The earl returned to his home on the fourth of the ides of January, and went the following day to see the king, who was then ill at Marlborough. He made a heavy complaint to his royal nephew, that base men had been allowed to insult his countess with proffers unworthy of her. He had been abroad, he said, and suffered much in the king’s service, and it seemed hard that advantage should be taken of his protracted absence by the Justiciary de Burgh, to send a certain low-bred man, who was not even a knight, into the presence of his wife, with the intention of constraining her to an unlawful marriage, had she not most nobly repelled him. He added, moreover, that unless the king caused full reparation to be made by the justiciary, for so great an outrage, he would himself seek redress, though it should involve a serious disturbance of the country. The king, who was greatly rejoiced to see his uncle, well knowing that he was both powerful and valorous, did not attempt to excuse himself, and the Justiciary de Burg being present at the interview, wisely resolved to atone for his misconduct, by confessing that the fault rested with him. He besought the earl to pass the matter over, and to accept, as a proof of his forgiveness, some fine horses, and other costly gifts. He next invited the earl to dine with him, who went accordingly on the day appointed, but being taken ill immediately after dinner, he was obliged to return home. Rumours went abroad that poison had been administered, but the character of De Burgh does not warrant any suspicion of the kind.[22] The hardships which the earl sustained while abroad, with his subsequent agitation, occasioned by the insult offered to his countess, were sufficient to account for his sudden illness. Finding himself dying, he sent for the Bishop of Salisbury, that he might receive in the confession and viaticum, such blessings as were needful to one in his condition. The bishop came immediately, and, when he entered the apartment, bearing with him the sacred elements, the earl sprung from his bed, and hastily tying a rough noose about his neck, he threw himself weeping upon the floor. He was, he said, a traitor to the Most High, and could not rise till he had confessed his past sins, and received the communion of the life-giving sacrament, that he might testify himself to be the servant of his Creator. He afterwards continued for some days in prayer, and such acts of penitence as his faith enjoined, and he then peaceably yielded up his soul to his Redeemer;[23] to Him “who willeth not the death of a sinner, but rather that he should turn from his wickedness and live.”
The earl died on the seventh of March, 1226, and his corpse, according to the fashion of the age, was immediately removed to the cathedral of New Sarum. The day was stormy, and loud gusts of wind, accompanied with heavy rain, swept over the open downs, but still the funeral train went on, with its long, long line of torches, for it might not be that the corpse of one who had been so great on earth, should remain from out the sacred walls of the cathedral which he had founded. It was about a mile from the castle to the church, and a multitude of people followed; some were loud in their lamentations, others wept silently as they went; for the earl had been a kind master, and it seemed hard that he should so soon be taken from them, who had but just returned to his home. They remembered, too, that only eight weeks before, and at the same hour of the day, he had passed through the wide portals of the magnificent cathedral to offer praises and thanksgivings for his preservation and safe return; that on the very spot where he was then received in procession by the clergy, with great demonstrations of joy,[24] the same company was coming forth to meet him, who was now being borne a corpse before them; for the bier was met at the western door by the bishop and the neighbouring chieftains, with the cathedral clergy, choristers, and precentor, chanting in Latin as they passed up the nave, the same funeral service which is now chanted in English, on occasions of public funerals within the walls of cathedrals.
His martial figure of grey marble still reposes on his tomb, sleeping, as it were, from century to century with his sword and shield. The features of this son, and brother, and uncle of kings, are only partially exposed, through a small aperture in the hood of mail, which covers his mouth and chin, the eyebrows betoken somewhat of a lofty and impetuous feeling, but the eyes seem gentle and intelligent.[25]
The day of death is light, in comparison of its bitterness, with that of the interment. In the former case, the spirit indeed has passed away, yet the form remains. The wife, or child, or parent can sit beside the couch, and gaze on the still unchanged features. But when the grave has once closed upon the loved one, what words can tell the utter desolation that presses on the heart! Thus felt the Lady Ela, when the last words of the solemn service ceased, when the sound of footsteps neared to the grave’s edge, and somewhat heavy seemed to be letting down into the darkness and the depth,—when her half-averted eye looked for the last time on the narrow coffin, resting now within the grave, but soon to be concealed for ever. Lady Ela heeded not the words of comfort which the pale priest spoke, nor yet the solemn chanting that burst forth again, as if to bear her spirit up with holy hopes from out the wretchedness of her sad lot. But the Lord, in whom she trusted, did not forsake her, and when she returned to her home, it was with a firm resolve to devote herself to the service of her Maker, by cherishing the memory of her husband, and taking care of her large family.
