Clouds had again come over the heavens as day declined, and the light had nearly faded from the sky; but yet the horses of Hal of Hadnock and Richard of Woodville had not appeared in the court-yard, and the former showed great anxiety to proceed at once. His gaiety was gone; and he stood, either playing, in deep thought, with the hilt of his dagger, the sheath of which hung from a ring in the centre of his belt, or listening for the horses, with his ear turned towards the door of the hall.
"I fear, sir, the news you have received are bad," said old Sir Philip Beauchamp, who, with the rest of the party, had by this time risen from table.
"A father's perilous sickness, noble Sir Philip," answered Hal of Hadnock; "one who might have been kinder, indeed; but still the tidings must ever be sad ones to a son's heart. I wonder that the horses be not ready."
"Go, Hugh, and see," replied Richard of Woodville; but a serving man, who had entered the moment before, stopped the messenger, saying--
"They will be here in a minute, sir. A shoe was found loose on the gentleman's steed, and John the smith has had to fasten it."
"Well, Dick, thou goest in good earnest at last," said the old knight, turning to his nephew; "and on my life I think it is the best thing thou canst do. Thou art a good soldier, and wilt raise thyself to renown. I need not tell thee what thy duties are; but thou must take a horse and arms of thine old uncle, whom thou mayest never see again, perchance. Choose them for thyself, boy. Thou wilt find wherewithal in that purse," and he placed a full one in his nephew's hand. "As my good brother, the Abbot, is not here, thou must content thyself with my benison. Be it upon thee, Richard! Love thy king, thy country, and thine honour. But, above all things, love God, fear his anger, hope in his mercy, trust in his promises, and submit thine own reason in all things to his word. So shalt thou prosper in this world; so shalt thou be meet for another."
The young man caught his uncle's hand and kissed it; and the old knight pressed him for a moment in his arms.
"Here, Richard, take this gift of me," said Isabel: "'tis but a jewel for your baldrick."
Mary Markham did not speak; but after he had pressed his lips on Isabel's cheek, she offered hers silently, placing a ring in his hand.
"I will bear it to honour, and win you yet, Mary," said Woodville, in a low voice, as he took his parting kiss; and he felt that her cheek was wet with tears.
"Hark! there are the horses, noble sir," exclaimed Hal of Hadnock, turning to Sir Philip. "Once more, farewell! Your nephew shall give you further news of me; and may one day clear me in your eyes for somewhat you have thought amiss."
Then bidding the ladies adieu, he turned to the hall door, and mounted, with a princely largesse to the servants of the house. Richard of Woodville followed, sprang on his horse's back, and, giving one look back, rode through the gates after his companion.
The wood was dark and sombre, as they proceeded amidst its thick coverts; but when they issued forth, a faint glimmer of twilight served to guide them on the way, and they quickened their pace. There were lights in the windows of the cottages, too, as they passed through the village; and when they reached the other side, they caught a pale line of yellow light, peeping out from beneath the dark clouds upon the edge of the western sky, and gilding the water of the stream. Riding on quickly, they had not left the last house behind them five minutes, when Hal of Hadnock pulled up his horse short, exclaiming, "Hark! there is a scream!"
"'Tis but a screech-owl," answered Richard of Woodville; "they come forth in spring."
But as he spoke, there was another shriek, apparently before them; and each struck his horse with the spur, and dashed on. No other sound met their ear, however, except what seemed the distant galloping of a horse, which might be but the echo of their own beasts' feet. When they reached the spot where, on the preceding night, they had seen the wild fire over the moor, Hal of Hadnock again drew in his rein, saying, "It came from somewhere here."
"It seemed to me near where we then were," replied Richard of Woodville. "Perchance 'twas but some villagers got drunk at that Glutton mass. See, there is the otter again!"
"It was a shriek of pain or terror," answered his companion. "Otter!--that is no otter! Here, hold my horse," and springing from the saddle in a moment, he dashed down the bank, and plunged into the river. Though shallow in most places, it there formed a deep pool; but Hal of Hadnock, expert in all exercises alike, struck out at once, and caught the object he had seen, just as it was sinking. A feeling of horror and alarm seized him, as his hand grasped the long hair of a woman; but raising her head above the water again, he held it gently on his left arm, and with his right swam in towards the shore.
"Here, help, Richard," he cried, "set the horses free, and take her. 'Tis a woman!"
Woodville was down the bank in a moment, exclaiming, "Who is it?--who is it?"
"I know not," answered Hal of Hadnock, raising her so far above the water, that his companion could grasp her in his arms and lift her out; but as he himself followed, placing one knee on the shore, with a sad heart, he heard his companion exclaim, in the accents of deep grief--
"Good Heaven! it is Catherine!"
"Quick! bear her to the nearest house!" cried Hal of Hadnock; "the spark of life may be still there. I will follow with the horses."
"Up the short path to the right, lies the chanter's," cried Richard, raising the unhappy girl in his stout arms, and running along the road.
The horses were easily caught, and mounting one, and leading the other, Hal of Hadnock followed, obtaining a glance of his companion just as he turned from the highway, towards a spot where the thatch of a small house peeped up above some trees. He was at the door as soon as Woodville; and, lifting the latch, they both went in.
An old man and woman were sitting before the fire; but the sudden entrance of two men roused them in fear; and, when they saw who it was, and what they bore, all was eager hurry and lamentation. The inanimate body of Catherine Beauchamp, however, was speedily laid in the old chanter's bed, in the neighbouring chamber; and such simple means as first suggested themselves were employed to ascertain if life were still within that fair and silent frame. But she lay calm and still as if asleep, with her features full of a sweet placidity, such as they had seldom worn in life.
"It is past!" said Richard of Woodville; "it is past'. Poor girl! how has this happened? Ha! there is the mark of a grasp upon her throat!"
"See there, too!" cried Hal of Hadnock; and he pointed with his hand to where, upon the fine lawn that covered her bosom, was a faint red stain, half washed out by the water of the stream, as if blood had been spilt. No wound, however, was to be discovered; and while the two gentlemen stood and gazed, the old chanter's sister continued, ineffectually, to employ every effort to reawaken the inanimate frame, and the old man himself ran off to the Abbey to procure farther aid.
"Go into the other room, sirs--go into the other room," said the good dame, at length; "I will take off her wet clothes. 'Tis that keeps her from coming to."
