V ^ UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA DAVIS UNCANONIZED Homaiue of BY MARGARET HORTON POTTER CHICAGO A. C. McCLURG & CO. 1900 LIBRARY .UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA DAVIS PREFATORY NOTE IF the character of King John of England, as pre sented in the following pages, shall be found to differ somewhat materially from the current and conventional ideas of him, the reader is requested to attribute the variation not to mere license of historical romance, but rather to earnest conviction, resulting from a careful and minute study of his life and reign on the part of THE AUTHOR. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. THE ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY n II. THE FAREWELL 31 III. SACKCLOTH AND THE ALTAR 53 IV. REGINALD 69 V. JOHN'S MESSENGERS 83 VI. GLASTONBURY 102 VII. TONSURE AND THORN 124 VIII. THE DAWN OF HOPE 144 IX. INTERDICT 159 X. ELEANOR OF BRITTANY 171 XI. DE LA MARCHE 191 XII. THE APOSTASY 204 XIII. AN EXCOMMUNICATED KING 226 XIV. FROM BRISTOL TO GLASTONBURY 241 XV. CHRISTMAS AT WINDSOR 251 XVI. ELEANOR'S ENVOY 274 XVII. ISABELLA OF ANGOULEME 295 XVIII. " AVE ! COLOR VINI CLARI !" 322 XIX. THE MEMORY OF SAVARIC . * 338 XX. JOCELYN OF BATH 356 x Contents CHAPTER PAGB XXI. A FULFILLED DESIRE 380 XXII. ROYAL VISITORS AT BRISTOL . . * . . , . 402 XXIII. FOR WOE 419 XXIV. GUESTS AT GLASTONBURY 435 XXV. THE LAST JOURNEY 449 XXVI. THE STORM AT THE ABBEY 471 XXVII. ANGELUS 487 UNCANONIZED A ROMANCE OF ENGLISH MONACHISM CHAPTER I THE ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY IT was a golden afternoon in the June of the year 1203. The long terraces on the eastern side of the hill topped by Windsor Castle lay luminously green in the long light of the declining sun ; while the last of these, bordering on the forest, was mottled with the deep, velvet shadows of the ancient oaks near by. This space was alive with the moving figures of a company of young men and youths of various ages; all of them, judging from the richness of their dress, members of the royal household. They wore tunics reaching scarcely to the knee, far shorter than those in vogue for older men ; belts of wrought silver or leather studded with gold; hose, party-colored or plain; and long, pointed shoes of cloth, which were by no means easy to run in. Bareheaded were they all ; and their locks, not long since carefully combed and curled, though dishevelled now, hung upon their shoulders. Two or three only bore traces of wished-for beards; and, judging by the mellow echoes of their shouts and laughter, the majority of voices among them was still unchanged. The younger members of this group were engaged in a variety of games : wrestling, racing, balls, archery, and spaume. The elder ones stood apart in a close group, ii 12 encircling two of their number who were indulging in a plebeian bout at quarter-staff. The contest, so closely matched, was between a couple of straight-limbed young fellows, whose interest in their sport was evidenced by the quick and careful skill with which they engaged. The onlookers showed themselves in small lack of money, by the readiness with which all indulged in betting, though no one ventured to offer odds on either one of the contestants. The game continued for a long enough time to have wearied players less athletic ; but, at the end of half an hour, the victor became very evident to those who had staked upon his opponent. He was a beautifully built fellow, not remarkably tall, but perfectly proportioned ; clad somewhat foppishly in tunic of olive green, of costly material, white hosen, with belt, pouch, and shoes heavily jewelled and ornamented. The hat, which lay on the grass at no great distance, was of white cloth, bear ing two straight white feathers, tipped with black and fastened together with a golden pin. His face was well cut, and its expression determined. Dark hair, some what shorter than was fashionable, clustered in thick curls about his head. His movements throughout the match were rapid and graceful, while the eyes which followed his opponent's weapon were black and unusually bril liant. The laughter now and again coming from his lips as he lost a stroke or was foiled in one, was as clear and as mellow as the silvery murmur of a forest stream. A careless, light-hearted, petted, spoiled, and hugely admired favorite was this Anthony Fitz-Hubert ; upon whose slender shoulders not a care had sat for three hours' time in all his pretty life. The contest was over. Anthony had come out win ner, as, indeed, he had been quite aware he should ; and among his companions some handfuls of rude coins were changing owners. The'victorious young noble at once held out his hand to the defeated one. of Canterbury 13 " Truly I should be more contented with my triumph were it not thy loss, De Neville," he said, pleasantly. Young De Neville laughed. " I could have born defeat with so much complaisance at no other hands. Verily I had not guessed thou hadst so pretty a turn with a churl's weapon, my Lord Fastidious," he re turned good-naturedly, and the close group around them nodded approval. These courtesies exchanged, Anthony turned to the others, whose expressions were aimless enough when the smiles had died from them. "Come, Anthony, thou 'st amused thyself long enow at De Neville's expense. Now do thou devise some sport wherein all may partake," called out one ; and the chorus of approval which followed was proof enough of Anthony's undisputed leadership. " In good sooth," was that youth's lazy reply, " I am content with the thought of idleness for an hour. Half that time with staffs and Walter here makes one long earnestly for a bank of moss and " Mademoiselle de Ravaillac with her lute, eh? " There was a shout of laughter in which Anthony joined with never a change of color. " Mademoiselle departs in two days for Winchester and the Queen," he responded with all the natural and assumed carelessness that could be summoned to his aid. " Ah, that we might all accompany her ! " exclaimed one. " Indeed, Henry ! Wouldst smother the poor damsel in such a press of gallantry ?" queried De Grey. " Nay, I care nought for the demoiselle, 't is well for my happiness that I do not, but what with John in Normandy, the Queen at Winchester, and the Arch bishop ill at Lambeth, old Windsor is as sorry a place for gayeties as the middle of the New Forest." "True," assented Anthony; " but, an I weep not at 14 my double desolation, assuredly thou needest not to do so. Come, let us seek out some spot where the pages are not forever screaming in our ears, and talk on who shall run our horses at the next London fair. By Thomas, Jack Shortleg played me an ill turn in leaving for York ! What sayest thou to this? " " Methinks I shall speak for Red Byron," murmured De Neville to his companion as the little group began to move slowly toward the edge of the forest. Presently they were arrested by a shout from behind them. On looking around they beheld a lackey, in the dress of the Queen's household, running bareheaded down the terraces from the castle. He held something in his hand. "An it please you, sirs, I would have speech with my Lord Anthony Fitz-Hubert, an he be among you," gasped the man from a distance. Anthony stepped impatiently from the midst of his companions. " How now, John, what would you? Me- seemeth you are ever at me for something." " Pardon pardon, my lord, but " " In the name of the devil, John, do not ' my lord ' me," exclaimed the young man, angrily. " Well know you that I am no lord." "Again pardon, my " " ' Lord ! ' " interjected Anthony, mocking his confu sion. " Come, good villain, 't is a rare flower that you hold." "Tis for you, sir; the rose is for you. Mademoi selle bade me find you and give it, saying, ' He will understand.' " The laughter this time was less general. Interest in the little scene absorbed it. Anthony took the scarlet flower with good grace, dismissed the boor with a king's head, and fastened the token in the silver lacing of his tunic, where it glowed fragrantly upon his breast. Then, with his cheeks slightly tinged with color, he of Canterbury l s turned again to his companions. Chaffing him lightly on his conquest, and talking together carelessly of many things, they proceeded to the edge of the little forest stream where they were accustomed to spend many an idle hour. All efforts to draw from the favorite the message delivered by his flower failed. Mademoiselle possessed an honorable recipient of her somewhat rashly proffered affection. But the scape grace Anthony was not so unused to such affairs as to give this one the attention now demanded from him by his companions for their masculine matters. Indeed, he was not so vain as one might imagine, under the circumstances; for when a life-fabric, from infancy upward, is woven of adulation, admiration, sunshine, and entire carelessness, vanity is far less likely to creep into the woof than should a stripe of happy colors appear suddenly after long yards of sombre black or brown. Anthony Fitz-Hubert's life had been passed at the courts of kings. He