Probably there is a period in the life of every one--if it be not cut short in very early years, when the blossom is still upon the trees of existence--in which the heart is so depressed by a reiteration of those misfortunes which generally come in groups, that the unexpected announcement of an unnamed visitor causes us to look up with a feeling of dread, as if some new sorrow were about to be added to the list of those endured. But such was not yet the case with Richard of Woodville, for though many of the events which had lately passed, had tended to make him somewhat more grave and thoughtful than in younger days, yet neither griefs, nor anxieties, nor disappointments had been heavy enough to weigh down a spirit naturally buoyant. His heart might be called light and free; for, though burdened with some cares, and tied by the silver chain of love, yet hope, bright, vigorous, rarely-tiring hope, helped him to carry his load; and the bond between him and sweet Mary Markham was not one to fetter the energies of his mind, or to dim the brightness of expectation. But above all things his bosom was perfectly free from guile; and in a house so cleanly kept, there is always light, unless every window be closed by the hands of death or of despair.
He looked, therefore, to see who the stranger could be that asked for him, with some curiosity perhaps, but no alarm, and was surprised but well pleased, when the figure of honest Hugh of Clatford darkened the door.
"Ah, Hugh!" he exclaimed, "is that you? What has brought you to Westminster? Are you also going to seek service in foreign lands?"
"Faith, sir, I know not what I am going to do," replied the good yeoman; "I came up here with my lord, and wait his pleasure."
"With your lord!" exclaimed Woodville, in astonishment; "and what, in the name of fortune and all her freaks, has brought my uncle to Westminster?--Was he summoned to the coronation?"
"Good truth, noble sir, I know not," answered Hugh of Clatford. "He has not told me why he came; but I chanced to meet your man Hob, and asked him where you were to be found, but to come and see you and how you fared."
"Thanks, Hugh, thanks!" replied Richard of Woodville.
"'True friend findeth true friend wherever they follow,And summer's no summer that wanteth the swallow;'
"'True friend findeth true friend wherever they follow,And summer's no summer that wanteth the swallow;'
But whom has my uncle with him?"
He would have fain asked if Mary Markham was near; but the question would not be spoken, and Hugh of Clatford saved him the trouble of farther inquiry. "He has brought no one but myself," he said, "and Roger Vale, and Martin the henchman, and one or two lads with the horses, and a page, and the Lady Mary--"
"Ah! and is that sweet lady here?" asked Woodville, in as calm and grave a tone as a very joyous heart could use. "But has he not brought my cousin Isabel?"
"No, good sooth," rejoined the yeoman; "he and the Lady Mary came off in haste on the arrival of a messenger from London."
"That is strange," said Richard of Woodville;--but then he thought that, perchance his friend Harry Dacre had sped well in his suit to Isabel, and that the old knight might have left her to cheer him at the hall. Nor was such a course unlikely in that age; for there were then fewer observances and stiff considerations of propriety than in later days, since rules and regulations more powerful, though but of air, than the locks and eunuchs of an Eastern harem, have tied down the most innocent intercourse of those who love, and every lady in the land is watched with the dragon's eyes of parental prudence. Love was then looked upon with reverence, and regarded as a safeguard rather than a peril. There was more confidence in virtue, more trust in honour.
After a short pause, Richard of Woodville inquired where his uncle was lodged; and to the great disappointment of his host, who, while he was still speaking with Hugh of Clatford, entered to set out the tables for the approaching meal, the young gentleman accompanied the good yeoman, fasting as he was, to visit good Sir Philip Beauchamp--as he said; but, in truth, to sun himself in Mary's eyes.
Fortune, though she be a spiteful jade, will occasionally favour true lovers; and she certainly showed herself particularly benign to Richard of Woodville in the present instance. Hurrying on with Hugh of Clatford, he made his way through the crowded streets of Westminster, till, at the outskirts of the town, near where now stands George Street, he reached the gates of a large house in a garden, where Sir Philip Beauchamp had taken up his abode. With all due reverence he asked for his uncle; but he must not be looked upon as a very undutiful nephew, if we admit that he was not a little rejoiced to find that the good old knight had gone forth, leaving fair Mary Markham behind.
Guided by Hugh of Clatford, who very well understood all that was passing in the young gentleman's heart, Richard was soon in his fair lady's bower; and certainly Mary's bright face expressed quite as much pleasure to see him as he could have desired. It expressed surprise also, however; and after chiding him, not very harshly, for a sweet liberty he took with her arched lips, she exclaimed, "But how are you here, Richard? I thought you were firm at Meon, polishing armour and trying horses."
Now Richard of Woodville, as soon as he heard that Mary was in the same city with himself, had formed his own conclusions in regard to various matters that had puzzled him the day before; and he answered, gaily, "What, deceiver! Do you think I do not know your arts? You would have me believe you were ignorant that I was here, and must tease your poor lover twice in the course of yesterday, by letting him hear your voice, yet hiding the face that he loves best, from his sight?"
"Nay, dear Richard," replied Mary, with a look of still greater surprise than before; "you are speaking riddles to me. You could not hear my voice yesterday, at least in Westminster--unless, indeed, it were late at night; and then it must have been in sad, dolorous tones, for I was very tired. We did not reach this place till three hours after dark. But what is it you mean, by daring to call Mary a deceiver, when you know right well I could not cheat you into thinking that I did not love you, though I tried hard to look as demure as a cat in the sunshine?"
