The Demoiselle was right. The tall and kingly-looking youth now striding up the great hall of Kenilworth, greeting first his uncle the Earl and then the Countess his aunt, was none other than the King's eldest son—that Prince Edward who was to play so great a part in the history of the English nation.
At that time he was a youth of some two-and-twenty summers, and had long been held to have arrived at man's estate. He was becoming a power in the kingdom, and was developing an aptitude for government which sometimes delighted and sometimes alarmed his father. He was no favourite with his father's foreign flatterers, and was an ally of those who upheld the gradually moulding constitution and the liberties of the people. He had subscribed willingly to the Provisions of Oxford, and had remonstrated hotly with his father when the latter resolved to ignore his oath, and later on to obtain absolution from it.
Prince Edward at that time had practically embraced the cause of the Barons, although taking no public action against his father. Henry, in dismay, had sent him to Gascony; but the move had not been a happy one, for it had thrown him into the society of the young De Montforts, his cousins, who were also there, and had increased his intimacy with that dread man their father. His appearance at Kenilworth at this juncture was startling to all, for he was believed by the Earl and his family to be still in Gascony, and they had not the smallest premonition of this visit.
But the Prince had been at Kenilworth before, and was fond of the fine old place and of the life led by its inhabitants. It was nothing very wonderful for him to come hither, though the manner of his arrival to-day was somewhat startling.
Standing upon the daïs, and looking round upon the assembled company with his keen, fearless gaze, the Prince motioned to the guests to be seated.
"I come hither, as it seems, in a good time, my friends," he said, his face, naturally stern of aspect, softening to a slight smile; "for I see here to-day many gathered together to whom I have a word to speak. I have come from France in part for that very purpose; and I am glad that not only do I find here my noble Uncle of Leicester, but others who are bound together with him in a cause that is dear to the heart of this nation. He has himself but lately addressed you. Methinks I can guess full well what he has said. In sooth, I heard the final words of his speech through yon open window as I rode into the court."
The Prince paused for a moment, his eyes sweeping round the hall, and resting upon several faces there with a curious, searching expression. The knights and nobles were still as death, hanging upon the words of the Prince. After a brief pause he spoke again, very clearly and trenchantly, and in tones that all might hear.
"My lords and gentlemen," he said, "I am not come at this moment to England to enter into the dispute which is ever waging between the King, my father, and those of his subjects who form the so-called Barons' party. I have come, by my father's desire, to quell the troubles in Wales, and thither am I bound. I have, however, made this deflection in my line of march that I might have speech with mine uncle before I go thither, and I am well pleased that what I have to say should be said in the hearing of this goodly company of his adherents."
The Prince paused for a moment and then took up his discourse.
"All men here assembled know right well that I have the welfare of this nation deeply at heart. All know that I have been a friend to the friends of liberty, and that I have even opposed the King, my father, when I have thought him wrong. I have observed my oath as sacred, even to mine own hurt. I have sought in all things to do the right. If I have failed, my youth and ignorance have been in fault, not my will. Have any here present aught to bring to my charge?"
The answer to this strange challenge was a ringing cheer. Prince Edward was always beloved by those who knew him personally, whilst his dauntless courage and his high sense of honour had brought him into esteem with all men. Every person present regarded him with admiration and respect, and all were proud to know that he was with them at heart, however small a share he had taken in the dispute.
"I thank you, my friends," said the Prince, as the cheers died away. "And now, having done me thus much honour, I will ask you to have patience whilst I speak a few more words. It is said by some, it is feared by more, that ere the kingdom sees peace and stability once again, the sword will be unsheathed, and Englishman will meet Englishman upon a field of battle. I pray God that this may not be. War with a foreign foe is a glorious thing, provided the cause be just; with those of our own race and name it is a horror and a disgrace! But such things have been before, and they may be again. I stand before you this day, whilst the realm is still at peace and before that peace has been broken, to say a thing in your ears from which I shall not go back when the day for action comes. You know that I love liberty and hate oppression. You know that I honour and respect the men of the realm who have made so bold a stand for liberty. I have been one with them—I have their cause at heart still. But listen again. I am the King's son. He is my father; I owe him filial love and obedience. If his subjects take up arms against him, thus breaking their oath of allegiance, I, his son, repudiate my own oath sworn at Oxford, and I fly to his side to help him with all the power that I have. At such a moment as that, if it come (which God forbid), it could not be that I should stand by an idle spectator. I must and I will join myself to one side or the other; and here I tell all ye assembled that no power on earth shall induce me to take up arms against my father and my King. The moment danger of personal violence menaces him, I, his son, fly to his side, and in his cause I fight to the last drop of my blood!"
The Prince stood perfectly still for several seconds after he had spoken these words, his head slightly thrown back, his eyes full of fire.
Dead silence reigned in the hall. Not a man there but felt the power of the challenge thus thrown down, and a sense of reverence for the royal youth who had uttered it. But to many the words seemed those of evil omen, for these men were bound heart and soul to the cause of the Barons, and they had begun to count upon Prince Edward as their ally, and even to whisper sometimes between themselves as to the possibility of setting him upon the throne in his father's place.
The minute after the Prince had spoken these words his face changed. A kindlier, softer look came into it, and turning towards his uncle and aunt with a courteous mien, he said in an altogether different tone,—
"And now a truce to these vexed questions of state. Let us forget all but that we are closely akin, and bound together by cords of love.—Why, Amalric, thou hast grown marvellously since I saw thee last, and art like enough a notable scholar by now.—Guy, I have a pair of rare coursing dogs for thee, with which we will hunt together in Kenilworth forests ere I move towards the Welsh marshes. I must needs wait awhile for my forces to reach me.—Thou wilt give me house room at Kenilworth meantime, wilt thou not, fair aunt?"
The Prince was a great favourite at Kenilworth—that was patent to all. The Earl of Leicester was eager to do all honour to his young kinsman, despite the bold challenge thrown down by him on his arrival.
The best rooms in the castle were put at his disposal; he was made much of alike by uncle, aunt, and cousins. The little Demoiselle showed him marked favour, and was ever to be seen riding beside him, or showing him through the gay gardens, dancing a measure with him in the hall after supper, or playing some game in one of the many long galleries.
The Prince was the most congenial of companions, and seemed to enjoy the free life of Kenilworth not a little. After the departure of the bulk of the guests whom the Earl had brought with him, the life within those massive walls partook of a free and family character very pleasant to all concerned. Sir Humphrey was pressed to remain, but he was almost the only guest not immediately connected with Kenilworth; and Alys was delighted to stay in this stately place, and cement her friendship with the little Demoiselle, who had taken so great a liking for her.