It was happy for the Lady Ela that she was suffered to remain in free widowhood; that even the powerful Justiciary de Burgh and his aspiring nephew dared not molest her. This was an especial favour, and as such the countess ever regarded it, for ladies of large estates were rarely permitted to continue single; their lands and dignities passed by right of inheritance to persons whom they were often constrained to marry.[26] Thus, at the same period of English history, the rich heiress of Albemarle conferred the title of earl successively on her three husbands, William Mandeville, William de Fortibus, and Baldwin de Betun. The countess, therefore, being priviliged to continue in a widowed state, exercised the office of Sheriff of Wiltshire, and that of Castellan of Old Sarum, even when her son became of age, and claimed, by his mother’s wish, the investiture of the earldom; the king his cousin refused it, not in displeasure, but according to the principles of feudal law; and hence it happened, that in consequence of the Lady Ela’s protracted life, the earldom of Salisbury continued dormant, and as she survived both her son and grandson, it was never renewed in the house of Longespé. The great seal with which the countess ratified the many legal instruments that were required in the administration of her feudal rights is still extant. We may not perhaps regard it as presenting a portrait of the Countess Ela, like the effigy of her husband in Salisbury cathedral, but it affords, no doubt, a faithful resemblance of her noble and dignified bearing, and of her graceful, though simple costume. Her right hand is on her breast, her left supports a hawk, the usual symbol of nobility, her head is covered with a singularly small cap, possibly, the precursor of the more recent coronet; her long hair flows negligently upon her neck, and on either side the royal lions of Salisbury appear to gaze on her, like the lions of Spenser’s “Fairy Queen,” on the desolate lady Una.[27]
Seven years had now elapsed from the time of the earl’s death, during which the countess sedulously fulfilled the duties of her high condition. Her eldest son, who was then a minor, married the rich heiress of two baronies, the daughter of Richard de Camville, and the Lady Eustachia.[28] Richard, Stephen, and Nicholas were gone forth into the world, and her daughters Isabella, Petronilla, Ela, and Sola being either married or of age, the countess thought herself at liberty to relinquish the arduous duties in which she had hitherto been engaged, and to devote herself to a secluded life. Yielding, therefore, to the natural desire of withdrawing from the busy world, she proceeded to undertake a task that was calculated as much for a season to add to her employments, as it afterwards contributed to her repose.
River scenery has ever been a passion with me. I can gaze unwearied on the tranquil flowing of deep, clear waters, now shaded with old trees, that droop their branches to the water’s edge, and now by rock and underwood, where roses and wild honeysuckles, harebells, and primroses mingle their beauty and their fragrance. Such is the tranquil Avon, passing in gloom and depth, dark, silent, and unruffled, among rocks and trees; or murmuring in its onward course, with that calm sound of moving waters which seems to tell of peace and solitude. It is flowing now, through a spacious and level meadow, with tall elms, and cattle feeding on its margin, and in the distance, high spiral chimneys appear at intervals among the trees. They belong to the ancient nunnery of Lacock, which the Lady Ela founded; not standing as many stand, with smokeless chimneys, lone and tenantless, over which the creeping ivy and wild wall-flower seek to hide the rents of ruin, but dwelt in still; a place where the living may think of those who are resting in the cells beneath, who have neither heard the winds of winter, nor felt the cheering sunbeams for more than six hundred years.
This spacious and level meadow, with its tall elms and cattle, was once a glade; this bright river, now journeying in shade and sunshine along peopled districts, flowed once in silence and in loneliness through the ancient forests of Chippenham and Melksham. Yonder, and at a distance over the wide wood, rises the high and lonely arch of Malmesbury Abbey, the “august, but melancholy mother,” as the poet Bowles has well observed, with a poet’s feeling, of many a cell or monastery beside the Avon. Battlements and buttresses, seen far off in the bright sunshine, point out the remains of Bradenstoke Abbey, rising among old trees, and seeming to overlook the river as it winds through the vale and pastures of Somerford and Christian Malford. Scarcely a vestige remains of Stanley priory; its walls are low and roofless, but the bright blue “forget-me-not,” nestling itself among ferns and foxgloves in the fissures of the walls, seems to call upon the passenger to remember that men once thought, and felt, and suffered, where all now is silent and deserted—an emblem-flower, a living motto, inscribed on the wrecks of ruin. But Lacock Abbey, standing on the verge of the spacious and level meadow, is still inhabited, and its cloisters are fresh, as if they were just completed, although the arches are hung with ivy. More than six centuries have passed since the Countess of Salisbury came, in the year 1232, accompanied by such persons as she loved to consort with, to this remote part of her hereditary domain. The woods around were bursting into leaf, and the “one word spoken” of the contented cuckoo was heard at intervals.
It was early in the month of April,[29] and as yet the winds were chill, but April was in unison with her past life, one of storm and sunshine, and now about to close, as respected this world’s turmoils, amid the beautiful scenes of woodland and of river. Two monasteries were founded by the countess on that memorable day; Lacock, which she designed for her own abode, in which holy canonesses might dwell, continually and devoutly serving the Most High; the other, the priory of Henton, of the Carthusian order.[30] It was believed that the countess in thus founding these religious establishments, desired to perform the vows of her husband, which he made during his great perils, when returning from Gascony to England. A few years more, and the bright sun which beamed on the day of the foundation of Lacock nunnery, looked down on a dark marble stone, which men placed, with heavy hearts, over the remains of its noble foundress. “As I stood, in a moody day of the declining year,” wrote one,[31] who has recorded with deep feeling the long-forgotten history of the Lady Ela, “and thought of her youthful romantic history, a gleam of pale sunshine struggled through the dark drapery of ivy, and fell upon the spot. At the same moment a wintry bird, which had taken shelter among the branches, piped one small note; no other sound was heard amid the profound silence of the place, and as the short note ceased, the gleam faded also.”