Hal of Hadnock shook his head; for he could not see that pale countenance, those immovable lips, those sightless eyes, without feeling sure--too sure--that life had departed for ever. He would not say anything, however, to discourage the zeal of the poor woman; and he accordingly accompanied Richard of Woodville into the chamber which they had first entered, and stood with him in silent thought before the fire. Neither spoke; for the mind of each was busy with sad and dark inquiries, regarding the event which had just taken place; yet neither could arrive at anything like a conclusion. Was it her own act? was it accident? was it the deed of another? and if so, of whom? Such were the questions which both asked themselves. Both, too, entertained suspicions; but yet they did not like even to admit those suspicions to their own hearts, for how often does the first conclusion of guilt do injustice to the innocent! but while they were still in thought, the voice of the chanter's sister was heard exclaiming--
"Come hither, Master Richard!--come hither! See here!" and as they entered, she pointed to the poor girl's arm, which now lay uncovered on the bed-clothes, adding, "there is the grasp of a hand, clear enough! Look, all the fingers and the thumb!"
"Stay," said Hal of Hadnock; "that might be mine, Richard, or yours in raising her out of the stream."
"I took her by the other arm," answered Richard of Woodville.
"And I do not remember having touched her arm at all," said Hal of Hadnock, after thinking for a moment.
"Oh, no, sirs," cried the old woman; "that hand must have grasped her in life, else it would not have brought the blood to the skin. Hark! there are the people coming," and, in another minute, the good old Abbot, and four or five of his monks, ran in breathless and scared.
"Alas! alas! Richard, what is this?" cried the Abbot.
"A sad and dark affair, father," replied Richard of Woodville, while one of the monks, famed for his skill in leechcraft, advanced to the bed-side, and put his hand upon the heart; "I fear life is extinct."
The Abbot gazed at the monk as he knelt; but the good brother slowly waved his head, with a melancholy look, saying, "Yet leave me and the old woman alone with her."
"I will stay and aid," replied the Abbot. "I am her uncle."
All the rest withdrew; and many were the eager questions of the monks, as to how the accident had happened. Richard of Woodville told the tale simply as it was--the two shrieks that they had heard, the discovery of the body in the water, and its recovery from the stream.
"Ay, she screamed when she fell in, and when she first rose," said one of the monks; "drowning people always do."
Woodville made no reply; for he would not give his own suspicions to others; but Hal of Hadnock asked him, in a low voice, "Did you not hear the galloping of a horse, on the other side, as we came near?"
"I did," answered Richard, in the same tone; "I did, too plainly."
In about a quarter of an hour, the Abbot came forth, and all made way for him.
"What hope?" asked Woodville, looking into his uncle's face for speedier information.
"None!" replied the Abbot. "How has this chanced, my son? there are marks of violence."
The same tale was told over again; but this time Richard of Woodville added the fact of a horse's feet having been heard; and the Abbot mused profoundly.
"I will have the body carried down to the Abbey," he said, at length. "You, Richard, speed to my brother, and break the tidings there. Come down with him to the Abbey, and we will consult. Bring Dacre, too.
"Dacre has been gone more than two hours," answered Richard of Woodville; "but I will seek my uncle Philip," and he turned towards the door.
Hal of Hadnock stayed him for a moment, however, saying, "I must ride on, Richard. You know that my call hence admits of no delay. But let every one remark and remember, for this matter must be inquired into, that I heard and saw all that this good friend of mine did; the shrieks, the galloping of a horse, the body in the water. You shall have means of finding me, too, should it be needful; and now, my Lord Abbot, a sad good night. Farewell, Richard; you shall hear from me soon." Thus saying, he quitted the cottage, mounted his horse, and rode away at a quick pace.
Upon the borders of Hampshire and Sussex, but still within the former county, lies, as the reader probably knows, a large tract of land but little cultivated even now, and which, in the days whereof I speak, was covered either with scattered trees and copses or wild heath, having various paths and roads winding through it, which led now to a solitary village, with a patch of cultivated land round about it, now to a church or chapel in the wild, now travelled on through the hills, which are high and bare, to Winchester or Basingstoke. Deep sand occupies a great portion of the ground, through which it is well nigh impossible to construct a firm road; and the whole country is broken with wild and rapid undulations, of no great height or depth, but every variety of form, the resort of all those rare birds, which afforded so much interest and amusement to gentle White of Selbourne.
Through this rude and uncultivated tract, a little before the close of day, in the beginning of April 1413, two gentlemen clothed in deep mourning of the fashion of that day, rode slowly on. Both were very grave and silent; and, if the complexion of their thoughts was sad and solemn, the aspect of the scene at that hour was not calculated to lighten the heart, though it might arouse feelings of admiration. The sun hung upon the edge of the sky; broad masses of cloud floated over the wide expanse of azure which stretched out above the wild heath; and their shadows, as they crossed the slanting rays, swept over the varied surface below, casting long lines of country into deep blue shade, while the rest shone in the cool pale evening sunshine of the yet unconfirmed spring. Each dell and pit, too, at that hour, was filled with the same sort of purple shadow: the braes and banks looked wilder and more strongly marked from the position of the sun; the occasional clumps of fir trees cut sharp and black upon the western sky; and everything was stern and grand and solemn.
Rising over one slope and descending another, by paths cut imperfectly through the heath and gorse, the travellers had ridden on for half an hour without speaking, when at length, at the bottom of a deep valley, where the sun could no longer be seen, and the shades of evening seemed already to have fallen, they stopped to let their horses drink in a large piece of water, sheltered by a thick copse, and gazed upon the reflection of the blue sky above and the clouds floating over it. As they moved on again, a large white bird started up from the reeds, and flew heavily away, with its snowy plumage strangely contrasting with the dark background of the wood and hill.
"'Tis like a spirit winging its way from earth," said Sir Henry Dacre, following the bird with his eyes. "Poor Catherine! Would that aught else had set thee free from the chain that bound thee to me, but death."
"Luckless girl, indeed!" replied Richard of Woodville; "from her infancy unfortunate! And yet men thought that the hand of Heaven had showered upon her its choicest gifts: beauty, wealth, kind friends, and a noble heart to love her, if she would but have welcomed it. But, alas! Harry, the crowning gift of all was wanting: a spirit that could use God's blessings aright."