The Demoiselle was, however, considerably taken up with her cousin Prince Edward, and Alys was often left to the companionship of the Countess. That lady was availing herself just now of Leofric's presence in the Castle to have some of the writings of authors past and present read aloud to her, as she sat at her embroidery or tapestry frame; and Alys seemed to delight in being present at these readings, and taking her part in the discussion which often arose.
The Lady Eleanora was a woman of much culture and insight, although she was not fond of the trouble of reading for herself. She was also familiar with the Latin tongue, and was seldom obliged to interrupt the young scholar, or ask him to translate the passages read. Not unfrequently Amalric was one of those who sat in the pleasant oriel room and listened and discussed, although the sharp eyes of the Demoiselle, who flitted all over the Castle like a veritable sprite, detected another reason for his love of study.
"Thy sweet eyes, methinks, are the book that Amalric loves best to read," she said to Alys one day, as the twain sought the room they shared together. "My cousin Edward marvels that he comes not a-hunting in the forest with the rest; but I know what it is that keeps him thus within the walls of home."
Alys coloured crimson, and put her hand to the lips of the laughing maid.
"Nay, nay, thou must not speak so. I am but the daughter of a humble knight. Thy brother is a King's nephew and the son of a notable noble. Such thoughts would never come to him. It is not well to speak so recklessly."
But the Demoiselle only laughed, and skipped round her friend.
"I can see what I can see!" she answered merrily; and as she looked into the face of Alys, through her long, dark lashes, she wondered what had brought there that look of sudden pain and bewilderment. Surely she must have known ere this that she was the light of Amalric's eyes!
However, she spoke no more upon the subject, only saying in her heart,—
"I wonder if she does think more of the gentle, chivalrous Leofric than of the knightly Amalric! It might be so. One may never read the heart of a maid, as I have often heard say. But I fear me that her sire would be sore displeased at such a thing. Methinks he has noted Amalric's amorous regards, and is well pleased thereat."
It was not altogether strange that the Demoiselle should have shrewd notions of her own on these points, for marriages in those days were often arranged between mere children, and her own hand might at any time be solicited in wedlock. Association with her seniors had ripened her powers of observation somewhat rapidly, and she had come to have a certain belief in her own shrewdness. Moreover, her cousin Edward had asked her about Amalric and his indifference to sport, and that had set her sharp eyes to work to some purpose.
The Prince himself, however, was very well disposed towards learning, and often engaged Leofric and Amalric in conversation, asking with interest of the student life of Oxford, and professing himself well pleased with the scholarship of his cousin.
He was much interested also in the stories of the strange life there, and was greatly entertained by what he heard. He declared that if he had not been born a prince, he would be an Oxford scholar; and the tale of Hugh's kidnapping and escape was listened to with the keenest attention.
The Prince, however, had not come on a mere visit of pleasure, and although he was detained longer than he had expected by the delay of his forces to muster at the appointed place, he spent much time closeted with the Earl, talking over the situation in Wales, and making plans for the subjugation of the unruly sons of the mountains and marshes, who were for ever causing trouble in the west.
Nevertheless he was too fond of the pleasures of the chase not to take advantage of the forests of Kenilworth, and when news was brought, just before his departure, that a marvellously large wild boar had been sighted in the forest, he must needs go forth for one last expedition, to strive to slay that monster of the woods.
The young De Montforts were ardent sportsmen, as the household roll testifies, entries being made for the feeding of six-and-thirty dogs belonging to Lord Guy, and again for forty-six belonging to Lord Guy and Lord Henry. Entries also occur for the keep of their horses when stabled at Kenilworth.
So as soon as the Prince expressed his wish for one more grand hunt in the forest, preparations were at once commenced, and the Demoiselle rushed eagerly to her mother to obtain permission to accompany the hunt.
"Prithee let me go, sweet mother! I do so long to see the great fierce boar which has escaped the huntsmen these many years. Old Ralph says he has known him ranging the woods longer than any other of his kind; but he is so artful and so strong that he has ever eluded chase before. Now they think they have so managed that he cannot escape them. I would be there to see; and my cousin Edward has said that I shall not be in their way, and that he will take care of me."
The Countess smiled as she smoothed the child's hair; but she came of a fearless race herself, and desired that her daughter should be fearless also.
"Thy cousin Edward will forget all when he sees the fierce creature face to face; but if thy brother Amalric will ride at thy side and take care of thee, I will let thee go."
Amalric eagerly assented, looking the while towards Alys, and then he said to his sister,—
"But thou must ask thy friend and playmate to ride forth with thee to see the sight. Methinks Mistress Alys scarce knows what a hunt in our forest is like."
"Oh, she will come, I doubt not," answered the Demoiselle gaily; "and Leofric shall come too, and ride with us, so that we may be well escorted even if our servants be all lured away in the ardour of the chase, as is ofttimes the way."
All this was speedily settled. The orders went forth for the huntsmen to make a cordon round a certain part of the forest, enclosing the lair wherein the great beast had been known to secrete himself for many days past. It was to be their business to see that he did not break bounds, and escape to the more distant portions of the forest; whilst the Prince, at the head of his hunting-party, was to follow and track him down, and seek at last to slay him.
It was like to be an exciting day's sport; for the fierce old boar was a wily customer and a tough one, and he would probably give no small trouble to dogs and men alike.
This, however, only added to the ardour of the chase, and it was with feelings of elation and excitement that the party rode forth from the gates of Kenilworth on that bright summer's morning, long before the dew was off the grass—dogs baying, horses prancing, riders exchanging gay sallies as they took the road to the forest under the direction of the head huntsman.
For the moment the Demoiselle rode ahead with the Prince her cousin, Lords Henry and Guy being of the group. A little behind them was Amalric, keeping close at Alys's bridle rein; whilst Leofric rode at his side, enjoying the exhilaration of the fresh morning air and the excitements of the gay scene.
He knew the country in the immediate vicinity of Kenilworth pretty well by this time; but he had not often penetrated deeply into the forest tracks, and to-day he was greatly impressed by the grandeur of the stately woodland trees and the beauty of the long glades of grass and bracken, where deer browsed or scampered off at their approach, and small game scuttled away in hot haste at sound of the horses' feet.
But though several tempting quarries crossed its path, the hunt turned neither to right nor left, but pursued its way along a narrow track which seemed to lead to the very heart of the forest.
They were now approaching the region where the boar was known to be lurking, and the dogs began to whimper and show signs of uneasiness. Old Ralph, an aged huntsman who had lost an arm, but whose sagacity and fidelity were always to be depended upon, here rode up, and told the Prince that the boar was in a thicket not far away. Then he coaxed the Demoiselle and her companion to separate for a time from the rest of the party, and put themselves under his protection; and he promised them that if they would but obey and follow him, he would place them where they should see the end of the hunt, without peril to themselves or embarrassment to the huntsmen.
