 Preface to Lady Sibble's Choice, this is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Rachel, Lady Sibble's Choice, A Tale of the Crusades by Emily S. Holt. This tale in ancient chronicle, in wording old and quaint, in classic language of the past in letters pale and faint. This tale is told, yet once again, let it be told today, the old, old tale of woman's love, which lasteth on for a. Preface. Why, seeing times are not hidden from the Almighty, do they that know Him not see His days? From the earliest ages of the world, the needs be of suffering has been a mystery. Down to the latest, it will be a mystery still. Truly, the more we know Him, the less mystery it is to us, for even where we cannot see, we can trust His love. Yet there are human analogies, which may throw us in faint light on the dark question, and one of these will be found in the following pages. What I do, thou knowest not now, sometimes because it is morally impossible, our finite capacity could not hold it, but sometimes too, because we could not be trusted with the knowledge. In their case, there is one thing we can do, wait. O thou of little faith, wherefore didst thou doubt? O restful, blissful ignorance, his blessed not to know. It keeps me still in those kind arms, which will not let me go, and hushes my soul to rest on the bosom that loves me so. So I go on, not knowing, I would not, if I might. I would rather walk in the dark with God than walk alone in the light. I would rather walk with Him by faith than walk alone by sight. My heart shrinks back from trials which the future may disclose, yet I never had a sorrow but what the dear Lord chose. So I send the coming tears back with the whispered word. He knows. End of preface. Chapter 1 of Lady Sybil's Choice by Emily S. Holt. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 1. Guy takes the cross. But what are words, and what am I? An infant crying in the night, an infant crying for the light, and with no language but a cry. Tennyson. Alex says I'm a simpleton. I don't think it is particularly pleasant. Sometimes she says I am a perfect simpleton, and I cannot say that I like that any better. Nor do I think that it is very civil in one's sister to put her opinion on record in this certainly perspicuous but not at all complimentary manner. Still I've heard her say it so many times that I might almost have come to believe it, if she did not say so of anybody but me. But when, as she did this morning, she says Guy is a simpleton that I cannot stand with any patience. Because there was nobody like Guy in all the world. He is the best, kindest, dearest brother that a girl ever had or could have. And it is a shame of Alex to say such things. I'm sure of it. The brothers in this family are historical persons. The sister is fictitious. I do not know how it is, but Alex seems vexed that I should like Guy best of all my brothers. She says I ought to make companions of Amari and Raoul who are nearer me in age. But is that any reason for liking people? At that rate I ought to love Alex least of all because she's furthest off. And, though I should not like her to know that I said so, I'm not at all sure that I don't. Being like you in character, it seems to me, is a much better reason for choosing companions than being near you in age. And I think Guy is much more like me than Amari or Raoul either. They don't care for the same things that I do, and Guy does. Now how can you like a man's company when you can never agree with him? Alex says my tastes, and of course Guy's, are very silly. I believe she thinks there is no sense in anything but spinning and cooking and needlework. But I think Amari and Raoul are quite as foolish as we are. Amari admires everything that shines and glitters, and he is not at all particular whether it is gold or brass. I believe this minute he knows more about Samite and Damascus and velvet than I do. You would think the world was coming to an end by the way he sets up if his cap has a feather less than he intended, or the border of his tunic is done in green instead of yellow. Is that like being a man? Guilot says Amari should have been a woman, but I think he should have stayed a baby. Then Raoul cares for things that bang and crash. In his eyes everybody ought to be a soldier, and no tale is worth hearing if it be not but a tournament of the taking of the city. Now I do think Guy and I have more sense. What we love to hear is of Deed's really noble, of men that have saved their city or their country at the risk of their own lives, of a mother that has sacrificed herself for her child, of a lady who was ready to see her true night die rather than stain his honour. When we were little children and Old Marguerite's knee, and she used to tell us tales as a reward when we'd been good, and whoever knew half so many stories as dear Old Marguerite, well Raoul always wanted a bloody battle and Amari a royal pageant and Alex what she called something practical, which so far as I could see meant something that was not interesting, and Guilot he said something all boys with no girls in it. The stories Guy and I liked were just those which our dear Old Nurse best loved to tell. There was the legend of Monsignor St. Gideon who drove the heathen Saracens out of his country with a mere handful of foot soldiers, and that of Monsignor St. David who when he was but a youth fought with the Saracen giant Count Goliath who was forty feet high. Guilot and Raoul used to like that too, and of Monsignor St. Daniel who on a false accusation was cast to the lions, and in the night the holy Apostle St. Peter appeared to him and commanded the lions not to hurt him, and the lions came and licked the feet of Monsignor St. Peter. The story that Amari liked best of all was about Madame Esther, the Queen of Persia, and how she entreated her royal lord for the lives of certain knights that had been taken prisoners. But he always wanted to know exactly what Madame Esther had on, and even I thought that absurd, for of course Marguerite had to make it up as the legend did not tell, and he might have done that for himself. Raoul best loved the great legend of the Wars of Troy, and her Monsignor shillies dragged Monsignor Hector at the wheels of his chariot, which I never did like, for I could not help thinking of Madame the Queen, his mother, and Madame his wife, who sat in a lattice gallery watching and remembering how their hearts would bleed when they saw it. The story Guy liked best was of two good knights of Greece whose names were Sir Damon and Sir Pithius, and how they so loved that each was ready and anxious to lay down his life for the other, and I think what I best loved to hear was the dear legend of Madame Saint Magdalene, and how she followed the blessed steps of our lord wherever he went, and was the first to whom he ordained to appear after his resurrection. I wish sometimes that I had known my mother. I never had a new mother but Marguerite. If she heard me I know she would say, Ha! my Demoiselle does not well to leave out the Demoiselle Alex. But I'm sure Alex was never anything like a mother. If she were, mothers must be queer people. Why don't I like Alex better? Surely the only reason is not because she is my half-sister. Our gracious lord and father was twice married. First the lady used to see Dechabot, who was mother of Alex and Goulot and Guy and Emery and Raoul, and then she died soon after Raoul was born, and the year afterwards Monsignor married my mother, and I was her only child. But that does not hinder my loving Guy. Why should it hinder my loving Alex? Most certainly something does hinder it, and some tremendous thing hinders my loving cousin Hughes Demoche. I hate him. Marguerite says hush when I say so, but Hughes is so intensely hateable I am sure she need not. She's more like Goulot than any other of us, but rougher and more boisterous by far. I can't bear him. And he always says he hates girls and he can't bear me. So why should I not hate him? Oh mother, mother, I wish you had stayed with me. Somehow I don't think of her as I do of anyone who's alive. I suppose if she were alive I should call her Fair Madame and be afraid to move in her presence. But being dead seems to bring her nearer. I call her mother, and many a time I say her pretty gentle name, Clements. Not allowed, but in my thoughts. Would she have loved me if she had stayed? Does she love me, where she is with God? They say she was so gentle and pious I'm sure she must be in heaven. She stayed only a very little while with us. I was not two years old when she died. Marguerite said she used to carry me up and down the long gallery looking tenderly down at my baby face and call me her darling, her love, her precious Elaine. Oh why could I not have heard her to remember it only once? There is no need to ask why I feel lonely and desolate and muse of my dead mother as I always do when I'm miserable. I can never be anything else now that Guy is gone. Monsignor, our gracious Lord and Father, gave consent a month since that Guy should take the Holy Cross and yesterday morning he set forth with a company on his perilous journey. Was there no one in all the world but my Guy to fight for her Lord Sipulcher? And does our Lord think so very much about it, that he does not care though a maiden's heart be broken and her life desolate if she give of her best beloved to defend it? Well I suppose it is wrong to say that. The good God is always good of course. And I suppose it is right that Guy should put the Sipulcher before me. He is the true Knight to sacrifice himself to duty. And I am not the noble hearted damsel if I wish he had done otherwise. And I suppose the great tears that fell on that red cross while I was broodering it were displeasing to the good God. He ought to have the best. Oh yes, I see that quite clearly. And yet I wonder why he wanted my best when he has all the saints and angels around him to do him homage. And had I only Guy, I cannot understand it. Oh dear, I do get so puzzled sometimes. I think this is a very perplexing world to live in. And it is of no use to say a word to Alex because she only calls me a simpleton and that does not explain anything. And Marguerite says, hush, my demoiselle would not speak against the good God. And neither of them helps me a bit. They do not see that I never mean to speak against the good God. I only want to understand. They do not feel the same sort of want, I suppose, and so they think it wicked in me to feel it. Does my mother understand it all? Must one die to understand? And if so, why? Guy would let me ask him such questions. I do not know that he saw the answer any better than I did, but at least we could agree in feeling them and could try to puzzle the way out. But Alex appears not even to see what I mean. And it is disheartening when one takes the trouble to brace up one's courage to ask such questions from somebody above one of whom one feels so ever little afraid only to be told in reply what the same person had told one hundred times before that one is a simpleton. I wish somebody would