Preface.

It is said that only travellers in the arid lands of the East really know the value of water. To them the Well in the Desert is a treasure and a blessing: unspeakably so, when the water is pure and sweet; yet even though it be salt and brackish, it may still save life.

Was it less so, in a figurative sense, to the travellers through that great desert of the Middle Ages, wherein the wells were so few and far between? True, the water was brackish; man had denied the streams, and filled up the wells with stones; yet for all this it was God-given, and to those who came, and dug for the old spring, and drank, it was the water of eternal life. The cry was still sounding down the ages.

“If any man thirst, let him come unto Me, and drink.” And no less blessed are the souls that come now: but for us, the wells are so numerous and so pure, that we too often pass them by, and go on our way thirsting. Strange blindness!—yet not strange: for until the Angel of the Lord shall open the eyes of Hagar, she must needs go mourning through the wilderness, not seeing the well.

“Lord, that we may receive our sight!”—and may come unto Thee, and drink, and thirst no more.

Chapter One.

My Lady’s Bower is swept.

“I am too low for scorn to lower me,
And all too sorrow-stricken to feel grief.”
 
                Edwin Arnold.

Soft and balmy was the air, and the sunlight radiant, at an early hour of a beautiful June morning; and fair was the landscape that met the eyes of the persons who were gathered a few feet from the portcullis of a grand stately old castle, crowning a wooded height near the Sussex coast. There were two persons seated on horseback: the one a youth of some twenty years, in a page’s dress; the other a woman, who sat behind him on the pillion. Standing about were two men and a woman, the last holding a child in her arms. The woman on the pillion was closely veiled, and much muffled in her wrappings, considering the season of the year and the warmth of the weather; nor did she lift her veil when she spoke.

“The child, Alina,” she said, in a tone so soft and low that the words seemed rather breathed than spoken.

The woman who stood beside the horse answered the appeal by placing the child in the arms of the speaker. It was a pretty, engaging little girl of three years old. The lady on the pillion, lifting the child underneath her veil, strained it to her bosom, and bowed her head low upon its light soft hair. Meanwhile, the horse stood still as a statue, and the page sat as still before her. In respectful silence the other three stood round. They knew, every one of them, that in that embrace to one of the two the bitterness of death was passing; and that when it was ended she would have nothing left to fear—only because she would have nothing left to hope. At length, suddenly, the lady lifted her head, and held forth the child to Alina. Turning her head away toward the sea, from the old castle, from the child, she made her farewell in one word.

“Depart!”

The three standing there watched her departure—never lifting her veil, nor turning her head—until she was hidden from their sight among the abundant green foliage around. They lingered a minute longer; but only a minute—for a shrill, harsh voice from the portcullis summoned them to return.

“Ralph, thou lither hilding! Alina, thou jade! Come hither at once, and get you to work. My Lady’s bower yet unswept, by the Seven Sleepers! and ye lingering yonder as ye had leaden heels! By the holy bones of Saint Benedict, our master shall con you light thanks when he cometh!”

“That may be,” said Alina, under her breath. “Get you in, Ralph and Jocelyn, or she shall be after again.”

And she turned and walked quickly into the castle, still carrying the child.

Eleven hours later, a very different procession climbed the castle-hill, and passed in at the portcullis. It was headed by a sumptuous litter, beside which rode a gentleman magnificently attired. Behind came a hundred horsemen in livery, and the line was closed by a crowd of archers in Lincoln green, bearing cross-bows. From the litter, assisted by the gentleman, descended a young lady of some three-and-twenty years, upon whose lips hovered a smile of pleasure, and whose fair hair flowed in natural ringlets from beneath a golden fillet. The gentleman was her senior by about fifteen years. He was a tall, active, handsome man, with a dark face, stern, set lips, and a pair of dark, quick, eagle-like eyes, beneath which the group of servants manifestly quailed.

“Is the Lady’s bower ready?” he asked, addressing the foremost of the women—the one who had so roughly insisted on Alina’s return.

“It is so, an’t like your noble Lordship,” answered she with a low reverence; “it shall be found as well appointed as our poor labours might compass.”

He made no answer; but, offering his hand to the young lady who had alighted from the litter, he led her up the stairs from the banqueting-hall, into a suite of fair, stately apartments, according to the taste of that period. Rich tapestry decorated the walls, fresh green rushes were strewn upon the floor, all the painting had been renewed, and above the fireplace stood two armorial shields newly chiselled.

“Lady,” he said, in a soft, courtly tone, “here is the bower. Doth it like the bird?”

“It is beauteous,” answered the lady, with a bright smile.

“It hath been anew swept and garnished,” replied the master, bowing low, as he took his leave. “Yonder silver bell shall summon your women.”

The lady moved to the casement on his departure. It stood open, and the lovely sea-view was to be seen from it.

“In good sooth, ’tis a fair spot!” she said half aloud. “And all new swept and garnished!”

There was no mocking echo in the chamber. If there had been, the words might have been borne back to the ear of the royal Alianora—“Not only garnished, but swept!”

My Lady touched the silver bell, and a crowd of damsels answered her call. Among them came Alina; and she held by the hand the little flaxen-haired child, who had played so prominent a part in the events of the morning.

“Do you all speak French?” asked the Countess in that language—which, be it remembered, was in the reign of Edward the Third the mother-tongue of the English nobles.

She received an affirmative reply from all.

“That is well. See to my sumpter-mules being unladen, and the gear brought up hither.—What a pretty child! whose is it?”

Alina brought the little girl forward, and answered for her. “The Lady Philippa Fitzalan, my Lord’s daughter.”

“My Lord’s daughter!” And a visible frown clouded the Countess’s brow. “I knew not he had a daughter— Oh! that child! Take her away—I do not want her. Mistress Philippa, for the future. That is my pleasure.”

And with a decided pout on her previously smiling lips, the Lady of Arundel seated herself at her tiring-glass. Alina caught up the child, and took her away to a distant chamber in a turret of the castle, where she set her on her knee, and shed a torrent of tears on the little flaxen head.

“Poor little babe! fatherless and motherless!” she cried. “Would to our dear Lady that thou wert no worse! The blessed saints help thee, for none other be like to do it save them and me.”

And suddenly rising, she slipped down on her knees, holding the child before her, beside a niche where a lamp made of pottery burned before a blackened wooden