"It was more the fault of others than her own," said Sir Harry Dacre, "that I do believe. Her mother made her what she was! 'Tis sad! 'tis very sad, Richard, that, at the period when we have no power to form ourselves, each weak fool who approaches us can give us some bad gift which we never can cast off."
"Like the evil fairies at a child's birth," answered Richard of Woodville; "and certainly her mother was a bad demon to her; but still, though I would not speak ill of those who are gone, yet poor Kate received the gifts willingly enough, destructive as they were. Would to Heaven it had been otherwise; but others encouraged her in all that was wrong, as well as her mother. This man, Roydon, was no good counsellor for a lady's ear."
The brow of Sir Henry Dacre grew dark as night. "He is a scoundrel," he cried; "he is a scoundrel; and if ever he gives me the chance of having him at my lance's point, he or I shall go to that place where all men's actions are made clear.--Oh! that I knew the truth, Richard! Oh! that I knew the truth!"
"There is One who knows it," answered Richard of Woodville, "who never suffers foul deeds to rest in darkness. Trust to Him: and if this knave does but support his charge, perhaps your lance may be the avenging instrument of Heaven."
"May it be so," replied the knight; "but I doubt it, Richard. True, he has not shown himself a coward in the field; and yet I cannot but think that he is craven at heart. Saw you not how carefully his letter to Sir Philip was worded? how he insinuated more than he dared say? and, then, why did he not come?--A sickness, forsooth! The excuse of an idle schoolboy. He would not face me,--that is the truth. He fears me, Richard, and will not dare the test of battle."
"Well, that we shall soon see," answered his companion; "your messenger must be at my house, by this time, with his reply."
"I trust so," said Dacre, thoughtfully; "yet he will take time to write carefully, believe me. His will be no rash epistle, written in fiery anger at his cousin's death. No, no; it will be done as if a scrivener had dictated every word, and in a courtly hand. But whatever he does, mark me, he will leave the poison behind, and so calculate as to cast suspicion over me for life."
"But who suspects you, Dacre?" asked Richard of Woodville, with a smile; "not one honest man on earth. You are too well known, for doubts to light upon you. Does not Sir Philip, her own uncle, love you as a son? and can you let the idle words of a knave, like this, disturb your peace?"
"My peace, Richard!" said Sir Henry Dacre, sadly; "can a high and honest heart ever feel peace, so long as one doubt, one unrefuted charge, casts a cloud upon it? I would rather die a thousand deaths than have men point at me, and say, 'he was suspected of a foul crime against an innocent lady;' and, besides, even those that I love best, those who hold me dearest, may often ask themselves, 'could it be true?'"
"Not a whit!" replied Woodville: "no one will ever ask such a thing. Like a wounded man, you think that every one will touch the spot, and feel the pain in fancy. Cast off such imaginations, Dacre; secure in your own honour, laugh suspicion to scorn, and trust to the noble and the true to do justice to those who are like themselves."
"Would I could do so, Richard," said the knight; "and it would be easy, too, did we not know that the wide world is so full of arrant knaves, and that amongst the knaves there are such hypocrites, that honesty has no touchstone whereby true metal can be really known from false; and men rightly doubt the value of each coin they take, so cunning are the counterfeits. Hypocrisy is a greater curse to mankind than wickedness; for it makes all virtue doubted, and fills the bosoms of the good with suspicion, from a knowledge of the feigning of the bad. Besides, amongst those who hold a middle course, neither plunging deep in the stream of vice and wrong, nor staying firmly on the shore of honour, how gladly every one attributes acts to others that may outdo the darkness of his own! No, no; suspicion never yet lighted on a name that ever was wholly pure again. All I ask is, to give me that man before me, let me cram the falsehood down his throat, at the sword's point, and wring the truth from his dying lips, or let me die myself."
"Well, we shall see what he replies," answered Richard of Woodville, finding it useless to argue farther with him; "and if, as you suspect, he evades the question, what think you then to do?"
"To go with you to Burgundy," answered Dacre; "for I shall be, then, one fitted well to take a part in civil broils--a right serviceable man, where danger is rifest, ever ready to lead the way in peril, having nor wife, nor relative, nor friend, nor hope, nor home, to make him feel the stroke that takes his life, more than the scratch of a sharp thorn that tears him as he passes through the wood."
"But you will surely first return," said Woodville, "to say farewell to my good uncle, and sweet Isabel?"
"I do not know," replied Dacre. "Dear Isabel, she tried to cheer me; and I know would not for worlds suffer doubts of me to rest for an hour in her heart; and yet they will come and go, Richard, whether she will or not. Each time I take her hand she'll think of Catherine; and though she'll answer boldly, 'it is false,' as often as suspicions rise, yet they will be remembered, and rest for ever as a shadow over our friendship."
"You do her wrong, Harry," answered his companion. "Your mind is sickly; and, as a man in a sore disease, you see all things through one pale mist. Isabel may often think of her who is no more, may grieve for her, and regret that she did not make life happier to herself and others, and that she met so early and so sad a death; but she will ever call her back to mind as one who wronged you, not as one wronged by you: and you may be happy yet."
He spoke gravely, and Sir Henry Dacre turned and gazed at him, as if for explanation of his words; but Richard said no more; and, riding on in silence, they soon after came to a point where the road began to rise, winding in slowly between two wooded hills, with a small streamlet flowing on by its side. The sun was sinking below the horizon, as they passed through a village, with the bright blacksmith's forge jutting out beyond the other buildings; and when at length they drew the rein before the gate of a tall house bosomed in trees, it was well nigh dark.
Several servants came instantly into the court; and, giving their horses to be taken to the stable, the two gentlemen entered the outer hall, and thence proceeded onwards to a room beyond, where they were immediately joined by a stout man, habited as a courier, who placed a letter in the hand of Sir Harry Dacre, without speaking.
"So thou art back, Martin," said the knight, while Richard of Woodville called for lights.
"Yes, noble sir," answered the servant; "but I have had to ride hard, for he kept me a long time; but that I don't wonder at."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Sir Henry; "why should he keep you long?"
"Because he wrote a long letter, sir," replied the man; "he might have waited till doomsday, if he had been in my place, and I in his."
"Did he look ill?" inquired the knight.
"Not he, sir," answered the servant; "he was out gosshawking after larks when I arrived."