listen to me. If I could have seen a saint, someone who lived in perpetual communion with our Lord and knew all things. But do saints know all things? If so, why could I not be a saint myself? And then I should know too. Well, I have no doubt of the answer to that question. For if I were a saint I must first be a nun, and that would mean to go away from home and never, never see Guy anymore. Oh no, that would not do. So it is plain I can never be a saint. To think about it, I doubt if there ever were a saint in our family. Of course we are one of the oldest families in Poteau, and indeed I might say in France. For Count Hughes, the first, lived about nine hundred years after our Lord, and that is nearly as far back as Charlemagne. And Monseigneur has known above him but our gracious Lord the Count of Poteau, who is in his turn a vassal of our Souserain, the King of England, and he pays homage to the King of France. I never did like that, and I don't now. I cannot see why our King should pay homage to the King of France for his dominions on this side of the sea. Footnote. This homage, exacted by the Kings of France, was always a sore subject with the Kings of England, who took every opportunity of evading that personal payment of it, which was the anxiety of the French monarchs to secure. And footnote. The French say there were kings in France before there ever were in England. Well, that may be so, but I'm sure it was not long before, and our King is every bit as good as the King of France. When Raoul wants to tease me, he says I'm a French woman, and I won't be called a French woman. I am not a subject of King Louis. I am a portavine, and a subject of the Lord Henry, King of England, and Count of Poteau to begin with, and under him, of his son, the Lord Richard, Côte-a-Léon, who is now our young Count, and beneath him again, of Montseigneur, my own father, who has as much power in his own territory as the King himself. It is true Montseigneur's territory is not very large, but Father Eudes told us one day, when he was giving us our Latin lessons, that the great Emperor of Rome, Montseigneur Julius Caesar, who was such a wonderful man and a great magician, used to say that he would rather be first in a village than the second in Imperio Rome itself. And that is just what I feel. I would rather be the D'Emozale Elaine, daughter of Montseigneur the Count of Lucignan, than I would be the niece or cousin of the Queen of France. I do like to be at the top of everything, and I would rather be at the top of a little thing than at the bottom of a big one. Marguerite smiles and shakes her head, and I say so to her. She says it is pleasant her down at the bottom. It makes me laugh to hear her. It is natural enough that she should think so, as she is only a villain, and of course she is at the bottom, and it is very well if she likes it. I could never bear it. But then I am a noble, and it could not be expected that I should do so. Though we never had a saint in our house yet, as everyone knows, we sprang from supernatural source. The root of the house of Lucignan was the fairy Miss Leen, who was the loveliest creature imaginable, but half woman and half serpent. I do not know when she lived, but it must have been ages ago, and she built the castle of Lucignan by enchantment. Sometimes, on a still summer evening, anyone who is out alone will catch a glimpse of her, bathing in the fountain which stands in the Pleasance. Pleasure-grands. I would not cross the Pleasance after dark on a summer evening. No, not to be made a queen. I should be frightened to death of seeing the Lady Milizine. For when any one of our lion is about to die, she is sure to appear, so I should think I was going to die if I saw her. She comes, too, when any great calamity is threatening France. Perhaps I should not be quite sure to die, but I would rather not risk it. I never did see her, the saints be thanked, and Marguerite says she never did. I think she cannot have appeared for a long time. About forty years ago, before the death of the Lady Ponsette, Countess of Angoline, who was the daughter of our house, Arlette, the mother of our valet Robert, thought she saw the Lady Milizine, but it was nearly dark, and there were trees between them, and Arlette is nearsighted, so it was not possible to be sure. But she says her mother-in-law's niece's grand-aunt really did see her, and no mistake at all about it. She was bathing in the fountain, and she splashed her long tail about, till the maiden almost lost her wits from the fright. And the very next year Count, who used the good, was murdered by the Duke of Guine's people, which shows plainly that there are such things as ghosts. The night before Guy went away, can it be two evenings since? Only two. We crept into the long gallery, as we two always do when we want to quiet talk, and sat down in that window from which you get the lovely view of the church spire through the trees across the river. That is always our favourite window. Guy was trying to comfort me, and I'm rather afraid I was crying, and he said, drawing me up to him and kissing me, now, my little Elaine, there have been tears enough for once. I'm not going to forget thee any more than thou meanest to forget me. When I have fought the Saracens and taken Saladin captive, and brought him in chains to Jerusalem, and the king has made me account, and given me a beautiful lady for my wife, and everyone is talking about me. Of course I knew that was only Guy's fun, he did not really expect all that. Then, he went on, I will send home for Amari and my little pet, and you shall come to me in the Holy Land. Monsignor promised me that, thou knowest. He said it would be an excellent thing for thee, because thou wouldst not only have all thy sins forgiven at the Holy Sepulchre, but very likely I should have the chance of getting a good husband for thee. And I have talked well to Amari about taking care of thee on the journey, and Marguerite must attend thee. So look forward to that, Lynette, and dry those red eyes. They will be red till thou comest back, Guy, said I, with another burst of tears. I am sure I hope not, he answered, laughing. They will be so very ugly if they are, and then how am I to get thee a husband? I don't care about when I thank thee, said I, so that does not signify. Ah, that is because thou art fourteen, said Guy, wait till thou art four and twenty. There now, if I could have been vexed with my own dear Guy, and just when he was going away forever, at least it looks very like forever, but of course I would not. But why will men, even the very best of them, always fancy that a girl cares more for a husband than anything else in the world? However, I let it pass. How could I quail with Guy? Guy, I said, does thou care very much about having a beautiful lady for thy wife? Oh, certainly, replied Guy, pressing up his lips and pretending to be grave. I did not like the idea one bit. I felt more inclined to cry till Guy came back than ever. What will she be like, Guy? I asked, trying not to show it. She will be the loveliest creature in all the world, said Guy, with eyes as black as sloes and hair like a raven's plumage, and so rich that wherever she puts her hand in her pocket, thou wilt hear the bisants go chink chink against each other. Well, thou love her, Guy? I said, goping down my thoughts. To distraction, replied Guy, casting up his eyes. Well, I knew all the while it was nonsense, but I did feel so miserable. I could not tell what to do. I know Raoul and Willow have a notion that they are only fulfilling the ends of their being by teasing their sisters, but it was something so very new for Guy. But thou wilt not give over loving me, Guy? I wailed, and I am sure there were tears in my voice as well as my eyes. My dear foolish little Lynette, said Guy, half laughing and smoothing my hair. Does thou not know me any better than that? Why, I shall be afraid of talking nonsense, or sense either, if thou must needs take it to heart in that style. I felt rather comforted, but I did not go on with that. There was something else that I wanted to ask Guy, and it was my last opportunity. Guy, I said softly after a moment's pause. Can't still remember my mother. Oh yes, darling, he said. I was eleven years old when she died. Did still love her, said I? Very dearly, he answered, quite grave now. Am I like her, Guy? Guy looked down on me and smiled. Yes, and no, he said. The lady Clements had lighter hair than thou, and her smile was very sweet. Thine eyes are darker too, and brighter there is something of the falcon in them. She had the eyes of the dove. Yet there is a likeness, though it is not easy to tell thee what. Did Monsignor love her very much, Guy? I said. More than he ever loved any other, I think, answered Guy. He was married to my mother when both were little children, as thou knowest is generally the case, but he married thine for love. And I don't know, but I always fancy, that that is the reason why he has ever been unwilling to have us affianced in infancy. When people are married as babies, and when they grow up they find that they do not like each other, it must be very disagreeable, I should think. I should think it was just horrible, Guy, said I. But Alex and Guilot were affianced as babies. So they were, said he, but I doubt if Guilot ever cared about it. Why is Umberge one to care about? I replied. There's nothing in her of any sort. Was Alex very sorry, Guy, when her betrothed died? Was she? About ten years old, he said. Oh, no, not she. I do not think she'd seen him five times. Well, I said, I'm very glad that I was not treated in that way. So we went on talking. I hardly know what we talked about, or rather what we did not, for it was first one thing and then another, as our thoughts led that way. I asked Guy if he thought that our mothers knew what befell us here on earth, and he said he supposed they must, for how else could the saints and angels hear us? I saw Old Marguerite at one end of the gallery, and I'm sure she was come to bid me go to bed. But as soon as she caught sight of Guy and me talking in the window, she made believe to be about something else and slipped away again. She knew I wanted to have my talk out with Guy. The last talk I may ever have with him for years. And now it's all over, and Guy is gone. I wonder how he'll get on? Will he do some grand, gallant deed and be sent forth to the court of the Holy Land and made a count or a duke, and have all sorts of jewels and riches given him? Perhaps the Queen will put a chaplet of flowers on his head, and all the princesses will dance with him, and he will be quite a hero. But about that beautiful lady, I don't feel at all comfortable about her. I cannot tell whether I should love her or hate her. If she did not almost worship Guy, I am sure I should hate her. And then there is another side to the picture which I do not like to look at in the least. Instead of all this, Guy may get taken prisoner, and may languish out twenty years in some Saracen dungeon. Perhaps all his life. Oh dear, dear, I don't