The child was rather loth to accede to this, but Prince Edward advised her to do so; and finally, whilst the rest of the party rode onward warily towards the thicket, the two girls, together with Amalric, Leofric, and Ralph, pursued a different and circuitous path, being only made aware by the baying of the dogs and the shouts of their men that the quarry had been found, and that the chase had begun.
"We shall miss it all! we shall miss it all!" cried the Demoiselle petulantly; but old Ralph assured her to the contrary.
"Bide a bit, my little lady, bide a bit, and you shall see the best of the sport yet. Think you, fair ladies and brave gentlemen, that yon old brute will be slain in half an hour? Nay, but the chase will be long and sore, and many a good dog will get his death-wound ere the savage creature falls to rise no more. Pray Heaven no hurt come to the brave young Prince; for men have been done to death ere this by savage boars of the forest. Yet methinks he has stout heart and cunning hand, and a score of good riders to come to his aid."
The Demoiselle might pout and fret in impatience, but there was nothing for it but to follow old Ralph, who could guide his horse cleverly enough with his left hand, though helpless now to draw bow or wage war with any fierce denizen of the wood. But he had strung to his saddle a steel-pointed spear of wonderful sharpness and temper, and several times he excited the admiration of his companions by the skill with which he threw it, and brought to the ground some small beast against which he had launched it.
Talking with old Ralph and hearing his woodland stories made time pass fast, and the Demoiselle was quite coaxed from her fit of ill-temper ere sudden sounds broke upon their ears telling them that they were approaching to the hunt or the hunt to them once more.
"It is as I thought!" cried old Ralph, in some excitement.
"They have brought him to bay in the elves' hollow! I knew he would take them there at the last. Now come quickly this way, my little lady, and you shall see what you shall see."
They cantered their horses up the brow of a wooded knoll, and all in a moment the scene of the hunt broke upon their eyes. The hunt indeed! for there was the fierce old boar down in the shallow pool, with the rock behind him, and five dogs, dead or dying, lying on the banks or in the blood-stained water. He was there, and a handful of huntsmen in a ring round him; but of these one was wounded, several more were weary. It looked indeed as though the monster of the woods were getting the better of his adversaries.
But with a sudden shout as of triumph the Prince came charging down the hillside. He sprang from his horse and seized his spear, and before any one could hold him back he had sprung into the water, and was facing the furious creature, who looked ready and able to tear him in pieces with his gleaming tusks.
"Nay, but that is madness!" cried old Ralph; "the Prince will lose his life!" Others, it seemed, were of the same opinion; for there was a forward dash amongst the group around, some seeking to withhold the Prince, others to plunge their weapons in the body of the boar. A scene of wild confusion ensued, in which more than one sharp cry of human suffering rang out; and Amalric, unable to contain himself longer, rushed down to join the fray, crying out in his dread,—
"The Prince! the Prince! have a care for the Prince! Pray Heaven he be not wounded!"
The face of old Ralph was white, and working with emotion,—
"Would that I had the strength of my good right arm!" he cried; "then would I give the monster his quietus."
"How?" asked Leofric, shaking with excitement. "Tell me, and give me thy good spear; I trow I could wield it well!"
It seemed time indeed that something should be done, for the furious creature was goring and fighting like a mad thing, and one blow from those terrible tusks might mean death to man or dog. The Demoiselle had covered her face, and was shrieking with fear; whilst Alys, white and wild-eyed, felt as though turned into stone.
Eagerly did old Ralph talk to Leofric, giving him the pointed spear and filling his ears with directions and cautions. Thus fortified did Leofric creep quietly down the little bluff on which they were standing, fetching a circuit, and approaching to the scene of the fray from behind the rock, against which the boar had planted himself. With snake-like movement did he work himself upon the rock, the sound of his approach being lost in the hideous din of the fight; then suddenly springing to his feet, he drove the sharp-headed spear into the shoulder of the savage monster, who turned suddenly upon his new assailant with an impulse of awful and ungovernable fury, and in making a furious lunge at him with his bloody tusks, fell helplessly into the crimson water and expired without a groan.
"By the arm of St. James," cried Henry de Montfort, using a favourite expression of his father's, "that was well and bravely done!"
Next moment Leofric felt his hand taken by that of the Prince, who said in a low voice,—
"Leofric Wyvill! methinks that thou hast saved the life of the King's son this day. Thou shalt not find him ungrateful if the occasion when he can serve thee shall arise."
The narrow streets of Oxford, the crowds of clerks and scholars, the grey old walls and the frowning Castle—all looked wonderfully unchanged as Leofric, after hard upon a year's absence, returned to hisAlma Mater.
He had seen something of the world during this time of absence. He had had a glimpse of warfare under the auspices of the young De Montforts and Prince Edward in Wales. His ideas upon the political situation had considerably enlarged. He had also earned a very fair sum of money, sufficient to enable him to cover all expenses of tuition for a considerable time to come. The breviary he had transcribed for the Demoiselle had brought him a liberal reward; he had also received remuneration for his readings with the Countess and her daughter.
Leofric had spent the greater part of the winter at Kenilworth Castle, after having been into Wales with the Prince. The King's son had taken a strong liking to Leofric after the incident of the boar-hunt, and the young student had been glad to accompany him into Wales, to gain new experience in that strange, semi-barbarous land. Amalric had been one of the party, as well as his brother Guy; and having been wounded in a fray, he was put in charge of Leofric and sent back to Kenilworth, where the two had remained together during the winter months.
It had been a very happy season for those within the walls of the great fortress. The Earl and his sons were away in France again; but the Countess and her daughter remained in England as usual, and Alys de Kynaston had been persuaded to remain and be the companion of the Demoiselle, who had formed so strong an attachment for her.
In addition to this, at the instance of the imperious little lady, Edmund had made by slow stages the journey to Kenilworth, and had been one of the party. The change had been beneficial to him, and upon the return journey he had been able to ride the whole way without trouble or pain. They had journeyed by easy stages, and reached Oxford safely and without adventure.
It was a very different arrival from that which Leofric could well recall when as a poor lad, with his way in life to make, he had entered the city, scarce knowing where he could find shelter or how he could maintain himself.
Now he had many friends, some of them the highest in the land; he had won a certain modest renown by his scholarship, and had small fear of failing to attract pupils to his lectures when he should commence them. The Master under whom he had studied rhetoric and logic had invited him to teach in his school; and as he would still have his own lectures and studies to prosecute with diligence, if he were to go on to the degree of Master, upon which his mind was set, he would have his time and thoughts pretty well filled, and require more than ever some quiet place of study.
