Under One Sceptre, or Mortimer's Mission: The Story of the Lord of the Marches

by Emily Sarah Holt

The House of Mortimer of March was represented by those four lonely little children, of whom the eldest was only nine years old. It seemed as if every vestige of a shield for the tender plants was to be taken away and they were to be exposed to the full fury of the winter blasts.

For a whole year little Roger was detained at Carrickfergus, nominal Viceroy of Ireland, with his future still undetermined. This was not the fault of the King, a boy only just fifteen years of age; but of the commission of Regency which governed in his name. At the end of that time orders came from Westminster.

Sir Thomas Mortimer was to bring home the little Viceroy, to receive his exoneration from the arduous honour which had been thrust upon him, and to deliver him to the Earl of Arundel, whose ward he had been made, and with whom he was to reside till his majority. To Sir Thomas this news was indifferent: he desired the child's welfare, which, as he understood it, was likely to be well secured by this arrangement. But as Guenllian understood it, there was fair chance of the boy's ruin. If there were in the world one layman more than another who hated Wycliffe and Lollardism from the centre of his soul, it was that Earl of Arundel to whom Roger's future education was thus entrusted. And the astute statesman who was really—not ostensibly—the ruler of England, knew this quite as well as she did. This was Thomas, Duke of Gloucester, the youngest and cleverest of the sons of Edward III. And we have now arrived at a point in our story which makes it necessary to interpose a few words upon the state of politics at that time.

The King, as has just been said, was a mere boy, and the reins of power were in the hands of his three uncles. Of these Princes, the one whom nature and fortune alike pointed out as the leader was the eldest, John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster. And had he really taken the lead, the disastrous reign of Richard II. might, humanly speaking, have ended very differently. His next brother, Edmund, Duke of York, was so extremely weak in mind as to be little better than half-witted, and was entirely under the control of whoever chose to control him. The youngest, of whom I have spoken above, was clever in the worst sense of that word: but the only man whom he feared was his brother John, and had John chosen he might have reduced the active wickedness of Thomas to a point of merely nominal value. He did not choose. Never was a finer character more completely rendered useless and inert by moral indolence; never were such magnificent opportunities of serving God and man more utterly wasted—than in the case of John of Gaunt.

The word "moral" is used advisedly. Of physical or mental indolence he had none. His greatest delight, on his own authority, was "to hear of gallant deeds of arms" or to perform them: and few, even of royal blood, were more thoroughly well educated and accomplished according to the standard of his day. But all was spoiled by this moral indolence—this laissez faire which would take no trouble. Too much has been said of the libertinism of John of Gaunt. He was not a man of pure life; but he was not so bad as he is usually supposed to have been. Yet in one point he was a perfect rehearsal of Charles the Second—that so-called "sauntering," which I have termed moral indolence, and which it is said that Charles loved better than he ever loved any human being. And in the case of John of Gaunt it is the sadder to relate, because he had more perfect knowledge of the way of righteousness than most of those around him. The one instance in which he broke through the bonds of his besetting sin was in order to stand by John Wycliffe in the hour of persecution. Oh, how terrible is the reckoning for him who was not ignorant, who was not even in doubt of the right—who knew his Lord's will, and did it not!

In consequence of this sad lapse, the reins of power fell into the hands of Gloucester. And Gloucester was one of those men who know how to wait, to feel the pulse of circumstances, and when the right moment comes, to strike a decisive blow. How far he ever loved any one may be doubtful: but that he was a splendid hater is beyond all doubt. There were a few men whom he trusted and favoured; and of these—with one exception, the chief of them—was Richard Earl of Arundel.

The wardship of little Roger Mortimer would much more naturally have been given to one of his only adult relatives—his two grand-uncles, William, Earl of Salisbury, and Sir John de Montacute. But in the eyes of Gloucester, no Montacute was a person to be trusted. The family were by tradition favourers of the Boin-Homines—or, in other words, among the Protestants of that period. And Gloucester was a "black Papist." It is true that the Earl of Salisbury was an exception to the family rule in this particular: but it did not suit Gloucester's views to allow little Roger to reside in his house. He had a wife whose mother was one of the most prominent Lollards of the day: and he was himself much under the influence of the Lollard Princess of Wales, whom he had loved in her brilliant youth. His surroundings, therefore, were dubious. And deep down in Gloucester's crafty brain lay a scheme in which poor little Roger was to be chief actor, and if he were brought up as a Lollard there would be very little hope of utilising him for it. He must be made the ward of somebody who would diligently cultivate any sparks of ambition latent in his mind, who would give him a bias in favour of his uncle Gloucester personally, and against the King, and who would teach him to hate Lollardism. So the child was consigned to the care of the Earl of Arundel, and to make surety doubly sure, was solemnly affianced to his daughter.

A very clever Jesuit is recorded to have said, "Let me have the education of a child till he is seven years old, and you may have him for the rest of his life." The child thus plotted against had passed the test age. It might have been thought that his ruin was sure. But graven deep down in that fervent heart, below all the digging of Gloucester and his myrmidons, lay the mottoes of Philippa Montacute: and no efforts of theirs would ever efface that graving. "Un Dieu, un Roy"—and "Fais ce que doy." They were a hedge of God's planting around the tender shoot. He seemed to have said to the enemy, "Behold, he is in thine hand; but save his moral life."

It was a bitter sorrow to Guenllian that the Earl of Arundel gave her a civil congé. He had not the least doubt that she would be invaluable to the younger children: he could not think of depriving them of her. And little Roger would be amply provided with care. The Countess herself would see to him.

Guenllian was not reassured. The Countess was one of those soft, languid, placid, India-rubber women who would lay aside a novel deliberately if they knew that their children were in danger of drowning. She was not fit to bring up Guenllian's darling! She pleaded with the Earl piteously to allow her to remain with the child. She was sure the old Countess would have wished it. The Earl inquired if she had made any actual promise to this effect. In so many words, Guenllian could not say that she had: but that the tacit understanding had existed she knew full well. And she had distinctly promised that Roger should read constantly and diligently in the French Bible. The Earl assured her with an insinuating smile that there was not the least difficulty about that. He had a French Bible, and read it. Just then, Lollardism was walking in silver slippers, and the Bible was ranked among fashionable literature. Guenllian knew well that the reading with and without her would be two very different things. There would be all the difference in them between a living man and an automaton. But she was powerless. The matter was out of her hands. She must let her darling go.