know what to do. And the worst of it is nothing that I can do will make any difference. Why does the good God let there be any Saracens? Marguerite says, and so does Father Eudes, so it must be true, that God can do everything and that he wants everybody to be a good Christian. Then why does he not make us all good Christians? That is what I want to know. Oh, I cannot, cannot make it out. But then they all say hush, hush, and defy demoiselle, as if I had said something very wicked and shocking. They say the good God will be very angry. Why is the good God angry when we want to know? I wonder why men and women were ever made at all. I wonder why I was made. Did the good God want me for something? That he took the pains to make me? Oh, can nobody tell me why the good God wanted me? He must be good, for he made all so beautiful, and he might have made things ugly. But then sometimes he lets such dreadful things happen. Are there not earthquakes and thunderstorms? And why does he let nice people die? Could not, well, I suppose that is wicked. No it isn't, I may as well say it as think it. Would it not have done as well if Alex had died and my mother had lived? It would have been so much nicer. And what difference would it have made in heaven? I hope Alex would have gone there, where they have all the angels and all the saints. Surely they could have spared my mother better than I can. Well, I suppose, as Alex says when she wants one to be quiet, it is no use talking. Things are so, and I cannot change them, and all my tears will not give me Guy back. I must try to think of the new vein, Nine Days Masses, which he has promised to offer for me at the Holy Sepulchre, and hope that he won't be taken prisoner, and that he will be made a count and, well, and try to reconcile myself to that beautiful lady, who was to have Guy instead of me. Oh dear me! Now there is another thing that puzzles me. Everything puzzles me in this world. I wish there had been another to which I could have gone, where things would not have puzzled me. If God be everywhere, as Father Eudes says, why should prayers offered at the Holy Sepulchre be of more value than prayers offered in my bedchamber? I cannot see any reason, unless it were that God loves the Holy Land so very much, because he lived and died there, that he is oftener there than anywhere else, and so there is a better chance of getting him to hear. But how, then, can he be everywhere? Footnote on God. In using this one of the Divine Names, a medieval Romanist almost always meant to indicate the second person of the Trinity only. End footnote. Why will people, wise people, I mean, not try to answer such questions? Marguerite only says, Hush then, my demoiselle! Alex says, oh, do be quiet! When will you give over being so silly? And Monsignor pats me on the head and answers, Why should my cabbage trouble her pretty little head? Those are matters for doctors of the schools, little one. Go down and call the minstrels, or bind some smart ribbons in my hair. That is more fit for such maidens as thou. Did they never want to know? And why should the answers be only fit for learned men, if the questions keep coming and worrying me? If I could once know, I should give over wanting to know. But how can I give over till I do? Either the world is got pulled into a knot, or else I have. And so far from being able to undo me, nobody seems to see that I am on a knot at all. If you please demoiselle, the demoiselle Alex wishes to know where your nobleness put the macaroons. Oh, dear Eloise, I forgot to make them. Did she not do without them? If you please demoiselle, your noble sister says that the lady in Beirge will be here for the spice this afternoon, and your excellence is aware that she likes macaroons. Yes, I am, better than I like her. I never did see anybody eat so many at once as she does. She will do for once with cheesecakes. I would not mind staying up all night to make macaroons for Guy, but I am sure cheesecakes are good enough for in Beirge. And Alex does make good cheesecakes. I will give her that scrap of praise. Well, Eloise, I don't know. I really think we should do, but I suppose is there time to make them now? If you please demoiselle, it is three o'clock by the sundial. Then it is too late. And I thought, but of course I did not say to Eloise how Alex will scold. I heard her step on the stairs, but I did not lose my lecture. Elaine! cried Alex's shrill voice. Where are you? Alex might make a perfect stranger for the way in which she always calls me you. I came out. I knew it was utterly useless to try to hide. Where have you put those new macaroons? They're not made, Alex, I said, trying to look as if I did not care. Not made? Saint Martin of Tours, help us! What can you have been doing? I was silent. I say, what were you doing? Demanded Alex with a stamp of her foot. Never mind, I forgot the macaroons. If I had been speaking to anyone but Alex, I should have added that I was sorry. But she's always so angry that it seems to dry up any regret on my part. You naughty girl! Alex blazed out. You very, very naughty girl! There was no possibility of relying on you for one instant. You go dreaming away and forget everything one tells you. You are silly, silly! The tone that Alex put into that last word. It was enough to provoke all the saints in the calendar. There will be plenty without them, said I. Hold your tongue and don't give me any impudence! retorted Alex. I thought I might have said the same. If Alex would speak more kindly, I'm sure I should not get so vexed. I can't imagine what she would say if I were to do something really wicked, for she exhausts her whole vocabulary on my gathering the wrong flowers or forgetting to make cakes. Don't be cross, Alex. I said, trying to keep the peace. I really did forget them. Oh, dear, yes, I never doubted it! answered Alex in that way of hers which always tries my patience. Life is sacred to the memory of Guy, but my trouble and embarrassed likings are of no consequence at all. And does it not matter that the Baron de Montpellier and his lady will be here and that we shall have a dish too little on the table, not in the least? Well, really, Alex, I don't think it does much matter, said I. Of course not, and the Lady de Montpellier will not go home until everybody with a bad housekeeper I am and how little I care to have things nice for my guests. Oh, dear, no. If you treat her kindly, I would make her very ungrateful if she did, said I. Alex flounced away with I wish you were gone after Guy. And so did I. But at night, just before I dropped asleep, a new idea came to me. An idea that never occurred to me before. Do I try Alex as much as she tries me? Oh, dear, I hope not. It cannot be. I don't think it's possible. Is it? I wish I'd not forgotten those cakes. Alex did seem so put out. And I suppose it was rather annoying, perhaps. I did not like her saying that I was not to be trusted. I don't think that was fair. And I cannot bear injustice. Still, I did forget the cakes. And if she had trusted me, it was only reasonable that she should feel disappointed. But she did not need to have been so angry and to have said such disagreeable things. Well, I suppose I was angry, too. But I show my anger in a different way from Alex. I did not know which of us was more wrong. I think it was Alex. Yes, I'm sure it was. She treats me abominably. It is enough to make anybody angry. Those limes seemed to come up and look reproachfully at me when I say that. I was not at all well. It might be three years ago, rather feverish and very cross. And two travelling peddlers came to the castle gate. One sold rare and costly fruits, and the other silken stuffs. Now, I know that Alex had been saving up her money for a gold-coloured ribbon for which she had a great fancy, and there was a lovely one in that peddler's stock. In fact, I had never seen one quite so pretty. Alex had just enough to buy it. She could not get any more because the treasurer was away with Montseigneur at the pocking. But she saw my wistful glances at the limes and the other peddler's panniers, and she bought some for me. They were delicious, but Alex went without her gold-coloured ribbon. She had no other chance of it, for the peddler was on his way to hide fair at Portier, and he would not stay even one night. Footnote. At the period of this story, shops were nearly unknown except in the largest towns. Country families, noble, gentle or peasant, had to rely on laying in a stock of goods at the great fairs, held at Easter, Witsentide, Michael Mass, and Christmas, and for anything wanted between those periods, recourse was had to travelling peddlers, who also served as carriers and postmen when occasion demanded it. And footnote. I wonder if it be possible that Alex really loves me, just one little bit? And I wonder if we could give overrasping one another as we do. It would be very difficult. But if I ever do follow Guy, I will bring back from Byzantine or Damascus something beautiful for Alex to make up for that gold ribbon. It was good of her. And I do wish I had remembered those macaroons. End of Chapter 1 Chapter 2 of Lady Sybil's Choice by Emily S. Holt This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 2. Two surprises for Elaine. I feel within me a mind above all earthly dignities as still and quiet conscience. Shakespeare. I should like to know if I could find out what it is that makes Alex have such a fancy for Lady Isabel de Montbillard. I think she is just abominable. She finishes off every sentence with a little crackling laugh, which it drives me wild to hear. It makes no difference what it is about. Whether it be dear de Moselle, how kind you are, or do you not think my lord looks but poorly, they all end up with... Sometimes I feel as though I could shake her like Lovell does the rats. If Lady Isabel were like Alex in her ways I would understand it better, but they are totally unlike, and yet they seem to have a fancy for each other. As for the Baron, I don't care a bit about him anyway. He's like and bearish in that respect. There's nothing in him either to like or dislike. And if there can be still less of anything than in him, I think it is in his brother, Messia Raymond, who sits with his mouth a little open, staring at one as if one were a curiosity in a show. Alex told me this morning that I was too sensorious. I'm afraid that last sentence looks rather like it. Perhaps I'd better stop. The Baron and his lady went with us to the hockey, and so did Messia Raymond, but he never caught so much as a sparrow. Then after we came back I had to try on my new dress, which Marguerite had just finished. It really is a beauty. The under tunic is of crimson velvet, the super tunic of blue Samite embroidered in silver, the mantle of reddish tawny with a rich border of gold. I shall wear my blue kerchief with it, which Montseigneur gave me last New Year's Day, and my golden girdle studded with sapphires. The sleeves are the narrowest I've had yet, for the Lady de Montbillard told Alex that last time she was at the court the