His thoughts turned lovingly towards that little spot where he and Jack Dugdale had made a home so long. Would Jack be there still? What had he done with himself all these months? Naturally he had heard nothing from his friend during his absence; but he hastened his steps eagerly as he approached the Smith Gate, and was rewarded by hearing a regular whoop of joy as Jack suddenly dashed out to meet him and fell on his neck in a rapture of greeting.
"I have been on the watch for thee all day, good comrade. It was told to me that Edmund of the Castle and Mistress Alys had returned, and methought it like that thou hadst come with them, since they said there were others in the company. How good it is to see thy face again! But thou hast come to be so great a man now thou wilt never deign to dwell again in our humble little chamber with poor Jack."
"Nay, but I have been longing to see again thy face, good Jack, and the little turret chamber where so many happy hours have been passed. I have no wish to lodge in any other place. Let us go thither, and talk of all that has chanced since we parted. Art thou a bachelor thyself by this time? Thou shouldest have determined this late-past Lent!"
Jack made a wry face. Study was pleasant to him up to a certain point, but he lacked the courage to present himself for the ordeal of Responsions and Determinations. He was ready enough to learn, but shrank from the thought of becoming in any sort a teacher; and, moreover, in the absence of Leofric he had been taking something of a holiday himself, and the woods and streams had of late seen more of him than the schools and lecture-rooms.
"I could not travel away like thee, Leofric," he said, apologetically, "but methought a holiday would be no such bad thing. What says the wise old adage? All work and no play makes Jack a dullard."
Leofric had no mind to chide his friend and comrade, albeit he thought it would have been wiser had Jack postponed his holiday till he had passed the ordeal of Determinations.
"Now that thou art back, I will study might and main, and next year will dispute with thee, good friend, so that men shall flock to hear us;" and Jack laughed aloud in the happiness of his heart, knowing that many long months had to pass by ere he would be called upon to stand up and maintain a thesis or proposition in the teeth of his opponent's arguments, and in the hearing of all who chose to come and listen. He had listened with admiration and delight to Leofric when he had won his academic spurs (if the term can be permitted), and so delighted was he at his friend's prowess in argument, that he had many times dashed out into the streets to invite the passers-by to come in and hear the candidate for bachelorhood holding his own so gallantly and brilliantly.
Jack's loving admiration was very sweet to Leofric, who felt he had in him a true brother. This fraternal welcome was further displayed in the simple preparations made for his return—the fresh rushes upon the floor, the brightening up of the familiar chamber, the simple luxuries set out upon the little table, and the flowers filling the empty hearth.
Leofric looked round with brightening eyes, delighted to find himself once more in this home-like place. Tiny indeed did it appear after the spacious apartments of Kenilworth; and yet it had the charm of being his own—here he was no guest, no hireling, but a joint-owner of the primitive abode. Here he could keep his few precious books, study in quietness, and be secure from interruption.
"Ah, it is good to be at home once more; I want no better home than this!" he cried. "And now, whilst we set to upon this excellent dinner, tell me all that has betided in Oxford since I left. How goes it with all our friends—and foes? Has aught been heard of Tito Balzani or Roger de Horn? And has Hugh been molested in any wise by them? But, indeed, that was a matter almost forgotten before I left the place."
"Yes; I trow the fugitives might now return, and nothing would be done to them. Men quickly forget such matters, new stirs and quarrels ever cropping up that require adjusting. But I have seen naught of the men, and Hugh has likewise been away for a time with his father. But he is back now, and is studying hard, for he would become a Master in Arts ere he quits Oxford, and he thinks his father desires his presence at home ere long."
"And Gilbert?"
"Oh, Gilbert is a bachelor, and he is betrothed to Joanna, the Seaton maid. His father came to see the damsel, and was pleased at his son's choice. Master Seaton will give her a dowry, and they will be wed anon, and go and live in the seaport of Southampton, where Merchant Barbeck's business lies. He thinks his son has now wellnigh scholarship enow, and that he had better soon begin to learn the secrets of the merchant's trade. So we shall lose one of our comrades."
Before the pair had finished telling and hearing the news of the place, there was the sound of a hasty footfall on the stair, the door was burst open, and Hugh le Barbier strode in, grasping Leofric by the hands, and embracing him with all the delight of a brother.
"I heard at the Castle that thou hadst returned!" he cried, "and methought I should find thee here, back in the old place. And so thou hast been the friend of nobles and princes, and the guest of the greatest man in this kingdom! Well, thou dost merit all the good that comes thy way; for thou art a good and godly youth, and right glad shall we all be to welcome thee back."
Hugh looked a very fine specimen of youthful manhood. He had been moving about with his father from time to time during the past years, and his studies had been somewhat interrupted. Still he had made excellent progress even in these, and was regarded as a very promising youth, who could wield sword and pen alike with dexterity and force.
"Let us upon the river," he cried, when the first greetings and exchange of news had died down; "I have much that I would say, and what better place for talk than the silent reaches of the upper river?—Bring thy rod and net, good Jack, and thou shalt fill thy creel with fish for supper. I have seen wondrous fine trout in the stream above. Come, and I will show thee the best of pools."
Jack was known as a skilful and ardent fisherman, and was always perfectly happy when engaged in his favourite pastime. The light boat which he and Leofric had fashioned long ago was often in demand by their comrades and friends. Hugh had of late borrowed it oft for many hours, and he had lately contrived a small sail by means of which he could fly through the water at a greatly increased speed.
To-day, after they had left Jack, abundantly happy amid the sedges which lined a most promising-looking pool, Hugh hoisted sail, and soon the little boat was slipping rapidly along against the sluggish current of the river, the low-lying banks on either side gliding past them, and the wild fowl rising at their approach, and skimming away with short, harsh cries.
"Leofric," said Hugh, after they had navigated several reed-grown reaches, and were now in more open water, "hast thou ever visited the Priory and little hamlet of Eynsham?"
"No," answered Leofric; "the way is something long for oars—a matter of seven good miles at least. Sometimes we have gone forth with the resolve to push there, but some tempting reach or shallow has always caught Jack's eye, and we have halted. Why dost thou ask?"
"Because that is our destination to-day. Leofric, dost thou remember Linda Balzani?"
"Ay, verily I do," answered Leofric quickly; "but methought thou hadst learned to forget her."
"I tried to do so," answered Hugh, a flush mantling his bronzed cheek. "After that terrible time of which I scarce cared to think for many a long month, I told myself that it were better, both for her and for me, that we should see each other no more. She had suffered nothing but trouble and pain from my love; and now that she had found a safe asylum in some peaceful spot, I vowed that I would leave her alone, and let her forget. They said that the memory of that time seemed to be blotted from her mind; and if that were so, it were better she should forget."
