At the hour appointed by the King, Richard of Woodville arrived at the palace, and was at once introduced to Henry's presence. The monarch was now quite alone, and seemed in a more cheerful, a less meditative mood, than the day before. "Well, Richard," he said, "how sped you last night? you found room in hall, and a place at board, I trust?"
"I did, Sire," replied Woodville; "and so long as I was here 'twas well; but as I returned homeward to my hostel, I saw that done which grieved me, and would grieve your Highness, too, were it told."
"Speak it, speak it," said the King; "I am now in that station where every day I must hear that which offends my ear, if I would perform the first duty of a king, and render justice to my people. What is this you saw?"
Briefly and accurately Richard of Woodville, as he had previously determined, related to the monarch the facts attending the death of the old minstrel, by the brutal act of Sir Simeon of Roydon, and his companions; and he could see Henry's brow gather into a heavy frown, and his cheek flush. When he had done, the King rose from his chair, before he spoke, and walked twice across the small chamber in which the young gentleman had found him.
"This is bad," he said at length; "this is bad; but I must not interfere with the course of law. The matter will be inquired into, of course. If the law should not punish the offence, I might myself inflict some chastisement, and, by banishing this man from my court and presence, mark my indignation at his rash contempt of human life and suffering, to call it nothing worse. But I have other views, Richard; and if I must strike, I would have it effectually."
"I do not understand you, Sire," replied Woodville, seeing that the King paused.
"No, perhaps not," said Henry; and then falling into a fit of musing again, he remained for more than a minute with his eyes fixed upon the ground. "Call me a page," he continued, at length; "I will see this Sir Simeon of Roydon."
Richard of Woodville obeyed; and when the boy appeared, Henry directed him in the clear brief words, with which even trivial orders are given by men of powerful and accurate minds, to inquire of the sergeant of the gates where Sir Simeon of Roydon was to be found, and then to summon him immediately to his presence.
"He shall make some compensation to the old man's daughter, or whoever she is, whatever the law may say," the King continued, turning to his companion, after having spoken to the page: "but tell me, Richard, was this the only adventure you met with yesterday? Ned Dyram told me, that some one had spoken to you by name in the crowd, bidding you not to let poor Dacre do battle with Simeon of Roydon,--she anticipated my commands, it would seem."
"She did so, truly, Sire," replied Woodville; "but I could never discover who it was, though she again spoke to me at the gates of the convent as I came out."
"It is very strange," said the King; "did you not know the voice?"
"It seemed somewhat disguised," answered the young gentleman; "but still it was clearly a woman's voice; and there were tones in it not unfamiliar to my ear, yet not sufficiently strong on recollection to enable me in any way to judge who spoke."
"Have we got fairies amongst us, even in Westminster?" asked the monarch, laughing. "Well, my good friend, you have nothing to do but obey your fair monitor."
"In that I shall not fail, Sire," replied Richard; "for I shall have no cause to prevent or encourage Dacre--Simeon of Roydon will take good heed to that. But I trust neither the lady nor your Highness will forbid my chastising this man myself, if need should be; for, as I have told you, Sire, I cast him from his horse last night, before his comrades; and he will seek revenge in some shape, I am sure."
"To defend himself is every man's right," replied the King; "but I must insist, that no arranged encounter takes place between you and Sir Simeon of Roydon, without your sovereign's consent." The King spoke sternly, almost harshly; but he added a moment after, in a mild and familiar tone, "The truth is, Richard, that I have resolved, as much as possible, to put a stop, both to the trial by battle and combats at outrance between my subjects. The blood of Englishmen is too precious to their King and their country to be shed so frequently as it has hitherto been in private quarrels. The evil is increasing; and if it be not stayed, a time will come when every idle jest will be the subject of a combat, and the man of mere brute courage will venture upon any wrong he chooses to do another, because he values his life less than his neighbour. Such a state shall never grow up under me. The day may not be far distant when, in defence of the rights of this crown, I shall give every English gentleman an opportunity of displaying his valour and his skill; but, till then, I will hold a strong hand over quarrelsome folks. As a last resource for honour really wounded, or, under the sanction of the law, for the judgment of God in dark cases which human wisdom cannot decide, I may consent that an appeal be made to the lance; but not till every other means has been tried. Such is my resolution. Let that suffice you. I know you will obey; and in the court of Burgundy, if I hear right, you will have plenty of occasions, should you be too full of blood, to shed it freely. I have wished to give you some gift, my friend," he continued, in a tone of kindly condescension; "but for the present, I can think of nothing better than this."
He took a ring from his finger, and held it out to the young gentleman who stood beside him, adding, "Take it, Richard; wear it always; and when you look upon it, think of Hal of Hadnock. But should you at any time seek aught of the King of England, seal your letter with that ring, and I will open and read the contents myself, and immediately. It shall go hard, but I will grant you your boon, if it be such as the Richard of Woodville whom I know, is likely to request. So, farewell, and God speed you, and lead you to honour."
Richard of Woodville knelt, and kissed the gracious Prince's hand; and then, retiring from his presence, sped back to his inn without adventure.