sleeves were much tighter at the wrist than they used to be. And she thinks, in another twenty years or so, the pocketing sleeve may be quite out of fashion. It would be odd if sleeves were to be made the same width all the way down. But the Lady de Montbillard saw Queen Marguerite when she was at Portier, and she says that the queen wore a tunic of the most beautiful pale green, and her sleeves were the closest worn by any Lady there. Footnote, pocketing sleeve, one of the most uncommonly and inconvenient vagaries of fashion. The sleeve was moderately tight from shoulder to elbow, and just below the elbow it went off in a wide pendant sweep, reaching almost to the knee. The pendant part was used as a pocket. Queen Marguerite, daughter of Louis VII, king of frats and constancia of Castelia, wife of Henry, eldest son of Henry II of England. Her husband was crowned during his father's life, and by our medieval chroniclers is always styled Henry III. End footnotes. I wish I were a queen. It is not because I think it would be grand, but because queens and princesses wear their coronets over their kerchiefs instead of under. And it is such a piece of business to fasten one's kerchief every morning with the coronet underneath. Marguerite has less trouble than I have with it, as she has nothing to fasten but the kerchief. And if it is not done to perfection, I am sure to hear of it from Alex. When Margaret was braiding my hair this morning, I asked her if she knew why she was made. She was ready enough with her answer to serve you, Demoiselle, without doubt. And why was I made, does that think, Marguerite, to be served by thee, or to serve someone else? Of course, while the Demoiselle is young and at home, she will serve Monseigneur. Then, when the cavalier comes who pleases Monseigneur and the good God, he will serve the Demoiselle. And afterwards, it is the duty of a good wife to serve her Lord. And of course, all nobles and villains must serve the good God. Well, thou hast settled it easier than I could do it, said I. But, Marguerite, thus thou never become tired of all this serving. Not now, Demoiselle. What does thou mean by that? Ah, there was a time, said Marguerite, and I thought a blush burned on her dear old face, when I was a young silly maiden and very, very foolish, Demoiselle. Does thou think all maidens silly, Margaret? Very few wise, Demoiselle. My foolish head was full of envious thoughts, I know that. Vain wishes that I had been born a noble lady instead of a villain maiden. I thought scorn to serve, and would faint have been born to rule. They are very funny, said I. I never knew villains had any notions of that sort. I thought they were quite content. Is the noble Demoiselle always quite content? Pardon me. Why, no, said I. But then, Marguerite, I am noble, and nobles may rightfully aspire. Villains ought to be satisfied with the lot which the good God has marked out for them, and with the honor of serving a noble house. Ha, Demoiselle! The Demoiselle has used a deep, strong word, satisfy. I believe nothing will satisfy any living heart of man or woman, except that one thing. What one thing? I am an ignorant villain, my Demoiselle. I do not know the holy Latin tongue as ladies do. But now and then Father Eudes will render some words of the blessed evangel into French in his sermon. And he did so that day, when I was satisfied. What was it that satisfied thee, then, Marguerite? They were words, Father Eudes said, of the good God himself when he walked on Middle-earth among us men. Come unto me, he said, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. But I do not understand, Marguerite, how did those words satisfy thee? The words did not, Demoiselle, but the thing did. I just took the blessed Lord at his word and went to him, and thanks be to his holy name he gave me rest. What does thou mean, Marguerite? Well, the dear Demoiselle, not come and try. She will want rest some day. Had I not better wait till I am tired, said I, laughingly. Ah, yes, we never want rest till we're tired. But not wait to come to the merciful Lord. Oh, no, no. Nay, I cannot comprehend thee, Marguerite. No, my Demoiselle, she's not likely to know how to come until she wants to do it. When she does want it, the good God will hear the Demoiselle, for he heard her servant. Didst thou entreat the intercession of St. Marguerite? Ah, no, I am but an ignorant old woman. The dear Lord said, come unto me, and I thought perhaps he meant it, so I just went. But how couldst thou, Marguerite? If it pleased my Demoiselle, I did it, and if he had been angry I suppose he would not have heard me. But how dost thou know he did hear thee? When the Demoiselle entreats Monsignor to give her a silver mark and he opens his purse and gives it, is it possible for her to doubt that he has heard her? The good God must have heard me because he gave me rest. I did not understand, Marguerite, what thou meanest by rest, and I want to know all about it. Have things given over puzzling thee? Is there some light come upon them? It seems to me, Demoiselle, if I may not too bold in speaking my poor thoughts, go on, said I, I want to know them. Then, Mademoiselle, it seems to me that there are two great lights in which we may see everything in this world. The first is a fierce light, like the sun, but it blinds and dazzles us. The holy angels perchance can bear it, for it streams from the throne of God, and they stand before that throne. But we cannot. Our mortal eyes must be hidden in that dread and unapproachable light. And if I mistake not, it is by this light that the Demoiselle has hitherto tried to see things, and no wonder that our eyes are dazzled. But the other light soothes and enlightens. It is soft and clear, like the moonlight, and it streams from the cross of Calvary. There the good God paid down in the red gold of his own blood the price of our redemption. It must have been because he thought it worthwhile. And if he paid such a price for a poor villain woman like me, he must have wanted me. The Demoiselle would not cast a pearl into the vien for which she had paid a thousand crowns. And if he cared enough about me to give his life for me, then he must care enough to be concerned about my welfare in this lower world. The Demoiselle would not refuse a cup of water to him whom she was willing to give a precious gem. Herein lies rest. The good God who thus loves me wills for me. I will for myself also. But Marguerite, it might be something that would break thine heart. Would the Blessed Lord not know that? But I do not think he breaks hearts that are willing to be his. He melts them. It is the hearts that harden themselves like a rock which have to be broken. But thou wouldst not like something which hurt thee. Not enjoy it. No, no. Did the Demoiselle enjoy the Rodegrie Plaster which the apothecary put on her when she was ill three years ago? Yet she did not think him her enemy but her friend. Ah, the good God has his medicine chest. And it holds smarting plasters and bitter drugs. But they are better than to be ill, Demoiselle. Marguerite, I had no idea that weren't such a philosopher. Ah, the noble Demoiselle is pleased to laugh at her servant who does not know what that hard word means. No, there is nothing old Marguerite knows only how to come to the Blessed Lord and ask him for rest. He gave the rest and he knew how to do it. I wonder if old Marguerite is not the truest philosopher of all. It is evident that things do not puzzle her just because she lets them alone and leaves them with God. Still that is not knowing. And I want to know. Oh, how I wish I could tell if it is wicked to want to know. Let the truth be that there are things which we cannot know. Things which the good God does not tell us. Not because he wishes us to be ignorant but because he could not possibly make us comprehend them. But then why did he not make us wiser? Or why does he let questions perplex us to which we can find no answer? Think it must be that he does not wish us to find the answer. And why? I will see what idea Marguerite has about that. She seems to get hold of wise notions in some unintelligible way. For, of course, she is only a villain and cannot have as much sense as a noble. There was that tiresome Mazir Raymond in the hall when I went down. He is noble enough for his mother's mother and a princess of the Carlovinian blood, the descendant of Charlemagne. But I'm sure he has no more sense than he needs. The way in which he says, ah, when I tell him anything just exasperates me. The Baron, his brother, is a shade better though he will never wear a laurel crown, the prize of intellect. Still, he does not say, ah. I don't like younger brothers. In fact, I don't think I like men of any sort. Except Guy, of course, and Monseigneur. But then other men are not like them. Guilot and Amari and Raoul rank with the other men. I wonder if women are very much better. I don't think they are. If I am to look up on Alex in the Lady de Montbelliard as samples. Oh dear, I wonder why I hate people so. It must be because they are hateful. Does anybody think me hateful? How queer it would be if they did. I really do feel tonight as if I did not know whether I was standing on my feet or on my head. I cannot realize it one bit. Alex is going to be married. Alex, going away from the castle. And I, I, should be the only mistress there. Monseigneur called me down to the hall as I stood picking the dead leaves from my rose bushes for a potpourri. There was no one in the hall but himself. Well, of course, there were a quantity of servitors and retainers but they never count for anything. I mean, there was nobody that is anybody. He made me come up to him and he drew me close, kissed me on the forehead and stroked down my hair. What will my cabbage say to what I have to tell her? said he. Is it something pleasant, Monseigneur? said I. Now, there that opposes me, he answered. Yes, in one light. No, in another. And in which of the two lights thou wilt see it, I do not yet know. I looked up into his face and waited. Just thou like, messiah Raymond de Montpellard? No, Monseigneur, I answered. No, ha, then purchase thou wilt not like my news. Messiah Raymond has something to do with it? Everything. Well, said I, I am afraid rather saucily. So long as he does not want to marry me, I do not much care what he does. Monseigneur pinched my ear, kissed me, and seemed extremely amused. The? No, no. Not just yet, my little cabbage. Not just yet. But suppose he wanted to marry Alex. Does he want to marry Alex? He does. And under your good leave, Monseigneur? Well, yes, I see no good reason to the contrary, my little cat. He is a brave knight, and has a fine castle, and is a real Carlevinian. Footnote, throughout France and the Middle Ages, the Carlevinian blood was rated at an extravagant value. End footnote. He's a donkey, said I. Real too. Ha, hush then, replied Monseigneur, yet laughing and patting my cheek. Well, well, perhaps not overburden with brains. How sharp thou art, child, to be sure. No want of brains in that direction. But