Chapter Two.
A Late Dinner.
“And there is something in this book
That makes all care be gone,
And yet I weep—I know not why—
As I go reading on!”
Mary Howitt.
Margery went into the kitchen, and helped to prepare supper, under the directions of Dame Lovell, and then she returned to her own room, and tried to finish her illumination of Peter and Malchus; but she could not command her thoughts sufficiently to paint well, so much was her heart set on “the book.” Therefore she sat with her hands folded in her lap, and tried to recall Sastre’s sermon. Then came supper-time, and Margery went down to the banqueting-hall; and after supper, having begged her parents’ blessing before retiring to rest, she came back to her chamber. But she did not attempt to undress. When the sun set, a red glory above the tree-tops, she was watching at her casement for Richard Pynson; and when the silver moon and the little golden stars had taken the sun’s place in the heavens, she was watching still. At last she heard the sound of a horse’s feet, and stole softly down the private staircase which led from her room to the hall. As Richard entered the hall, Margery softly murmured his name.
“What, Mistress Margery!” he cried, in astonishment. “You here! You have watched well for the book, and—there it is.”
And Richard drew from the bag slung over his shoulder a small quarto volume.
“Oh, thanks, good Master Pynson, a thousand thanks!” cried Margery, in delight. “And how long season may I keep the book?”
“Master Carew said,” returned Pynson, “that he asked not jewels for the safe-keeping of the book, for the word of a Lovell was enough,” and Richard drew the necklace from his bosom and handed it to Margery. “He will lend the book for one month’s time. He said, furthermore, that he lent it, not because he loved it not, but because he prayed that you, Mistress Margery, might know and love it too.”
“Amen!” was Margery’s answer, as she folded the book to her bosom, and crept softly back to her chamber—but not to bed. The first thing she did was to take off her petticoat and côte-hardie, and to put on a loose dressing-gown of grey serge. Then she divested herself of her head-dress, and allowed her fair hair to flow down over her shoulders without restraint. Having thus rendered herself comfortable, she seated herself in a carved chair, furnished with an ample cushion, and proceeded to examine the book.
The book was bound in leather, dark brown in colour, and simple in workmanship. It was clasped with two small clasps of common metal, washed over with silver; the leaves were of vellum, and on the first page was a badly-drawn and violently-coloured illumination of Christ and the Samaritan woman. Stops (as a rule) it had not, except a full stop here and there; and capitals there were none, with the occasional exception of a letter in red ink. Notwithstanding this, the manuscript, being written in a clear small hand, was very legible to eyes accustomed to read only black letter. At first Margery felt as if she were doing wrong in reading the book, but her curiosity drew her on, as well as her earnest desire to know more of those “strange things” of which Sastre had spoken in his sermon. Margery had taken the precaution of fastening the door before she commenced the study of the book. After the first glance which had made her acquainted with the particulars above noticed, she opened the book at random near the middle, and her eye fell on the following words:—
“Be not your herte afrayed, ne drede it; ye bileuen in God, and bileeue ye in me. In the hous of my Fadir ben manye dwellingis; if ony thinge lasse, I hadde seid to you; for I go to make readi to you a place. And if I go to make redy to you a place, eftsoone I come, and I schal take you to my silf, that where I am, ye be.” John xiv. 1-3.
Never before had Margery read words like these. “Be not your herte afrayed!” Why, the one feeling which she was taught was more acceptable to God than any other, was fear. “In the hous of my Fadir ben manye dwellingis.” Margery clasped her hands above her head, and laid head and hands upon the open volume; and in the agony of her earnestness she cried aloud, “O Lamb that was slain, hast thou not made ready a dwelling for Margery Lovell!”
Margery read on, and the more she read the more she wondered. The Church did not teach as this book did, and both could not be right. Which, then, was wrong? How could the Church be wrong, which was the depository of God’s truth? And yet, how could the holy apostle be wrong in reporting the words of Christ?
Many times over during that night did Margery’s thoughts arrange themselves in this manner. At one time she thought that nothing could possibly supersede the infallibility of the Church; at another she saw the complete impossibility of anything being able to stand for a moment against the infallibility of God. The only conclusion at which she could arrive was a determination to read the volume, and judge for herself. She read on. “I am weye, treuthe, and lyf; no man cometh to the Fadir but by me.” (John xiv. 6.) Were these words the words of Christ? And what way had Margery been taught? Obedience to the Church, humility, penances, alms-giving—works always, Christ never. Could these be the right way? She went on, till the tears ran down her cheeks like rain—till her heart throbbed and her soul glowed with feelings she had never felt before—till the world, and life, and death, and things present, all seemed to be nothing, and Christ alone seemed to be everything. She read on, utterly oblivious of the flight of time, and regardless that darkness had given place to light, until the fall of something in the room below, and the voice of Dame Lovell calling for Cicely, suddenly warned her that the house was astir. Margery sprang up, her heart beating now for a different reason. She hurriedly closed the book, and secreted it in a private cupboard, of which she alone had the key, and where she generally kept her jewels, and any little trinkets on which she set a special value. Margery’s next act, I fear, was indefensible; for it was to throw the cover and pillows of her bed into confusion, that the maids might suppose it had been occupied as usual. She then noiselessly unfastened the door, and proceeded with her dressing, so that when, a few minutes after, Dame Lovell came panting up the stairs, and lifted the latch, the only thing she noticed was Margery standing before the mirror, and fastening up her hair with what she called a pin, and what we should, I suspect, designate a metallic skewer.