"Are you sincere now, Mary?--are you telling me the truth?" asked Richard, still half inclined to doubt; but the moment after, he added, "Yet I know you are, my Mary, without guile. Truth gives you half your beauty, Mary; it lights your eyes, it smiles upon your lips. Yet this is very strange; and I thought that I had discovered the key to a mystery which must puzzle me still. But hear what has happened, and you shall judge;" and he proceeded to relate the injunctions which had been twice laid upon him the day before, by some unseen acquaintance in the crowd.
Mary Markham was not less surprised and puzzled than himself, especially as he persisted in asserting the words had been spoken by a female voice. But they soon abandoned that topic, to turn to others of deeper interest to their own two hearts--the cause of Sir Philip Beauchamp's journey to the capital, and the future fate of his fair companion.
"In truth, Richard," said Mary, in answer to some of his questions, "I am well nigh as ignorant as yourself of what is about to happen. All I know is, that Sir Philip told me I should probably soon see my father again."
"And who is your father, my sweet Mary?" asked Woodville, with a smile.
Mary gazed at him for an instant, with a look of touched and gratified affection, and then asked, "And did Richard of Woodville really seek poor Mary Markham's hand, then, without knowing aught of her state and station?--was he willing to take her dowerless, friendless, stationless, almost nameless?"
"Good faith, dear Mary," answered Woodville, "I should be right glad to take you any way I could get you; and if dower, or station, or friends, or aught else stand in the way, even down to this pretty robe whose hem I kiss, I pray you, Mary, cast it off! I shall be right glad to have you in your kirtle, if it be but of hodden grey."
Mary Markham smiled and blushed; and her bright, merry eyes acquired a softer and more glistening light from the dew of happy emotion that spangled her long eyelashes. "Well, Richard," she said, "I do not love you the less for that. 'Tis a bold speech, perhaps, and one that I should not make; but once having owned what I feel, why should I hide it now?"
"Fie on those who would blame you, dearest lady," answered Woodville: "who should feel shame for love? The brightest and the best of human feelings, surely, is no cause of shame; but we may all say, with the great poet--
"'O sunn'is life! O Jov'is daughter dear,Pleasaunce of love! O godely debonaireIn gentle hearts aye ready to repaire,O very cause of health and of gladnesse,Iheried be thy might and godenesse.'"
"'O sunn'is life! O Jov'is daughter dear,Pleasaunce of love! O godely debonaireIn gentle hearts aye ready to repaire,O very cause of health and of gladnesse,Iheried be thy might and godenesse.'"
"I cannot answer why, Richard," replied Mary, "but I know it is so, that all women feel some shame to own they love; and many affect more shame than they really feel. But I will not do so, dear Richard; for I think it is dishonesty to feign aught. I know I did feel shame, when one day, as we sat beside the river under the green trees, you won me to say more than I ever thought I could; and all that night, when I thought upon it, my cheek burned. But yet, in the moment of trial, I felt bold; and when your uncle asked me, I told him all. Nor do I see why I should conceal it now, even if I could, when you are about to go far, and that may be your only consolation in danger and in difficulty."
"It will be my strength and my support, dear Mary," answered Woodville; "and I do think that if I could but win a promise from you to be mine, it would so nerve my heart and arm in the hour of strife, that all men should own I had won you well--Say, will you promise, my sweet lady?"
"I will promise that I will, if I may," replied Mary; "but alas! Richard, the entire fulfilment of that promise must depend upon another. We poor women have but little power, even over our own fate and persons; but I will love none but you, Richard, wherever I go; and you will not doubt that love, though it be spoken so freely?"
"Nay, Heaven forbid!" said Richard of Woodville; "and were it not that you are my uncle's ward, I would put that love, dear Mary, to the proof, by asking you to fly with me and seek out some friendly priest who would bind our fate so fast together, that it would take greater power than any one in the land can boast, to sever it again. But I would not be ungrateful to one who has been a father to me."
"Nor must I be ungrateful, either to him or to my own father, Richard," replied Mary Markham; "you would not love me long if I could be so."
"I know you cannot, Mary," answered her lover; "but tell me who he is, Mary, that I may try to win him to hear my suit. I knew not that your father was alive--unless, indeed, the idle gossip--but no more of that. Whoever he be, I will trust to merit his esteem, and surely his daughter's love will be no bad commendation to him. I have hopes, too, of advancement, if ambition be his passion, such, indeed, as I have never had before. The King--he who was with us not a month ago as Hal of Hadnock--"
"Ay, Dacre told us who he was," cried Mary Markham.
"The King, he shows me great favour," continued Woodville, "and has given me letters to many at the court of Burgundy, promising to send for me, too, as soon as he has service for me here. With a true heart, and no unpractised hand, I do not fear that I shall fail of winning honour; and though I be but a poor gentleman, yet, as I do know that riches or poverty would make no difference in Mary Markham to me, so I cannot believe that it will change me in her eyes."
"Oh no!" she answered, but then added, with a sigh, "but my father, Richard! It is long since I have seen him, yet he was kind and noble, just and true, if I remember right. I recollect him well, with his grey hair, changed more by sorrow than time. I thought you knew the whole, for Isabel does; but I promised faithfully not to speak of my fate or his to any one, for reasons that he judged sufficient, when he gave me into good Sir Philip's charge; and I must not break my word even for you, Richard."