who, next to the King himself, was the loftiest personage in all England, had no fear that a son of his would not receive due courtesy and attention from his liege's vassals, natural child though he was. Moreover, when a son, endowed with the face, manner, and mind of Anthony, was placed near the per son of the King's half-brother, William of Salisbury, child of Henry Second and the world-famous Rosa mund of the Tower, a nation's favorite, he would be little likely to suffer overmuch from shame of birth. And Anthony but rarely thought upon his unknown parentage ; of the mother whose name had never been told to him. The only feeling he had ever shown upon the matter was his preference for being called by his given name, and not by that of his father, which, with the Norman prefix, was a common surname in those days when our families were being founded ; also, when etiquette admitted it, he rejected any title of nobility 16 which might be given him by some ignorant or obse quious person. To-day as he lay supine upon a velvet, mossy bank (warranted to stain those delicate hose of his), beneath the faintly stirring branches of a spread ing oak, and mingling his laughter with that of the brook at his feet, there was not a thought in the irre sponsible young head more serious than of games at quarter-staff, and prospective races, or stolen hours with a pretty maid who sent him roses as tokens, and told him far more with her eyes than he had ever dared ask from her lips. So engrossed was the little company in its own con verse that the approach of new-comers among the trees was unheeded. It was Anthony himself at last who, chancing to lift his eyes from the water, started suddenly to his feet, raising the hat from his head as he did so. The others looked about them, then followed the youth's example, scrambling hastily from their loung ing positions. At a few paces distance stood two men : the one he for whom Windsor Castle was being kept open in the absence of King and Queen, William, Earl of Salisbury; the other a man whom Anthony recognized as a member of his father's household. At a slight sign from the fair-faced, grave-eyed Earl, the young fellow went forward, and, as he went, was struck as by a blow with a sudden unwarranted appre hension. The expression of the serving-man was un readable. There was an instant's pause. The Earl was palpably reluctant to speak. According to eti quette Anthony waited attentively in silence, and, as etiquette did not demand, with a faint tremor of ner vousness at his heart. At last Salisbury sighed a little, and, with the same breath, spoke. "Thy father, Anthony, summons thee to Lambeth. He would request an immediate departure. Adam, here, will ride back again with you." " My father fares worse?" asked the youth, softly. of Canterbut^ l ? " He is gravely ill, I fear." " Surely they dread not his " the word refused to come. Anthony's head drooped and his face lost its light. " The King's own chirurgien and two others skilled in medicine are with him, together with Geoffrey, Prior of Canterbury Chapter, and his confessors," answered the retainer, to whom William had looked for reply. " His Grace asks constantly for you, and I was bid to ride from London and fetch you back with me, an it please you." " I go at once," returned Anthony, adding hastily, " I have permission, my lord? " Salisbury nodded. " Certes. Go get thee into an older habit. Tell thy father that in another day I will myself wait on him, and that were it not for the Scot tish legates who arrive to-night, and De Burgh who comes in the morning on his way to Normandy, I would accompany thee now." Bowing thanks to his master for the kindness, and bidding Adam be in the castle courtyard in twenty minutes with fresh horses, Anthony dashed at head long speed through the trees, over the last terrace, where the pages were still at their games, and up the long hill at the summit of which stood the lofty castle, radiant with the mellow light of the setting sun. Anthony's companions stared after him as he disap peared. Never a word of farewell had he said to them. Something of importance must have happened. The little group, its pleasure for the afternoon dispelled, started slowly for the castle ; and as they went the young men spoke of what had occurred, and advanced many conjectures as to the reason of their leader's hurried departure. But none of that gay little com pany for an instant imagined that they had just seen Anthony, their Anthony, as he ran upward to the castle gate, run at the same time out of all their lives, 1 8 cUncanotmeti and also for all time out of his own. Nor did Anthony himself dream that. For, as he hastily doffed his rich costume for a much worn riding-suit of blue, he care fully loosed Mademoiselle's rose from the lacing of his doublet, and, as carefully, wrapped it within a damp damask cloth and laid it on a wooden settle under neath the window, that it might not fade. " I shall miss the meeting with thee, Helene," he thought, smiling absently, " but God grant that I return hither in happiness ere thou depart for Winchester." And half his wish he had, indeed. But the other half? In the dying twilight of that summer evening two horses clattered across the lowered drawbridge and down the steeply winding road that passed through the hamlet of Windsor; and then toward London, which lay farther to the east than nowadays. At a mad gallop went the pair, and the wretched inhabitants of the hovels which lined the way for a little, scrambled hurriedly from their path; then paused to stare long at the backs of the worshipfuls who were already dis appearing in the far distance. Anthony rode in the memory of a dream, a curious dream, that he had had the night before, and which now suddenly reappeared upon his memory. It was a vague, haunting thing; a vision of a great altar, and many candles, and himself clad in a sackcloth gown, striving to light them ; failing again and again, yet still seeing their elusive light in a continual flicker before his eyes. And as he mused upon this dream, meaning less as it was, his heart grew heavy in his breast, and he found no solace in the wild pace of his horse. It was nine o'clock that evening, and the daylight had hardly yet throbbed itself out of the darkness, when the two silent ones drew rein on the farther side of London, before Lambeth Palace, on the very spot, indeed, where stands the Lambeth of to-day. of Canterbury 19 The Archbishop's son was expected. As he wearily dismounted from his panting horse, a lackey and two link-boys with torches hurried from the door to meet him. Already a groom had taken his steed, and he followed the pages into the house, thankful that the ride was over. " An it please you, sir, my Lord Archbishop would see you at once, if you will go to him. Refreshment awaits you in his apartment." " I follow you," was the answer. They passed through the great hallway of the palace and up the stone staircase; then through a maze of corridors and rush-strewn antechambers, lighted dimly with stone lamps and torches. As they went Anthony's mind returned to Windsor and the banquet now ending there. It seemed a hundred miles away that other life of his. And while still he mused he found himself upon the threshold of his father's stately bed-chamber. Hubert Walter, Archbishop of Canterbury, Primate and Chief Justiciary of England, he who ruled England in the King's absence, and, some said, in the King's presence likewise, was, as every man in Lambeth Palace believed, mortally ill. England was in ignorance of his state as yet, for the sickness was of short standing ; but the nearest companions and servants of my lord had been summoned from his various palaces and churches ; the Prior of Canterbury Chapter had come, and the Bishops of London and Rochester, together with Gilbert Glanville and Robert of Auxerre, his confessors, were at his side. In death, as in life, my lord was to be well at tended and assisted on his important way. With regard to the archiepiscopal conscience the last step had been taken : Hubert's son, the single evidence of his single wrong-doing, had been summoned to his lingering presence. It was evident that Anthony's coming had been looked for. As soon as he entered the room all those 20 2Jncanoni?eD seated within it rose with one accord, more out of a wish to show respect to the dying man than to the son, who, for them, had neither rank nor position. Anthony looked not to the right or left, but advanced quietly to the bedside and bent over the passive form which lay thereon. " My father," he said gently. Hubert Walter's eyes opened. In those gray orbs, fire lingered yet; and when he spoke, weak though his voice was, the ring of command still dominated its expression. 