All traces of the last day's festival had disappeared; the citizens had resumed their usual occupations; the artisan had gone to his work, the merchant to his warehouse, the tradesman to his stall, the monk to his cloister, the priest to his chapel or his church. The streets, though there was many a passenger hurrying to and fro, seemed almost empty, by comparison; and a scene that was in itself gay, looked dull from the want of all the glitter and pageantry of the preceding afternoon.
The inn, called the Acorn, at which Richard of Woodville had taken up his abode, was a low building, in what we still term the Strand, between the Cross at Charing and a very small monastery, which was soon after attached to the abbey of Roncesvalles in Navarre, and acquired the name of Roncêvaux. The entrance to the Acorn was a tall dark arch, and as soon as Richard of Woodville rode in, followed by his two attendants--for Ned Dyram he had not seen since the day before--the host presented himself, saying, with a low reverence and a smile, "There has been a fair maid seeking you, noble sir. There have been tears in her eyes, too, full lately. I hope you are not a faithless squire, to make the pretty maiden weep."
"Poor thing, she has good cause," answered Woodville, gravely. "She is the poor old man's daughter, I suppose, who was killed by the horses last night. When did she say she would return?"
"She is here now! she is here now!" cried the host's wife, from within. "How can you be such a fool, Jenkyn! I took her in till the noble gentleman returned. I knew she was no light o' love, but only came from foreign lands."
"I never said she was, good wife," replied her husband. "Shall I bring her up, sir, to your chamber?"
"No," answered Richard; "it wants an hour of dinner yet; let her come with me to the hall, if it be vacant."
"That it is, discreet sir," replied the host. "Now, I warrant you," he continued, murmuring to himself, as he walked away to call the poor girl to her kind benefactor, "he has got some lady love himself, and fears it should come to her ears, were he to entertain a pretty maiden in his own chamber."
Perhaps some such thought might pass through Richard of Woodville's mind; but certainly it would never have entered therein, had it not been for the host's first suspicion; and he would have received the poor girl in his own room without hesitation, though the minstrels of that day and their followers were generally a somewhat dissolute and licentious race. It has happened strangely, indeed, in all ages, that those who follow, as their profession, the sweetest of arts, music, which would seem intended to elevate and purify the mind and heart, should be so frequently obnoxious to the charge of immoral life; but so it has been, alas, though difficult to account for.
Finding his way through one or two long ill-lighted passages, Richard of Woodville opened the door of the room appropriated to the daily meals of the guests and their host, and had not long to wait for the object of his compassion. She was not dressed in the same manner as the night before, but still, her garb was singular. A bright red scarf, which had been twined through her black hair, was no longer there; and the rich, luxuriant tresses, were bound plainly round her head, which was partially covered also by a hood of simple gray cloth. The rest of her apparel was white, except at the edge of the petticoat, which came not much below the knee, and was bordered by two bands of gold lace. Her small, delicate ankles, as fair as alabaster, were, nevertheless, without covering; and her feet were clothed in small slippers of untanned leather, trimmed and tied with gold.
Bending down her beautiful head as she entered, she said, "I have come to thank you, noble sir."
"Nay, no thanks, my fair maiden," answered Woodville, placing a stool for her to sit, as the host retired. "I did but what any Christian and gentleman ought to do; so, say not a word of that. But I am glad you have come, for I wish much to hear more of you, and to know what will become of you now."
"Ah! what, indeed?" said the girl, casting down her eyes, which had before been fixed upon the young gentleman's countenance.
"Have you no friends, no home, to which you can go?" asked Woodville.
"In this country, no friends that would receive me--no home that would be open to me," replied the girl, the tears rolling over the long black lashes, and trickling down her cheek. "I am not given to yield to sorrow thus," she added; "had I been, it would have crushed me long ago. But this last blow has been heavy; and, like a reed beaten down by the storm, I shall not raise my head till the sun shines again."
"But you are of English birth?" inquired Richard of Woodville; "if not, you speak our tongue rarely."
"Oh, yes! I am English," she cried, eagerly; "English in heart, and spirit, and birth; but yet, my mother was from a distant land."
"And was that poor old man your father?" demanded her companion; "come, let me hear something of your former life, that I may think what can be done for the future."
The girl evidently hesitated; she coloured, and then turned pale; and Richard of Woodville began to fear that, in the interest he had taken in her, he had been made the fool of imagination. "She is probably like the rest," he thought; "and yet, her very shame to speak it, shows that she has some good feelings left."
But, while he was still pondering, the girl exclaimed, clasping her hands, "Oh, yes! I am sure I may tell you. You are not one who--whatever might be his errors--would deprive a poor old man of blessed ground to rest in, or the prayers of good men for his soul."
"Not I, indeed," replied the young gentleman; "methinks, we have no right to carry justice or punishment beyond the grave. When the spirit is called to its Creator, let him be judge--not man. But speak; I do not understand you clearly."
"I will make my tale short," she answered. "That old man was my father's father; a minstrel once in the house of the great Earl of Northumberland--I can just remember the Earl--and a gay and happy household it was. He was well paid and lodged, much loved by the good lord, and wealthy by his bounty. My father was stout and tall, a brave man, and skilful in arms; and he was the Percy's henchman. Once, when one of the Earl's kinsmen went to the court of the Emperor, my father was sent with him, I have heard; and he returned with my mother, a native of a town called Innsbruck in the mountains. I know not whether you have heard of it; but it is a fair city, in good truth."