"The liar!" muttered Sir Henry Dacre; but at the same moment lights were brought in, and making the messenger a sign to retire, the knight opened the letter and read. Richard of Woodville stood by and watched him, while his fine features, as he gazed intently upon the paper, assumed first a look of scorn, and then of anger; and at length he exclaimed, "As I thought, Richard!--as I thought! On my life, I must be an astrologer, and not know it, to have read this man's conduct to the letter, beforehand. Mark what he says: 'Sir Simeon of Roydon brings no charge against Sir Henry Dacre, and never has brought any; but holds him as good knight and true. He has, therefore, no cause of quarrel with the said knight, but, far from it, wishes him all prosperity; the which Sir Henry would have clearly seen, if he had read carefully the letter which Sir Simeon wrote to the good knight of Dunbury, and had not looked at it rashly. Therein Sir Simeon thought to do Sir Henry Dacre an act of love and courtesy, by pointing out--he himself nought doubting--what might breed doubts in the hearts of other men, regarding the manner of the death of the Lady Catherine Beauchamp, in order that the good knight might make such inquiries as would remove all suspicion. For this cause he marked what he had only learned by hear-say, that Sir Henry Dacre had, as unhappily often happened, a fierce quarrel with the Lady Catherine, about a gentleman, it would seem, calling himself Hal of Hadnock----' Curses upon him!" cried Dacre, breaking off.
"Nay, nay, you do him wrong," answered Richard of Woodville; "he sought but to serve you, as I will tell you anon, Harry. But read on. What says he more?"
"'That Sir Harry quitted the hall in bitter anger,'" continued Dacre, reading, "'and swearing he should go mad with the lady's conduct----' Did I say so?"
Woodville nodded his head, and his friend proceeded: "'That the said Sir Henry, though his house is distant but seven miles, did not reach his own door till the hour of nine, and that the lady came by her death between seven and eight, or thereabout; that Sir Henry's hand was torn when he reached his house; and that there was a stain of blood upon the lady's throat; that there were marks of horses' feet on the opposite side of the river, and across the moor towards Sir Henry's dwelling; and that he himself was seen of many persons wandering about near Abbot's Ann and Dunbury, till dark that night; all of which points Sir Simeon of Roydon doubted not, in any way, could be easily explained by Sir Henry Dacre, if true--but which, perchance, were untrue he, Sir Simeon, having heard them merely from vague report and common fame!' Some true, some false," cried Dacre. "I did tear my hand, opening the gate by Clatford mill. I did wander about, with a heart on fire, and a brain all whirling, at being made wretched by another's fault; but I was far from the village, far from Abbey and Hall, before the sun went down; for I saw him set from Weyhill.--Ah! poisonous snake! He stings and glides away from the heel that would crush him. Hear how he ends: 'For his own part, Sir Simeon of Roydon is right well convinced that Sir Henry Dacre is pure and free of all share in the lady's death; otherwise that knight might be full sure he would be the first to call him to the lists, in vengeance of his cousin's death.' The scoundrel coward! But how is this, Richard? He must have spies in our houses--at our hearths. How else did he gain such tidings? Who told him of the quarrel between that hapless girl and me? He was gone long before, I think?"
"Ay, but his servants stayed," replied Woodville; "and there was one in the hall when you returned; that black-looking, silent man. Yet he must have some other means of information, too; else how did he know your hand was torn?"
"I cannot say," answered Dacre, thoughtfully. "By heaven! he will plant suspicion in my heart, too, and make me doubt the long-tried, faithful fellows I have with me." And he cast himself gloomily on a seat, and pondered in silence.
The moment after, there was a sound of horses' feet passing along before the house, and Richard of Woodville turned and listened, saying, "Here is some new messenger. Were it any of my own people, they would come to the other gate."
After some talking in the hall without, an attendant opened the door, and informed his young master that there was a person without who desired to see him. "He comes from Westminster," added the man, "and will give neither message nor letters to any but yourself, sir."
"Let him come in!" answered Richard of Woodville; and a personage was called forward, habited somewhat differently from any of those whom we have already had occasion to describe. He was dressed in what is called a tabard; but it must not be supposed, from that circumstance, that he bore the office of either herald or pursuivant, for many other classes retained that part of the ancient dress, and it was officially worn by the squires, and many of the inferior attendants of kings and sovereign princes, sometimes over armour, sometimes without. In particular cases, the tabard was embroidered either with the arms of the lord whom the bearer served, or with his own, as a sort of coat of arms; but was frequently, especially with persons of somewhat low degree, perfectly unornamented, and formed of a fine cloth of a uniform colour. Such was the case with the man who now appeared--his loose, short gown, with wide sleeves, being of a bright pink hue. The linen collar of his shirt fell over it; and the part of his dress left exposed below the knee, showed nothing but the riding boots of untanned leather, drawn up to their full extent. In person, he was a short, thin young man, with a shrewd and merry countenance. His hair was cut short round the whole head, but left thick, notwithstanding, so as to resemble a fur cap, and his long arms reached his knees. Without uttering a word, he advanced towards Richard of Woodville, who had taken a step forward to receive him, and drawing a packet from the bosom of his tabard, he placed it in the gentleman's hand.
"From Hal of Hadnock, I suspect?" said Woodville, looking at him closely.
"Nay, I know not," replied the messenger; "from Hal, certainly; yet no more Hal of Hadnock, than of Monmouth, or Westminster, or any other town of England or Wales. Read, and you will see."
Richard of Woodville tore open the outer cover, and took forth several broad letters, tied and sealed. The first he opened, and drawing near the light, perused its contents attentively.
"Hal of Hadnock," so it ran, "to Richard of Woodville, greeting. Good service requires good service, and honour, honour. Thus you shall find, my comrade of the way, that I have not forgotten you, though matters of much moment and some grief have delayed a promise, not put it out of mind. You, too, have doubtless had much cause for thought and sorrow, and may, perchance, have yet affairs to keep you in the realms of England; which being the case, I do not require that you should lay aside things of weight, to bear the enclosed to the noble Duke of Burgundy, or his son, and to the faithful servant of this crown, Sir Philip Morgan, now at the court of Burgundy; but the letter addressed to Sir John Grey, at Ghent, is of some importance to himself, and should find his hands as speedily as may be. If, therefore, by any chance, you be minded to stay in England more than fourteen days from the receipt of these, return that packet by the bearer, one Edward Dyram. But, if you be ready to cross the seas ere then, keep the messenger with you in your company, as I believe him to be faithful and true, and skilled in many things; and he knoweth my mind towards you, which is good. Neither be offended at speech or jest of his, for he hath a licence not easily bridled; but so long as he useth his tongue for his own conceit, so long will he use his knowledge for a friend or master. I give him to you; treat him well till you return him to me again; and if there be aught else that can serve you or do you grace, seek me at Westminster, where you will find a friend inHenry."