“What, Madge, not donned yet?” was Dame Lovell’s greeting. “How thou hast overslept thyself, girl! Dost know it is already five of the clock, and thy father and I have been stirring above an hour?”
“Is it so late, of a truth?” asked Margery, in dismay. “I cry you mercy, good mother!”
And Margery was thinking what excuse she could use by way of apology, when Dame Lovell’s next words set her at rest, as they showed that the mind of that good lady was full of other thoughts than her daughter’s late rising.
“Grand doings, lass!” said she, as she sat down in the carved arm-chair. “Grand doings, of a truth, Madge!”
“Where, good mistress mine?”
“Where?” said Dame Lovell, lifting her eyebrows. “Why, here, in Lovell Tower. Where should they be else? Richard Pynson was so late of returning from Marston that he saw not thy father until this morrow.”
“I heard him come.”
“Wert awake?”
“Yea. I was awake a long season!”
“Poor lass!” said her mother. “No marvel thou art late. But harken to what I was about to tell thee. Sir Ralph Marston and his kinsman the Lord Marnell, dine with us to-day.”
“To-day?”
“Yea, to-day. Dear, dear, dear, dear! What folk must they be that live in London town! Marry, Sir Ralph sent word by Richard Pynson, praying us not to dine until one of the clock, for that the Lord Marnell is not used to it at an earlier hour. I marvel when they sup! I trow it is not until all Christian folk be a-bed!”
“Dwells the Lord Marnell in London?” inquired Margery, with surprise; for Margery was more astonished and interested to hear of a nobleman from London dining with her parents than a modern young lady would be if told that a Chinese mandarin was expected.
“Yea, truly, in London dwells he, and is of the bedchamber to our Lord the King, and a great man, Madge! Hie thee down when thou art dressed, child, and make up thy choicest dishes. But, good Saint Christopher! how shall I do from seven to one of the clock without eating? I will bid Cicely serve a void at ten.”
And so saying, Dame Lovell bustled downstairs as quickly as her corpulence would allow her, and Margery followed, a few minutes later. While the former was busy in the hall, ordering fresh rushes to be spread, and the tables set, Margery repaired to the ample kitchen, where, summoning the maids to assist her, and tying a large coarse apron round her, she proceeded to concoct various dishes, reckoned at that time particularly choice. There are few books more curious than a cookery-book five hundred years old.
Our forefathers appear to have used joints of meat much less frequently than the smaller creatures, whether flesh or fowl, hares, rabbits, chickens, capons, etcetera. Of fish, eels excepted, they ate little or none out of Lent. Potatoes, of course, they had none; and rice was so rare that it figured as a “spice;” but to make up for this, they ate, apparently, almost every green thing that grew in their gardens, rose-leaves not excepted. Of salt they had an unutterable abhorrence. Sugar existed, but it was very expensive, and honey was often used instead. Pepper and cloves were employed in immense quantities. The article which appears to have held with them the corresponding place to that of salt with us, and which was never omitted in any dish, no matter what its other component parts, was saffron. In corroboration of these remarks, I append one very curious receipt,—a dish which formed one of the principal covers on Sir Geoffrey Lovell’s table:—
“Farsure of Hare.
“Take hares and flee (flay) hom, and washe hom in broth of fleshe with the blode; then boyle the brothe and scome (skim) hit wel and do hit in a pot, and more brothe thereto. And take onyons and mynce horn and put hom in the pot, and set hit on the fyre and let hit sethe (boil), and take bred and stepe hit in wyn and vynegur, and drawe hit up and do hit in the potte, and pouder of pepur and clowes, and maces hole (whole), and pynes, and raysynges of corance (currants), then take and parboyle wel the hare, and choppe hym on gobettes (small pieces) and put him into a faire (clean) urthen pot; and do thereto clene grese, and set hit on the fyre, and stere hit wele tyl hit be wel fryed; then caste hit in the pot to the broth, an do therto pouder of canell (cinnamon) and sugur; and let hit boyle togedur, and colour hit wyth saffron, and serve hit forthe.”
