“But—” I stayed, for I thought I had better hold my tongue.
“But— I have no mind to it,” saith Jack. “That might have come first, Sissot. It shows, when it doth, that thou hast come to an end of thine excuses. Nay, sweet heart, do but begin, and the mind will have after.”
“Lack-a-daisy!” said I, trying to laugh, though I felt somewhat irked (worried, irritated): “I reckon, then, I had best do mine husband’s bidding without more ado.”
“There spake my Sissot,” saith he. “Good dame!”
So here am I, sat at this desk, with a roll of parchment that Jack hath cut in even leches (strips) for to make a book, and an inkhorn of fresh ink, and divers quills—O me! must all this be writ up?
Well, have forth! I shall so content Jack, and if I content not myself, that shall pay me.
It was through being one of Queen Isabel’s gentlewomen that I came to know these things, and, as Jack saith, to live through my story. And I might go a step further back, for I came to that dignity by reason of being daughter unto Dame Alice de Lethegreve, that was of old time nurse to King Edward. So long as I was a young maid, I was one of the Queen’s sub-damsels; but when I wedded my Jack (and a better Jack never did maiden wed) I was preferred to be damsel of the chamber: and in such fashion journeyed I with the Queen to France, and tarried with her all the time she dwelt beyond seas, and came home with her again, and was with her the four years following, until all brake up, and she was appointed to keep house at Rising Castle. So the whole play was played before mine own eyes.
I spake only sooth-fastness when I told Jack I could never love her. How can man love whom he cannot trust? It would have been as easy to put faith in a snake because it had lovesome marks and colouring, as in that fair, fair face—ay, I will not deny that it was marvellous fair—with the gleaming eyes, which now seemed to flash with golden light, and now to look like the dark depths of a stagnant pool. Wonderful eyes they were! I am glad I never trusted them.
Nor did I never trust her voice. It was as marvellous as the eyes. It could be sweet as honey and sharp as a two-edged sword; soft as dove’s down, and hard as an agate stone. Too soft and sweet to be sooth-fast! She meant her words only when they were sword and agate.
And the King—what shall I say of him? In good sooth, I will say nothing, but leave him to unfold himself in the story. I was not the King’s foster-sister in sooth, for I was ten years the younger; and it was Robin, my brother, that claimed kin with him on that hand. But he was ever hendy (amiable, kindly, courteous) to me. God rest his hapless soul!
But where shall my tale begin? Verily, I have no mind to set forth from the creation, as chroniclers are wont. I was not there then, and lived not through that, nor of a long while after. Must I then begin from my creation? aswhasay (as who should say—that is to say), as near it as my remembrance taketh me. Nay, I think not so: for then should I tell much of the reign of King Edward of Westminster (Edward the First), that were right beside the real story. I think I shall take date from the time of the Queen’s first departure to France, which was the year of our Lord God, 1324.
I was a young maid of seventeen years when I entered the Queen’s household,—her own age. But in another sense, I was tenfold the child that she was. Indeed, I marvel if she ever were a child. I rather think she was born grown-up, as the old heathen fabled Minerva to have been. While on waiting, I often used to see and hear things that I did not understand, yet which I could feel were disapproved by something inside me: I suppose it must have been my conscience. And if at those times I looked on my mother’s face, I could often read disapproval in her eyes also. I never loved the long secret discourses there used to be betwixt the Queen and her uncle, my Lord of Lancaster: they always had to me the air of plotting mischief. Nor did I ever love my Lord of Lancaster; there was no simplicity nor courtesy in him. His natural manner (when he let it be seen) was stern and abrupt; but he did very rarely allow it to be seen; it was nearly always some affectation put on. And I hate that, and so doth Jack.
At that time I loved and hated instinctively, as I think children do; and at seventeen years, I was a child in all things save by the almanac. I could rarely tell why I did not love people—only, I did not love them. I knew oftener why I did. I never thought much of Sir Piers de Gavaston, that the King so dearly affected, but I never hated him in a deadly fashion, as some did that I knew. I loved better Sir Hugh Le Despenser, that was afterwards Earl of Gloucester, for he—
“Sissot,” saith a voice behind me, “what is the name of that chronicle?”
“I cannot tell, Jack,” said I. “What wouldst have it called?”
“‘The Annals of Cicely,’” quoth he; “for she is beginning, middle, and end of it.”
I felt as though he had cast a pitcher of cold water over me. I sat looking at my parchment.
“Read it over, prithee,” saith he, “and count how many great I’s be therein.”
So did I, and by my troth there were seventy-seven. Seventy-seven of me! and all in six leaves of parchment, forsooth. How many soever shall there be by the time I make an end?
“That’s an ill beginning, Jack!” said I, and I felt ready to cry. “Must I begin over again?”
“Sissot,” quoth he, “nothing is ever undone in this world.”
“What mean you?” said I.
“There was man died the year before thou wert born,” he made answer, “that was great friend of my father. He was old when my father was young, yet for all that were they right good friends. He was a very learned man; so wise in respect of things known but to few, that most men accounted him a very magician, and no good Christian. Howbeit, my father said that was but folly and slander. He told my father some of the strange matters that he found in nature; and amongst them, one thing, which hath ever stuck by me. Saith Friar Roger, Nothing is ever destroyed. Nothing that hath once had being, can ever cease to be.”
“Why, Jack!” cried I. “Verily that must be folly! I cast this scrap of parchment on the chafer, and it burneth up. It is gone, see thou. Surely it hath ceased to be?”
“No,” saith he. “It is gone into ashes and smoke.”
“What be ashes and smoke?” asked I, laughing.
“Why, they be ashes and smoke,” he made answer. “And the smoke curleth up chimney, and goeth out into the air: and the air cometh up Sissot’s nose-thirls, and feedeth her bodily life; and Sissot maketh seventy-seven I’s to six pages of parchment.”
“Now, Jack, softly!” said I.
“So it is, my dame,” pursueth he. “Every thing that dieth, feedeth somewhat that liveth. But I can go further an’ thou wilt. Friar Roger thought (though he had not proved it) that every word spoken might as it were dwell in the air, and at bidding of God hereafter, all those words should return to life and be heard again by all the world.”
I could not help but laugh.
“Why, what a din!” said I. “Do but think, all the words, in all languages, buzzing about man’s ears, that were ever spoken since Adam dwelt in the Garden of Eden!”
“Wouldst thou like all thy words repeated thus, Sissot?”
“I would not mind, Jack.”
“Wouldst not? Then I am worser than thou, which is like enough. I would not like to hear all my foolish words, all my angry words, all my sinful words, echoed back to me from the starry walls of heaven. And suppose, Sissot—only suppose that God should do as much with our thoughts! I dare say He knows how.”
I covered my face with mine hands.
“That would be dreadful!” I whispered.
“It will be, in very deed,” softly said Jack, “when the Books are opened, and the names read out, in the light of that great white