a good, worthy man, my cabbage, and a stalwart knight. And when is it to be, Monseigneur? I asked. In a hurry to see the fine dresses, demanded my gracious lord, and laughed again. Nay, I think not to laugh to Christmas. Time enough then. I'm in no hurry to lose my housekeeper. Can't thou keep house, my rabbit? Ha, ha, will there be anything for dinner? Ha, ha, ha, ha. I was half frightened, and yet half delighted. Of course, I thought, if Alex goes away, unbearable come and reign here. He's likely to think me old enough or good enough. Under your nobility's good leave, I will see to that, said I. Monseigneur answered by a peel of laughter. Ha, ha, ha. Showing her talons, is she? Wants to rule my cabbage, does she? A true woman on my troth. Ha, ha, ha. If it pleases you, Monseigneur, why should you come short of dinner because I see about it? My gracious lord laughed more than ever. No reason at all, my little rabbit, no reason at all. Try thy hand, by all means, by all means. So unbearish does not need to come. Ha, ha, ha, ha. Seriously, my little cat, said he, and his face grew grave. What's that rather unbearish did not come? Are thou not friends with her? Oh, as to friends, so-so, lala, said I, but I think I should get along quite as well without her. But what's thou not weary for a woman's company? I never weary for any company, but, guys, I answered, and I think the tears came into my eyes. Is it still guy, said he, smiling, but very kindly now? Always guy? Well, well, when the time comes, I promise the boy thou shouldst go out to him. We must wait till he writes to say he is ready to receive thee. So guy stands first, does he? I nodded, for my heart was too full to speak. He patted my head again, and let me go. But I thought he looked a little troubled, and I could not tell why. When it came to undress the same evening, I asked Marguerite if she'd heard the news. The demoiselle Alex was so gracious as to inform me, said she. Does thou like it, Marguet? Ha, my demoiselle! What does it matter what a villain old woman likes? It matters to me, or I should not have asked thee, said I. I trust it will be for the noble demoiselle's welfare, said she, and I could get her to say no more. Now, Marguet, tell me something else, said I. Why does the good God not make all things clear to everybody? What sayest thou? He has not told me why, demoiselle, perhaps to teach my demoiselle to trust him. There could be no trust if we always knew. But he's not knowing better than trusting, I replied. Is it? Responded Marguerite. Does Monsignor always take my demoiselle into his secrets, and never require her to trust him? God is the great king of all the world. Kings always have secret matters. Surely the king of kings must have his state secrets, too. This seemed putting it on a new footing. I sat and considered the matter, while Marguerite took off my dovecoat, the rich network which confined the hair, often of gold and precious stones, and unbound my hair. Still, I don't see why we may not know everything, I said at last. Does my demoiselle remember what stood in the midst of the beautiful garden of God wherein Adam and Eva were put to dwell? The tree of knowledge, said I. True, but that does not help me to the why. Why might Adam and Eva not eat it? Well, my demoiselle pardon me. I think it does help to the why, but not to the why of the why, which is what she always wants to see. Why Adam and Eva might not eat it, I suppose, was because the good God forbade it. But why, Marguerite? Why? Ha! I'm not the good God. I do not see it one bit, said I. The tree of knowledge is a good thing. Knowledge of good, I, which is knowledge of God. The good Lord never forbids us that. He commands it. But let me entreat my demoiselle to remember that this was the tree of knowledge of good and evil. That we should know evil cannot be good. I do not understand why the good God ever let Satan be at all, said I. And I did not see how Satan came to be Satan to begin with. The blessed Lord knows all about it, said Marguerite. When my demoiselle was a little child, I am sure she did not understand why we gave her bitter medicines. But the apothecary knew. Can my demoiselle not leave all her questions with the good Lord? I want them answered, Marguerite. I cried impatiently. If I knew that I should understand when I'm dead, I would not so much mind waiting. But I don't know anything, and I don't like it. Well, I did not know even that much, she replied. It may be so, I cannot tell. But the good Lord knows, and he loves me. How knowest thou that, Marguerite? People don't die for a man, demoiselle, unless they love him very much indeed. But how dost thou know that it was for thee? It was for sinners, and I am one. But not for all sinners, Marguerite. A great many sinners will go to perdition, Father Yudis says. How canst thou tell if thou art one of them or not? Ah, that did perplex me at first. But one day Father Yudis read out of the Holy Gospel that all who believed in our Lord should have life eternal. So that settled it. The sinners that are lost must be those who do not believe in our Lord. Marguerite, don't we all believe in him? Let the demoiselle forgive me if I speak foolishly. But there are two brothers among the violets in the hall, Philippe and Robert. Now I quite believe that they both exist. I know a good deal about them. I know their father and mother, Pierrot and Arlette. And I know that Philippe has a large nose and black hair, and he is fond of porpoise, while Robert has brown hair and limps a little, and he likes quinces. Yet, if I wanted to send a crown to my niece, Pierrot, I should feel quite satisfied that Robert would carry it straight to her, while I should not dare to give it to Philippe, lest he should go to the next cabaret and spend it in wine. Now, don't I believe in Robert in a very different way from that in which I believe in Philippe? Why, then, meanest that Robert may be trusted, but Philippe cannot be, said I. But what has it to do with the matter? Let the demoiselle think a moment. Does she simply believe that the good God is, or does she trust him? Trust him? With what, said I? With yourself, my demoiselle. With myself, I exclaimed. Nay, Margaret, what does that mean now? How does the demoiselle trust Monseigneur? Has she any careless he should fail to provide her with food and clothing suitable to her rank? Does it not seem to her a matter, of course, that so long as he lives, he will always love her and care for her and never forget nor neglect her? Has she ever lain awake at night, writing over the idea that the Monseigneur might give over providing for her or being concerned about her welfare? What a ridiculous notion, I cried. Why, Margaret, I simply could not do that. He's my father. And what does my demoiselle read in the Holy Salter? Is it not like as a father pityeth his children, even so the Lord pityeth them that fear him? Is he not our father? Yes, of course we expect the good God to take care of us, I replied. But then, Margaret, it is a different thing. And thou knowest he does not always take care of us in that way. He lets all sorts of things happen to hurt and grieve us. Then, when my demoiselle is ill, and Monseigneur sends off in hot haste from a sour denny's to come and bleed her in the foot, he is not taking care of her. It hurts her, I think. Oh, that has to be, Margaret. As thou saidst, it is better than being ill. And let my demoiselle bear with her servant. Is there no must be with the good God? But I don't see why, Margaret. He could make us well all in a minute. Monseigneur cannot. Yet I suppose it is better that my demoiselle should not be made well all in a minute, but should learn by suffering to be patient in sickness and thankful for her usual good health. Did not Monseigneur St. David say it is good for me that I have been afflicted? Oh, what queer idea, said I? Is it? Quietly answered, Margaret. I once heard a young noble lady say about three years ago that it was so delightful to feel well again after being ill that it really was worth going through the pain to reach it. And I think. If I may be pardoned the illusion, I think they called her the demoiselle Elaine de Lusignan. I could not help laughing. Well, I daresay I did say something like that, but Margaret is only when I'm getting well that I can think so. When I am well to begin with, I don't want to go through the pain again. When my demoiselle is truly well at the mortal disease of sin, she will never need to go through the pain again, but that will not be till the sin and the body are laid down together. Till we die, does thou mean that? Till we die. Oh, Margaret, I don't. I hate to think of dying. Yes, it is pleasanter to think of living. They are well for whom all the dying comes first, and the life is hereafter. Well, I suppose I shall be all right, said I, jumping into bed. Monsignor pays my church dues, and I hear the holy mass sung every day. I say my prayers night and morning, and in all my life I never was so wicked as to touch meat on a fast day. I think on the whole I am a very good girl. When my demoiselle be angry if I ask her whether the good lord thinks the same. Oh, Margaret, how can I know? Because, if Father Eudes read it right, we do know. There is none that doeth good, no, not one. Margaret, how thou must listen to Father Eudes. I hear him mumbling away, but I never bother my head with what he's saying. He's got to say it, and I've got to sit there till he's done. That's all. I amuse myself in all sorts of ways. Out the bits of glass in the window, or watch the effect of the crimson and blue light creeping over the stalls and pillars, or think how St. Agatha would look in a green robe instead of a purple one. What makes thee listen to all the stuff he says? My demoiselle sees that, saving her presence, I'm a little like her, I want to know. But Father Eudes never tells us anything worth knowing, surely? Pardon me, my demoiselle. He reads the true words of the Good God from the Holy Evangels. Commonly they are in the Holy Latin tongue, and then I can only stand and listen reverently to the strange sounds. The Good God understands, not I. But now and then I suppose the Blessed Lord whispers to Father Eudes to put it into French for a moment, and that is what I am listening for all the time. Then I treasure up the words like some costly gem, and say them to myself a hundred times over, so that I may never forget them anymore. Oh, it is a glad day for me when Father Eudes says those dear words in French. But how thou dost care about it, Margit? I suppose thou hast so few things to think of and delight in. I have more to occupy me. My demoiselle, the Blessed Lord, said that his good word was choked up and brought no fruit when the cares of other things entered into the heart. No, I have not much to think of but my work, and three graves in a village churchyard, and one, and I have not much to delight in, save the words of the Blessed Lord. Yet, let my demoiselle bear with me. I am better off than she. Oh, Margit! And I laughed till the tears came into my