"You have seen it, then?" asked Richard of Woodville.
"Not a year since," answered the girl; "but, to my tale. When I was still young, my father fought and fell with Hotspur; and, not long after, the Duke's household was dispersed, and he himself obliged to fly to Wales, or Scotland, I know not which. My mother pined and died, for the people there loved not a stranger amongst them; and, after my father's death, called her nought butthe foreigner. They laughed, too, at her language, for she could speak but poor English; and, what between their gibes and her own grief, she withered away daily, till her eyes closed. She taught me her own language, however; and I have not forgot it. She taught me her own faith, too; and I have not abandoned it."
"And that was--" exclaimed Richard.
"The holy Catholic faith!" replied the girl, crossing herself; "and nothing has ever been able to turn me from it. But still, I could not let it break all bonds--could I, noble sir?"
"Perhaps not," replied Richard of Woodville; "but let me hear farther."
"When the Earl fled, and my mother died," continued the girl, "my grandfather took me with him to the town of York; and, as he was wealthy, as I have said, his kinsfolk, who were many in the place, were glad to see him. He was very kind to me--oh, how kind! and taught me to sing, and play on many instruments. But there came a disciple of Wicliffe into the town, where there were already many Lollards in secret; and the poor old man listened to them, and became one of them. I would not hear them; for I ever thought of my mother, and what she had taught me; and this caused the first unkind words my grandfather ever gave me. He mourned for them afterwards, when he found I was not undutiful, as he had called me. But, in the mean time, he went on with the Lollards; till, one night, as they were coming from a place where they had met, a crowd of rabble and loose people set upon them with sticks and stones, and beat them terribly; and the poor old man was brought home, with his face and eyes sadly cut. Some of the Lollards were taken, and two were tried, and burnt as heretics. But my grandfather escaped that fate; for, by this time, his eyes had become red and fiery, and he kept close to his own house. The redness at length went away--but light went too; and he was in daily fear of persecution. One night, when he was very sad, I asked him why he stayed in York, where there were so many perils; but he shook his head, and answered, 'Because I am sightless, my child; and I have none to guide me.' Then I asked him again, if he had not me; and if he thought I would not go with him to the world's end; and I found, by what he said, that he had long thought of going to foreign lands, but did not speak of it, because he thought that, as I would not hear his people, I would refuse to go. When he found I was ready, however, his mind was soon made up, and we went first to a town called Liege, where he had a brother, and there we lived happily enough for some time; for that, brother, and all his family, thought on many matters with him. But he heard of a man named Huss, who is a great leader of that sect in a country called Bohemia, and he resolved to go thither, as he was threatened with persecution in Liege. We then wandered far and wide through strange lands. But why should I make my tale long? We suffered many things--were plundered, wronged, persecuted, beaten; and the money that he had began to melt away, with no resource behind; for we had heard that our own relations and friends in York had pillaged his house; and one had taken possession of it as his own. I then proposed to him that I should sing at festivals and tournaments, that he might keep the little he still had against an evil day. Thus we came through Germany, and Burgundy, and part of France and Brabant; and, at length, he determined that he would come back to his own country, which he did, only to be murdered last night, for we have not been a month in England."
"Alas! my poor girl," said Richard of Woodville, "yours is, indeed, a sad history; and, in truth, I know not what counsel to give you for the future. Alone, as you are, in the world, you need some one much to protect you."
"I do indeed," replied the girl, "but I have none; and yet," she added, after a moment, "these are foolish thoughts, brought upon me but by grief. I can protect myself. Many have a worse fate than I have; for how often are those who have been softly nurtured cast suddenly into misfortune and distress! I have been inured to it by degrees--taught step by step to struggle and resist. Mine is not a heart to yield to evil chances. The little that I want in life, I trust, I can honestly obtain; and, if not honestly, why, I can die. There is still a home for the wanderer--there is still a place of repose for the weary." But, as she spoke, the tears that rolled over her cheeks belied the fortitude which she assumed.
Richard of Woodville paused and meditated, ere he replied. "Stay," he said, at length, as the girl rose, and covered her head again with her hood, which she had cast back, as if she were about to depart. "Stay! a thought has struck me. Perchance I can call the King's bounty to you. I myself am now about to depart for distant lands. I am going to the court of Burgundy in a few days, and shall not see our sovereign again before I set out; but I have a servant, who was once the King's, and he will have the means of telling your sad tale."
"To the court of Burgundy!" exclaimed the girl, eagerly; "Oh! that I were going thither with you!"
"That may hardly be," replied Woodville, with a smile, as she gazed with her large dark eyes upon his face.
"I know it," she answered, sighing, and cast her eyes down to the ground again, with the blood mounting into her cheek; "yet, why not in the same ship?--I have kinsfolk both in Liege and in Peronne--you would not see wrong done to me?"