Richard of Woodville pondered, but testified no surprise; and, after a moment's thought, put the letter in the hand of Sir Henry Dacre, who read it through, with more apparent wonder than his friend had expressed. "And who is this?" he asked, when he had done. "He signs himself, Henry. Can it be the Prince?"
"The Prince that was, the King that is," replied Woodville, giving him a sign to say no more before the messenger. "And so, my friend, you are to be my companion over sea?" he added, turning to the latter.
"That is as you will, not as I will," replied the man; "if you are fool enough to quit England in a fortnight, when you can stay a month, I am to go with you; if you are wise enough to stay, I am wise enough to go alone."
"Ten days, I hope, at farthest, shall see my foot on other shores," answered Woodville; "and pray, Master Edward Dyram, what may be your capacity, quality, or degree? for 'tis fit that I should know who it is goes with me."
"Ned Dyram, fair sir, by your leave," replied the messenger; "'tis so long since I lost the last half of my first name, that I know it not when I meet it; and I should as much expect my mother's ass to answer me, if I called him Edward, as I should answer to it myself. Then, as to my capacity, it is large enough to hold any man's secrets without spilling them by the way, or to contain the knowledge of a knight, a baron, and squire, besides a clerk's and my own, without running over. My chief quality is to tell truth when I like it, and other men do not; and my degree has never been taken yet, though I lived long enough with a doctor of Oxford to have caught that sickness, had it been infectious."
"I fear me, Ned Dyram," said Richard of Woodville, smiling, "I shall lose much time with you, in getting crooked answers to plain questions; but if you have puzzled your own brains with logic, puzzle not mine."
"Well, well, sir," answered the other, "I will be brief, for I am hungry, and you are tired. I am the son of a Franklin, who broke his heart to make me a clerk. I had, however, no gift for singing, and turned my wits to other things. I can do what men can generally do, and sometimes better than they can. I have broken a man's head one day, and healed it the next; for I have handled a quarter-staff and served a leech. I can cast nativities, and draw a horoscope; I can make a horse-shoe, and sharpen a sword; I can write court hand, and speak more tongues than my own; I can cook my own dinner, when need be, and bake or brew, if the sutler or the tapster should fail me."
"A goodly list of qualities, indeed," said Richard of Woodville; "and though my household is not the most princely, we will find you an office, Ned Dyram, which you must exercise with discretion; and now, as you are hungry, get you gone to my people, who will stop that evil. We have supped."
The messenger withdrew; and Sir Henry Dacre returned the letter, which he still held in his hand, to Woodville, saying, "So this was the Prince? the more cruel in him to sport with the peace of his father's subjects."
"Not so, Dacre," replied his friend. "I told you I could explain his conduct; and it is but justice to him to do so; for he intended to be kind, not cruel."
Dacre shook his head gloomily.
"Well, you shall hear," continued Woodville. "When I first brought him to my uncle's gate, I knew not who he was; but he had scarcely entered the hall, when I remembered him. I kept my own counsel, however, and said nothing; but when he sought his room, I went with him as you saw, and there for a whole hour we spoke of those we had left below. I told him nothing, Harry; for his quick eye had gleaned the truth wherever it turned; and I had only to set him right on some things regarding the past. He knew you by name, and took interest in your fate as well as mine. I would fain tell you all; but in the mood in which you are, I fear that I may pain you."
"Speak, Dick, speak," answered the knight; "have we not been as brothers since our boyhood, that you may not give me all your thoughts freely? Say all you have to say. Keep nought behind, if you love me; for I have grown as suspicious as the rest, and shall doubt if I see you hesitate."
"Well, at all risks," said Richard of Woodville, "it is better to give you some pain, perhaps, than to leave you with your present thoughts. We talked, then, first of myself and Mary Markham, and then of you and Catherine. He saw you loved her not."
"'Twas her own fault," cried Dacre: "she crushed out love that might once have been deep and true."
"I told him so," replied Woodville; "and he asked, why, as you both clearly wished the bond that bound you to each other loosed, you did not apply to the Church and the law to break it? I said, what perhaps had better not been said, but yet what I believed, that, if you proposed it, she would not consent, for that she loved to keep you as a captive, if not by love's chains, by any other. He fancied, Harry, that, if that incomplete union were dissolved, you might be happy with another--ay, with Isabel."
"Ha!" exclaimed Dacre; "ha! Have I been so careless of my looks that a mere stranger should--" and he bent down his brow upon his hands, and remained for a moment silent. Then looking up, he added, "Well, Richard, I have been a fool; but was it possible to stand between a desert and a paradise, and not regret that I could never pass the boundary; to look into a scene of joy and peace, and not long to rest the weary heart, and cool the aching brow in the calm groves, and pleasant glades before me? Who would compare those two beings, and not choose between them, in spite of fate? But what said he more?"
"He thought you might be happy," answered Woodville, "and that the only barrier was one that he might prompt Catherine to remove herself. For that object he humoured her caprice, and played with her light vanity. He told me that he would; and I saw that he did so; for his was no heart to be suddenly made captive by one such as Catherine Beauchamp. Besides, it was clear, his words, half sweet, half sour, were all aimed at that end; for ever and anon, when his tone was full of courteous gallantry, some sharp jest would break through, as if he could not keep down the somewhat scornful thoughts with which her idle vanity moved him."
"Then I did him wrong," answered Dacre; "for had he succeeded, and led her to propose of her own will that our betrothing should be annulled, no boon on all the earth could have been equal to that blessing. It has turned out sadly; yet I will not blame him; for who can tell when he draws a bowstring in the dark where the shaft may fall? But say, Richard, was he aware you knew his station?"
"I never told him," replied his friend; "but I think that he divined. You see, in his letter, that he gives no explanation. But listen, Harry; will it not be better--now that we have spoken freely on this theme--will it not be better, I say, for you to return home, let the first memory of these dark days pass away, and seek for happiness with one who may well make up for all that you have suffered in the past."