"Well, it matters not," answered Woodville; "certainly I would fain know who he is, for then I might court him as a lover does his bride, for Mary's sake: but yet you must keep your promise to him, and to me too; and whenever you are free to speak, you must give me tidings, dear girl; for in all the thousand chances of this world, I might mar my own hopes, even while seeking to fulfil them."
"I will, I will," replied Mary Markham; "but hark! I hear your uncle's step, Richard. I will but add one word more to cheer you. Perhaps, if I judge right, we may not be so long ere we meet again, as you suppose--and now, God prosper you, my own true squire."
As she spoke, the good old knight, Sir Philip Beauchamp, entered the room, with a grave and somewhat perplexed air. It soon became evident, however, that whatever annoyed or embarrassed him, it was not the presence of his nephew; for he greeted him kindly, holding out his hand to him, saying, "Ay, you here, foolish boy!--still the moth and the candle! But if you needs must love, why, let it lead you to honour and renown. What brought you to London? To buy arms?"
"No, sir; to see the King," replied his nephew. "He sent me a messenger, bearing letters for me to the court of Burgundy, and gave me to understand that I might come to visit him, if I would."
The old knight, in his meditative mood, seemed to catch some of Woodville's words, and miss the others. "Letters to the court of Burgundy," he said. "Well! from Harry of England, they should smooth thy path, boy. Would to Heaven, you two were not lovers!--Not that I would speak ill of love; 'tis the duty of every gentleman to vow his service to some fair lady. At least, as it was so in my young day; but we have sorely declined since then--sorely, sorely, nephew of mine; and love was then quite a different affair from now--when it must needs end in marriage, or worse. It was a high and ennobling passion in those times, leading knights and gentlemen to seek praise, and do high deeds; not for their own sakes, but for the honour of the ladies whom they served, nor requiring reward even from them, but for pure and high affection, and the pleasure of exalting them. Thus, many a man loved a lady--either placed far above him, or removed from his reach by being wedded to another--without sin, or shame, or presumption; for love, as I have said, was a high and ennobling feeling in those days, which taught men to do what is right, not what is wrong."
"Well, my noble uncle," replied Richard of Woodville, "and so it may be now; and it will have the same effect with me. But one thing I do know, that I would rather do high deeds to exalt my own wife, than another man's: I would rather serve a lady that I may win, than a lady I have no right to seek. Methinks it is both more honest and more safe; and, by God's blessing, I will win her, too, if I live long enough, and have fair play."
The old knight smiled. "Thou art a jesting coystrel, Dickon," he said; "and yet not a bad man at arms either. But times are changed, I tell thee, and not for the better. Thou thinkest according to the day, and cannot understand the past. When goest thou over seas, boy?"
"In a few days, sir," answered Richard of Woodville. "I think before a week be out."
Mary Markham's cheek turned a little pale, and the old knight meditated for a moment or two; after which he asked his nephew when he intended to quit London? Richard replied, that he went on the following morning; and Sir Philip, who had found a sad vacancy in the hall since Richard had left them for a time, and poor Catherine for ever, required that he should stay and keep them company for the rest of the day.
"Heaven knows, my poor Mary," he said, "how long we may have to remain in this place; and we shall soon find it dull enough. The people whom I expected to meet, have not yet appeared, and no tidings of them have come; so we may as well keep this idle boy to make us merry; and if he must go buy arms or lace jerkins for the court of Burgundy, why we will go with him to Gutherun's Lane and the Jury; and you shall ride your white palfrey for once along Cheape, with your gay side-saddle quilted with gold; though in my young days--before King Richard married Anne of Bohemia--never a lady in the land saw so foolish a contrivance."
It may well be supposed that neither Mary Markham nor Richard of Woodville was very much averse to such a proposal; and the rest of the day passed in that April-morn happiness which all must have felt, ere parting with those we love; when the cloudy thought of the dreary morrow comes hourly sweeping over the sunshine of the present, yet making the light seem more bright for the passing shadow. More than once, too, the lovers were left for awhile alone; and every moment added to their sweet store of vows and promises. Much was also told that they had not had time to tell before, though it was still spoken in rambling and unconnected form--the one predominant feeling always intruding, and calling their thoughts and words back to what was passing in their own hearts.
How many bitter moments pay for our sweet ones in this life! and yet how willing are we all to make the purchase, whatever be the price! The ambitious spirit of enjoyment is upon us, and we must still enlarge the sphere of our delight, though--as when a conqueror stretches the bounds of his empire, and thereby only exposes a wider frontier to attack--each new hope, each new pleasure, each new possession, but lays us open to loss, regret, and disappointment. It is a sad view of human life; but Richard of Woodville and Mary Markham found its truth when they came to feel how much more bitter was their parting, for the few sweet hours of happiness they had enjoyed.
