That evening, Dame Lovell and Friar Andrew sat down by the fire to listen to that last letter. Her widow’s dress, somewhat resembling that of a nun, but pure white, left only her eyes, nose, and mouth visible. Richard Pynson, in a rather more ambitious costume than the page’s suit wherein we made his acquaintance, seated himself in the opposite corner. How like Margery’s voice the letter sounded, in that old hall at Lovell Tower!—so much so, that it seemed scarcely a stretch of fancy to expect her to glide down the stair which led from her chamber, where her child now lay sleeping. How well Richard could recall the scene when, six years before, she came softly down to receive from his hand the cherished and fatal volume!
Richard broke the seal, while Friar Andrew threw back his cowl, and Dame Lovell smoothed her apron, and bent forward to listen.
“Mine Own Dear Mother,—In as humble and lowly manner as I may, I commend myself unto you, praying you of your daily blessing.
“Whereas I hear that Richard Pynson hath been here in London on Saint Luke’s Day last, and hath borne back Geoffrey with him, at the which news I am truly glad, I trow that you have heard of my close prison in the Tower, whence I now write. I pray you therefore, good mother, not to lay this overmuch to heart, neither to grieve for me; for I certify unto you that never was I so happy and blessed as now I am, when over the dark water, which is death, I can see a glimpse of the Happy City. Neither, good mother, be downcast, I beseech you, when you shall hear that on Sunday, the eve of Saint Anselm, I am to die. I pray you, dear mother, if you knew that on Sunday I should be advanced to some high place in the Court, would you sorrow? Yea, would you not rejoice greatly therefor? Wherefore I entreat you, sorrow not now, but rejoice rather, for I am to be taken up into an high place, yea, passing high—even the Court of Christ Himself, whence also none of those changes and evils can cast me down again, which are ever coming upon them who live in this world.
“Moreover, good mother, I do you to wit that this is Christ’s truth for the which I suffer, and that Christ Himself is with me. Yea, I think on Christ as He that is standing on the other side of the fire; and shall I not then make haste through the same that I may come at Him?
“Likewise I do beseech you, mine own dear mother, grieve not when you think that I have had but little joy or gladness in this my short life. If divers children be playing in a garden, and the serving-man do come and fetch away some afore others, that they may see their elders, and may have brave gifts the which be ready for them at home, fall they a-weeping, think you, because they must lose an hour of play? Nay, truly not, if their hearts be set on the brave gifts afore them. So, good mother, though you have passed in this weary and evil life nigh sixty years, and I only twenty-three, count it, I beseech you, but an hour more or less of child’s playing, which will surely be made up to us when we go home, and receive the brave gifts which our Father hath for us in His storehouse. And if I have not known joy as much as some, I have the less for to leave behind me in the case wherein I now am. For you know, good mother, that at the first I was wedded against mine own will and liking; and though I may and must say unto you for my Lord my husband, that in this evil case he hath been more gentler unto me than ever afore, and hath drawn mine heart much closer unto him, yet nathless I may say also that an’ I had been with mine own will wedded, I trow that I had had far more for to leave for Christ, and had found far more hardship in the doing of it. For God doeth all His work well; and He wist surely what He did when my dear father—whose soul God rest!—was let wed me thus.
“Behold now, most dear mother, how I have taken from you all cause of your lamentation, and have left you nothing but to rejoice for me! Wherefore rejoice for me, for at this time a sennight hence, I shall be singing with the angels of God. I trow that one look at Christ Jesu will pay me all mine account in the small matter I have suffered for Him. I trow that if He but smile, and say, ‘Thou art welcome, dear child, for I have loved thee,’ I shall count the fires of this world but light gear then. Will you sorrow that I am in good case? Will you grieve because I am blessed? Will you count you have lost your child, when she is singing in the great glory? Nay, good mother, I wis I have well said in praying you to rejoice rather.
“And, dear mother, I beseech you that you bring up mine own dear child in the same. I would have him, if I may, as dear unto Christ as I am, and as ready to leave all for Christ His sake, as I, his mother, have done. I say not this, God witteth, to magnify my poor deeds, the which I know well be vile enough and want as much and great washing in Christ His blood, as the worst sin that ever I did,—but, good mother, teach my boy of Christ! Count it not anything that he leaveth for Him. Yea, forsooth, rather would I a thousandfold that he should live on a dry crust for Christ, than that he should have many brave dishes and rich fare without Him. To this end I beseech you, most dear mother, that you will have the child learned for to read, and will get that he may read God’s Word, which hath shown me how dear and gracious is Christ Jesus. I pray you spare no pains ne goods for to do this.
“Dear mother, I have prayed my Lord my husband that, if she will, Alice Jordan shall have the care of Geoffrey. She hath been a good and true serving-woman unto me, and she witteth how I would have him ordered. I pray you, therefore, if she come unto you, that you would put her about him. Likewise commend me, I beseech you, unto mine ancient friends and fellows, and all the meynie, and bid them learn for to love Christ Jesu, and we shall then meet shortly again. Specially I would desire mine humble service unto dear Father Andrew, and I do beg him for my sake to read for himself the blessed book which hath been my comfort.
“And to end,—for I will weary you no longer, dear friend Richard Pynson, with reading of mine evil hand, and I give you God’s blessing and mine for the kindness you have done unto me, and pray you not to forget the last words which I said unto you with my voice, but to keep fast hold of Christ, till you know and love Him better than any friend in this evil world,—so to end, dear mother, I beseech you that you would forgive me all wherein I have been an ill daughter unto you, and all things wherein at any time I have troubled you. Good mother, I am happy. I am looking out of the night to see the day-dawn breaking. Come Sunday, I shall be in heaven. Come Sunday, by God’s mercy—not by mine own good, which God witteth is but evil—I shall stand with the angels before Christ His throne. Haste, haste, dear good day that shall deliver me! And God give you to know Christ, and send us a happy meeting in that His blessed habitation, unto the great gladding of your most loving and dutiful daughter, Margery Marnell.