eyes. It was so excessively absurd! Marguerite took the lap. May the Good God and his angels watch over my sweet demoiselle. She said. And then she tucked the silken coverlet round me and put out the lamp. That delight should not keep me awake, and quietly undressed herself and got into the trundle bed. And I was asleep almost before she lay down. But, oh, dear, how ridiculous! Marguerite better off than I am? There is no harm in her fancying it, dear old thing, but the comicality of the idea. Why, I dress in velvet and diaper, and she an unshorn wool, and I lie on a feather bed under fusty and blankets and satin coverlets, and she sleeps on a straw with a woolen rug over her, and I ride and hawk and sing and dance and embroider, and she's hearted all sorts of rough work from morning till night. Why, she cannot wear a jewel nor a bit of gold, nor have any sort of pleasure except singing and dancing. And she's too old for both. Of course, such things as nobles amuse themselves with are not fit for villains. But that a villain should fancy for a moment that she's better off than a noble. Oh, it's too absurd for anything! Well, really, better off than I am. End of Chapter 2 So all's over, and Alex is really gone. It was a grand wedding. The bride was in blue velvet embroidered in gold with golden girdle, firmail, brooch, and ammonia. Her mantle was of gold-colored satin and her undertunic of black damask. I thought she chose her colors with very good taste, more than Alex generally does. But one should look nice on one's wedding day if one ever is to do. And she did look nice in her gemmed coronal and no hood and all her hair flowing over her shoulders. The costume restricted to brides or to queens at the coronation. As for Missa Raymond, I nearly went into fits when I saw him. The creature had dressed himself in a yellow tunic with a brick-red super-tunic and flesh-colored hose. Then he had green boots, striped in gold, and a sky-blue mantle studded with golden stars. Rell said he must fancy that he was Jupiter since he had clad himself with the firmament, but Amari replied that with all that flame color he must be Vulcan if he were a pagan deity of any kind. Father Eud is saying the mass, and Father Gilbert, the lord of Montbillard's chaplain, gave an up-shield benediction. I was dressed in pale green and dark violet, and Lady Isabel in rose-colored satin. Then came the wedding feast in the Great Hall, for which Alex and I had been preparing a week beforehand. And, after all, I am certain hallowees forgot to put any more sugar in the placente cheesecakes. And then the hall was cleared, and we danced till subter time. Then, after supper, the minstrels played. And Lady Isabel and I, with all the other ladies there, went up and put the bride to bed, and after throwing the stocking in all the other ceremonies, and I am glad to say it did not hit me. But that ugly Elise de la Posse, we came back into the hall, and danced again until it was time to take up the poset. Oh, I was tired when I did go to bed at last. I should not like to be at another wedding next week. Footnotes. The girl hit by the stocking was expected to be married next. This serving of a poset to the newly married pair in the night was a purely French custom. And footnotes. Well, it really is a very good thing that Alex is gone. I have had some peace these last two days. And there. If the very last thing she did before going was not to do me an ill turn. She went and persuaded Monsignor to invite Emberge to come and take the ring. Oh, of course I could not be expected to understand anything. What sort of a compliment was that to her teaching? I was a mere baby, full of nonsense, and all on in that way. And when Monsignor was so glittest to say that I did not like the idea of Emberge's coming and he thought that he would try what I could do, Alex fairly laughed in his face. As if I were fit to decide the baby that I was, she said. Thank you very much, Dame Alex de Montpellard. Perhaps I have more sense than you suppose. At any rate, I'm very glad of one thing that we've got rid of you. Oh, dear. I wonder whether anybody ever thinks that it would be nice to get rid of me. But then I am not disagreeable, like Alex. I am sure I am not. Now, why is it that when one gets something one has been wishing for a long while, one does not feel satisfied with it? I have been fancying for months how pleasant it would be when Alex was gone and there would be no one to find fault with me. Yet it is not pleasant at all. I thought it would be peaceful and it is dull. And only this afternoon Raul was cross with me as he could be. Monsignor took my part, as he well might, because of course I was right, but still it was disagreeable. Why don't I feel more happy? I thought I would see what Marguerite would say and I asked her what she thought about it. She only smiled and said, Such is the way of the world, Mademoiselle, since men forsook the peaceful paths of God. But why do things look so much more delightful beforehand than when they come, said I. Mademoiselle has a vivid fancy, though she never finds that things look more unpleasant to the distance. Well, I don't know, perhaps sometimes, I said, but disagreeable things are always disagreeable. I suppose something in my face made Marguerite answer, Is the coming of the lady embarrassed disagreeable to Mademoiselle? Oh, as to that, I don't care much about it, said I, but I do want to hear from Guy. I, that is coming to be the cry in my heart now, I want to hear from Guy. I want to know where he is and what he's doing and whether he's been made a count yet and, Oh dear, dear, whether that dreadful, beautiful lady whom he is to like so much better than me has appeared, that could not happen to me. I could never love anybody better than Guy. I should so like a confidante of my own rank and age and Beige would never do it all and she's quite fifteen years older than I am. If I had a sister a year older or younger than myself that would have been about the right thing. Nobody ever was my confidante except Guy. And I wander about his chamber very much as Lovell does and feel, I should imagine, very much like him when he holds up one paw and looks up at me and plainly says with his dog face, Where is he? And is he never coming back? And I can only put my cheek down on his great soft head and stroke his velvet ears and feel with him for I know so little more than he does. I must be dreadful for dogs if they want to know. Here's the emberge at last. She came last night and Guilot with her and Valence and Eileen. They are nice playthings or would be if I might have my own way. But I cannot quite understand it. The emberge who has come to live here seems quite a different woman from the emberge who used to come for an afternoon. She used to kiss me and call me darling and praise my macaroons. But this emberge has kept me running about the house all morning while she sits in a curled chair with a bit of embroidery and says, Young feet do not tire and you know where everything is and you're accustomed to the maids. It looks as if she thought I was a superior sort of maid. Then when our gracious Lord comes in she's all velvet and deary lanes me and tells me I'm such a sweet creature ready to run about and do anything for anybody. If there's one thing I do despise it is that sort of woman. Alex never served me like that. She was sharp but she was honest. If Monsignor praised the placente she always told him when I had made them and would not take praise for what was not her work. I shall never be able to get along with emberge if this morning is to be a specimen of every day. Oh dear, I wish Alex had not gone and I wish, I wish we could hear from Guy. Things do not go on as smoothly as they used to do. I think Monsignor himself sees it now. Emberge is not fond of trouble and instead of super-intending everything as Alex did always seeing after the maids up early and down late she just takes her ease and expects things to go right without any trouble on her part. Why, she never rises in the morning before six and she spends a couple of hours in dressing. It is no good to tell her of anything that is wanted for she seems to expect everything to mend itself. Yesterday in morning one of the jasons dropped out of the sheet on my bed and I told emberge Alex was always particular about anything of that kind being reported to her directly but she only said, indeed, well I suppose you can sleep as well without it. But it was last night that Monsignor seemed vexed. We had guests to supper and I am sure I did my best to have things nice but everything seemed to go wrong. Emberge apparently thought the supper would order itself in the first place and cook itself in the second for beyond telling me to see that all was right she took no care about it at all but sat embroidering. The dining room was only just ready in time and the minstrels were half an hour behind time the pastry was over baked and the bread quite cold. There was no subtlety, ornamental centerpiece with the third course and the fresh rushes would have been forgotten if I had not asked Robert about them. I was vexed for Alex was there herself and I knew what she would think to say nothing of the other guests. I do think it is too bad of emberge to leave me all the cares and responsibilities of mistress while she calmly appropriates the position and the credit and then scolds me if everything is not perfection. Why I must go and dress some time and was it my fault if Denise left the pies in too long while I was dressing or did not attend to my order to have the bread hot at the last minute I cannot be everywhere. Footnotes how jewels were set in linen sheets is a mystery but there is abundant evidence of the fact and it was considered of consequence that the bread at a feast should be as new as possible. End of footnotes My gracious lord did not blame me he asked emberge and me together how it happened that all these things were wrong and I declare if emberge did not say Elaine had the ordering of it Monsignor will please to ask her. I am afraid I lost my temper I said yes Monsignor I had the ordering of it my fair sister took no care of anything and if I could have had three pairs of hands and been in six places at once perhaps things might have been right. Monsignor only laughed and patted my head but this evening I heard him say to Goulot just as I was entering the hall fair son thy fair wife puts too much on the childe lane Goulot laughed rubbed his forehead and answered fair father it will take more than me to stop her what canst thou not rule thine own wife? demanded our gracious lord never tried Monsignor said Goulot too late to begin and Monsignor only said with a sigh I wonder when you shall hear from Guy Goulot looked relieved and seeing me I think they went on to talk of something else but everything seems changed since they came except for my gracious lord and Ammari and Raoul it does not feel like home Alex rode over this afternoon I took her to my bower in the turret and almost directly she asked me how do you get on