The sun, scarce a hand's breadth above the sky, was nevertheless shining with beams as bright and warm as in the summer, when Richard of Woodville mounted his horse in the court-yard of the inn at Charing, and, followed by his two yeomen and his page, rode out, after receiving the valedictory speeches of the host and hostess, who, with a little crowd, composed of drawers and maidens, and some of their other guests, watched his departure, and commented upon his strong yet graceful limbs, and his easy management of his charger, prognosticating that he would prove stout in battlefield, and fortunate in hall and bower. Near the fine chaste cross at Charing--which stood hard by the spot where the grand libel upon British taste, called Trafalgar Square, now stands--Woodville paused for a moment, and letting his eye run past its grey fretwork, gazed down in the direction of the palace and the Abbey, hesitating whether he should take the shorter road by the convent of St. James, or, once more passing through Westminster, ride under the windows of fair Mary Markham, for the chance of one parting glance. I need not tell the reader how the question was decided; but as he turned his horse's head towards the palace, he saw a female figure standing upon the lower step of the cross, with the hood, then usually worn by women when out, drawn far over the face. The beautiful form, however, the small foot and ankle appearing from beneath the short kirtle, and the wild peculiar grace of the attitude, taken together, showed him at once that it was poor Ella Brune; and he was riding forward to speak with her, when she herself advanced and laid her hand upon his horse's neck.
"I have been watching for you, noble sir," she said, "to bid you adieu before you part, and to give you thanks from a poor but true heart."
"Nay, you should not have waited here, Ella," he replied; "why did you not come to the inn?"
"I did, yesterday at vespers," answered the girl; "but you were abroad; and the people laughed, as if I had done a folly. Your men told me, however, you were going this morning at daybreak, and so I waited here; for I would fain ask you one boon."
"And what is that, Ella?" inquired Woodville; "if it be possible to grant, it shall not be refused; for I have so little to give, that I must be no niggard of what I have."
"You can grant it," replied the girl, with a bright smile; "and you will be a niggard indeed if you do not; for it is what can do you no harm, and may stead me much in case of need. It is but to tell me whither you go, and when, and how."
"That is easily said, my fair maiden," answered Woodville. "I go first to my own place at Meon; then to the Court of Burgundy, at the end of six days; and, as I would not cross through France, I go by sea from Dover to a town called Nieuport, on the coast of Flanders. But say, is there aught I can do for you before I send the man I told you of, to give you what little assistance I can?"
"Send him not, send him not," cried the girl; "I am now rich--almost too rich, thanks to your generous interference with our good King. He sent me a large sum, by the hands of the bad knight, who killed the poor old man."
"Ay!" said Richard of Woodville; "and did you see this Sir Simeon of Roydon, my poor Ella? Beware of him; for he is not one to understand you rightly, I fear."
"I am aware of him," answered the minstrel's girl; "and I abhor him. He is a dark fearful man--but no more of that; I shall never see him more, I trust, for his eyes chill my blood. He looked at me as I love not men should look--not as you do, kindly and pitifully; but I know not how--it can be felt, not told."
"I understand you, Ella," replied Richard of Woodville; "and his acts are like his looks. He has made more than one unhappy heart in many a cottage that once was blithe. I grieve the King sent him to you."
"Oh, 'twill do no harm," cried the girl. "I shall not long be here; and I know him well. Would that I were not a woman!"
"What! would you avenge the wrong he did on that sad evening?" asked Woodville, with a smile, to think how feeble that small hand would prove in strife.
"No, not for that," she replied; "for I would try to forgive; but if I were not what I am you would take me with you in your train, and then I should be safe and happy."
"I trust you may be so still, even as a woman, poor girl," answered Richard of Woodville; and, after a few more words of kindness and comfort, he bade her adieu. Ella Brune's bright eyes glistened; and, perhaps, she found it difficult to speak the parting words, for she said no more, but, catching her young protector's hand, she pressed her lips upon it, and drew back to let him pass.
It was impossible for Richard of Woodville not to feel touched and interested; but he was not one to mistake her. He knew--not indeed by the hard teaching of experience, but by the intuitive perception of a feeling heart--how the unfortunate cling to those who show them kindness, and could distinguish between the love of gratitude and that of passion. He had purposely spoken gently and tenderly to her; and, in proportion as he could do little to afford her substantial aid, had tried to make his words and manner consoling and strengthening; and he thought, "If any one had acted so to me, I should feel towards him as this poor girl now feels in my case. Heaven guard her, poor thing, for hers is a sad fate!"
In such meditations he rode on; but we will not at present follow him on his way, turning rather to poor Ella Brune, who stood by the cross gazing after him, till his horse taking a road to the right, about two hundred yards before it reached the palace gate, was soon hidden by the trees, just at the entrance of the town of Westminster.
With a deep sigh, she then bent her steps along the road leading by the bank of the river towards the gate of the Temple, which was still in a somewhat ruinous state from the attack made upon it in 1381. As she went she looked not at the houses and gardens on either side--she marked not the procession which came forth, with cross and banner, from the convent on the right, nor the gay train that issued out of the gates of a large embattled house on the left; but separating herself from the people, who turned to gaze or hastened to follow, she made her way on, seeking the little inn where she dwelt.