"Perchance so," answered Leofric thoughtfully: "she is scarce thine equal, for thou wilt surely rise to be a gallant knight ere many years have passed, and she is but a city burgher's daughter, albeit a very fair maiden."
The flush in Hugh's face deepened a little; he spoke in a strange voice.
"Is an angel from the heavens the equal of any sinful son of this earth? If I am to wait till I can claim equality with Linda, I shall go to my grave unwed."
Leofric looked at him with surprise.
"Then thou hast seen her again?"
"Yes, truly I have. I have avoided the house of the Balzanis for many a year, thinking it better not to revive associations which must be painful. But I have heard men speak of Lotta—the beautiful, daring Lotta. Many there be who would serve for her, even as Jacob for Rachel; but it seems that she will none of them. Hearing always of Lotta and never of Linda made me question within myself whether that maid had died. I asked, and found that she had never returned to Oxford, but remained with her aunt at Eynsham, having grown to be as a daughter to her. I scarce know what it was that first awakened within me the desire to look upon her face once more, but once awakened the wish would not sleep, and at last I accomplished my purpose."
"Thou hast seen her again?"
"Yes, verily; not once, but many times. Leofric, I am taking thee with me to-day, that thou mayest see her too; for if ever the foot of angel trod the paths of men, that angel being is the lovely Linda of my boyhood's and manhood's love."
Leofric was greatly surprised, having believed, with all the rest of his comrades, that the youthful infatuation of Hugh le Barbier for Linda Balzani had quite passed away.
Her name had not crossed his lips, so far as any knew, since the excitement following upon his rescue from the Magician's Tower had died down. The whole episode seemed to have come utterly to an end, and those who knew Hugh's circumstances thought it well, as he was of the stuff which might cause him to rise in the world.
The boat was riding at a fair rate of speed through the water, and the Priory walls of Eynsham gradually loomed in sight. It was a quaint, lonely, old-world spot, this little community lying hidden in the winding valley, far away from any other abode of man. There was a charm in the low-lying meadows, in the grand old trees, in the herds of deer that came down from the forest to drink at the river. Fish and wild fowl abounded in these solitudes, and the appearance of a white-sailed boat wrought astonishment and commotion amongst them. It was a place where life might well be dreamed away in pious meditation and contemplation. It was an ideal spot for a monastery; but Leofric had come to feel of late that more was desired of man than mere contemplation and meditation—more even than mere study and the acquiring or propagating knowledge. The life of the cloister had never greatly attracted him; now he felt that it would be nothing better than death in life.
A little winding backwater opened before them at this point, and Hugh, furling the sail, took up the oars and rowed quietly into the dim, narrow place. As he did this he uttered a low, sweet whistling call, not unlike that of some bird; and very soon Leofric became aware of a fluttering of white drapery, and a low, soft voice spoke out of the fringe of alder bushes,—
"Beloved, is that thou?"
The next minute Hugh had driven his boat up against a fallen willow that lay athwart the stream, barring further progress, and leaving it to Leofric, had sprung ashore, and had taken in his arms the slim form in the white robe that had come to the margin of the stream to meet him.
Leofric busied himself with the boat for a few moments, and only turned his head when his name was spoken.
Then indeed he saw before him the remembered face of Linda Balzani, but so etherealized and beautified that he could not wonder at the way in which Hugh had spoken of her. The deep, dark eyes shone like stars, the dusky hair waved round the small and well-shaped head like the aureole round the head of painted saint; and so pure was the expression upon the lovely chiselled features, so sweet the lines of the exquisite mouth, so graceful and sylph-like the slim figure, that Leofric gazed with wonder and admiration. It was Linda who spoke first.
"Thou art Leofric; I remember thee right well. I have heard from Hugh of thy prowess and success. Thou art welcome, as any friend of his must be; but thou art doubly welcome as being beloved by him."
She would have led them to her aunt's house and refreshed them; for Hugh was courting in no clandestine fashion, but had won the esteem and affection of Bridget Marlow and her husband. Linda was now their child by adoption, and they were responsible for her future. If Hugh were not ashamed to wed with a simple burgher maiden, they would not say him nay. They were simple-minded folks, and Hugh made light of his own prospects. So far he was nothing but the son of an esquire, and a scholar and bachelor of Oxford. Linda was his one and only love, and that she was his in heart and in soul all who saw them together could not fail to recognize fully.
But to-day Hugh would not come in. They had not much time, and he spent the precious moments with Linda beside the rippling water, Leofric remaining in the boat and idly observing the objects about him. His eye was caught by the grey habit of a monk, who was seated amid the alders with a rod in his hand. Leofric observed that he seemed little engrossed by his fishing, and certainly caught nothing. Perhaps he was engaged in meditation or the telling of his beads. At any rate he sat wonderfully still and quiet; indeed he never moved at all until Hugh and Linda wandered away a little farther from his secluded nook, whereupon, to the surprise of Leofric, the cowled figure rose up and crept stealthily after them.
True, it might be the way back to the Priory, and surely a cloistered monk could have no interest in the lovers' raptures of a youth and maid; but Leofric noted and rather wondered at the action, though he forgot it again when Hugh returned, and they set to work to row down stream with long, sweeping strokes.
It was indeed several days later before he thought of the matter again, and then the incident was recalled by a remark made by Hugh as they were pacing the familiar streets together after morning lecture.
"Leofric, I have a curious and perhaps foolish fancy that I am watched and followed. It must be the merest fantasy, and yet I cannot rid myself of it."
"Has it been long so with thee?" asked Leofric quickly.
"Not very long—so far as my suspicion goes. But how or when it commenced I cannot tell; nor would I say with certainty that the thing is not now the fruit of a disordered fancy. But I cannot rid myself of it."
"What form does the following take?"
"I have a fancy that a certain grey-cowled monk is often near at hand watching where I go and what I do. There be so many of these monks and friars in the streets of Oxford, that I sometimes laugh at myself for the thought; and yet methinks there is one—tall, and slim, and active—who is more often in the same street with me than chance can quite answer for. Thou dost start, Leofric; what means that?"
"Only this, that as thou didst wander with Linda by the backwater at Eynsham that day when I was with thee, a grey-cowled monk was sitting beside the stream; and when ye twain moved a little off, he also moved and seemed to follow, though I lost sight of him in the bushes almost at once."
Hugh looked rather perplexed.
"And there is another whom I seem always to be meeting—a powerful fellow in the habit of a clerk, but with a bearded face, and a scar across his cheek which perhaps gives to him an evil aspect. Often when I turn suddenly round in the street I see him behind me, but whether there be anything beyond and behind I cannot tell. At first I heeded it little, but there are moments when I grow uneasy. Last time that I and Linda exchanged vows of love, some evil power threatened us, and seemed like to separate us altogether. Is it that, thinkest thou, that makes me fear, and puts fancies in my head for which there is no warrant?"