"What!" cried Dacre, "with this stain upon my name? Oh, no! that dream of joy is gone. No, no, my only course is to forget that there is such a thing as love on earth, or to think with your friend Chaucer's lay, that--
'--Love ne is in yonge folke but rage,And is in olde folke a grete dotage,Who most it usith, he most shal enpaireFor thereof cometh disese and hevinesseSo sorrow and care, and many a grete sicknesse,Despite, debate, and angre, and envie,Depraving shame, untrust, and jelousie,Pride, mischefe, povertie, and wodeness.'"
'--Love ne is in yonge folke but rage,And is in olde folke a grete dotage,Who most it usith, he most shal enpaireFor thereof cometh disese and hevinesseSo sorrow and care, and many a grete sicknesse,Despite, debate, and angre, and envie,Depraving shame, untrust, and jelousie,Pride, mischefe, povertie, and wodeness.'"
"'Tis the song of the cuckoo," Harry replied Woodville; "but this sad humour, built upon a baseless dream, will pass away when you find that the suspicions which you now fancy in every one's heart, live but in your own imagination; and then you will answer with the nightingale--
'That evirmore Love his servauntes amendeth,And from all evil tachis them defendeth;'
'That evirmore Love his servauntes amendeth,And from all evil tachis them defendeth;'
but Time must do his own work; and till then, argument is of no avail. Yet I would fain not have you lose bright days with me in foreign lands. Happy were I if I could stay like you in hope, and lead the pleasant summer life, beneath the lightsome looks of her whom I love best. Think of it, Harry, think of it; and do not rashly judge that you see clear till you have wiped the dust out of your eyes."
Dacre shook his head, and answered, "I will to rest, Richard, such as I can find; for now that I have got this craven's reply, I have no further business here till I join you again upon our pilgrimage. I will away to-morrow, to prepare; but we shall meet before I go. I know my way."
Five days after the events related in the last chapter, Richard of Woodville, leaving armourers and tailors busy in his house at Meon, rode away for London, accompanied by two yeomen, a page, and Ned Dyram, whose talents had not been long in displaying themselves in the service of his new master. He had instructed the tailors; he had assisted the armourers; he had aided to choose the horses; he had drawn figures for fresh pallettes and pauldrons; and he had with his own hand manufactured a superb bridle and bit, ornamented with gilt steel plates; jesting, laughing, talking, all the while, and overcoming the obstinacy and the vanity of the old artificers, who would fain have equipped the young gentleman who employed them, in the fashions of the early part of the last reign, all new inventions in those days travelling slowly from the capital to the country. Ned Dyram, however, had been in many lands, and had accumulated, in a head which possessed extraordinary powers both of observation and memory, an enormous quantity of patterns and designs of everything new or strange, which he had seen; and sometimes with a laugh, sometimes with an argument, he drove those who were inclined to resist all innovation, to adopt his proposed improvements greatly against their will. But though his tongue occasionally ran fast, and he seemed to take a pleasure occasionally in confounding his slower opponents with a torrent of words, yet on all subjects but those immediately before him, he kept his own counsel, and not one of the servants of the house, when he set out with Woodville for London, was aware of who or what he was, whence he came, or where he had gained so much knowledge.
The first day's journey was a long one, and Richard of Woodville and his train were not many miles from London, when they again set forth early on the following morning, so that it was not yet noon, on the ninth of April, when they approached the city of Westminster, along the banks of the Thames.
Winding in and out, through fields and hedge-rows, where now are houses, manufactories, and prisons, with the soft air of Spring breathing upon them, and the scent of the early cowslips, for which that neighbourhood was once famous, rising up and filling the whole air, they came on, now catching, now losing, the view of the large heavy abbey church of Westminster, and its yet unfinished towers of the same height as the main building, while rising tall above it, appeared the belfry of St. Stephen's chapel, with its peaked roof, open at the sides, displaying part of the three enormous bells, one of which was said (falsely) to weigh thirty thousand pounds. The top of two other towers might also be seen, from time to time, over the trees, and also part of the buildings of the monastery adjoining the Abbey; but these were soon lost, as the lane which the travellers were following wound round under the west side of Tote Hill, a gentle elevation covered with greensward, and ornamented with clumps of oak, and beech, and fir, amidst which might be discovered, here and there, some large stone houses, richly ornamented with sculpture, and surrounded with their own gardens. The lanes, the paths, the fields, were filled with groups of people in their holiday costume, all flocking towards Westminster; and what with the warm sunshine, the greenness of the grass, the tender verdure of the young foliage, and the gay dresses of the people, the whole scene was as bright and lively as it is possible to conceive. At the same time, the loud bells of St. Stephen's began to ring with the merriest tones they could produce, and a distant "Hurrah!" came upon the wind.
"Now, Ned, which is the way?" asked Richard of Woodville, calling up his new attendant to his side, as they came to a spot where the lane divided into two branches, one taking the right hand side of the hill, and one the left. "This seems the nearest," he continued, pointing down the former; "but I know nought of the city."
"The nearest may prove the farthest," replied Ned Dyram, riding up, "as it often does, my master. That is the shortest, good sooth! but they call the shortest often the fool's way; and we might be made to look like fools, if we took it--for though it leads round to the end of St. Stephen's Lane, methinks that to-day none will be admitted to the palace-court by that gate, as it is the King's coronation morning."
"Indeed!" said Woodville; "I knew not that it was so."
"Nor I, either," answered Ned; "but I know it now."
"And how, pray?" asked his new master.
"By every sight and sound," replied Ned Dyram. "By that girl's pink coats--by that good man's blue cloak--by the bells ringing--by the people running--by the hurrah we heard just now. I ever put all I hear and see together--for a man who only sees one thing at once, will never know what time he is living in."
"Then we had better turn to the left," said Woodville, not caring to hear more of his homily. "Of course, if this be the coronation day, I shall not get speech of the King till to-morrow; but we may as well see what is going on."
"To the left will lead you right," replied his quibbling companion; "that is to say, to the great gate before the palace court; and then we shall discover whether the King will speak with you or not. Each Prince has his own manners, and ours has changed so boldly in one day, that no one can judge from that which the lad did, what the man will do."
"Has he changed much, then?" asked Woodville, riding on; "it must have been sudden, indeed, if you had time to see it ere you left him."
"Ay, has he!" answered Dyram; "the very day of his father's death he put on, not the robes of royalty, but the heart; and those who were his comrades before, gave place to other men. They who counted much upon his love, found a cold face; and they who looked for hate, met with nought but grace."