It will be noticed from this that our ancestors had none of our vulgar prejudices with respect to onions, neither had they any regard to the Scriptural prohibition of blood. The utter absence of all prescription of quantities in these receipts is delightfully indefinite.
There were many other dishes to this important dinner beside the “farsure of hare;” and on this occasion most of the rabbits and chickens were entire, and not “chopped on gobbettes;” for the feast was “for a lord,” and lords were permitted to eat whole birds and beasts, while the less privileged commonalty had to content themselves with “gobbettes.”
When Margery had concluded her preparations for dinner, she went into the garden to gather rosemary and flowers, which she disposed in various parts of the hall, laying large bunches of rosemary in all available places. All was now ready, and Margery washed her hands, took off her apron, and ran up into her own room, to pin on her shoulder a “quintise,” in other words, a long streamer of cherry-coloured ribbon.
The guests arrived on horseback about half-past twelve, and Richard Pynson ushered them into the hall, and ran into the kitchen to inform Dame Lovell and Margery, adding that “he pitied Lord Marnell’s horse,” a remark the signification of which became apparent when the ladies presented themselves in the banqueting-hall. Sir Geoffrey was already there, conversing with his guests. Margery expected to find Lord Marnell similar to his cousin, Sir Ralph Marston, whom she already knew, and who was a pleasant, gentlemanly man of about forty years of age, always joking with everybody, and full of fun. But she did not expect what she now saw.
The great man from London, who sat in a large oak-chair in the hall, was a great man in all corporeal senses. He was very tall, and stout in proportion; an older man than his cousin Sir Ralph, perhaps ten or fifteen years older; and there was something in his face which made Margery drop her eyes in an instant. It was a very curious face. The upper part—the eyes and forehead—was finely-formed, and showed at least an average amount of intellect; but from the nose downward the form and expression of the features were suggestive only of the animal,—a brutal, sensual, repelling look. Margery, who had looked for the great man from London with girlish curiosity, suddenly felt an unconquerable and causeless dislike to him swell up in her heart, a something which she could neither define nor account for, that made her wish to avoid sitting near him, and turn her eyes away whenever his were directed towards her.
Sir Geoffrey presented his wife and daughter to Lord Marnell, and Sir Ralph came forward with a cordial greeting; after which they took their seats at table, for Richard Pynson was already bringing in the “farsure of hare,” and Mistress Katherine following with the pottage. The occupants of the high table, on the daïs, consisted of Sir Geoffrey and Dame Lovell, Lord Marnell, Sir Ralph Marston, Margery, Richard Pynson, Mistress Katherine, and Friar Andrew Rous, Sir Geoffrey’s chaplain. The maids sat at the second table, and the farm-servants at a third, lower down the hall. Sir Ralph, as usual, was full of fun, and spared nobody, keeping the whole table in a roar of laughter, excepting Lord Marnell, who neither laughed at his cousin’s jokes, nor offered any observations of his own, being wholly occupied with the discussion of the various dishes as they were presented to him, and consuming, according to the joint testimony of Dame Lovell and Friar Andrew after the feast, “enough to last seven men for a week.” When dinner was over, and “the tables lifted,” the company gathered round the fire, and proceeded to make themselves comfortable. Sir Ralph sang songs, and told funny anecdotes, and cracked jokes with the young people; while Lord Marnell, in conversation with Sir Geoffrey, showed that the promise of neither half of his face was entirely unfulfilled, by proving himself a shrewd observer, and not a bad talker. In the midst of this conversation, Sir Ralph, turning round to Sir Geoffrey, inquired if he had heard anything of a certain sermon that had been preached the day before at Bostock Church.
“I heard of it,” answered he, “but I heard it not. Some of mine, methinks, heard the same. Madge, wentest not thou thereto?”
“Ay, good father, I went with Master Pynson.”
“Ah!” said Sir Ralph. “I went not, for the which I now grieve, the more as my good cousin telleth me that Master Sastre is accounted a great one by some—but these seem not of the best.”
“Misconceive me not, fair cousin,” said Lord Marnell. “It is only the Lollards that think well of the man, and thou wottest that Holy Church looketh not kindly on their evil doings. That ill priest, John Wycliffe, who is accounted their leader, hath done more hurt to the faith than any heretic these many years.”
“Thou art but ill affected unto them, I trow,” said Sir Ralph, jokingly.
“Ill affected!” exclaimed Lord Marnell, bringing down his hand violently upon the arm of his chair, with a blow which made Margery start. “I cry you mercy, fair mistress—but if I knew of any among my kin or meynie (Household retinue) that leaned that way—ay, were it mine own sister, the Prioress of Kennington—I tell thee, Ralph, I would have her up before the King’s Grace’s council, and well whipped!”