"Assuredly not," said the young gentleman; "but if the King can be engaged to show you kindness, it will be better. What little I can spare, my poor girl, shall be yours; and I will send this man of whom I spoke, to see you and tell you more. First, however, you must let me know where you are lodged, and for whom he must ask, as it may be three or four days before he returns from the errand he is now gone to perform."
"My name is Ella Brune," replied the girl; and she went on to describe to Richard of Woodville the situation of the house in which she and her grandfather had taken up their abode, on their arrival in London a few days before. He found from her account that it was a small hostel just within the walls of the city, which the old man had known and frequented in former years; that the host and his good dame were kind and homely people; and that, though the poor girl had remained out watching the corpse at the lodge of the convent, she had returned that morning to explain the cause of her absence, and had been received with sympathy and consolation. Knowing well, however, that there is a limit to the tenderness of most innkeepers, and that that limit is seldom, if ever, extended beyond the length of their guest's purse, the young gentleman took three half nobles, which, to say truth, was as much as he could spare, and offered them to his fair companion, saying, "Trouble yourself not in regard to expenses of the funeral, Ella, or of the masses. The porter of the convent has been here this morning before I went out, and I have arranged all that with him."
The girl looked at the money in his hand, with a tearful eye and a burning cheek; but, after gazing for a moment, she put his hand gently away, saying, "No, no, I cannot take it--from you I cannot take it."
"And why not from me?" asked Richard of Woodville in some surprise.
She hesitated for an instant, and then replied, "Because you have been so good and kind already. Were it from a stranger, I might--but you have already given me much, paid much; and you shall not hurt yourself for me. I have enough."
"Nay, nay, Ella," said Richard, with a smile. "If I have been kind, that is a reason why you must not grieve me by refusing the little I can give; and as to what I have paid, I will say to you with Little John, whom you have heard of--
"I have done thee a good turn for anQuit me when thou may."
"I have done thee a good turn for anQuit me when thou may."
"And what did Robin answer?" said the girl, a light coming up into her eyes as she forgot, for an instant, her loss and her desolate situation, in the struggle of generosity which she kept up against her young benefactor--
"Nay by my troth, said Robin, So shall it never be."
"Nay by my troth, said Robin, So shall it never be."
"It must be, if you would not pain me," replied Richard of Woodville; "you must not be left in this wide place, my poor girl, without friend or money."
"Nay, but I have enough," she answered; "if I were tempted to take it, 'twould only be with the thought of crossing the sea, which costs much money, I know."
"Then take it for that chance, my poor Ella," replied Woodville, forcing the money into her hand; "and tell me what store you have got, in order that, if I have ought more to spare, when I have received what my copse-wood brings, I may send it to you by the servant I spoke of."
"Indeed, I know not," said Ella Brune; "there is a small leathern bag at the inn, in which we used to put all that we gathered; but I thought not to look what it contained. My heart was too heavy when I went back, to reckon money. But there is enough to pay all that we owe, I know; and as for the time to come," she added, with a melancholy smile, "I eat little, and drink less; so that my diet is soon paid."
Her words and manner had that harmony in them, which can rarely be attained when both do not spring from the heart; and Richard of Woodville became more and more interested in the fair object of his kindness every moment. He detained her some time longer to ask farther questions; but, at length, the host opened the door, and told him, there was a young man without who sought to speak with him. This interruption terminated his conversation with Ella Brune; for, drawing her hood farther still over her face, she again rose, took his hand and pressed her lips upon it.
"The blessing of the queen of heaven be upon you, noble sir," she said; and then passed through the door, at which the landlord still stood, wondering a little at the deep gratitude which she seemed to feel towards his young guest.
The King of England remained seated for many minutes exactly where Richard of Woodville had left him. His right hand rested on the arm of his chair; his left upon the hilt of his dagger; and his eyes remained fixed apparently upon the heavy building of the Abbey, such as it then appeared, before a far successor of his added to it a structure, rich, and perhaps beautiful in itself, but sadly out of keeping with the rest of the pile. But Henry saw not the long straight lines of the solemn mass of masonry; he heard not the bells chiming from the belfry hard by: his mind was absent from the scene in which his body dwelt; and his thoughts busy with things very different from those that surrounded him.
On what did they rest? Over what did the spirit of the great English monarch ponder, the very day after he had solemnly assumed the crown and sceptre?--Who can say?
He might, perhaps, remember other days with some regret; for we can never lose aught that we have possessed, without some mournful feelings of deprivation returning upon us from time to time, however great and overpowering be the compensation that we obtain; we can never change from one state and station in our mortal course to another without sometimes thinking of former joys, and gone-by happiness, even though we have acquired grander blessings, and a more expansive sphere: and oh! how great is the change, even from the position of a prince, to that of a monarch! so great, indeed, that none who have not known it can even divine.
He might already, perhaps, feel what a burden a crown may sometimes become; how heavy are occasionally the gorgeous robes of state; he might look back to the free buoyancy of his early life, and long to roam the wide plains and fields of his kingdom alone, and at his ease. Or he might think of friendship--and there was none more capable of knowing and valuing it aright--and might wonder whether a monarch could indeed have a friend; one into whose bosom he could pour his secret thoughts, or with whose wit he could try his own, in free, but not undignified encounter; one in whom he could trust, and with whom he might relax, certain that the condescension of the sovereign would not be mistaken, nor the confidence of the friend betrayed.