"I know not," answered Leofric; "but I would have thee be watchful and prudent. It is ill work stirring up strife and jealousy. If Roger de Horn were in the city, I should fear for thee. He was always thy bitter foe, and they say that he was very greatly bent on having Linda for his wife."
"Roger de Horn," spoke Hugh thoughtfully; "could it by chance be he? Methought once there was something familiar in the gleam of the eyes of that bearded fellow, but the scar has changed him if indeed it be so. I did not recognize him. He seldom meets me face to face. Perchance that is the reason;" and then Hugh's face became clouded with anxiety, and he said between his teeth,—
"If indeed that wild hawk has flown back thither, it behoves me to warn and watch over my tender dove. If hurt should come again to her through me, I should never forgive myself."
Leofric's suspicions were aroused, and he kept his eyes and ears open. He took counsel with his kind friend the Franciscan friar Brother Angelus, who had a warm welcome for him on his return; and he made inquiries amongst the other brothers, and amongst those whom he visited and tended. But none had heard a word of Roger de Horn since his disappearance after the discovery of Hugh's imprisonment in the Magician's Tower. Men were of opinion that he would hardly venture back into the city, in case he should be called upon to answer for his misdeeds there. Brother Angelus was of opinion that Hugh had better exercise prudence and discretion, and keep his eyes open. It was certainly a strange coincidence that this thing should be just when he and Linda had renewed their vows of love; and yet if any other suitor had desired the maiden's hand, why had he not come forward during the years when Hugh had been seeking to forget his love?
That was a question which Leofric could not answer, and just now he had many other matters to think of which drove Hugh's affairs into the background of his thoughts. He took up the academic life with renewed zest and energy, and in his studies and pleasant intercourse with kindred spirits passed many happy weeks. Hugh went about free and unhurt, and gradually the fear for his friend which had assailed him once died down into oblivion.
It was the day of the bi-weekly fair, and the High Street was considerably crowded as Hugh walked along it on his way back towards his quarters in the Castle. He had passed by the vendors of hay and straw gathered near the East Gate with their horses and carts, and was picking his way through the motley crowd who were chaffering on the one side of the street with the sellers of poultry, meat, and fish, and on the other with the sellers of gloves, hosiery, and those other articles of which mercers were the vendors. The street was encumbered with stalls set up by country folks for the sale of greengrocery, scullery-wares, and fruit or cakes. At Carfax itself the sellers of white bread set up their stalls and called their wares; opposite All Saints' Church stood the tables of sellers of gloves, earthenware, and ale. Altogether it was a busy and animated scene, and although Hugh was well accustomed to it, he could not but look about him with amusement, and pause now and again to listen to a piece of unwontedly animated bargaining.
Clerks and scholars, and even some of the higher dignitaries of the place, were abroad in the streets; and as the evening was approaching, those who still wanted to buy were pressing forward eagerly.
Hugh was detained for a time by meeting with one of the Masters who had something to say to him, and the pair stood for some little time beneath the shadow of All Saints' whilst they conversed.
Meantime the aspect of the streets changed considerably: tables and stalls were broken up and taken away by the country folk, who streamed off through the various gates; town tradesmen took in their wares, and began to close their shops; and the purchasers hurried home with their goods, talking and laughing, and comparing notes upon their bargains.
The shadows were falling in the narrow thoroughfares as at length Hugh pursued his way eastward. There were plenty of passengers still afoot, but the crowd had thinned somewhat. As he passed by the bull-ring in Carfax, he thought he heard the sound of a small tumult from the direction of the North Gate, where the cordwainers and mercers congregated on market days; but he paid little heed to it, and continued his way to the Great Bayly, where the drapers were putting up their shutters for the night.
Suddenly the great bell of St. Martin's overhead boomed out through the startled air, and immediately all was hurry and confusion.
The tolling or ringing of the bell of St. Martin's was always the signal for the citizens to rally against the University, and showed that some collision between clerks and townsmen had occurred. Hugh quickened his steps, having no desire to be mixed up in one of those senseless outbreaks of anger and jealousy which were constantly disturbing the peace of Oxford.
Just lately these riots had been more frequent than ever, the disturbed state of public feeling seeming in this place to take the form of incessant rioting in the streets. Several persons, both citizens and clerks, had recently been killed, and a number more injured more or less severely during the past weeks; and Hugh had heard the Constable of the Castle speak in no measured terms of the need to take stronger measures against the delinquents.
Within the last few months a new Chancellor had been appointed to the University, the celebrated Thomas de Cantilupe, who had just arrived at the University (where he had previously taken the degree of Doctor of Canon Law), and he had joined issue with the Constable for the preservation of order. Indeed he had already adventured himself into the streets to interpose between some riotous spirits of North and South who had come to blows, and had himself received some injury in seeking to pacify the insensate youths.
It was said that he was about to make some fresh regulations, in the hope of putting a stop to this perpetual nuisance; but so far his decision had not been made public, as he had been obliged to keep to his rooms till his bruises should be healed.
Hugh, however, had heard and seen enough to feel indignant at any fresh outbreak, and he quickened his steps in order to avoid any contact with a gathering crowd. Already citizens were hurrying towards Carfax, eager to learn what was betiding; several brushed past Hugh as he walked; and then, before his very eyes, a strange and terrible thing happened.
Suddenly he was aware that in a dark doorway close at hand a cowled figure was standing. Then the figure moved, and Hugh saw the glancing blade of a long, murderous stiletto flash out. It was plunged up to the hilt in the body of a citizen hurrying by towards Carfax, and the hapless man fell dead at Hugh's feet without so much as a groan.
The young man stood stupified with astonishment and horror; then in a moment he realized the peril of his own position.
"Seize him! seize him!" yelled a dozen furious voices; "he has slain one of our townsmen! Seize the murderer! Do to him as he hath done! Take him red-handed in the act, and we will see that justice is done upon him!"
"My good friends," said Hugh, looking at the angry faces surrounding him, and striving to keep his head in face of this very real peril, "I am innocent of the death of this unhappy man. I do not even know who he is. The murderer was a man disguised in the habit of a monk, loitering in yon doorway. Search, and you will find him yet, and I can testify to the blow he struck!"