Margery shuddered slightly. Sir Ralph leaned back in his chair, and laughed heartily.
“Well said, fair cousin mine! But I pray thee, tell me what doctrines hold these men, that thou wouldst have them all up afore the King’s Grace’s council, and well whipped?”
“All manner of evil!” answered Lord Marnell, wrathfully. “They hold, as I hear, that the blessed Sacrament of the Altar is in no wise the true body of Christ, but only a piece of bread blessed by the priest, and to be eaten in memory of His death; for the which reason also they would allow the lay folk to drink Christ’s blood. Moreover, they say that the blessed angels and God’s saints be not to be worshipped, but only to be held in reverence and kindly memory. Also, they give to the common people the Scriptures of God’s Word for to read, which we wot well is only fit for priests. And in all things which they do, I find not that these evil wretches do hold any true thing as taught by Holy Church, but one, which is masses for souls departed. I wis not much concerning them, for they move mine anger.”
“I pray your good Lordship,” asked Sir Geoffrey, “can you tell me whether these men be in great force in London or thereabouts at this time? Find they any favour in the Court?”
“They be ever increasing,” said Lord Marnell “so much so that the King’s council have seen good to prepare some orders against them—forbidding of their assemblages, and such like—for to present unto the Parliament. These orders provide, as my good friend holy Abbot Bilson did tell me, that all convicted to be Lollards shall suffer close prison, for longer or shorter time, as pleaseth the King’s Grace. I trow they find not favour at Court with many, but the few that look well on them be unhaply of the highest. I have heard say that some in the Duke of Lancaster’s palace show them favour, and it is no news that the Queen—whose soul God pardon!—did lean that way. In all open hours she was reading of Scripture in the vulgar tongue. Master Sastre, the priest, who my fair cousin telleth me was a-preaching in Bostock Church yestermorn, is, I take it, one of their chief men, and did learn of Master Wycliffe himself. I trow he will find it go hard with him if ever he cometh near London again. He goeth a-preaching of his doctrines up and down the realm, and perverting from the faith evilly-disposed men and sely (simple, unlearned) damsels who lack something to set their tongues running.”
Sir Ralph here made a remark which turned the conversation; for this Margery was sorry, as it had interested her extremely. Lord Marnell’s remarks taught her more about the Lollards than she had ever known before. So the Queen read the Bible in English! thought she. Why should not I do the same? She sat wrapped in her own thoughts for a long time, and when she roused herself from them, she noticed that Dame Lovell had quitted the room, and that Sir Ralph and Sir Geoffrey were talking politics, wherein they were occupied in proving, to the unqualified satisfaction of each, that there was “something rotten in the State,” and that England could not last very long, her only business being to demolish France. And Margery, finding the conversation now extremely dull—though had she for an instant suspected the turn it would take in her absence, she certainly would never have gone—slipped out, and joined the more noisy party in the kitchen, where she found Dame Lovell seated in the chimney-corner and inveighing fervently against late hours.
“An it be not three of the clock already,” said that angry lady, “I am a heathen Jew, and no Christian! Time to prepare supper for Christian folk—but when that great hulk of a man, that can do nothing in this world but eat, thinks to sup, I wis not! Marry, I trow that nought more will go down his throat until evensong! I marvel if our grandsons will be as great fools as we be!”
“More, Dame,” answered Mistress Katherine, sententiously. She was a woman who very seldom spoke, and when she did, compressed all her ideas into as few words as would serve the purpose.
“Nay, Saint Christopher! I hope not,” said Dame Lovell. “And what am I for to do now? Madge, lass, open the door and bid hither Richard Pynson.”
Margery softly opened the door into the hall; and as softly called the person who answered to that name. He rose, and came to her, and Sir Geoffrey and Lord Marnell, who were in low-toned, earnest conversation, suddenly stopped as she appeared.
“Richard,” said Dame Lovell, in what she doubtlessly intended for a whisper, “I pray thee, good youth, to go in softly, and privily demand of Sir Ralph what time he list to sup.”
Richard executed the order, and, returning, closed the door behind him.
“Sir Ralph saith, good mistress mine, that the Lord Marnell when at home suppeth not afore six of the clock; but he prayeth you for to sup when you will, to the which he will without doubt accommodate himself.”
“Six of the clock!” cried Dame Lovell, in amazement. “Richard, art sure thou heardest aright?”
“Certes, good mistress.”
Dame Lovell sat in silent horror.
“Well!” said she at length, “if ever in all my days did I hear of a like thing! Cicely, serve a void in my privy chamber at four of the clock. This poor country of ours may well go to wrack, if its rulers sup not afore six of the clock! Dear, dear, dear! I marvel if the blessed Virgin Saint Mary supped not until six of the clock! May all the saints forgive us that we be such fools!”