Again, he might ponder upon all the difficulties and pains of a royal station: he might think, "Each of my subjects is burdened with his own cares and anxieties, but I with the care and anxiety of the whole:" or his mind might turn to the especial troubles and discomforts of a monarch, and remember how many he must have to disappoint; how often he must have to punish; how much he must have to refuse; how seldom he might be permitted to forgive; what great works he must necessarily leave undone; what good deeds be might be obliged to neglect; what faults he must be called upon to overlook; what pain and grief, even to the good and wise, a stern necessity might compel him to inflict.
He might, perhaps, think of any or all of these things, for they were all within the grasp of his character, as Henry was peculiarly a thoughtful monarch. We are, indeed, only accustomed to look upon him either as a wild youth, suddenly and somewhat strangely reformed, or as a great conqueror and skilful general, a prudent and ambitious prince. But those who will inquire into his private life, who will mark the recorded words that occasionally broke from his lips, trace the causes and course of his actions, examine his conduct to his friends, and even to his enemies, who will, in short, strip off the monarch's robes and look upon the man, will find a meditative spirit, though a quick one; a warm heart, though a firm one; a rich and lively imagination, though a clear and vigorous judgment. He was not one to take upon him the cares of government without feeling all their weight; to regard a throne as a seat of ease and pleasure; or to assume the grand responsibilities of sovereign power, without examining them stedfastly and sternly, seeing all that is bright and all that is dark therein, and feeling keenly every sacrifice for which they call.
To love and to be beloved by a whole nation, to give and to receive happiness by a wise government of a great people, is assuredly a mighty recompence for all the pains of royal station; but yet those pains will be felt hourly while the reward is afar; and the monarch's conversation with Richard of Woodville had awakened him to some of those evils which the wisest rule cannot entirely remedy. Almost under the windows of his palace, on the very day of his coronation, in the midst of rejoicing and festivity, one of his subjects, an innocent inoffensive old man, had been brutally deprived of life by a party of those who had been feasting at his own table; and, when he remembered all the scenes with which the course of his early life had made him acquainted throughout this wide land, he saw what a task it would be to restrain the wild licence of a host of turbulent nobles, and to bind them to submission to the laws, and to reverence for the rights and happiness of others.
The monarch was still deep in thought when the page whom he had sent for Sir Simeon of Roydon, returned, announcing that he was in waiting without; and Henry at once ordered him to be admitted. The knight advanced with courtly bows, and more than due reverence; for he was one of those who, overbearing and haughty to their inferiors, are always cringing and fawning towards those above them, at least until they are detected.
But Henry came to the point at once, saying, with a stern brow, "I hear matters regarding you, Sir Simeon of Roydon, that please me not; and I would fain hear from your own lips, what explanation you can give. Know, sir, that the subjects of this crown are not to be murdered with impunity, and that sooner or later blood will find a tongue to accuse those that spill it."
The knight turned somewhat pale under the keen eye of the King; but he answered at once, in smooth and fluent tones, "I was not aware, Sire, that I had done aught that should bring upon me the greatest punishment that I could receive--that of falling under the displeasure of your Highness; for any other infliction which might follow that severe misfortune, would seem nothing in comparison, or light, indeed, if by any bodily suffering I could remove the heavy weight of your anger. May I humbly inquire what is my fault? It must be great, I am sure, though I know it not, to make so clement a King regard his servant so harshly."
"It is great, sir," replied Henry, who could not be deluded with fair words. "Did you not, last night, after quitting the Hall below, cause the death of an old man by a most brutal outrage?"
"Nay, Heaven forbid!" cried Roydon, with well-feigned surprise and grief. "Your Highness does not, I trust, mean to say that the poor old man is dead?"
"He was killed upon the spot, sir," answered Henry; "and I am told you did not even stop to inquire what had been the result of your own act."
"I will go home and have him slaughtered without delay," exclaimed Roydon, as if speaking to himself in a paroxysm of regret.
"Have whom slaughtered?" asked the King, gazing upon him coldly; for he began to divine the course his defence was to take.
"The brute that did it, Sire," replied the knight; "three times has that horse nearly deprived me of life, which I heeded not much, for it is a fine though unruly animal; but now that he has taken the life of another, his own shall be forfeit. Scarcely had I mounted when, with the bit between his teeth, he set off at full speed; some of my companions galloped after to stop him, if possible, but were unable, till a gentleman on foot, I know not who, caught the bridle in the crowd; and I, not seeing what had befallen, rode on, keeping him in with difficulty."
A slight smile curled the lip of the King, showing to Sir Simeon Roydon that he was not fully believed; and a dark feeling of anger--the rage of detected meanness--gathered itself in the inmost recesses of his heart, with only the more bitter intensity because he dared not suffer it to peep forth. There is nothing that we hate so much as one whom, however much he may offend us, we cannot injure. Vengeance is the drink by which the dire thirst of hate is often assuaged; but if that cannot by any possibility be obtained, the burning of the heart goes on increasing till it becomes the unquenchable drought of fever.