There were two other persons, however, who followed the same course--men with swords by their side, and bucklers on their shoulder, and a snake embroidered on the mourning habits that they wore. But Ella saw them not--she was too deeply occupied with her own dark thoughts. She seemed alone in the wide world--more alone than ever, since Richard of Woodville had left the capital; and to be so is both sad and perilous. How strange, how lamentable it is, that society, that great wonderful confused institution, springing from man's necessity for mutual aid and support, provides no prop, no stay for those who are left alone in the midst of it; none to counsel, none to help, none to defend against the worst of all evils--temptation to vice. Of the body it takes some care; we must not cut, we must not strike the flesh; we must not enthral it; we must not kill. But we may wound, injure, destroy the spirit if we can, even at our pleasure. For substantial things, we multiply regulations, safe-guards, penalties; for the mind, on which all the rest so much depends, we provide none. The philosophy of legislation has yet a great step to advance--a step, perhaps, that may never--perhaps that can never--be taken; though of one thing we may be sure--that, till the great Eutopian dream is realized, and either by education, or some other means, a safeguard is provided for the minds of men as well as their bodies and their property, all the iron laws that can be enacted, will prove insufficient for the protection of those more tangible things which we think most easily defended. To regulate and guard the mind, especially in youth, is to turn the river near its source, and to ensure that it shall flow on in peace and bounty to the end; but to leave it unguided, and yet by law to strive to restrain man's actions, is to put weak floodgates against a torrent that we have suffered to accumulate. But no more of this. Perhaps what has been already said is too much, and out of place.
Yet, to return. It is strange and sad that society does afford no stay, no support, to those who are left alone in the wide world; nay, more, that to be so left, seems in a great degree to sever the bond between us and society. "He must have some friends. Let him apply to them," we are apt to say, whenever one of these solitary ones comes before us, and whether it is advice, assistance, or defence, that is needed. "He must have some friends!"--It is a phrase in constant use; and, in our own hearts, we go on to say, "if he have not, he must have lost them by his own fault;" and yet how many events may deprive man, and much more frequently woman, of the only friends possessed!
Poor Ella Brune felt that she was indeed alone; that there was no one to whom she could apply for anything that the heart and spirit of the bereaved and desolate might need. She knew, that had she been a leper, or halt, or blind, or fevered, she could have found those who would have tended, cured, supported her; but there was no comfort, no aid, for her loneliness; and scorn, or coldness, or selfish passion, or greedy knavery, would have met her, had she asked any one, in the wide crowd through which she passed, "Which way shall I turn my footsteps? how shall I bend my course through life?"
She felt it deeply, bitterly, and, as I have said, walked on full of her own sad thoughts, while the numbers round her grew less and less. At length, in the sort of irregular street that, even then, began to stretch out from the edge of Farringdon, without the walls, into the country towards Charing, she was left with none near her but the two men of whom we have spoken, and an old woman, walking slowly on before. The men seemed to notice no one, and conversed with each other in an under tone, till, in the midst of the highway, a little beyond St. Clement's well, one or two small wooden houses appeared built in the middle of the high road, with the end of a narrow lane leading up to the Old Temple in Oldbourne, and the house of the Bishop of Lincoln. There, however, one of them advanced a step, and spoke a word to Ella Brune, over her shoulder.
"Whither away, pretty maiden?" he said. "Are you not going to see the batch of country nobles who have come up to do homage?"
"I am going home," answered Ella Brune, gravely; "and want no company;" and she hurried her pace to get rid of him. The next instant the other man was by her side, and taking her arm roughly, he said, "You must come with us first, our lord wishes to speak with you."
Ella Brune struggled to disengage herself, saying, "Let me go, sir; if your lord wishes to speak with me, it must be at some other time. I have people expecting me hard by. Let me go, I say."
"Ay, we know all about it," rejoined the man, still keeping his hold, and drawing her towards the mouth of the lane. "You live at the Falcon, pretty mistress; but you must go with us first."
The sounds behind her had caused the old woman to turn round the moment before, and, seeing Ella struggling to free herself from the man who held her, she turned to remonstrate, exclaiming, "What are you about, sirs? Let the young woman go!"
"Get you gone, old beldame!" cried the other man, thrusting her back. "What is it to you?" and at the same time he seized Ella by the other arm, and hurried her on, in spite of her resistance.
"Beldame, indeed!" exclaimed the old woman, gazing after them. "Marry, thou art not civil. If thou callest me so, I will call thee Davy.[2]I will see whither they go, however;" and thus saying, at the utmost speed she could master, she followed the men who were dragging poor Ella Brune along, calling in vain for help--for the houses in that part of the suburb were few, and principally consisted either of the large gothic mansions of the nobility, shut in within their own gates and surrounded by gardens, or the inns of prelates, isolated in the same manner. Whither they were dragging her, the old woman could not divine: for she thought it unlikely that any of the persons who dwelt in that neighbourhood would sanction such a violent act. Ella herself, however, knew right well, for she had taken the same road the day before, on her brief visit to Sir Simeon of Roydon. Peril and wandering, and sad chances of various kinds, such as seldom are the lot of one so young, had taught her to remark every particular that passed before her eyes with a precision which fixed things in her memory that might have escaped the sight of others; and she had seen the snake embroidered on the breast and back of the knight's servants, and recognised the badge instantly on those who held her.
As she expected, the men stopped at the gates of the house, which were open, and dragged her into the court; but her cries and her resistance ceased the moment she had reached that place, for she knew that they were both in vain, and made up her mind from that moment to the course which she had to pursue.
"Ha, ha! pretty maiden," said the man who had first spoken to her. "You are now willing to go, are you? Our lord is not lightly to be refused a visit from any fair dame. Come, come, I can manage her now, Pilcher; you stay at the foot of the stairs. Will you come willingly, girl, or must we carry you?"