11 Thou 'rt in good season, boy. I thank thee for thy quick obedience to my wishes." " I could scarce do other than the duty which was also my wish," was the response, spoken in a tone unwontedly low, for Anthony was noting each changed point of his father's weakened face and frame. " 'T is well. Refreshment will be brought thee now. After that we will speak together. I cannot as yet." The last sentence came brokenly, and with a kind of shudder. The sight of his son had unnerved the Archbishop. One of the physicians hurried to the bedside with cordial, which was hastily administered. Then Anthony, seeing his father sink back again into torpor, left his side and went to the table, which had already been spread with white bread, capon, and wine. Of this meal the young man was indeed in great need, being thor oughly exhausted from his long ride and the various emotions of the afternoon and evening. In a corner of the room Geoffrey of Canterbury, the confessors, and the bishops sat whispering together. In the opposite corner the three doctors of medicine consulted lugubriously and with much comfort. While upon the heavily canopied bedstead between these two parties of directors, unheeding all the talk and the flickering of the dim light, lay the Archbishop, pallid of Canterbury 21 and motionless, his eyes closed, and one hand clenched fast beneath the coarse coverlet. As, mechanically, Anthony ate and drank, he watched this scene. In his mind there was no definite thought or feeling. Only all about him seemed to hang a haze of apprehension, vague and elusive as the torchlight. Something was to happen, he felt; something strange, unguessed, and dreadful. This unwarranted dread grew greater, until it became impossible for him to eat. He finished his wine, then sat quite still for a moment on his wooden stool, his head bent. The bishops thought him pro nouncing a grace. In reality his thoughts, for an instant, had fled this scene and escaped to the memory of what he had left that day, the daylight, the sun, the rose, the forest, the banquet-hall of Windsor, and the little balcony whereon he had been wont to whisper delicate nothings in the moonlight into the pretty ear of Mademoiselle. His eyes opened again upon this pres ent scene. Then, resolutely, he rose, and crossed to the bed whereon the sick man lay. The Archbishop felt his presence and looked up. "Thou art ready?" he asked, in a whisper that was hoarse. Anthony bent his head, once. Hubert Walter raised his thin white hand : " Friends, I would have speech with my son, alone. Will you be pleased to retire to the antechamber, and see that we are not disturbed. Anthony shall recall you when we have finished our converse, or should I have need of assistance in your absence." There was not a hint of weakness in this speech. Rising obediently, the priests and doctors filed slowly out of the room. Rapidity of movement was not be coming, and in their secret hearts they strongly wished to hear the interview which was about to take place. But, neither by word nor look, dared they betray curi osity even among themselves ; for Hubert Walter, what- 22 2Jncanoni?eH ever else he had done in life, had trained his dependents into excellent manners. And they were never slow to learn from him, after a first lesson, that he was a man at times to be greatly dreaded. A man to be dreaded ? Yes. Hubert Walter him self was well aware of that. A proud man, an imperi ous, indomitable, and boundlessly ambitious man he had ever been. From low estate had he risen, neither rapidly nor slowly, with absolute assurance. In the early years of the reign of the first Richard he had become Archbishop of Canterbury; King of clerical England. But that was no longer the summit of his ambition. Mile by mile, throughout that reign, he had approached his final goal. He had reached it now. Over the bitterest opposition to his civil appointments, he had ridden rough-shod. He, of the Roman Catho lic Church, not of the Church Militant, as Chief Justici ary of the realm had come to pronounce death-sentence over men, a direct abrogation of his clerical vows ; and yet, throughout the Christian world, had at last stilled every murmur of reproach from prostrate envy. Baron, King and nation he had overruled. Had he found it necessary, the Pope himself would have been defied. And now, as he lay upon his accepted death-bed, there was naught but sorrow in the hearts of those who knew of his approaching end. A great man was Father Hubert Walter. A great man and yet, alas, alas for the greatest of us, a blot was on his scutcheon. The blot was from the hand of woman, and Anthony was the blot. Anthony called up constantly to his father's mind the memory of the pe riod of his sin against the Church. Yet, by his father, Anthony had always been treated with unswerving kind ness, and rigid recognition of their relationship. Hu bert's mind and his position were alike powerful enough for that. None the less the proud old man had suffered, and dreaded as much as he had endured, for the mem- of Canterbury 23 ory of that long-past folly. The fears of his creed were thoroughly instilled into his brain and heart. He be lieved absolutely in everlasting damnation ; and his God was far more terrible than righteous ; though that fact Hubert, together with scholastic Christendom, failed entirely to recognize. Through the long years before and since his earthly ambitions were realized, the Archbishop had brooded over this other thing: the sin which, com mitted in the ardor of his youth, might now have the far-reaching power to blast the final triumph which men lived for in those days ; which might drag him from a seat among the mighty in heaven, and fling him into the lake of everlasting fire far below. A childish fear, one of the thirteenth century, but none the less terrible to him who believed in it. And through much suf fering and thought the Archbishop had devised for himself a way of escape, one which, according to all legitimate tradition, would prove wholly and worthily efficacious. That this escape would be thoroughly cow ardly did not for a moment enter into his consideration. Some one must merely bear the burden of a few short years of earthly discomfort. Obviously that would be impossible for a dying man. Equally obvious was the fact that there was only one person in existence upon whom Hubert Walter had any life-claim. That person was his son ; and his son, according to Scriptural per mission, might be requested to take the consequences of his father's sin. Anthony stood by his father's bedside, glad that a decisive moment had come at last, trusting that his fore boding was to be dispelled. The Archbishop raised himself slightly on his pillow, and, breathing a little heavily from the effort, lay looking at the young man with dim eyes and parted lips, in silence. Finally, lift ing his hand, the old man pointed to a wooden stool in the room. 24 " Bring it hither and sit ye down, my son. So may we talk more at ease." Anthony obeyed, seating himself and fixing his eyes upon his father's face. There was another pause. Hu bert Walter found it difficult to begin. Finally, with a tremble in his tone, he lifted his voice and spoke, as if by rote, but with desperate intensity in his manner. " Anthony, you are my natural son. You know that." Anthony nodded. He had expected such a prelimi nary. " Thou knowest too that the vows of a Catholic priest are celibate. Therefore I sinned, grievously." Anthony nodded again. He had not expected self- humiliation from the Archbishop. " You are my child, the evidence of my single swerv ing from that narrow road which, since my youth, I have so earnestly walked in. For endless years have I been doing penance for that wrong. Long ago it was confessed. To me it hath never been absolved." He paused and looked searchingly into Anthony's face. It bore no expression save that of earnest atten tion. Taking breath again Hubert continued. " Mine hours now are numbered. Upon the bed which I have made, I lie. In another world I shall be judged. Oh, Anthony I I fear ! Hast ever thought on death?" " Nay," was the answer, given in an absent tone. " Nor did I, when I was of thy years, when I sinned," returned the old man, dropping back again to the painful theme. " But I think now I think now for I needs must. When at last one is brought face to face with the Creator, and knoweth that there is naught that he may hide from the omniscient One, then indeed doth a man think and tremble. Though oft have I been washed free of my sins by some brother of the Church, yet now I am become sore afraid lest the taint be not entirely removed. From afar down the gallery of years Clje 3rcpij3^op of Canterbury 25 my misdoing cries out. With prayers of anguish have I answered the echo, and peace for a day hath been given me. But ever and again the remorse returns. Purgatory opens at last, and hell yawns below. But heaven heaven is barred to me, Hubert Walter, Archbishop of Canterbury, while the world, heeding not my sin, looketh upon me as beyond mortal reproach ! " Again the Archbishop paused, his strength failing rapidly. With a strong final effort, however, he con centrated a glance of powerful intensity upon his son's thoughtful face. Anthony returned the look with one of earnest questioning. "Was the sin so great, father?" he asked. " Others have committed more and worse than thine, yet hoped for heaven in the end. Surely 't is said that the Church Fathers, Saint Thomas himself, were in no wise free from reproach in such matters." Hubert sighed. He had made his decision, passed these arguments from himself, long ago. Now no word from any one could mitigate his judgment of himself. He was annoyed that the young man should for a moment dispute its reason. " Look you, Anthony, 't is now no Becket speaking with thee ; but I, I, Hubert Walter, thy father, face to face with the hereafter, fear for the repose of my soul ! Becket is gone. He was no charge of mine. On earth he is a saint in heaven he may not be at all. What matters that to me? 