The monarch answered calmly, however, and without further reproach. "Your tale, Sir Simeon," he said, "is somewhat different from that which previously reached my ears. I trust it can be substantiated in all its parts; for this matter must be investigated fully. The crown officer will, of course, do his duty by inquest upon the body. It will be well for you to be present; and the law will then take its due effect. Retire for a time, sir, into another chamber, and I will cause inquiry to be made, as to when a jury will be ready to investigate the case."
Sir Simeon of Roydon bowed with a sad and respectful countenance, and turned towards the door; but when he reached it, the expression of his face, now averted from the King, was very different from that which it had been a moment before. A mocking smile sat upon his lip--the sneering, bitter expression of a bad spirit, which has gained some advantage over a nobler one; but it was gone again the moment he opened the door and stood in presence of two or three attendants, who were waiting in the ante-room. At the same instant, the voice of Henry called the page, and Sir Simeon, pausing and seating himself, could hear the King give orders for making the inquiries which he had mentioned. In less than twenty minutes, the page returned and entered the monarch's closet, after which the knight was recalled.
"I find, sir," said Henry, when he appeared again before him, "that uncommonly quick proceedings have been taken in this case. The inquest has sat already; and the good men have pronounced the death accidental. So far the finding is satisfactory; but as it is clear that the accident occurred by your furious riding of a horse which you yourself acknowledge to be vicious and dangerous, I have to require that you make the only compensation that can be made to the person who I am told is this old man's grandchild. You will, therefore, go at once to the hospital of St. James, and there, or elsewhere, when you have found her, will pay to this poor girl the sum of fifty half nobles, expressing your sorrow--which, doubtless, you feel sincerely--for the evil you have occasioned."
Sir Simeon of Roydon bowed, with every appearance of respect; but there was a scowl upon his brow; and he could not refrain from asking, "May I inquire, Sire, whether this fine is imposed by the inquest, or whether it be the award of your Highness; for if--"
Henry's cheek flushed, and the impetuous spirit which had made him in early years strike the judge upon the bench, roused itself for a moment in his heart. It was conquered speedily, however; and he murmured to himself, "No, I will not act the tyrant. Sir Simeon," he continued, aloud, waving his hand, "the award is mine, as you say. It is my desire that this should be done. You will do it or not, as you think fit, for I will not strain the laws; but if it be not done, never present yourself before me again. That at the least I may require, sir, though the verdict of the jury can but affect the horse you rode."
"Your Highness did not hear me out," replied Roydon, who had now recovered the mastery of himself; "I did but presume to ask; because if such a fine had been imposed by the jury, I should have resisted it, as contrary to law; but at the command of your Highness, I pay it, not only with submission but with pleasure, as the only means I have of showing both my regret at what has taken place, and my eager desire to conform myself in all things to your will. Not an hour shall pass before you are certified that I have not only obeyed, but gone beyond your orders; and so I humbly take my leave."
The words were well and gracefully spoken; and Henry found no occasion to complain of the knight's demeanour; but still he was not satisfied that his obedience was the submission of the heart; for he knew right well that fair words, ay, and fair actions, too, are often but the cloaks of sly and subtle knavery; and the character of Sir Simeon of Roydon was not new to him. He replied merely, "So you shall do well, sir;" and bowed his head as a signal that he might depart.
The knight quitted his presence in no happy mood, perceiving right well that the monarch's favour, on which he had counted much, had been lost and not regained. He hated him for the clear sighted penetration which had seen through his art; and he only doubted whether there was or was not a chance of still deceiving his sovereign, and recovering his good graces, by an appearance of zeal and devotion in obeying his commands.
"It is worth the trial," he thought; "and it shall be tried; but I shall soon find whether he continues to nourish such ill-will towards me; and if he do, my course must be shaped accordingly. Curses upon these beggarly vagrants! Who ever heard of King before who troubled his nobility about minstrels and tomblesteres? This smacks of the early tastes of our magnanimous monarch, whose sole delight, within these two months, was in pot-house tipplers, and losel gamesters. He may assume a royal port and solemn manner, if he will; but the habit of years is not so easily conquered; and if he trip now, he is lost. Men were tired enough of his usurping father. A new prince carries the ever-changing multitude at his heels; but time will bring weariness, and weariness is soon changed into disgust. We shall see; we shall see; and the day of vengeance may come. In the meantime, of one, at least, I have had retribution; and this other shall not long escape--a rude, ballad-singing peasant, only fit for the brute sports of the bull-baiting, or the fair--a very franklin in spirit, and a yeoman in heart."