"I will come," answered Ella Brune; "not willingly, but because I must;" and, with the man still holding her by the arm, she mounted one of the flights of stairs which led straight from the court-yard to the rooms above. Following a long corridor, or gallery, lighted by a large window at the end, the man led her from the top of the stairs towards the back part of the house, and, opening a door on the right, bade her go in. After one hasty glance around, which showed her that it was vacant, she entered the small cabinet which was before her, and the door was immediately shut and locked. She now found herself in a dark and gloomy chamber, which probably had been originally intended either for secret conferences, or for a place of meditation and prayer, where the eye could not distract the mind by catching any of the objects without; for the only window which it possessed was so high up in the wall, that the sill was above the eyes of any person of ordinary height. There was but one door, too--that by which she had entered; and the whole of the walls of the room was covered with black oak, of which also the beams overhead were formed. A few chairs and a small table composed the only furniture which it contained; and Ella paused in the midst, leaning upon the table in deep thought. Her mind, indeed, was bent only on one point. What were the purposes of Sir Simeon of Roydon, she did not even ask herself; for she knew right well that they were evil. Nor did she consider what she should answer, or how she should act; for a strong and resolute mind judges and decides with a rapidity marvellous in the eyes of the slow and hesitating; and her determination was already formed. Her only inquiry was, what were the means of escape from the chamber in which she had been placed, what was its position in regard to the apartments which she had visited on the previous day, and which had appeared to be those usually occupied by Roydon himself.
After thinking for some moments, and retracing with the aid of memory every step she had taken in the house, both on that morning and the day before, she judged, and judged rightly, that the chamber in which she had seen the knight must join that in which she now stood, though she had reached it by another entrance. The sound of voices, which she soon after heard speaking in a different direction from the gallery, confirmed her in that belief; for, though she could not distinguish any of the words, she felt convinced that the tones were those of Sir Simeon of Roydon, and of the man who had brought her thither.
At length the speakers ceased, a door opened and shut, and then the key was turned in the lock of that which gave entrance to the room where she was confined. As she expected, the next moment Simeon of Roydon stood before her, bearing a sort of laughing triumph in his face, which only increased her abhorrence. He was advancing quickly, as if to take her hand, but she drew back, with her eyes fixed upon him, saying, "Come not too near, sir. I am somewhat dangerous at times, when I am offended."
"Why, what folly is this, my sweet Ella!" said the knight; "my people tell me that you have resisted like a young wolf."
"You may find me more of a wolf than you suppose," replied Ella Brune, coldly.
"Nay," answered Sir Simeon, "we have ways of taming wolves--but I seek nothing but your good and happiness, foolish girl. Is it not much better for you to live in comfort and luxury, with rich garments, and dainty food, and glowing wine, to lie soft, and have no task, but to sing and play and please yourself, than to wander about over the wide world, the sport of 'prentices, or the companion of ruffians?"
"There are ruffians in all stations." rejoined Ella Brune; "else had I not been here."
The cheek of the knight glowed with an angry spot; but then again he laughed the moment after, in a tone more of mockery than of merriment, saying, "We will tame thee, pretty wolf, we will tame thee. Thou showest thy white teeth; but thou wilt not bite."
"Be not sure of that," answered Ella Brune. "I know well how to defend myself, should need be, and have done so before now."
"Well, we will see," replied Sir Simeon; "it takes some time to break a horse or hound, or train a hawk; and you shall have space allowed you. All soft and kindly entertainment shall you have. With me shall you eat and drink, and talk and sing, if you will. You shall have courtship, like a lady of the land, to try whether gentle means will do. But mark me, pretty Ella, if they will not, we must try others. I am resolved that you shall be mine by force, if not by kindness."
"You dare not use it," answered Ella Brune.
"And why not?" demanded the knight, with a haughty smile; "I have done more daring things than vanquish a coy maiden."
"I know you have," said Ella Brune, in a grave and fearless tone; "but I will tell you why not. First, because, whatever be your care, it would come to the King's ears, and you would pay for it with your head. Next, because I carry about me wherewithal to defend myself;" and, putting her hand into her bosom, she drew forth a small short broad-bladed knife, in a silver case. "This is my only friend left me here," she continued; "and you may think, perchance, most gallant knight, and warrior upon women, that this, in so weak a hand as mine, is no very frightful weapon. But, let me tell you, that it was tempered in distant lands--ay, and anointed too; and you had better far give your heart to the bite of the most poisonous snake that crawls the valley of Egypt, than receive the lightest scratch from this. The hilt is always at hand--so, beware!"
"Oh, we have antidotes," replied the knight; "antidotes for everything but love, sweet maid--and I swear, by your own bright eyes, that you shall be mine--so 'tis vain to resist. You shall have three days of tenderness; and then I may take a different tone."
As he spoke, some one knocked for the second time--the first had been unheeded. The knight turned to the door, and opened it, demanding impatiently, "What is it?"
"The Lord Combe and Sir Harry Alsover are in the court, desiring to speak with you," replied the servant who appeared.
"Well, take them up to the other chamber," answered the knight; and, without saying more to his fair captive, he quitted the room, and once more locked the door.
The moment he was in the corridor, however, he stopped, saying, in a meditative tone, "Stay, Easton." He hesitated for an instant, asking himself whether it were worth his while to pursue this course any farther, for a low minstrel girl, against such unexpected resistance.