with our fair sister and I said oh Alex I wish thou wouldst come back she laughed and replied what would my lord say child I thought you were not very comfortable what made thee think so Alex was it Tuesday night? Tuesday night the supper I guess you would see into it why was it so very bad said I pentonently bad it was carelessness and neglect beyond endurance she said no I saw the maids wanted the mistresses eye and embarrassed evidently had not given it and I thought you would try to throw yourself into the gap and and as such an inexperienced young thing would had failed I really was pleased when Alex said that now we're not vexed with me Alex not I you did your best I was vexed enough with emberge I knew she was lazy but I did not expect her to discredit the house like that she seems quite altered since she came here I said ah you never can tell how people will turn out till you come to live with them said Alex so you're not so very glad after all to lose me little one I was startled for I never supposed that Alex guessed that I did not know what to say why child did you think I had no eyes she asked you know you were glad I did what I generally do I hesitated for a moment and then came up bluntly with the truth well Alex I was glad but I'm not now Alex laughed that's right she said always tell the plain truth Elaine you will find many a time as you go through life child that the prettiest pasties are not always the best flavored nor the plainest say a common quality of silk the worst to wear I suppose it is so but I never should have guessed that I should be wishing for Alex to come back my great I said one morning as I was dressing does that think it would be wrong if I were to pray for a letter from Guy I cannot think it would be wrong to pray for anything she answered provided we are willing that the good God should choose for us in the end well but I'm not sure that I'm willing to have that is my demos as wise as the good Lord oh no of course not but still but still my demos L would like always to have her own way yes I should Margaret well if there be one thing for which I am thankful it is that the good Lord has not given me much of my own way it would have been very bad for me perhaps for a villain it might said I but nobles are different possibly even for the nobles said Marguerite the good Lord might be the best chooser but it seems to me if we left everything in that way we should never pray at all let my demos I'll pardon me that we have full trust in a friend's wisdom is scarcely a reason why we should not ask his counsel but the friend cannot know what advice you need the Lord knows all about it does my demos L never tell her thoughts to Monsignor Guy because he knows that she is likely to think this or that oh but it is such a pleasure to tell one's thoughts to Guy I replied he generally thinks as I do and when he does not he talks the thing over with me and it usually ends in my thinking as he does then if I'm sad he comforts me and if I'm rejoicing he rejoices with me and oh Marguerite it is like talking to another me my dim was else and Marguerite with a peculiar smile which I've seen on her lips before and never could understand it is so glad and sunny yet quiet and deep as if she were rejoicing over some hidden treasure which she had all to herself my demos L has said well he that is joined to the Lord is one spirit if we walk in the light as he is in the light we have fellowship one with another my demos L does not yet know what it is to speak out freely all her thoughts to one who is infinitely high and wise and who loves her with an infinite love I am but a poor ignorant villain woman I know very little about anything well I take my ignorant mind to him who knows all things and who can foresee the end from the beginning I do not know any grand words to pray with I just say sir God I am very much puzzled I do not know what to do for the best put the best thing into my head thou knowest every night before I go to sleep the last thing I say in my heart sir God I do not know what is good and what is evil for me thou knowest give me the good things tonight and keep the evil ones away I suppose if I were very wise and clever I should not make such poor ignorant prayers I should know then what would be best to do yet I do not think I should be any better off for then I should see so much less of the good Lord I would rather have more of the good God and less of the quick wit in the ready tongue footnote sir God though this title will certainly sound strange if not a reverent to modern ears it was meant as the most reverent epithet known to those who used it and footnote it would be nice to feel as Margaret does I cannot think where she got it but it would never do for me who am noble to take pattern from a poor villain I suppose such thoughts are good for low ignorant people what should I have done if I had been born a villain I cannot imagine what it would feel like I'm very glad I was not but of course I cannot tell what it would feel like because nobles have thoughts and feelings of quite a different sort to common people I suppose Guy would say that was one of my queer notions he always says more queer ideas come into my head than anyone else's oh Guy Guy when shall I see thee again two whole years and not a word from thee are thou languishing in some pain and dungeon has thou fallen in some battle or has the beautiful lady come the little lunette has forgotten I've been asking Father Eudes to tell me something about the Holy Land for I want to be able to picture to myself the place where Guy is and of course Father Eudes can tell for he knows all about everything and he had an uncle who was a holy palmer and visited the Blessed Supplecar and used to tell most beautiful legends he says about the Holy Land besides which his own father fought for the supplecar in the Second Crusade and dwelt in that country for several years Father Eudes says it is nearly a hundred years since the Kingdom of Jerusalem was founded for it was in the year of our Lord 1099 at the time of the First Crusade the First King was the gallant Godfrey of Balone he was unanimously chosen by all the Christian warriors after the Holy City was taken but he would never call himself King but only Defender of the Holy Supplecar but alas the good King Godfrey only reigned one year and on his death the princes all assembled in the Church of the Holy Supplecar which they also call the Temple to elect a successor and because there were great contentions among them they resolved to decide the choice by lot and they stood around the tomb of our Lord each holding a long taper and earnestly besought the good God that he would cause the taper held by him who ought to be King of Jerusalem to be lighted by Miracle and when the prayer was ended one of the tapers was found to be burning it was that held by Duke Robert the Kirtos son of Lord William the Norman who conquered England but to the horror of all the princes Duke Robert blew out the taper and refused to be King he said that he was not worthy to wear a crown of gold in that place where for his sins our Lord had worn a crown of thorns and I really have always felt puzzled to know whether he acted very piously or very impiously so in the end the brother of King Godifer was chosen but he also left no child though he reigned 18 years but the Lady Ida his sister who was a very wise and prudent lady brave noble chivalrous had a son and he reigned after his uncle for 13 years yet at his death he left four daughters and no son and Father Eudes thinks this showed the displeasure of our Lord who had willed that the kingdom of Jerusalem should belong to our Lord's the kings of England and they wickedly refused to receive it for of course it is the bounden duty of all Christian men to rescue the holy lands out of the hands of Panem's Jews and such horrible heretics who all worship the devil and bow down to stocks and stones since this land belonged to our Lord Jesus Christ who was king of it by holy Mary's mother and he died sized of the same for which reason all Christian men who are the right heirs of our said Lord ought to recover their inheritance in that land and not leave it in the hands of wicked heretics who have no right to it at all since they are not the children and right heirs of Jesus Christ our Lord footnote this singular reasoning is borrowed from Sir John Mandeville and footnote well when King Bedouin the second was dead the holy land fell to the eldest of his four daughters who was named the Lady Melisand and she wedded Count Folk of Anjou and from her all the kings since then have come so now it seems settled in the line of Anjou I suppose our Lord's the kings of England therefore have no right to it anymore I cannot help feeling sorry that Duke Robert blew up the taper I would not have done it if it had been mine I think to be the Queen of Jerusalem would be the grandest thing in all the world even better than to be the Empress of Monsignor the Caesar is it not the land of God a letter at last a letter from Guy and he is high in the king's favour and has won booty to the amount of 18,000 golden crowns and he wants a mari and me to go to him at once I keep dancing about and singing I'm so delighted and not one word of the beautiful lady that is best of all Guy says the king is a messelle leper and dwells in chambers to himself and he has never been married so there is no queen except the widow of the late king his father and she is of the high blood of Messaniers the Caesars but is not the mother of the king he is like Guy for his own mother who was the demoiselle de Courtenay died when he was very young and he has one sister of the whole blood who is called the Lady Sybil and one sister of the half blood who is called the Lady Isabel the Lady Sybil is a widow though she is younger than Alex for she was the wife of Monsignor Gwylem the Marquis of Montferrat who died about the time Guy reached the Holy Land and she has one child Monsignor Bedouin named after the king his uncle the Lady Isabel is not yet married and she is about 14 years old Guy writes that the king and the ladies his sisters and the old queen are all very good to him and he is prospering marvelously footnote the queen she was Maria daughter some writers say niece of the Emperor Manuel Comnamus and footnote by a holy Palmer late last night I'm sure the Palmer must be a very holy man for he had scallops fast into his shovel hat and cross keys embroidered on his bosom and bells upon his sleeve and the holy cross upon his shoulder and whenever I came near him there was such a disagreeable smell that he must I'm sure be very holy indeed he told Robert and Marguerite told me that he had not changed his clothes for three whole years what a holy man he must be I was very glad when he gave me his benediction though I did try to keep as much to windward of him as I could and I put a sprig of lavender in my handkerchief before I asked for it I'm rather afraid Father Eudes would say it was wicked of me to put that sprig of lavender in my handkerchief but really I