'Tis I that die ! " That was it. Therein lay all. It came over Anthony in a sudden flood of understanding, all this self. He saw his father as we do not see ourselves. He saw the self and the selfishness. Hubert Walter was himself. His individuality was complete. No keeper of his brother, but only master of his own welfare was he. To himself he was all. Flesh of his flesh and blood of his blood, distinguished by another shape, another 26 sensibility, were nothing to him, except for what he might demand of them for himself. All for him was reality. For another it was but imagination. Fear had come home to him now. Hitherto he had seen suffering and fear, and had condoned, and tried to comfort with words had this Hubert Walter. Now was he afraid, and what were words to him? In a second Anthony had perceived all this. Weighted with thought he rose and went to his father's side. " What wouldst have me do ? " and his voice was low, and soft with great pity for the human frailty which he had seen so suddenly revealed. A gleam passed over the old man's face. At last help had come to him. Now, how to put the question ? All hung upon that all, his eternal happiness or dam nation. Should it be at once, brusquely, with noth ing to soften its harshness? A sudden rush of pain decided the matter. "What shouldst thou do? This, Anthony : During the few years that remain to thee shalt thou save my soul and thine own. That life in which I failed, shalt thou live. Put away ambition. Enter among the lowly of earth, that a higher throne in heaven may await thee. Take the vows. Become a monk, content to live alone, apart from men, with brethren of thine order, and with tomes, and prayers, and God ; leave far behind the use less glory of this life, and look alone to Heaven for thy hope, and for my love." It was said. Hubert drew a slow and painful breath, that was scarcely lower in sound than three words spoken as if by the voice of a dying man, or of a spectre coming from close beside his bed. They were an echo. '"Become a monk!"' Hubert did not stir. He lay with his eyes fixed upon his son in a dim look of imperious weakness and pleading, that might now do far more than words in of Canterbury 27 helping to prepare a mind for such a thought. He could not dream the true effect of his long-planned proposition upon one to whom its meaning was so new. Slowly and unconsciously Anthony moved backward from the bed. His eyes wandered aimlessly about the room. His ideas refused to concentrate themselves upon anything. Presently he burst into a laugh, a laugh so musical that it might have been called a woman's, save that in it there was no thought of mirth. " T is an idea, surely ! A monk ! " " I jested not, Anthony," said the old man, anxiously. Anthony's face twitched. The laughter rose again in his throat, but his eyes were terrible. " Monkery ! How am I fitted for it? Thou knowest what my life at court hath been? Their duties, their thoughts, their ways, what know I of them ! I should be given time to think." " There is no time ; " and in Hubert's voice sounded despair now. Anthony started. A quick vibration shot to his heart. " You mean that I should decide here now?" " Here, and now," repeated the inexorable low voice. " Then NO ! Ten thousand times NO ! I am no priest, nor fit for one. I am of the court, a servant of the King, of the household of the King's brother. I will be no monk." A terrible expression came into the eyes of the Archbishop of Canterbury, a look such as Hubert's god of Judgment might have worn. It passed again, but its trace remained. When he spoke his voice was weak and very gentle, but there was a note in it of something else. "Wait, Anthony! Thus superficially you cannot decide. Think you that I knew not all that you have 28 spoken of when I asked this thing from you? You are no courtier, no servant of the King. Neither are you, as I have seen,, a servant of your God. Less than the least of men are you. You are a bastard. Had you a soul at all, it were impure. Some say that in you there is no soul. I know not how that is, but in the words of holy Scripture I tell you this, see that you heed it : ' The sins of the fathers are visited upon the children.' I am your father, and my sin is yours. I and you also are impure in the sight of the Almighty Father. Now have I opened before you a way of salvation for us both. A glorious way it is, for by it my soul shall belong to you. In the sight of the chil dren of men you are as nothing. To me you are a son. Here on my death-bed I demand see, I plead no more I command you to leave the world, that you may open the way to another and an eternal world to both of us, both of us, Anthony, to you and to me." There was a long silence, empty for one of them, suffocating for the other. Then Anthony lifted his head. " She -who was my mother," he asked bitterly, "hast saved her soul? Or is that also left to my care? " " Long since she died. For seven hundred days I said mass for the repose of her soul; I was daily scourged; and in all that time no morsel of meat passed my lips." Anthony was silent again. Out of the mist before him rose his life. " ' The sins of the fathers ' " he repeated hoarsely to himself. " What say you ? " asked the father, drearily. "What is needed to make me into a monk? What monastery would receive me?" questioned a new voice that came from Anthony's lips. The Archbishop breathed quickly. " All those mat ters I have arranged. From his Holiness himself have of Canterbury 29 I letters sanctioning the matter and giving thee the right of friar's orders that shall free thee at times from the weariness of the cloister. In difficulty or trouble thou mayest appeal to him. These privileges are rare and great." " Where should I go ? " repeated the monotonous voice. " To Canterbury. Geoffrey will accompany thee. In the great monastery of Augustine there, thou wilt serve six months' novitiate. Thy time is specially shortened. At the end of that, when thou hast ta'en the vows, a place will be made for thee in the Canterbury Chapter itself. That is the most powerful convent in all Eng land. Thou wouldst serve only at the masses in the great cathedral, and be given many hours for solitary study and prayer. The chapter hath greater honor and privilege than any other in the kingdom. Wouldst be satisfied?" Satisfied!" " Anthony, my strength fails. Thy word to God ! " Anthony Fitz-Hubert stood. His arms were folded tightly across his breast. His damp hair clung closely to his head. His dark eyes were dull and unseeing. A drop rolled from his forehead down his cheek. Like a breath of the evening wind, his youth had passed from him. He spoke, but his tone and his face were alike without expression. His gaze was not upon his father's face, but on the great void where his happiness had been. His words were clear; his father, straining to catch them, drank them into his soul. " In the sight of God I promise you to become a monk." The Archbishop's face relaxed. He sighed. His failing strength had apparently returned to him. " Thou mayest call Geoffrey," he said gently, "but kneel first to receive my blessing. Ah, my son ! My beloved son ! How do I glory in thee ! " 30 ajncanoni?eti Anthony stumbled to the bedside and forced himself to kneel. He shivered as the hot hand fell upon his hair. He kept himself from crying aloud by main strength. Then the phrases of the benediction fell upon his ears : " Peace be with thee, now, henceforth, and forever, Anthony ! " CHAPTER II THE FAREWELL IN the antechamber of the Archbishop's bedroom, during the talk between Hubert and his son, the little group of doctors and priests had waited impa tiently for the termination of that interview. Gilbert de Glanville sat alone on a settle in a corner, his tonsured head bent so that his face was unreadable, his fingers playing nervously with the cloth of his black robe. The Bishop of London was expounding some dogma of Paris to his comrades, who obviously paid little heed to his words. Geoffrey of Canterbury sat by the other con fessor, but neither of them spoke. They, too, were lis tening for the sound of a footstep in the corridor. The doctors, more at ease, sat murmuring professionally among themselves, careless of the unrest among their colleagues of the soul. None in the room but Gilbert knew what it was that Hubert Walter was saying to his son ; but all who were aware of that sonship could at least imagine many things. The minutes dragged. The floating wicks in the small stone lamps built upon the wall wavered and flickered unpleasantly, while the uneven light from the cresset lantern hung in the middle of the apartment cast distorted shadows over the floor and ceiling. To all the attendants the wait was tedious ; to Gilbert Glan ville it was interminable. The confessor was uneasy. " Verily, my lord findeth his task no simple one. Me- thought it had been so. 