"Then, perhaps, my reception may not be very warm," said Woodville, thoughtfully.
"You may judge yourself, better than I can, master mine," replied Ned Dyram. "Did you ever sit with him in the tavern, drinking quarts of wine?"
"No," answered Richard of Woodville, smiling.
"Then you shall be free of his table," said Ned. "Did you ever shoot deer with him, by moonlight?"
"Never," was his master's reply.
"Then you may chance to taste his venison," rejoined the man. "Did you ever brawl, swear, and break heads for him, or with him?"
"No, truly," said the young gentleman; "I fought under him with the army in Wales, when he and I were both but boys; and I led him on his way one dark night, two days before his father died; but that is all I know of him."
"Then, perchance, you may enter into his council," answered Dyram; "for, now that he is royal, he thinks royally, and he judges man for himself, not with the eyes of others."
"As all kings should," said Richard of Woodville.
"And few kings do," rejoined Ned. "I was not so lucky; but many a mad prank have I seen during the last year; and though he knows, and Heaven knows, I never prompted what others did, yet I was one of the old garments he cast off, as soon as he put on the new ones. I fared better than the rest, indeed, because I sometimes had told him a rough truth; and trust I shall fare better still, if I do his bidding."
"And what may be his bidding?" asked Richard of Woodville--"for, doubtless, he gave you one, when he sent you to me."
"He bade me live well, and forget former days, as he had forgotten them," replied Ned Dyram; "and he bade me serve you well, master, if you took me with you; so you have no cause to think ill of the counsel that he gave me in your case. But here we are, master mine; and a goodly sight it is to see."
As he spoke, they turned into the wide street, or rather road, which led from the village of Charing to the gates of the palace at Westminster; and a gay and beautiful scene it certainly presented, whichever side the eye turned. To the north was seen the old gothic building (destroyed in the reign of Edward VI.) where the royal falcons were kept, and called from that circumstance the Mew; while, a little in advance, upon a spot slightly elevated, stood the beautiful stone cross, one of the monuments of undying regard, erected in the village of Charing, by King Edward the First; to the left appeared the buttery and lodge, and other offices of the hospital and convent of St. James's, forming together a large pile of buildings, with gates and arches cutting each other in somewhat strange confusion--while the higher stories, supported by corbels, overhung the lower. The effect of the whole, however, massed together by the distance, was grand and striking; while the trees of the fields, then belonging to the nunnery, and afterwards formed into a park, broke the harsher lines, and marked the distances down the course of the wide road.
A little nearer, but on the opposite side of the way, with gardens and stairs extending to the river, was the palace, or lodging of the Kings of Scotland. The edifice has been destroyed--but the ground has still retained the name which it then bore; and many years had not elapsed, at the time I speak of, since that mansion had been inhabited by the monarchs of the northern part of this island, when they came to take their seats in Parliament, in right of their English feofs. Gardens succeeded, till appeared, somewhat projecting beyond the line of road, the old stern building which had once been the property of Hubert de Burg, Earl of Kent, more like a fortress than a dwelling, though its gloomy aspect was relieved by a light and beautiful chapel, lately built on the side nearest to Westminster, by one of the Archbishops of York.
Several smaller edifices, sometimes constructed of brick, sometimes of grey stone, were seen on the right and left, all in that peculiar style of architecture so much better fitted to the climate of northern Europe, and the character of her people, than the light and graceful buildings of the Greeks, which we imitate in the present day, generally with such heavy impotence; and still between all appeared the green branches of oaks, and beeches, and fields, and gardens, blending the city and the country together.
Up the long vista, thus presented, were visible thousands of groups, on horseback and on foot, decked out in gay and glittering colours: and as brilliant a scene displayed itself to the south, in the wide court before the palace, surrounding which appeared the venerable Abbey, the vast Hall, the long line of the royal dwelling, the monastery, the chapel of St. Stephen, with its tall belfry, and many another tower and lofty archway, and the old church of St. Margaret, built about a century and a half before, together with the lofty yet heavy buildings of the Woolstaple, and the row of arches underneath. Banners and pennons fluttering in the wind; long gowns of monks and secular clergymen; tabards and mantles of every hue under the sun; the robes and headdresses of the ladies and their women, and the gorgeous trappings of the horses, catching the light as they moved hither and thither, rendered the line from the Eleanor cross to the palace one living rainbow; while the river, flowing gently on upon the east, was covered with boats, all tricked out with streamers and fluttering ribbons. Even the grave, the old, and those dedicated to seclusion and serious thought, seemed to have come forth for this one day; and, amongst the crowd, might be distinguished more than one of the long, grey, black, or white gowns, with the coif and veil which marked the nun. All seemed gay, however; and nothing was heard but laughter, merriment, gay jests, the ringing of the bells, the sounding of clarions, and, every now and then, the deep tone of the organ, through the open windows of the Abbey, or a wild burst of martial music from the lesser court of the palace.
Habited in black, as mourning for his unhappy cousin, Richard of Woodville felt himself hardly fitted for so gay a scene; but his good mien and courteous carriage gained him many a civil word as he moved along, or perchance some shrewd jest, as the frank simplicity of those days allowed.
"Where is the black man going?" cried a pert London apprentice; "he must be chief mourner for the dead king."
"Nay, he is fair enough to look upon, Tom," replied a pretty girl by his side. "You would give much to be as fair."
"Take care of my toes, master," exclaimed a stout citizen; "your horse is mettlesome."
"He shall not hurt you, good sir," replied Woodville.
"Let me hold by your leg, sir squire," said a woman near, "so shall I have a stout prop."
"Blessings on his fair, good-natured face!" cried an old woman; "he has lost his lady, I will wager my life."
"You have not much there to lose, good mother," answered a man behind her.
"Well, he will soon find another lady," rejoined a buxom dame, who seemed of the same party, "if he takes those eyes to court."
"Out on it, master!" exclaimed a man who had been amusing the people round him by bad jokes; "is your horse a cut-purse? He had his nose in my pouch."
"Where he found nothing, I dare say," answered Woodville; and in the midst of the peal of laughter which followed from the easily moved multitude, he made his way forward to the gates, where he was stopped by a wooden barrier drawn across and guarded by a large posse of the royal attendants, habited in their coats of ceremony.