Angry and excited, the crowd would scarce hear him. No such figure as he described was to be found. No one had seen a monk in the street, nor could Hugh declare in what direction he had fled after committing the crime, so bewildered had he been by the suddenness of the deed, and by its tragic sequel. His words were received with hisses of scornful discredit; the angry townsmen, some of whom were neighbours to the murdered man, clamoured more and more fiercely for the blood of the destroyer. Overhead the bell of St. Martin's swung in the air, increasing the excitement with every clang. The street was full of wrathful burghers; yells, curses, threats, rent the air. Hugh believed that in another moment the crowd would fall upon him and tear him in pieces, and had almost given himself over as lost, when a loud voice dominated the others in the throng, and yelled out lustily,—
"Take him to the Bocardo prison; lock him up there for the night, and then let the Mayor and the Chancellor deal with him. They will avenge us of the death of our neighbour. Let us not fall upon him ourselves, or we shall, perchance, have our liberties again curtailed."
Many grumbled, and showed a disposition to resist this counsel, crying out that it were better to deal with the miscreant then and there, for that clerks and bachelors were always let off far too easily by the authorities. But the older men of the city knew well that the slaying of a clerk was regarded with severity by those in authority, and had sometimes been punished by the King himself in the withdrawal of certain liberties and privileges from the city charter. If a clerk fell in open fight, that was one thing; but for the citizens deliberately to doom him to death, and to dispatch him with their own hands without form of trial, was another; and it was this sort of summary justice which brought the citizens into trouble.
"To the Bocardo then, to the Bocardo!" cried the wiser of the onlookers; and despite the mutterings of the malcontents, Hugh was hustled along, not without receiving many sly blows and kicks by the way, in the direction of the North Gate, where the Bocardo prison was situated.
It was getting very dark by this time. Breathless, spent, and bewildered, the clothes half torn from his back, his purse and clasp and finger-ring filched from him by thieving hands, Hugh was thankful when the gloomy gateway was reached, and he felt himself thrust up a dim stairway and flung with scant ceremony into a dark and ill-smelling room.
A faint ray of light stole in through a grating overhead, and revealed a small stone chamber with a truss of straw in one corner as its only plenishing. He was given over to the custody of a surly-looking fellow, who merely answered his questions with a grunt. Hugh greatly regretted the loss of his purse, as he felt sure that a gold piece would have worked wonders upon his custodian. He wanted to send a message to Leofric, to Edmund, to the Constable himself; but at the very mention of this wish the man broke into curses, and said he had other things to do than run errands for prisoners. He could wait till he was brought out for trial, and then see what was said to his fine tales!
With that the jailer deposited a pitcher of water and a modicum of bread within the door, and going out banged and locked it behind him, leaving Hugh to meditate in silence and darkness upon the thing that had befallen him.
Little sleep was there for him that night, and the tardy daylight brought small increase of comfort. He listened eagerly for any sounds from without that should tell of approaching deliverance; but hour after hour passed, and nobody came near him save the sullen jailer, who put down the rough fare of his prisoner, and did not deign so much as to answer a single question.
Such treatment was hard to bear, and Hugh, unaccustomed to it, chafed not a little against the helplessness of his position. He wondered whether his friends were in ignorance of what had befallen him. Surely if they knew they would do something for his release. It seemed monstrous that he should lie under the imputation of this foul crime. Surely no man of any standing in the city would believe him capable of it. And yet how could he prove his innocence, when his foes would make it appear that he had been caught red-handed in the act?
His was certainly no enviable position, nor did his thoughts tend to increase his peace of mind. He recalled his previous uneasiness with regard to a tall grey-cowled monk, and could not but believe that the figure lurking in the doorway had been that of the same person as he had seen so often in the streets before or behind him. He remembered what Leofric had said as to a monk at Eynsham spying upon him there. A thrill of fear ran through his heart lest Linda should once more be endangered—and through him. And then, again, had not he seen that scarred and bearded face amid the rabble crowd that thronged and maltreated him? Had not that man, so often seen of late, been one of his foremost foes? He felt in a maze of perplexity and dread. Was he to be the victim of some new plot, which had for its object to separate him and his beloved?
He paced his narrow cell hour after hour in mute misery and disquietude. When would he be brought to trial? When would his friends find him? He could hear the familiar sounds in the streets below. He could hear the sentries at the gate relieving one another. Why did nobody come near him? How long was he to be left thus?
Gradually the hope of seeing any face (save that of the jailer) upon this day faded from Hugh's mind. The light began to flicker and grow dim. The prison chamber became dark as night. At last even the outline of the grating above his head became indistinguishable. Hugh, with a groan of disappointment and weariness, threw himself upon his sordid bed, and after a time found oblivion from his woes in sleep.
How long he slept he knew not, but he was suddenly awakened by the sound of a stealthy movement outside the door. He started up and held his breath. Yes, he was certain of it. Somebody was outside, feeling over the walls and door as if in search of the fastening; and presently he heard a key softly fitted into the lock.
His heart beat fast as he heard the door open and a soft rustle bespeak the entrance of some human intruder. Then followed a deep silence, broken by the sound of a voice—a voice which like new wine sent the blood coursing through the young man's veins.
"Hugh—my beloved—art thou there?"
"Linda!" he cried, in wild amaze, and the next moment had groped his way across the intervening space, and had encircled her with his arm—"Linda, my heart's joy! how comest thou here?"
"Hush, dearest! speak low, lest we be heard. I have come to set thee free—to fly with thee beyond the reach of pursuit. Dearest, wilt thou trust thyself with me?"
He pressed her hand to his lips. He thrilled from head to foot. But how had she come to him in this dread place? He was enwrapped by the sense of mystery.
"Linda, sweetheart, how hast thou made thy way hither? Art thou a being angelic, to whom closed doors offer no obstacle? How hast thou penetrated hither?"
"That will I tell thee anon, dear love. Dost thou not know that love will ever find out the way?" She spoke in low, whispering tones, and he followed her example, guessing well the need for caution and secrecy. "Thou hast friends without these prison walls, and thy friends are working for thee. Nevertheless thy case is somewhat perilous; and if thou canst not make good thy flight, there are grave fears for thy life, since there be many to swear thee guilty of the crime, and both Constable and Chancellor are greatly resolved to make an example of any disturber of the peace, be he citizen or clerk."
"What then shall I do?" asked Hugh.
"Listen, beloved," she answered. "How I have got access to this place I will tell another time, for we may not linger here. But I have brought to thee the habit of a monk. I am likewise attired in cowl and gown. Once free of this prison, we can walk the city streets without fear; for the good friars of St. Francis go about their works of piety and charity by night as well as by day. Only we must not linger in the city, but must flee forth ere thine escape is discovered; for there will be hue and cry after thee, since thou hast at least two vindictive enemies, who are sworn to thy destruction—and to mine undoing!"
She shivered as she spoke, and Hugh muttered something between his teeth. He had been about to say that he would take her back at once to her aunt at Eynsham; but these last words seemed to show that she would not now be safe there.
"Are they molesting thee, sweetheart?" he asked.