'Twere better an he had left it to one of us to me," he thought, and thought again. 32 Nevertheless, when their waiting was ended and the leather hanging before the door raised by a white hand, all in the room were startled. It was a strange appari tion. For a moment each was aware of a slender figure, which seemed to sway even as it grasped the curtain ; of a ghastly face framed in rough black hair ; of a voice whose sound was only a hoarse whisper, " Gilbert de Glanville, my father would have speech with you." Gilbert rose quickly. At the same moment the chief chirurgien started up. It was the confessor who waved him aside. " My lord needs thee not yet," he said ; then followed Anthony from the room. They walked together down the short passage-way. At the door to the larger room which they were about to enter, Gilbert paused for an instant and laid a finger on the young man's sleeve; "Thou hast consented?" he whispered. Anthony's lips framed an answer that was barely audible, but which Gilbert caught at once. A look of admiration crept over the confessor's face, and a gleam of pity flickered from his eyes. The admiration was for Hubert Walter's power, which, it seemed, death could not diminish. The pity was for the son. On entering the bedroom, Gilbert went at once to the Archbishop's side. The sick man's cheeks were slightly flushed, his eyes were brilliant, and his voice weaker than it had been. " Anthony hath granted my last wish," said his Grace, looking sharply into his confessor's face. " Go now, Gilbert, to the cabinet in the corner yonder, and in it shaltthou find the papers that are needed for Anthony's going. To one, the oath, Anthony shall put his name. The second is from mine own hand to the monastery and chapter; thou wilt see that its command is obeyed, father. The third is from the Pope to me, granting my behest, absolving me from guilt on the condition faretoell 33 that Anthony take the vows, and giving him special order of friar-confessor, together with privilege of ap peal to his Holiness in difficulty or dispute. That missive, Anthony, is thine. Treasure it well, for it will be the greatest possession of thy monkhood. Now shalt thou sign the pledge to me and to God. Canst write thy name, dear son?" " A courtier is no scribe. No." Hubert took no note of the dark face and the churl ish tone. It was easy to forgive these things now. " Gilbert shall write it, then, and thou must make thy mark. Then we will determine about thy going." " My going ! Surely I shall not go yet ! I will wait until " " Until my death?" finished the old man, looking at him piercingly. " Thou shalt go before then. I would thou wert within the convent at this moment. Remember, Anthony, thy prayers are needed." The young man struggled to suppress a sound that rose to his lips. It was something like an explosive laugh. His nerves were giving way. Further resist ance upon petty points appeared impossible to him. He was at the greatest disadvantage, worn mentally and physically, and left to oppose helplessness to pitiless determination. Argument he felt to be useless. Gilbert de Glanville perceived his condition, and the advantage that was theirs. He addressed a few low-toned words to the Archbishop. " Yes, yes," returned Hubert, somewhat impatiently. "Thou hadst better go now to thy rest, Anthony. Gilbert and I will arrange these matters. Leave them to us in faith. On the morrow thou must ride again, and thou art weary enow. Call the lackey, Gilbert. Go, then ; and peace be with thee, son." Anthony turned silently to leave the room, defeated, as he knew, yet caring little just then for anything. Presently something, a quiver of feeling, stopped him. 3 34 He hesitated for a moment, then went to the bedside again, bending over it and gazing sadly into his father's face. "What is it, boy?" and there was a tremble in the high, old voice. " I shall see thee again, in the morning? " asked the son, gently. " Dei gratia, Antoni. Nunc vale." " Vale," he murmured in reply, and then, with sudden determination, swiftly crossed the room and was gone. De Glanville and the Archbishop, left alone together, did not speak for some moments. When the silence was at length broken, it was in a way which showed the close intimacy between these two men. " Thou hadst some little struggle with him, my lord?" " Nay, not so much, Gilbert not so much as I had apprehended. Thou knowest he is of my blood. Ah, Gilbert ! At times my heart reproaches me for what I have done ! " " That is but weakness. Assuredly in giving a world ling to the arms of the holy Church thou hast done no wrong. He will forget, soon, that other life which would have condemned him to tortures eternal ; and will gladly seek what is needed for the repose of his soul and of thine own." " God grant it. And now as to his departure." The Archbishop lifted himself upon his pillow and glanced significantly at the confessor. Then he proceeded, with a voice lowered unnecessarily, since he could not hide his thought from God : " He must depart hence for Canterbury on the morrow. Dost understand?" " You mean, my lord," said De Glanville, with an inward smile, but great outward respect, " you mean that Heaven hath not called you yet?" " Ay," answered Hubert, with a sigh that was heart felt. "The malignance of the attack is. passed. I shall tfaretoell 35 recover. But for how long? Thou knowest how they do continually recur. Nay, Gilbert, the grave yawns for me. I am not so unkind as thou thinkest. Death smiles not far away, though for the nonce I have banished him. Were it otherwise - He did not finish his thought in words, but the meaning was not difficult to perceive. Gilbert bowed passively. The subject was closed. They turned to the matters of Anthony's going, and his other life. The Archbishop's son, meanwhile, lay in the stately room prepared for him. His brain rebelled against further labor, and his head had scarcely found its welcome resting-place before his darkly fringed eyelids had closed heavily, and he slept. Through the remain ing hours of the night he lay wrapped in a slumber resembling the death which had left his father's bed. The beams of the morning sun, finally creeping up his pillow, held in them a drowsy dream of Made moiselle and of her rose. The dream brought no waken ing, and it was some hours past his usual time for rising when a hand, hot and thin, was laid upon his white one, which he had thrown above his head in his light sleep. Instantly he started up, ready to resent the morning intrusion of some Windsor coxcomb. Before him, in this room at silent Lambeth, stood the shrunken form of Gilbert de Glanville, in his black priest's-robe. " My father ! " he asked quickly, memory still latent within him. " My Lord Archbishop still breathes, sends his bless ing, and gives you God-speed upon your journey," responded the priest, examining him narrowly. Anthony sank back upon the bed, overwhelmed. The watcher saw all the young life leave him, and the face grow old. Light and color departed from his eyes and lips, and his muscles seemed powerless to hold him longer upright. After a pause which the priest 36 dared not break for sudden feeling, the lifeless voice of the young man was raised in a dreary monotone of questioning, " What is the hour? Whither do I ride? To Canter bury? Is it there I am to go? now?" " The dial pointeth to something near noon. Thou wilt return to-day to Windsor, that thou mayest bid farewell to thy former master and comrades. On the morrow, together, we will proceed to Canterbury, where the letter from thy father will insure thee willing welcome." "Thou to go with me? T is strange! Why not Geoffrey of the chapter? Assuredly my father will need his confessor " " The Bishop of London taketh upon himself my office, and thou knowest Robert likewise is here. Geoffrey remains for many reasons. He is no friend of the Abbot of St. Augustine's. Now an thou 'It break thy fast, it were better than to talk longer on these idle things. T will be long after noon ere thou 'It get to Windsor, meseemeth, as it is." Anthony ate but slightly of the generous meal pro vided for him. Here there were no preparations to be made for his longer journey, and it was but little past the hour of one when he was admitted to the archiepis- copal room to bid a final farewell. The permission was a surprise to iiim. From De Glanville's words he had inferred that his father did not intend to see him again. Indeed, that idea was the one which the priest himself had striven to impart. The confessor had also opposed, so far as he dared, Hubert's desire for a last interview. But the father was as determined upon this point as he had been upon that other wish which De Glanville shared. And in this as in the other he had his way, and saw his son. As it chanced, the happening was fortunate for Hubert's cause. If Anthony had had the faintest doubt as to the real severity of the Archbishop's fatetoell 37 illness, that doubt was dispelled now. He was shocked at the appearance of his father, exposed in all his worn pallor, with the traces of cruel pain plainly apparent in the pitiless glare of the noonday sun. Every mark of his illness was presented to the eyes of the young man, who regarded the feeble body lying before him with something like horror. The good-bye was not prolonged. Neither father nor son was in a mood where many words were bear able. But the parting on Hubert's side was ineffably sad. One knowing nothing would have said that he was sure of death. 