With thoughts,--which, as the reader may have perceived, had deviated from the King to Richard of Woodville,--with thoughts wavering with a strong inclination to bold evil, but chained down to mere knavery, for the time, by some remaining chances of success--for strange as it may seem, as many men are rendered cowards by hope as by fear--Sir Simeon of Roydon pursued his way to the hospital of St. James, on foot, having hastened to the presence of the King without waiting for his horses. As, still in deep and angry thought, he approached the gate and the old lodge, he raised his eyes somewhat suddenly at an advancing step, and beheld the form of a young girl, with her long dark eyelashes bent down till they rested on her cheek. He caught but a momentary glance as she hurried by; but Simeon of Roydon was quick and eager in his examination of all that is beautiful in mere form; and that glance was sufficient to rouse no very holy feelings. The rounded limbs, the small and delicate foot and ankle, the fine chiseled features, the graceful easy movements, the exquisite neck and bosom half hidden by the folds of the grey hood, were all marked in an instant; and as she seemed alone, without defence or protection, he hesitated for a moment whether to stop and speak to her; but while he paused, she was gone with a quick step; the gate of the convent was near, and, resisting the passing temptation, he walked on and rang the bell.
The porter slowly opened the gate; and, with the tone of careless and haughty indifference which has always marked the inferior personages of a court--I mean the inferior in mind, more than the inferior in rank or station--the knight said, "There was an old man killed near this spot last night, I think?"
"There was, noble sir," answered the porter, with a low reverence to his air of superiority; "the body has been moved to the chapel."
"I care nought about the body," rejoined Roydon. "He had a daughter or grand-daughter or something with him; where is she?"
"She has just gone forth, noble sir," replied the porter; "you must have passed her at the gate."
"Ha! what! a girl with a grey hood and a white coat, with some gold at the edge?" asked the knight.
"The same, noble sir," said the old man; "poor thing, she is sadly afflicted."
"Send her to me when she comes back, and I will comfort her," answered the visitor in a light tone.
"Nay, sir, she is none of those, I'll warrant," replied the porter, very little edified; "and I give no such messages here."
"Thou art a fool, old man," said Sir Simeon of Roydon. "Will she come back hither?"
"Doubtless she will," answered the other, "for better comfort than you can give."
"Pshaw! art thou a preacher?", demanded the knight, with a sneer. "The comfort that I have to give is gold, by the King's command. So tell her to come to Burwash House, close by the Temple gate, up the lane to the left, and ask for Simeon of Roydon. If I be not within, I will leave the money with a servant; but bid her come quickly, for I must tell the King as soon as his bounty is bestowed. When will she be here?"
"That I know not," answered the old man; "the prioress bade me give her admission to the parlour whenever she came, for the ladies the sisters have taken her case much to heart. But the young woman did not say when she would return. Perhaps it would be better for you to leave the money with the lady prioress herself, who would render it to her when she sees her."
"Give advice to those who ask it, my friend," replied Roydon. "I know best what are the King's commands and my duty; so tell her what I say on the part of his Highness, and let her come as speedily as may be."
The knight then turned, and, with a haughty step, took his way back to Burwash House, the London mansion of a distant kinsman, who, in reverence of his newly acquired wealth, permitted the heir of poor Catherine Beauchamp to inhabit it during his own absence from the capital.
Sir Simeon of Roydon was now enjoying to the full that which he had long earnestly desired--the prosperity of riches, which he had never before known; for his own estate had originally been small, and had soon been encumbered, under the influence of expensive tastes and vain ostentation. Unchastened by adversity, unreclaimed by experience, he was now living as much beyond his present, as he had previously lived beyond his former, fortune; and grooms and attendants of all kinds waited him at his dwelling, chosen from the scum of a great city, which always affords a multitude of serviceable knaves, ready to aid an heir to spend his inheritance, and, by obsequious compliance with all rash or vicious desires, to secure themselves a participation in the plunder, during the term of its existence. To some of these worthies, whom he found in the court, he gave orders for the immediate admission of poor Ella Brune as soon as she appeared; and then, betaking himself to a chamber on the first floor, he occupied himself for somewhat more than an hour in thinking over future plans, no inconsiderable portion of which referred to the gratification of many of the pleasant little passions, that, like strong drink, by turns stimulate and allay the thirst of a depraved mind. Revenge--or, rather, the gratification of hate, for revenge presupposes injury--was predominant, though ambition had a goodly share also.
To become that for which he thought himself well fitted, but towards which he had never hitherto been able to take one step--a great and prominent man--was one principal object:--to take a share in the mightier deeds of life, to rule and influence others, to command, to be looked up to, to receive authority and wield it at will. Oh, how often does that desireto become a great manrender one a little man!--how often is it the source of littleness in those who might otherwise be great indeed! When the greatest philosopher that modern ages has produced declared, that "to rise to dignities we must submit to indignities," how powerful, to debase the mightiest mind, did that longingto become a great manshow itself! How constantly, through his whole career, do we see it producing all that made him other than great! It was, and is ever, the result of the one grand fundamental error, the misappreciation of real greatness. And thus we desire to become great in the eyes of other men, not in our own--to win the applause of worms, not merit the approbation of God.
Such pitiful elevation was the only greatness coveted by him of whom we speak; but that was not the only desire which moved him--he longed for indulgence of every kind, from which straitened circumstances had long debarred him--he thought of pleasures with the eagerness of a Tantalus, who had for years beheld them close to his lip, without the power of bringing them within his taste; and, like a famished beast, he was ready to fall upon the food of appetite wherever it could be found. But still cunning--both natural and that acquired from the ready teacher of all evil to inferior minds, poverty--was at hand to bring certain restraints, which wisdom and virtue were not there to enforce. There was a consciousness in his breast, that too great eagerness often disappoints its own desires, and that he was too eager; and, therefore, he resolved that he would be cautious too. But such resolutions usually fail somewhere; for cautiousness is a guardian who does not always watch, when she is without the companionship of rectitude.
