commanding that she should be taken to Berkhamsted Castle as soon as might be. I know not certainly if he spake with her afore he set forth, but I think rather nay than yea.
October was not out when we reached Berkhamsted. The Queen’s first anguish was over, and she scarce spake; but I could see she hearkened well if aught was said in her hearing.
The King sent command to seize all lands and goods of the Mortimer into his hands; but the Lady of March he bade to be treated with all respect and kindliness, and that never a jewel nor a thread of her having should be taken. Indeed, I heard never man nor woman speak of her but tenderly and pitifully. She was good woman, and had borne more than many. For the Lady Margaret her mother-in-law, so much will I not say; for she was a firebrand that (as saith Solomon) scattered arrows and death: but the Lady Joan was full gent and reverend, and demerited better husband than the Fates gave her. Nay, that may I not say, sith no such thing is as Fate, but only God, that knoweth to bring good out of evil, and hath comforted the Lady Joan in Paradise these four years gone.
But scarce three weeks we tarried at Berkhamsted, and then the Lord Wake bore to the Queen tidings that it was the King’s pleasure she should remove to Windsor. My time of duty was then run out all but a two-three days; and the Queen my mistress was pleased to say I might serve me of those for mine own ease, so that I should go home in the stead of journeying with her to Windsor. At that time my little maid Vivien was not in o’er good health, and it paid me well to be with her. So from this point mine own remembrances have an end, and I serve me, for the rest, of the memory of Dame Joan de Vaux, mine old and dear-worthy friend, and of them that abode with Queen Isabel till she died. For when her household was ’minished and again stablished on a new footing, it liked the King of his grace to give leave to such as should desire the same to depart to their own homes, and such as would were at liberty to remain—one except, to wit, Dame Isabel de Lapyoun, to whom he gave congé with no choice. I was of them that chose to depart. Forsooth, I had seen enough and to spare of Court life (the which I never did much love), and I desired no better than to spend the rest of my life at home, with my Jack and my little maids, and my dear mother, so long as God should grant me.
My brother Robert (of whom, if I spake not much, it was from no lack of loving-kindness), on the contrary part, chose to remain. He hath ever loved a busy life.
I found my Vivien full sick, and a weariful and ugsome time had I with her ere she recovered of her malady. Soothly, I discovered that diachylum emplasture was tenpence the pound, and tamarinds fivepence; and grew well weary of ringing the changes upon rosin and frankincense, litharge and turpentine, oil of violets and flowers of beans, Gratia Dei, camomile, and mallows. At long last, I thank God, she amended; but it were a while ere mine ears were open to public matter, and not full filled of the moaning of my poor little maid. So now, to have back to my story, as the end thereof was told me by Dame Joan de Vaux.
Queen Isabel came to Windsor about Saint Edmund the King (November 20th); and nine days thereafter, on the eve of Saint Andrew (November 29th), was the Mortimer hanged at Tyburn. He was cast (sentenced) as commoner, not as noble, and was dragged at horse’s tail for a league outside the city of London to the Elms. But the penalties that commonly came after were not exacted, seeing his body was not quartered, nor his head set up on bridge ne gate. His body was sent to the Friars Minors’ Church at Coventry, whence one year thereafter, it was at the King’s command delivered to the Lady Joan his widow and Sir Edmund his son, that they might bury him in the Abbey of Wigmore with his fathers. His mother, the Lady Margaret, overlived him but four years; but the Lady Joan his wife died four years gone, the very day and month that he was taken prisoner, to wit, the nineteenth day of October, 1356, nigh two years afore Queen Isabel.
The eve of Saint Andrew, as I writ, was the Mortimer hanged, without defence by him made (he had allowed none to Sir Hugh Le Despenser and my Lord of Kent): and four days hung his body in irons on the gibbet, as Sir Hugh’s the father had done. Verily, as he had done, so did God apay him, which is just Judge over all the earth.
And the very next day, Saint Andrew, came His dread judgment upon one other—upon her that had wrought evil and not good, and that had betrayed her own lord to his cruel death. All suddenly, without one instant’s warning, came the bolt out of Heaven upon Isabel of France. While the body of the Mortimer hung upon the gibbet at the Elms of Tyburn, God stripped that sinful woman of the light of reason which she had used so ill, and she fell into a full awesome frenzy, so dread that she was fain to be strapped down, and her cries and shrieks were nearhand enough to drive all wood that heard her. While the body hung there lasted this fearsome frenzy. But the hour it was taken down, came change over her. She sank that same hour into the piteous thing she was for long afterward, right as a little child, well apaid with toys and shows, a few glass beads serving her as well as costly jewels, and a yard of tinsel or fringe bright coloured a precious treasure. The King was sore troubled; but what could he do? At the first the physicians counselled that she should change the air often; and first to Odiham Castle was she taken, and thence to Hertford, and after to Rising. But nothing was to make difference to her any more for many a year,—only that by now and then, for a two-three hours, she hath come to her wit, and then is she full gent and sad, desiring ever the grace of our Lord for her ill deeds, and divers times saying that as she hath done, so hath God requited her. I have heard say that as time passed on, these times of coming to her wit were something oftener and tarried longer, until at last, a year afore she died, she came to her full wit, and so abode to the end.