'That of the younger man could be only reverential and low-voiced. Anthony was unable to do more. The bitterness was too sudden and too deep. Mounted again upon his eager steed, knowing that there lay before him, to the west, some twenty-five miles of solitude, the heavy weight upon Anthony's breast lightened a little. The oppression of the stone walls of Lambeth Palace was gone. For a moment he was to be alone and free. But as he rode, his instant of relief went from him again. He seemed to himself to be passing through a mighty sea of desolate thought, whose great waves swept over him in resistless power, leaving him exhausted when they had passed. Realization of his position was taking him by storm. By sharp spasms the picture of his future life and its loneliness rose before his eyes, then departed as sud denly as it had come, leaving behind it a blank void. The sensation was almost indescribable. In the periods of mental numbness he wondered indistinctly if his brain had been turned by the sudden prospect of his life's change. Only he could understand how, hitherto, he had loved life. Now, for the first time, discord had come, and the endless continuance of its echoes was to make his life terrible. Created eminently for the diffi cult position of leader in a court life, social and tactful to a degree, young, beautiful of face and form, fascinat- 38 2Jncanoni?eD ing, and easily fascinated by beauty and delicacy, all environment suited to these qualities of nature was sud denly to be snatched away. He was standing utterly alone in a new land, a new atmosphere, in which, at great dis tance, dim, unknown figures were eying him ; invisible, but still terrible, walls waiting to enclose him and his youth as in a tomb. His world was gone. The new one was filled with shadows. Then why think until the light had broken upon this horizon, until the worst and the best of all this was made known to him? At least in obeying the command of his father, he had done what all men would call right, and more than right. So the miles before him lessened until, by the time the lowering sun had begun to shine unpleasantly into his eyes, the heights of Windsor lay before him, and he urged his foaming horse into a faster gallop up the steep road, among the huts of those whom he had thought so miserable not long ago. It was the hour when the castle courtyard was de serted. Only two henchmen guarded the lowered drawbridge, and the old porter drowsed at the door of his lodge. Throwing his bridle over the arm of an atten dant man-at-arms, Anthony dismounted from his horse and entered the castle, undecided as to what he should do first. Seeing a lackey, whose face was familiar, lounging in the hallway, he called out to him, "Walter, is my Lord de Burgh in his apartments?" "An hour ago he returned from the chase, and is now at rest, Sir Anthony." " Go ask him if he will receive me." The man bowed and ran up the worn stone stairs, leaving Anthony to wait in the room below. Presently he returned. "The serving-man in my lord's antechamber hath orders that my lord is to be disturbed by none, sith he is preparing some matters concerning his departure for Normandy on the morrow.'* 39 " So be it. I will see him later in the evening." And Anthony went slowly toward the stairs. He shrank unspeakably from explanations and scenes of farewell. At the idea of pity and amazement, he fairly shuddered. Perhaps there might be even sneers, for young folk are not often kind to their own companions. And by the time that he reached his own room he was debating the possibility of departing as if for a journey, with explana tion given only to his liege lord, the Earl of Salisbury. Upon the wooden settle in his chamber, with the sun light pouring down from the window above it, lay the rose, wrapped in its now dry cloth. Anthony went to it slowly, and picked it up. Its scarlet glory was gone ; the petals were purple and old. And the rose and his life were alike. A week ago he would have sung a madrigal upon the theme, to be repeated to its lady and his. Now he was conscious only of a sickening, uncouth bitterness of spirit, as he flung the flower far from him, and turned away again, to look through his many possessions, and to pack what little might be taken with him on the morrow; and the first necessity which came to his hand was a small, sharp, jewel-hilted dagger. The June sun reached the tree-tops which bounded the western horizon with their delicate, plumy green. Throughout the castle there was a hum and murmur of life. Its occupants had returned from the day's pleasures and sports to robe themselves for the even ing meal, less formal yet far more sumptuous than the ten o'clock dinner. Anthony listened to the dim mur mur of familiar voices and the echoes of laughter that reached his ears, as he stood contemplating himself undecidedly in a steel mirror that hung from an iron hook upon his bedroom wall. Of what use to deck himself in fine raiment for the last time that his body should ever bear it? Sackcloth was henceforth to be his garment. What matter if he went unkempt for the 40 last evening in the home he loved? But the thought of the part he wished to play came back to him. He could not bear that his companions should know his ruin. Despair is concealed for an hour more easily than unrest. And so Anthony sighed a long, heavy sigh, and went to the great carven chest in which he kept his clothes. Fitz-Hubert was of sufficient importance to have a special lackey and serving-man of his own. This person, who ran his errands, served him at meals, and kept his horse, also attended him as valet and barber at his toilet. It is not difficult to perceive that the fellow's position was no sinecure. Anthony called him now. " Array me splendidly to-night, Morris. Mademoi selle de Ravaillac awaits me," he remarked. Morris was somewhat surprised at the unusual mention of personal matters, and also at Anthony's command to be much dressed on an evening which promised to be dull at the castle. " The Scottish legates have departed, sir," he ven tured. "What! So soon? Truly the Earl must have de ported himself after the manner of John ! Hie ye now and find the fastening buckle for this garment." Perceiving that his master was in earnest concerning his dress, Morris said no more, but went quickly to work, for their time was short. The banqueting hall of ancient Windsor was an enor mous place. Situated in the south wing of the castle, there was space enough on the story over it for an entire suite of royal apartments ; and room enough in the baserrtent below for a wine-vault, the fame of whose size had spread over all England. Space only half as large was needed for the entire culinary department from kitchen to still room, even including those rude closets where chef and scullion were wont to sleep side by side. The banquet-hall was, like the rest of the faretoelt 41 castle, all of stone. The floor was bare, damp, and gray, for rushes were not used on the flags of that immense room ; but the walls were hung round with tapestry from Flanders, priceless then as now, representing scenes from the First Crusade. Before six o'clock on this June evening a small army of lackeys and pages had been at work in this room, pre paring it and its table for the serving of the household that now occupied the castle. One great board stretched down through the middle of the room, containing places enough for every occupant of the building. Upon a raised dais at the farther end was a small round table with six seats for the King, the Queen, my lord of Salisbury, and any chance visitors of royal blood of consequence enough to be seated there. It made no difference that King John and his Queen were rarely at Windsor for more than one month out of twelve, and then never together. Their table always awaited them there. As for the Earl, he refused to dine in lonely state, but occupied the first seat at the table of his own household, with Hubert de Burgh upon his right, and Peter Fitz-Geoffrey at his left hand should either of them chance to be present. At seven in the evening one of the lackeys, carrying an iron gong, and one of the pages, with the beating- stick in his hand, ascended to the upper corridors of the castle. Through these they passed, making a racket that should have deafened both of them long ago. And presently when the twain were