"It is that evil Roger de Horn again," she said, with a slight tremor in her voice; "he has come back under another name. It is he who is the disturber of the city's peace. He has found me out, and I am no longer safe with mine aunt. If thou art in danger, beloved, so am I. Can we not both seek safety in flight?"
"Yes, if thou wilt marry me, so soon as we can find some holy man to join our hands in wedlock!" cried Hugh eagerly. "Then will I carry thee to my father's house, and I will seek to win my spurs in the service of King or Prince, whilst thou at home dost play a daughter's part to my sweet mother, who will, I trow, receive thee with open arms, when she shall know what thou hast done and dared for my sake."
All this had been spoken in rapid whispers, and now Hugh hastily donned the monkish garment, which was in fact the habit of a Franciscan friar, and entirely covered his whole person. The cowl was drawn over his head, and he was completely disguised, although in the pitchy darkness they could see nothing, and had to trust to the sense of touch.
Then the soft hands guided him down the narrow stairs—he had discarded his foot gear the better to personate a friar—his companion softly locked the door behind him, and the pair glided down and unfastened the outer door which opened upon the street.
Close at hand, in a tiny chamber, sat the guard of the gate, sunk in sodden sleep, an empty wine-flask lying at his side. The slender cowled figure stole toward him, and replaced the keys at his girdle, whence they had plainly been detached; and then, gliding forth again, she took Hugh by the hand, and they made their way along the shadow of the wall till the Castle loomed up before them.
"Sweetheart," said Hugh suddenly, "why should we go farther? Within these walls we shall find shelter and safety, and here we may be wed ere we fare forth into the world together. I know my friends will not desert me at this perilous moment, and Alys will be as a friend and sister to thee till I can make thee mine own. The sentry at the gate will know me and let me pass; or these habits will suffice to win us our way. Come, beloved; I would not have thee wander longer through the darkness of the night. Trust thy dear self to me, and all will be well."
"Ah no, no!" cried his companion urgently; "thou wilt only run thyself into greater peril. I have planned all. Come only with me. I will lead thee where thou shalt be safe. Only do not delay!"
At the sound of those words Hugh's heart suddenly stood still, and a qualm of fear and mistrust shook him from head to foot.
Was that indeed Linda's voice? Was it like his gentle, timid Linda to refuse such safe shelter for the perils of the road and the uncertainties which must lie before them? When the voice had spoken only in whispers, he had never for a moment doubted; but now—now—his brain felt on fire. He was bewildered—dismayed—apprehensive. If not Linda, who could it be? Who save her twin sister could personate her thus? And was it possible that any good purpose could be designed by those who were practising this fraud upon him? Would not Linda have been the first to snatch at the thought of seeking safety with the gentle Alys, of whom they often spoke together? She might have braved much to get her lover out of prison; but once free from those walls, and maiden modesty, as well as her natural timidity, would have urged her to accept this suggestion with gladness. Hugh knew the nature of his sweetheart too well to be deceived.
But the companion of his flight seized him by the hand and cried eagerly,—
"Come with me! come with me! all is ready—all is planned. There is no need for protection for me. I am safe with thee; and the priest already awaits to unite us in wedlock. Come; I will guide thee to the place."
"Nay, now I know well that thou art not Linda!" suddenly cried Hugh, throwing back his cowl and gazing intently at his companion by the light of a dying moon. "Who and what art thou, who hast come and succoured me under her name? Thou canst be none other than Lotta, for thou hast her voice and her form. What is the meaning of the masquerade?"
With a fierce gesture Lotta flung back her cowl, and stood before him with flashing eyes.
"So thou hast discovered me? I said that thou wouldest; that I could never play the part of puling love-lorn maiden such as Linda was ever wont to be! But I hold thee to thy plighted word. This very night shalt thou marry me. I have saved thy life, and thou art now my prey."
"Nay, Lotta," answered Hugh, with manly dignity of bearing, "I am grateful for thy help. I will not forget my debt, and I will be a true brother to thee to my life's end. But not even if I stood at the point of death would I forswear myself, and vow to love and cherish one I cannot thus love. I am the betrothed of thy sister. To thee I can be nothing but a brother; but I will remember always what thou hast done for me, albeit I will sooner return to my prison walls than be false to mine own true love."
"Fool!" hissed Lotta between her shut teeth, "dost think thou wilt ever wed her? I tell thee she has already been lured from Eynsham by means of thy signet-ring, stolen from off thy finger by Roger de Horn. The same priest who will wed thee and me will wed Linda and Roger ere the day be done. I have loved thee always, Hugh. Even now when thou goest far to make me hate thee, I love thee with a fierce and passionate love which brooks no bounds. From my window I have watched thee go to and fro in the city these many years. Though thou hast forgotten me, I have never forgotten thee; and now when thy life was threatened by evil men, I have offered to save thee at this price. Marry me, and they will cease to fear and hate thee, and will receive thee as kinsman and friend. Refuse, and thy life will pay the forfeit! And make haste in thy choice, for already we are waited for; and if thou dost longer delay, thou wilt be set upon in these dark streets, and not even my voice will avail to save thee."
There were urgency and passion in Lotta's voice, and a part of her words had filled the heart of Hugh with a great fear. Was it indeed true that Linda had been lured away? It might well be, since she would know the signet ring of her lover, and might take it to be a token from him. His heart seemed to stand still within him; his brain felt benumbed by horror. He attempted no reply to Lotta's rapid speech; and noting his silence, she suddenly grasped his arm and shook it in her impatience and urgency.
"Come!" she cried, "come! Better a bridegroom than a dead corpse; and I am as fair as Linda, and as meet a bride for thee. Come, I say, come!" She paused for a moment, and then in more urgent accents cried, "If thou dost not consent, thou art undone. Here come Tito and Roger to look for us."
And indeed at that moment Hugh plainly saw two figures creeping along towards them—the grey-cowled monk and the bearded man with the scarred face.
That was enough for him. His only reason for standing thus long in talk was his chivalrous dread of leaving a maiden alone in the streets of the city. Now that her brother and his comrade were close at hand, he did not hesitate a moment.
They were just beneath the Castle walls. The Gate was half-way between him and his foes. They might chance to reach it as soon as he, did they guess his intentions. But he knew the place well, and knew of a small postern close to the end of Bedford Lane (New Inn Hall Street now). Making therefore a quick dash in the opposite direction, he fled like a hunted hare, and a few loud knocks obtained him entrance from the soldier on guard.
"I am pursued! Shut it after me!" he cried; and the man instantly obeyed, for he thought he was succouring a holy friar from the attacks of some wanton roisterers, too drunk to reverence the habit of their quarry.
And thus it was that Hugh le Barbier escaped from prison and found his way within the Castle walls.