think I should have felt quite disgusted if I had not done so and why should it be holy not to wash oneself why don't they always leave babies unwashed if it be that they might grow up to be holy men and women footnotes the scallop shell denoted a pilgrim to the shrine of St. James of Compostela the cross keys to Rome the bells to Canterbury hence the Canterbury bell and the cross to the holy suppleker the Flemmings were a green cross the French a red the English a white one the proverbial red cross knight in Englishmen and footnotes I wonder if the angels like smells which we think disagreeable if they do of course that would account for it yet one cannot imagine an angel with soiled feathers I suppose Guy would say that was another of my queer ideas I'm so delighted that we've heard from Guy Monsignor says I must have lots of new dresses to take with me I've been wishing ever so long the mantle of black cloth lined with miniver and he says I shall have it and I want a golden girdle and a new ammonia I should like a diaper gown too red and black and a shot silk blue one way and gold the other footnotes ammonia the bag which depended from the girdle diaper this term seems to have indicated stuff woven in any small regular pattern not flowers and footnotes my gracious lord asked me what gems I would best like oh I get her corneally and if it please your nobility said I because they make people amiable he pinched my ear and said he thought I was amiable enough he would give me a set of jasons what to send me to sleep said I laughing just so he answered thou art somewhat too wide awake what do you please to mean Monsignor he smiled but then sighed heavily and stroked my head ah my little Lynette he said if thy blessed mother had but lived I know not truly I know not whether I act for thy real welfare or not the good God forgive our blunders poor blindlings that we are and he rose and went away but of course it must be for my welfare that I should go to Guy and get some appointment in the household of one of the princesses and well I don't know about getting married I might not have so much of my own way and I like that dearly besides if I were married I could not always be with Guy I think I won't on the whole I asked Marguerite tonight if she could tell why holy people did not wash and she said she thought they did well said I but yonder holy Palmer had not taken off his clothes off for three years and I am sure Marguerite he did not smell nice I think said Marguerite under the eve of my demoiselle he would have been at least as holy if he had changed them once a month oh Marguerite is that not heterodoxy asked I laughing let my demoiselle partner servant no did not Monsignor Saint Paul himself say that men should wash their bodies with pure water I am sure I don't know said I I always thought the holier you were the dirtier and that is one reason why I always thought too that I should never be holy I should want my hands and face clean at least did my demoiselle think she should never be holy yes I did Marguerite and do wherefore let her forgive her poor servant oh holiness seems to mean all sorts of unpleasant things said I he must not wash nor lie in a comfortable bed nor wear anything nice nor dance nor sing nor have any pleasure I don't want to be holy I really could not do without it Marguerite under my demoiselle's leave all those things she's mentioned seem to me to be outside things and unless I mistake for I am but an ignorant creature holiness must be something inside my soul is inside of me and to clean my soul I must have something that will go inside to it the inside principle will be sure to put all the outside things straight will it not but I do not see what the outside things can do to the inside except that sometimes they make us cross but then it is we who are wrong not they does thou suppose it is wicked to be cross Marguerite demoiselle father you just once read a list of the good things that a true Christian ought to have in his heart there were nine of them love, joy, peace, longsuffering gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness temperance I think one cannot have many of them when one is cross and peevish then thou dost not think it is sinful to delight in fine clothes and jewels and lie in a soft bed and have dainties for dinner for all those are outside yes my demoiselle those are the world's substitute for happiness now what does thou mean Marguerite laughed I have I not all these good things and am I not happy all these ah yes but happy no no my demoiselle is not happy why what will thou say next cried I will my demoiselle permit her poor servant to ask her a question oh yes anything thou wilt then is my demoiselle quite certain safely happily certain what will become of her when she shall die oh Marguerite what an ugly question I hate to think of it why I suppose I shall go to heaven why should I not don't all nobles go there except those who are very very wicked ah she hates to think of it where for why everybody does of course let my demoiselle pardon me not I oh thou art an old woman and hast outlived thy youth in its pleasures no wonder my demoiselle will find his life goes on that the older she grows the more distasteful that thought becomes to her that is unless she should learn to be happy which may the good God grant I could not help laughing heartily for a young noble maiden like me to take lessons of a forlorn old creature like Marguerite and the art of being happy did seem so very ridiculous my demoiselle may laugh now said Marguerite in her quiet way but I have told the sober truth oh dear said I I think I better sleep on it Marguerite art thou not very much pleased at the thought of going to the holy land ah yes my demoiselle very much I would dearly like to behold the earth which the feet of the blessed Lord have trodden the lake on which he walked the hill from which he went up ah he shall so come this same Jesus I looked at her astonishment the worn old face and sunken eyes seemed to light with some hidden rapture I could not understand her and the holy sepulcher I said for that is the holiest of all the holy places as everyone knows well I should not so much care to see that answered Marguerite to my surprise he is not there he is risen if a dear friend of mine had gone on a journey I should not make a pet of the saddle in which he rode away I should rather want not to see it for it would always remind me that he was gone Marguerite exclaimed I does thou not know that a new vein offered at the holy sepulcher is of more efficacy than ten offered at any other altar will my demoiselle give me leave to wait till I see it of course if the good god chose to have it so there is an end of the matter but I think I would rather be sure for me I should like to pray in the church of the nativity to thank him for coming as a little babe into this weary world and in the church of the ascension to beg him to hasten his coming again ah the church of the ascension to die there are pillars in that church nearly close to the wall and the man who can creep between the wall and the pillar has full remission of all his sins is that in the holy evangel asked Marguerite but I could not tell her I fancy there may be some mistake about that she added of course if it be in the holy evangel but it does not look quite of a piece with what father just reads he read one day out of the writing of Monsignor St. John that the blood of Jesus Christ the blessed Lord cleansed us from all sin and another time I think he said it was from the evangel of Monsignor St. Matthew he read that if a man did but ask the good God for salvation it should be given him well I asked and he gave it me could he give me anything more or would he be likely to do it with a wall and a pillar why Marguerite has thou been listening to some of those wicked lionies that go preaching up and down does thou not know that King Henry the father have strictly forbidden any man to harbour one of that rabble if it please mademoiselle I know nothing at all about them why it is a merchant of lions named Pierre Waldo and a lot more with him they go up and down the country with people from the pure Catholic faith has thou listened to any such preachers Marguerite ha my tomoiselle what know I there was a gray fryer at the cross a few weeks since oh of course the Holy Brethren of St. Augustine are all right said I well and last Sunday there was a man there not exactly in a fryer's robe but clad in sack lock as if he were in mourning but he said none but very good words they were just like the Holy Evangel which father Eudes reads very comforting words they were too he said the good Lord cared even for the sparrows poor things and very much more for us that trusted him I should like to hear him preach again take care how thou dosed said I as I lay down in bed I'm afraid Marguerite he's one of those lionies serpents well said Marguerite as she touched me up no sting if he were no the sting comes afterwards said I and thou art but a poor villain and ignorant and quite unable to judge which is the true doctrine of Holy Church and which the wicked heresy that we must shut our ears against true mademoiselle said old Marguerite Meekly but to say that the dear blessed Lord cares for his poor servants no no that is no heresy what is heresy said I and what is truth oh dear if one might know one's own self Pilate has asked that of the good God when he stood before his judgment seat but he did not wait for the answer I wish he had done I answered then we might have known it but I suppose the good Lord would have told him to submit himself to the church so we should not have been much better off because we do know that we are better off mademoiselle said old Marguerite for though the good God did not answer Pilate maybe he was not worthy he did answer the same question asked by Monsignor St. Thomas did not mademoiselle hear Father Eudes read that in French it was only a few weeks ago I shook my head I cannot imagine when or how Marguerite does hear all these things I never do but she went on it was one day when the good Lord had told Monsignor the Apostles that he was going to ascend to heaven and he said the way you know but Monsignor St. Thomas he was rather like mademoiselle he wanted to know he replied that they do not know the way if he had not been a holy apostle I should not have thought it very civil to contradict his senior let alone the good Lord but the good God was not angry he saw I suppose that Monsignor St. Thomas did not mean anything wrong but he wanted to know like a demoiselle of the house of Lusignan so he said I am the way and the truth and the life no man come a friend to the Father but by me but I do not see what that means truth cannot be a person a man cannot be a way of course it is a figure of speech but still I do not see what it means I was very sleepy and I fancy rather cross Marguerite stooped and kissed my hand and then turned and put out the light rest my fair demoiselle she said tenderly and may the good God show my darling what it means end of chapter 3