gone, the doors along those halls began one by one to open, and a throng of quaintly garbed people to pass out and down the great and little staircases and into' the smokily lighted ban quet-room, whence it was not so easy to conjecture how all would depart. Now when my lord of Salisbury presided over the castle household he was most apt to throw usual forms into the greatest confusion by his entire disregard of 42 (3ncanoni?et) the etiquette for meals. To-night the first-comers, a company of men-at-arms, henchmen, and the array of visiting mendicants and friars, had scarcely grouped themselves, standing, about the board, below the salt, when his Grace, arm-in-arm with his friend De Burgh, and accompanied by two enormous boar-hounds, entered the room, talking pleasantly with his companion, who was smiling beneath his beard at William's easy uncon- ventionality. These two seated themselves at the table at once, watching the others as they entered, the Earl nonchalantly addressing any one who chanced to catch his eye. Peter Fitz-Geoffrey and most of the great nobles of the realm were absent, either with the King or upon their own estates. The coxcombs and ladies, who had entered the door way laughing and talking among themselves, grew silent suddenly, as each in turn beheld the liege lord already seated. One damsel, woman or girl, for she was both, pretty of feature and beautifully dressed, her golden hair escaping from its coif and falling here and there in curls upon the flowing garments of sea-green damask, the color in her cheeks not much less glowing than that of the scarlet rose at her breast, entered the room alone. As she advanced to her place, after her courtesy to the Earl, her blue eyes wandered searchingly among the throng of gallants. Apparently she did not find among them the one she sought. "Mademoiselle de Ravaillac looks for her errant knight," whispered Salisbury laughingly to his neighbor. "Hath not Anthony returned?" queried De Burgh. " Meseemeth not. In sooth I had scarce looked for him to-day." " Hast heard from Lambeth? Is the Archbishop worse?" " I trust not. We have had no news as yet. Thou knowest the cause of Hubert's message to his son, De Burgh?" tfaretuell 43 "My realm is among the laity, my affairs the King's," was the courtier's evasive answer. And Salis bury cleared his throat and smiled slightly as he ended the conversation by the remark, " Here are the priests." "And there, yonder, at the door, " put in De Burgh. " Is Anthony ! " finished Salisbury, in astonishment. De Burgh's eyes flew to the face of Mademoiselle de Ravaillac, whose blue orbs were fastened intently upon the wooden trencher of the monk opposite to her. But there was a sudden round of forbidden whispering among Anthony's intimates, and significant looks passed between many at the expense of the fair-haired demoi selle ; for Fitz-Hubert's entrance had been indeed de signed to create a commotion among the members of this important household. Conscious to the full of all the eyes that were turned upon him, the young man paused for a moment in the doorway. Then he advanced slowly toward the seat of William of Salisbury, a brilliant smile drawing his lips, a feeling akin to death gathering in his heart. The grace remained still unspoken while the monks, envious like many others, turned upon their stools to look upon him. He was clad in a tunic reaching to his heels, made of white cloth heavily embroidered in gold, slashed up the sides far enough to reveal the dusky sheen of his black, broidered hose. His belt was of black and gold, and the dagger in it, of steel, was hilted with gleaming jewels. His sleeves were of plain white damask, cuffed with black. His black hair, freshly curled, framed the face, that was as white as his dress ; and the brilliance of his deepset eyes matched that of the gems at his belt. The finishing touch to the young man's curious costume, and the one which gave greatest significance to his appearance, was that which appeared to link him in some way to the prettiest woman in the 44 2Jncanoni?cti room. It was the rose which cast a red shadow upon the gleaming purity of his tunic, a flower for whose perfection Morris had hunted during a long half-hour in the royal gardens, and which had made his master thus tardy in arriving at his post. Under the glances from myriad eyes, Anthony, seem ingly unabashed, advanced to the Earl's chair and bent the knee, murmuring an apology for his delayed arrival. Salisbury bade him stand, saying audibly : " In good truth, Anthony, you shame us all for slovenliness in dress. T were well indeed that for the evening you occupied my Lord Fitz-Geoffrey's empty chair, here at my side. The gallants yonder have brilliancy enow V their midst. You shall relieve our soberness. Sit you here. Eh? What say you, Hubert?" To the astonishment of all at the table De Burgh nodded an amused assent, and the Earl pushed Anthony into the place of high honor at his left hand. There was a little color in the youth's cheeks as he sank hastily into the posture for grace. If no one else at the table had perceived it, he, at least, had understood his lord's mild rebuke for overdress, and his mortification was sincere. William himself was clad in a sombre suit of bottle-green, unembroidered and unornamented. De Burgh supplemented him in a tunic of deep red, with black hose and leather belt and pouch ; though in truth it must be added that this plainness was only out of respect to Salisbury's known taste for simplicity; since the extent and richness of Hubert de Burgh's wardrobe yielded the palm to none save the King's own. From the first, Anthony was uncomfortable in his new place. In the eyes of his comrades, when he could catch them, he found only curiosity. Mademoiselle refused absolutely to look toward him. He was served with food third of all that table-full. Never before had farewell 45 he known the roasts, the pasty, and the roots so hot. He felt himself conspicuous, and left without the power to carry out his role. Before he had entered the room he believed absolutely in his own ability to act. He saw his dreary mistake now. Do what he would, his heart and his expression together failed him. To keep himself from overmuch thought, he fixed his eyes upon the charming figure of her who bore the flower symbol ot their relationship. Evidently the scarlet rose was being commented upon from his rightful part of the table, for he beheld Helene's color rise. Then, unexpectedly, she turned her head, to glance stealthily at the brilliant petals that burned upon the cold purity of his vestment. In that glance she met his eyes full upon her. A shadow of mingled confusion and anger crossed her face, and, snatching her own rose from her gown, she dropped it underneath the table. Undoubtedly this performance was calculated to throw Anthony into a state of doubt and anxiety as to her feeling for him. He sighed at her happy ignorance of the uselessness of that coquetry. What, evermore, should he have to do with love, or the dallying with it? What woman would make eyes at a sackcloth gown? It was well for him that his feeling for her had never been deep-rooted. It seemed that were his well of bitterness to be deepened by one jot or tittle, it would drive him mad. And as these cobwebs of thought were spun out in his tired brain such a black look of moody despair rose upon his face that Mademoiselle was even prepared to smile upon him when he turned to her again. Hubert de Burgh also saw that expression, and guessed that Salisbury's idle whim had made the youth uncom fortable enough for the time. But in his address there was also a courtier's purpose, which the Earl, who was looking on, understood. "Anthony!" 46 The young man glanced up to find Hubert's kindly eyes upon him. "Thy father, surely, is better of his illness? No messenger hath reached us from Lambeth to-day, but thy presence is proof of his recovery? " " When I left my father's side this morning his sick ness was in no way lessened," responded Anthony, laconically, wondering if it would be opportune to address the Earl on the matter now. " Not lessened ! " cried De Burgh, while Salisbury's face supplemented Hubert's astonishment. "Then how come you here? " " My father himself commanded me to come," was the unsatisfactory answer. " Do you return again to Lambeth, or remain with us, then?" queried Salisbury, in a tone which expressed nothing but courtesy. Anthony looked up at last and spoke with something like life in his tone, while he carefully noted the faces of the two lords, who listened attentively to his speech : " An your Grace permits, this must be my last night at Windsor. I am bidden on a long and toilsome journey. My father would have me set forth upon the morrow. I had wished to speak of the matter to-night at least, and sith now you have questioned me, I hereby crave indulgence to quit your household and the King's, my lord, that I may be free to do my father's bidding." Anthony had spoken with marked slowness and pre cision, that he might force himself to maintain his calm demeanor. To his relief he finished the speech