"What now?--what now?" asked one of the jacks of office, with a large mace in his hand, as Woodville rode up; "you can have no entrance here, sir squire, if you be not of the King's house, or have not an order from one of his lords. The court is crowded already. The King will not have room to pass back."
Before his master could answer, however, Ned Dyram pushed forward his horse, and addressed the porter, saying, in a tone of authority, "Up with the barrier, Master Robert Nesenham. 'Tis a friend of the King's, for whom he sent me--Master Richard of Woodville--you know the name."
"That's another affair, Ned," replied the other; "but let me see, are not you on the list of those who must not come to court?"
"Not I," replied Ned Dyram; "or if I be, you have put me on yourself, Robin; 'tis but the other day I left his Grace upon this errand."
"Well, come in, if it be so, varlet," replied the porter, lifting the barrier; "but if you come forbidden, the pillory and your ears will be acquainted. How many men of you are there?--Stand back, fellows, or I will break your pates. See, Tim, there is a fellow slipping through! Drive him back--give him a throw--cast him over--break his neck--five of you, that is all?--stand back, fellows, or you shall into limbo."
While the good man strove with the crowd without, who all struggled manfully to push through the barrier when it was open, Richard of Woodville and his followers made their way on into the court; and, dismounting from his horse in the more open space which it afforded, he advanced towards the passage which was kept clear by the royal officers, between the door of the great Hall and the Abbey. At first he was placed near a stout man, dressed as a wealthy citizen; and he inquired of him how long the King had been in the church.
"Three parts of an hour," replied the other; "did you not hear the shout and the bells begin to ring? Oh, it was a grand sight! There was----" but the rest of what he said was drowned by the noise around, aided by a loud flourish of trumpets from the Hall.
The crowd, however, was constantly changing, and swaying to and fro; and Woodville soon found himself separated from the man to whom he had spoken, by two or three of the secular clergy of the city, and a somewhat coquettish-looking nun, who wore over her grey gown a blue ribbon and a silver cross.
She turned round and looked at him with her veil up, showing a very pretty face, and a pair of bright blue eyes. A fat monk was behind, and a man dressed as a scrivener; but all were intent upon watching the door of the Abbey, as if they expected the royal procession soon to re-appear; and Woodville turned his eyes thither also. The next moment he heard a voice pronounce his own name, and then add, "Beware of Simeon of Roydon; and let not Henry Dacre fight with him."
Richard turned sharply round, and gazed at those behind him; but he saw no face that he knew, but those of Ned Dyram and one of his own men. The rest of the group in his immediate neighbourhood was composed of two monks, another nun, a doctor of divinity in his cope, a tall man in a surcoat of arms, and two elderly ladies with portentous headdresses, a full half yard broad and two feet high.
It was a woman's voice, however, that he had heard, and he inquired at once of the nearest woman, "Did you speak, lady?"
"To be sure I did," answered the good dame, in a sharp tone; "I asked my brother what the hour is. No offence in that, sir, I suppose?"
"Oh, none, assuredly," replied Richard of Woodville; "but I thought you mentioned my name."
"I do not know it, young sir," replied the lady; "come away, brother, the squire is saucy;" and she and her party moved on, making a complete change in the disposition of the group.
In vain Richard of Woodville looked beyond the little circle in which they stood; he could see no face that he knew; and at length, turning to Ned Dyram, he inquired if he had heard any one mention his name.
"That good dame, or some one near her certainly did," replied the man; "but I could not see exactly who it was. It might be the other woman."
"Was she old, too?" demanded Woodville.
"Too old for your wife, and too young for your mother," answered Ned--"somewhat on the touch of forty years."
As he spoke, there was a loud "hurrah!" from the ground adjacent to the Abbey door; a true, hearty, English shout, such as no other nation on the earth can give; and the royal procession was seen returning. All pressed as near as they could; and Richard of Woodville gained a place in front, where he waited calmly, uncovered, for the passing of the King.
On came the train, bishops and abbots, priests and nobles, the pages, the knights, the bearers of the royal emblems; but all eyes were turned to one person, as--with a step, not haughty, but calm and firm, such as might well accord with a heart fixed and confident to keep the solemn vows so lately made, in scrupulous fidelity; with a brow elevated by high and noble purposes, more than by the splendour of the crown it bore; and with an eye lightening with genius and soul--Henry of Monmouth returned towards his palace, amidst the gratulating acclamations of his people.
Richard of Woodville saw Hal of Hadnock in the whole bearing of the monarch, as he had seen the Prince in the bearing of Hal of Hadnock, and he murmured to himself, "He is the same. 'Tis but the dress is altered, either in mind or body. Excluded from the tasks of royalty, he assumed a less noble guise; but still the man was the same."
As he thus thought, the King passed before him, looking to right and left upon the long lines of people that bordered his way, though, marching in his state, he distinguished no one by word or gesture. His eyes, indeed, fixed firmly for an instant upon Richard of Woodville, and a slight smile passed over his lip; but he went on without farther notice; and the young gentleman turned, as soon as he had gone by, thinking, "I will seek some inn, and come to the palace tomorrow. To-day, it is in vain."
The pressure of the multitude, however, prevented him from moving for some time, and he was forced to remain till the whole of the procession had gone by. He then made his way out of the crowd, which gradually became less compact, though few retired altogether, the greater number waiting either to discuss the events of the day, or to see if any other amusements would be afforded to the people; but it was some time before the young gentleman could find his horses, for the movements of the people had forced them from the place where they had been left. Just as he was, at length, putting his foot in the stirrup, Ned Dyram pulled his sleeve, saying, "There is a King's page, my master, looking for some one in the crowd. Always give yourself a chance. It may be you he seeks."
"I think not," replied Richard of Woodville; "but you can join him, and inquire, if you will."
The man instantly ran off at full speed; and, though soon forced to slacken his pace amongst the people, he in the end reached the page, and asked for whom he was looking.
"A gentleman in black," replied the boy, "named Richard of Woodville."
"Then there he is," answered Ned, pointing with his hand to where his master stood; and, followed by the page, he walked quickly to the spot.
"If your name be Richard of Woodville, sir," said the boy, "the King will see you now, while he is putting off his heavy robes and taking some repose."
"I follow, young sir," replied Woodville; and, accompanying the page, he turned towards the palace, while Ned Dyram, after a moment's hesitation, pursued the same course as his master, "in order," as he said mentally, "always to give himself a chance."