The King, that dealt full well with her, and had as much care of her honour as of his own (and it was whispered that our holy Father the Pope writ unto him that he should so do), did at the first appoint her to keep her estate in two of her own castles, to wit, Hertford and Rising: and set forth a new household for her, appointing Sir John de Molynes her Seneschal, and Dame Joan de Vaux her chief dame in waiting. Seldom hath she come to Town, but when there, she tarried in the Palace of my Lord of Winchester at Southwark, on the river side, and was once in presence when the King delivered the great Seal to Sir Robert Parving. Then she was in her wit for a short time. But commonly, at the King’s command, she hath tarried in those two her castles,—to wit, Hertford and Rising—passing from one to the other according to the counsel of her physicians. The King hath many times visited her (though never the Queen, which he ever left at Norwich when he journeyed to Rising), and so, at times, have divers of his children. Ten years afore her death, the King’s adversary of France, Philippe de Valois, that now calleth him King thereof, moved the King that Queen Isabel should come to Eu to treat with his wife concerning peace: and so careful is the King, and hath ever been, of his mother’s honour, that he would not answer him with the true reason contrary thereto, but treated with him on that footing, and only at the last moment made excuse to appoint other envoys. Poor soul! she had no wit thereto. I never saw her after I left her service saving once, which was when she was at Shene, on Cantate Sunday (April 29th), an eleven years ere her death, at supper in the even, where were also the King, the Queen of Scots (her younger daughter), and the Earl of March (grandson of the first Earl); and soothly, for all the ill she wrought, mine heart was woe for the caged tigress with the beautiful eyes, that was wont to roam the forest wilds at her pleasure, and now could only pace to and fro, up and down her cage, and toy with the straws upon the floor thereof. It was pitiful to see her essaying, like a babe, as she sat at the board, to cause a wafer to stand on end, and when she had so done, to clap her hands and laugh with childish glee, and call her son and daughter to look. Very gent was the King unto her, that looked at her bidding, and lauded her skill and patience, as he should have done to his own little maid that was but three years old. Ah me, it was piteous sight! the grand, queenly creature that had fallen so low! Verily, as she had done, so God requited her.
She died at Hertford Castle, two days afore Saint Bartholomew next thereafter (August 22nd, 1358. See Note in Appendix). I heard that in her last hours, her wit being returned to her as good as ever it had been, she had her shriven clean, and spake full meek (humble) and excellent words of penitence for all her sins, and desired to be buried in the Church of the Friars Minors in London town, and the heart of her dead lord to be laid upon her breast. They have met now in the presence above, and he would forgive her there. Lalme de qui Dieux eit mercie! Amen.
Here have ending the Annals of Cicely.
Note 1. The chroniclers (and after them the follow-my-leader school of modern historians) are unanimous in their assertion that the Black Prince was born on June 15th. If this be so, it is, to say the least, a little singular that the expenses of the Queen’s churching were defrayed on the 24th and 28th of April previous (Issue Roll, Easter, 4 Edward the Third). On the 3rd, 5th, and 13th of April, the King dates his mandates from Woodstock; on the 24th of March he was at Reading. This looks very much as if the Prince’s birth had taken place about the beginning of April. The 8th of that month was Easter Day.
Note 2. Modern writers make no difference between a Colloquy and a Parliament. The Rolls always distinguish them, treating; the Colloquy as a lesser and more informal gathering.
Note 3. Second son of the elder Sir William de Montacute and Elizabeth de Montfort. He appears as a boy in the first chapter of the companion volume, In All Time of our Tribulation.
Note 4. Discretion, wisdom.
Note 5. The pavon was a slow, stately dance, but it also included high leaps.
Note 6. Occasion, opportunity. Needles, at this time, were great treasures; a woman who possessed three or four thought herself wealthy indeed.
Note 7. Striking clocks were not invented until about 1368.
Note 8. Had the Queen spoken in English, she would certainly have said sweet, not gentle, which last is an incorrect translation of gentil. This latter speech, though better known, is scarcely so well authenticated as the previous one.
Note 9. Royal etiquette prescribed a scratch on the door, like that of a pet animal; the knock was too rough and plebeian an appeal for admission.