“She was just over a year old. I waited on her from the Castle of Windsor to the Palace at Westminster, for the Lord King desired to behold her at once. And was not he delighted with her! I doubt if any of the royal children were as dear to the hearts of their parents as our little Lady.”
“Was she pleased to go?”
“Pleased!—she gave nobody a bit of rest,” said Avice, laughing. “All the journey through she was plucking at my gown, and pointing, first here and then there, with her little cry of ‘Who? who?’—for she talked at fifteen months old as much as she ever spoke in this world. And before I could find out what she meant, she was pointing to something else, and ‘Who? who?’ came over again.”
“Did you know then that she was deaf and dumb?”
“No! nor for months after. Truly, all her ways were so bright, and her sense so keen, and her laugh so gladsome, that we never thought of such a thing till she was long past the age when children ought to speak freely. But when at last they began to fear the truth, it was indeed a bitter grief to the royal parents. The Lord King offered five cloths of gold at Saint Edward’s shrine for the children, and specially for our little Lady, in hope that the Divine mercy might be moved to have pity on her. But it was all in vain.”
Avice sighed heavily. And there was no one to say to her, O woman, small is thy faith! Was the Divine mercy no greater, which called that little child, unspotted by the world, to tread the fair streets of the Golden City, than the mercy thou wouldst have had instead of it?
“It was not long after that,” said Avice, slowly drawing out the white threads, “that our little Lady’s health began to fail. The heats of summer tried her sorely. She drooped like a flower that had no water. Instead of playing with the other children, her gleeful laughter ringing through the galleries of the Castle, she would come and draw her little velvet stool to my side, and lay her head on my knee as if she were very weary. And when I looked down and smiled on her, instead of smiling back as she was wont, the great, dark wistful eyes used to look up so sadly, as if her soul were looking out of them. Oh, it was pitiful to read the dear eyes, when they said, ‘I am suffering: cannot you help me?’ And as time went on, they said it more and more. When the Lady Queen came to Windsor, she was shocked at the sad change in our darling little Lady. She called in Master Thomas, the King’s surgeon, and he advised that our little Lady should be removed from Windsor to some country place, where the air was good, and where she could play about in the fields. So she was put in charge of Emma La Despenser, Lady de Saint John, at her manor of Swallowfield, in Berkshire. Of course I went with her, and her cousin Alianora also, who was her favourite playfellow, for it was not thought well she should be entirely with older people, though I cannot say I was sorry to get rid of all those rough boys. The Lord King also commanded that a kid should be taken in the forest, as small and fair as might be found, for our little Lady to play with: and very fond she was of it. It was a lovely little creature, and grew as tame as possible. Ah, they were much alike, those two little things!—both young, soft, lovely—and both dumb! I marvelled sometimes whether they understood each other.”
“And did she not get any better, Aunt?”
“Yes; for a time she did. The country air and food and quiet did seem to do her good. She was so much better that she came back to Windsor for the winter. But it was not thought well by Master Thomas that she should go to London to be present at the great rejoicings that were made when the Lady Alianora came from Spain—our Queen that now is, the holy saints bless her! There were grand doings then, I heard; all London city was curtained in her honour, and processions in every church, and all superbly decorated; and the poor fed in the halls at Westminster, as many as could get in; and the Lord King presented a silver cross to the Abbey, and a golden plate of an ounce weight. Oh, it must have been a grand sight!”
“Who paid that bill, I wonder?” said Bertha, laughing.