with no hint of a break in his tone, though growing gravely uncomfortable under the steady glance of De Burgh. One of the young man's hands had lain carelessly upon the table before him. Now, with a quiet gentle ness that caused him to start painfully, he felt the cool, strong hand of the Earl, William, brother of the King, laid almost tenderly upon his own. He gave faretocll 47 one startled look into the open face before him, and the response that met his eyes forced a swift wave of color to sweep over his face. He moved slightly and his breath came fast. He was very near to breaking. " Thou hast my permission, Anthony, to depart. How were it possible for me to disregard the wish of Hubert Walter? Yet thou knowest my pain at losing thee from my house. Know that my thoughts go with thee on thy distant journey. For the King, Hubert here will answer." Anthony tried hard to speak, but De Burgh covered his useless effort. " The King also permits thy going, Anthony, for, in truth, long since he spake to me upon this matter. What more can I say than that which my lord here hath already done? My thought is with thee." Anthony no longer attempted to reply, and his head had fallen upon his breast. His hot eyes were closed. His temples throbbed dully. Hubert said that long since the King had known of this matter ! Salisbury had told him that their thoughts were his ! His ruse was useless. They knew his destiny, and had tried to make him understand that they knew, and that they pitied him. On their part it was mistaken kindness. Pity he rebelled against. Pride at least was left. Once again he raised his head, and in his face now lay an expression of repellent haughtiness that did good credit to his power of self-possession. " I thank you, my lords, for your gracious permis sion. However, my journey is one neither so danger ous nor so arduous as to need your thoughts." The two nobles were somewhat astonished at this, perhaps ; but both of them possessed sufficient pene tration, and also enough of charity, to understand and forgive the discourtesy, while they admired the spirit which prompted it. Nothing more was to be said now among the three, 48 for in truth the situation was slightly strained. They ate, or made pretence of eating, in silence. Anthony had become acutely susceptible to the disagreeable features of his surroundings. The gathering heat, and the heavy odors of meats, wines, and stale per fume in the immense room, the flickering, smoky dul- ness of the torch-light, the shrillness of the many voices, and the noise of laughter that flowed together with the wine, all smote his senses with a sharp sting of irritation, disgust, and measureless regret. So many, many times had he been part of all this ! Now it was going from him. The thought and the attempt at its banishment sickened him. He leaned forward over the table, white, and faint. His eyes closed. He had lost courage to attempt concealment of his pain. De Burgh was watching him with a deep sympathy. He saw Anthony sway slightly, arid thereupon touched the Earl upon the arm. Salisbury looked up. " Canst hasten the ending of the meal?" whispered Hubert. " The eating is well-nigh over, and ere long the folly will begin. Thou knowest the difficulty of checking that, and Fitz-Hubert, as thou seest, can bear little more." William glanced at Anthony, then nodded, and looked contemplatively down the table. The fruits and com fits which ended the meal had already been passed. Flagons of wine and mead were beginning to be in great demand, and the story-telling and jesting which were wont to drag out repasts to endless hours had been begun. In the midst of all this the Earl rose to his feet. His move was not instantly perceived, for it was almost without precedent in the annals of Windsor. When at length he was heard to call upon one of the priests for the blessing, there was a general movement of astonishment. However, etiquette demanded that the meal should instantly be ended, and although among the men there was not a little low-voiced com- 49 plaint, the general feeling was only of surprise that the Earl, who was well known for a lover of good company and good wine, should have sacrificed his evening to an apparent whim. The Latin blessing given, Salisbury, accompanied by De Burgh, and im peded in his walk by the gambols of his dogs, left the hall, to be followed at pleasure by those who did not care to steal a last surreptitious horn of Burgundy or tankard of ale. Anthony rose with mighty relief. Blindly he hur ried toward the doorway, in the footsteps of his kind- . hearted liege. His one thought was to escape into solitude and the pure night air. He was stopped, just as he had passed into the corridor, by the lightest of touches upon his arm. Then came a faint whisper at his shoulder, "An thony! " " Mademoiselle ! " he returned, scarcely as surprised as he might have been, yet scanning her face with im petuous eagerness. " Thou 'rt scarcely courteous to thy friends," she said, turning her head a little and lowering her eyes. "Never, with thee, could I be discourteous. Twas thou made me fear lest I had been too bold in my feeling for thee," he whispered, taking her passive hand into both of his. " Come with me now for a little on to yonder terrace, in the moonlight. I would speak with thee." She replied with an acquiescent smile, with which he was well satisfied. The little group of their compan ions, left behind, glanced at each other as they saw the two disappear. Their Anthony had come back again. They felt no change in him. One ventured a conjec ture as to whether Fitz-Hubert would be madcap enough to attempt to follow Mademoiselle upon her road to Winchester. 50 2Jncanom?et) Anthony, his rich garment brushing the softly shin ing robes of Helene de Ravaillac, led her out of the castle and upon the southeastern terrace, where the velvet turf was bathed in bluish stiver light ; while far below, turning a little to the west, lay the shimmering thread of the river, rippling softly through the per fumed night into the deep emerald shadow of the sleeping forest. All about the two was perfect silence. What wonder they were loath to break the spell? Anthony dreamily watched the familiar scene, not daring to think, but only standing passive beside her whose faint breath stirred the petals of the rose upon his breast. Helene too, was silent, wondering, hoping, fearing, waiting for him to speak. A faint zephyr of evening stirred the dark locks that clung about Fitz-Hubert's head. He looked down upon the shin ing gold beside him, and saw that three or four deli cate tendrils of her hair lay twining on the shadowy damask of his sleeve. A sudden, mighty longing leaped into his heart. To banish it he was forced at last to speak, and the words sprang fiercely from his lips : "Mademoiselle Helene we are here to say farewell." " ' Farewell,' " she repeated dreamily, without mov ing; "'tis a pretty word, but, withal, most difficult to speak." " Yet must it be spoken," he responded, quietly now, for he had regained his self-control. " Fare-thee-well, - forever, those two words alone." " Forever ! " she exclaimed quickly. " Nay, nay - assuredly not that! I shall not be forever at Win chester. We shall meet again mayhap not long hence." " Thy going to Winchester? I had forgotten that !" " Thou hadst forgot ! " she echoed, bewildered. " Then why why shouldst bid me farewell?" tfaretoell 51 " Ah, Helene," he said slowly, " 't is indeed more difficult to tell than I had guessed. It is not thou who leavest Windsor to-morrow forever, but I Anthony." " But why, why, Anthony? " she questioned, alarmed now. "Ah, Mademoiselle, why should I tell thee? Is 't not enough to know that I must depart forever? " " You fright me," she whispered, drawing nearer to him. He took her into his arms and held her close, press ing his lips once to her forehead. It was like his fare well to humanity. "You care for me?" he asked, lowly. " I love thee," she breathed, in a kind of sob. " And I thee ! " he exclaimed in sudden fierceness, flinging the words in rebellion at the inexorable future which could not even hear him. "Then why must we say it the word? Thinkest thou I fear to follow thee? " she whispered, tremulously. His arms fell from about her, and he drew back one quick step, a look crossing his face that startled her into forgetting her own indignity at the repulse. "Thou couldst not follow me, ever " he said, " because I am bound by sacred oath to leave the world ; because by law of birth I have no right to ask of any woman her love ; because henceforth my home must be a dream of memory to me ; because thou wilt stand as far above me as yonder moon is from the earth ; because, Helene, my word hath been given to my father, Hubert, Archbishop of Canterbury, that for his sake I will bid freedom and happiness farewell, to take in their stead the lonely vows of a Benedictine monk." For a moment she looked at him, trying fully to comprehend what it was that he had said. Then its meaning pierced her brain. In an instant all the soft gentleness of her manner dropped from her like a gar- 52