The hand of Heaven almost always, in its great mercy, casts obstacles in the way of the gratification of our baser passions, which give us time for thought and for repentance; so that, in almost every case, if we commit sin or crime, it is with the perverse determination of conquering both impediments and conviction. Conscience is seldom, if ever, left unaided by circumstances. But the wicked find, in those very circumstances which oppose their course, motives for pursuing it more fiercely.
"No!" said Sir Simeon of Roydon, to himself--"By--! she shall not conquer me!--Tell the King!--She shall never have the means; for I will either tame her, till she be but my bird, to sing what note I please, or I will silence her tongue effectually. To be conquered by a woman!--No, no! She is very lovely; and her very lion look is worth all the soft simpering smiles on earth. Hark ye, Easton: there is a druggist, down by the Vintry, with whom I have had some dealings in days of yore. This girl has a poisoned dagger about her, which must be got from her. 'Tis a marvel she used it not on you, as you brought her along, for she drew it forth on me but now. The man's name is Tyler; and he would sell his soul for gold. Tell him that I have need of some cunning drug to make men sleep--to sleep, I say--understand me, not to die: to sleep so sound, however, that a light touch, or a low tone, would not awaken them. It must have as little taste as may be, that we may put it in her drink, or in her food; and then, while she sleeps, we'll draw the lion's teeth. He will give you anything for a noble;" and, after these innocent directions, the knight betook himself to the chamber whither he had directed his friends to be brought, and was soon in full tide of laughter and merriment at all the idle stories of the Court.
Nearly opposite to the old, half ruined gate of the Temple, there commenced, in the days I speak of, a very narrow lane, which wound up northward, till it joined the place now called Holborn, passing, in its course, under the walls of the inn, or house, of the Bishop of Lincoln, round his garden wall, and through the grounds of the Old Temple house, inhabited by the Knights Templars, before they built a dwelling for themselves, by the banks of the Thames. This Temple house, still called the Old Temple in the reign of Henry V., had been abandoned by the brethren in the year 1184, or thereabout. For some time it was used to lodge any of the fraternity who might visit England from foreign countries, when the new building was too full to afford them accommodation; but gradually this custom ceased, even before the suppression of the Order, and at its dissolution the Old Temple fell into sore decay. When the lands of the Templars were afterwards granted to the Knights of St. John, certain portions of the building, and several of the out-buildings, were granted by them to various artisans, who found it more convenient to carry on their several pursuits beyond the actual precincts of the city of London. One large antique gate, of heavy architecture, with immense walls, and with rooms in either of the two towers which flanked the lane I have mentioned, was tenanted by an armourer, who had erected his stithy behind, and who stored his various completed arms in the chamber on the right of the gate, where the porter had formerly lodged. Over the window of this room was suspended, under a rude penthouse of straw, to keep it from the rain, a huge casque, indicative of the tenant's profession; and, at about eight o'clock of the same morning on which Richard of Woodville quitted London, a little cavalcade, consisting of a tall gaunt old man on a strong black horse, a young lady on a white genet, and three stout yeomen, rode slowly up to the gate-house, and drew their bridles there, pausing to gaze for a moment or two through the deep arch at the forge beyond, where the flame glowed and the anvil rang, throwing a red glare into the shadowy doorway, and drowning the sound of the horses' feet.
"Halloo! Launcelot Plasse!" cried old Sir Philip Beauchamp, in as loud a tone as he thought needful to call the attention of the person he wanted--"halloo!"
But the cyclops within went on with their hammering; and, after another ineffectual effort to make them hear, the good knight called up his men to hold the horses, and lifting Mary Markham as lightly to the ground as if she had been but the weight of a feather, he said, "We must go in and bellow in this deaf man's ear, till we outdo his own noise. Stay here, Mary, I will rouse him;" and, advancing through the open gate, he seized the bare arm of the armourer, exclaiming, "What, Launcelot! wouldst thou brain me?--Why, how now, man! has the roaring of thine own forge deafened thee?"
The elderly white-headed man to whom he spoke turned round and gazed at him, leaning his strong muscular arm upon his hammer, and wiping the drops from his brow. "By St. Jude!" he cried, after a moment's consideration, "I think it is Sir Philip Beauchamp. Yet your head is as white as the ashes, and when I knew him it was a grizzled black, like pauldrons traced with silver lines; and you are mighty thin and bony for stout Sir Philip, whose right hand would have knocked down an ox!"
"Fifteen years, Launcelot! fifteen years!" answered the knight; "they bend a stout frame, as thou beatest out a bit of iron; and, if my head be white, thy black hairs are more easy to be counted than found. Yet both our arms might do some service in their own way yet."
"Well, I am glad to see you again, noble knight," replied the armourer; "though I thought that it would be no more, before you and I went our ways to dust. But, what lack you? There must be some wars toward, to bring an old knight to the stithy; for well I wot, you are not going to buy a tilting suit, or do battle for a fair lady. God send us some good wholesome wars right soon! We have had nothing lately, but the emprise of the Duke of Clarence. King Harry the Fourth got tired of his armour; pray Heaven, his son love the weight better, or I must let the forge cool, and that were a shame."
"Nay, 'tis not for myself," replied Sir Philip. "I have more arms, Launcelot, than ever I shall don in life again. My next suit--unless the King make haste--will be in the chancel of the church at Abbot's Ann. What I want is for my nephew, Dickon of Woodville; he is going to foreign lands, in search of renown; and I would fain choose him a suit myself, for you know I am somewhat of a judge in steel."