Such reflections were still busily occupying his mind; and he had arrived at sincere regret for the rash and brutal act which he had committed the night before--not because it was evil, but because it was imprudent--when a page opened the door, and ushered Ella Brune into the room.
The poor girl knew not whom she was coming to see--she had taken no note of the face or form of him whose cruel carelessness had deprived her of the only support she had--she had not listened to the words that passed between him and Richard of Woodville--she stood before him unconscious that he was the slayer of her old companion. Let the reader mark that fact well. Nevertheless, as soon as she saw him she turned deadly pale, and her limbs trembled.
But Sir Simeon of Roydon took a smooth and pleasant tone; and as soon as the page was gone, and had closed the door, he asked, "They gave you my message, then, pretty maid?" At the same time he placed a stool for her, and motioned her to be seated.
"They told me, sir," she answered in a low tone, "that you had commands for me from the King."
"And so I have, fair maiden," replied Simeon of Roydon; "but, I pray you, sit. This has been a sad event--I grieve for it much. I was not aware, till this morning, that my runaway charger had done such damage."
"And were you the man?" demanded Ella Brune, suddenly raising her eyes to his face. As she did so, she found him gazing at her from head to foot, taking in all the beauties of her face and form, as an experienced judge remarks the points of a fine horse; and she drew her hood farther over her brow, not well satisfied with the eager and passionate look of admiration which his countenance displayed.
"I was unfortunate enough to be so," answered Roydon, perceiving her gesture, and thinking it as well to put some little restraint upon himself, though he never dreamed that a poor minstrel's girl could seriously resist the solicitation of a man of wealth and station. "I regret it deeply," he continued, "but the brute overpowered me. By the King's commands, I bear you fifty half-nobles; here they are. And, for my own satisfaction, I will give you the same."
As he spoke, he held out a purse to her, but Ella Brune drew back. "The King's bounty," she said, "I will receive with gratitude; but, from you, I will take nothing."
"And, pray, why not, sweet girl?" asked Simeon of Roydon; "the King cannot grieve for what has happened half as much as I do, or be half as eager to comfort and console you. Nay, sit down, and speak to me;" and, taking her hand, he led her back to the stool much against her will. "I would fain hear what can be done for you," he added; "I fear you may be friendless and unprotected; and I long to make up to you, as far as possible, for the loss you have sustained."
"I am, indeed, alone in the world," replied the fair girl; "but not friendless, and unprotected, while I trust in God."
"Yes, but God uses human means," answered Roydon, who was every moment growing more eager in the pursuit, which at first had been but as the chase of a butterfly; "and you must let me be his instrument, as I have caused, unwillingly, this evil to befal you. I have a beautiful small cottage on my lands, where the trees fall round and shade it in the winter from the wind--in the summer from the sun. The woodbine and rose gather round the door, and a sparkling stream dances within sight. There, if you will accept such a refuge, you can live in peace and tranquillity, protected from all the harm and wrong that might happen to you in great cities; for you are too young and too lovely to escape wiles, and perhaps violence, if you are left without good ward, in such resorts of men as these."
A smile came upon the lip of Ella Brune, but it was of a very mingled and changeful expression. Perhaps the wakening of some old remembered dream of happy days might render it at first soft and gentle; and, the next instant, the recollection of how that dream had faded might sadden; and then again, the transparency of his baseness mixed a touch of scorn with it, and she answered, "That can never be, sir. I seek no protection but that I have, and cannot accept of yours. I am able, as I am accustomed, to guard myself, and will do so still. I think you have mistaken me--but it matters not. I seek neither gold nor favour from you; and, if you would make atonement for bad deeds, it must be to God, not me."
As she spoke, she rose, and turned to quit the room; and Simeon of Roydon hesitated for a moment whether he should not detain her by force--for those were days of violence; and her very coldness had rendered the passion he began to feel towards her but the more impetuous. He remembered, however, that there might be those who expected her return; that the place whither she had gone was known at the monastery; and that the King's eye might be upon his conduct towards her. These calculations passed like lightning through his mind, and he chose his course in an instant.
"Stay!" he cried, "stay one minute more, sweet girl. I have not mistaken you at all. I would not even force my protection on you: but, at least, receive this; for I must tell the King that it is paid."
"His bounty," replied Ella, "I will not refuse, as I before said, and offer him my deepest thanks; but, from you, I will receive nothing."
"Well, then, take these fifty pieces," said her companion; "they are given by the King's command. We shall meet again, fair maid; and then, perhaps, you will know me better."
"I seek to know no more," she answered, taking the gold he gave: "I have known enough," and, turning to the door, she left him, murmuring to herself, "Would that the King had sent it by other hands."
Simeon of Roydon followed her to the gates, beckoning up two of his servants as he went. "Quick," he whispered; "you see that girl?--follow her wherever she goes: find out her name--her dwelling--every particular you can gather, and bring me your tidings with all speed."