"You were always accounted so, noble sir," replied the armourer, with a grave and important face; "and, if you had not been a knight, might have taken my trade out of my hands. But whither does Childe Richard go? We must know that, for every land has its own arms; and it would not do to give him for Italy what is good for France, nor for Palestine what would suit Italy."
The old knight informed him that his nephew was first to visit Burgundy; and the armourer exclaimed, with a well satisfied air, "Then I can provide him to a point; for I have Burgundian arms all ready, even to flaming swords, if he must have them; but 'tis a foolish and fanciful weapon, far less serviceable than the good straight edge and point. But come, Sir Philip, let us go into the armoury. 'Tis well nigh crammed full, for gentlemen buy little; and yet I go on hammering with my men, till I have put all the money that I got in the wars, into arms."
Thus saying, he covered himself with the leathern jerkin, which he had cast off while at work, and returned with his old acquaintance to the room in which the various pieces of armour, that he kept ready, were preserved. Sir Philip called Mary Markham to assist in the choice; but it soon became evident to both, that no selection could be made in good Launcelot Plasse's armoury--for not only was the room, to their eyes, as dark as the pit of Acheron, but the armour was piled up in such confused heaps, that it was hardly possible to take a step therein without stumbling over breast-plate or bascinet, pauldrons or brassières.
"Fie, Launcelot, fie!" cried Sir Philip; "this is a sad deranged show. Why, a stout man-at-arms always keeps his armour in array."
"When he has room and time, Sir Philip," answered the man; "but here I have neither. However, you and the fair lady go forth under the arch, and I will bring you out what is wanted. Here, knave Martin," he continued, calling one of his men from the forge, "bring out the great bench, and set it under the gate, quick!--What is your nephew's height, Sir Philip?"
"What my own used to be," replied the old knight; "six feet and half an inch--and there is his measure round the waist."
The bench was soon brought forward, being nothing else than a large solid table of some six inches thick; and by it Sir Philip Beauchamp and fair Mary Markham took their station, while Launcelot Plasse, with the aid of one of his men, dug out from the piles within, various pieces of armour which he thought might suit the taste of his old customer, laying them down at the door, to be brought forward as required. The first article, however, that he carried to the bench, was a cuirass of one piece, evidently old--for not only was it somewhat rusty about the angles, but in the centre there was a large rough-edged hole.
"Why, what is this?" exclaimed Sir Philip; "this will never do--"
"Nay, it has done, and left undone enough," replied the armourer. "I brought it but to show you. In that placcate was killed Harry Hotspur. I do not say that was the hole that let death in; for men aver that it was a stab in the throat with a coustel, when he was down, that slew him; but the blow that madethatbore him to the ground, other wise Shrewsbury field might have gone differently. Now I will fetch the rest. You see, fairest lady, what gentlemen undergo for the love of praise, and your bright eyes."
Thus saying, he took back the breast-plate, and brought forward, supported on his arm, one of the bascinets or casques worn in the field, which were lighter and considerably smaller than the jousting helmets. It was of a round or globular shape, with a small elevation at the top, in which to fix the feathers then usually displayed; and on the forehead was a plate, or band of white enamel, inscribed with the words, "Ave Maria." Sir Philip Beauchamp made some objections to the form; but Mary Markham, after she had read the inscription, pronounced in favour of the bascinet; and the armourer himself had so much to say of its defensive qualities, of the excellent invention of making the ventaille rise by plates from below, and of the temper of the steel, that Sir Philip, after having examined it minutely, waived his objections. The price being fixed, the body armour to match was brought forward, piece by piece, and laid upon the bench. It was of complete plate, as was now the custom of the day, but yet many pieces of the old chain hauberk were retained to cover the joinings of the different parts. Thus beneath the gorget, or camail, which covered the throat, was a sort of tippet formed of interlaced rings of steel, to hang down over the cuirass and afford additional protection; while, at the same time, from the tassets which terminated the cuirass, hung a broad edge of the same, to complete their junction with the cuissards, or thigh pieces.
This arrangement pleased the old knight very much; for it was a remnant of the customs of ancient times, when he himself was young, and which totally disappeared before many years were over; but with the cuirass he quarrelled very much, exclaiming, "What, will men never have done with their idle fancies? 'Tis bad enough to divide the breast-plate into two, and hang the lower part to the upper by that red strap and buckle; but what is the use of sticking out the breast, like that of a fat-cropped pigeon?"
"It gives greater use to the arms, noble sir," replied Launcelot Plasse, "and turns a lance much easier, from being quite round. Besides, it is the fashion of the court of Burgundy: and no noble gentleman could appear there well without. The palettes, too, you see, are shaped like a fan, and gilt with quaint figures at the corners. It cost me nine days to make these palettes alone, and the genouillières, which have the same work upon them. Then the pauldrons--see how they are artfully turned over at the top of the shoulder with a gilt bordure."
"And pray, what may that be for?" demanded the old knight; "we had no such tricks in my days to make a man look like a cray-fish."
"That is to give the arm fuller sweep and sway, either with axe or sword," answered the armourer. "You can thus raise your hand quite up to your very crest, which you could never do before, since pauldrons were invented."
"We used to give good stout strokes in the year eighty," rejoined Sir Philip Beauchamp, "as you well know, Master Launcelot. But boys must have boys' things--so let it pass; but, what between one piece and another, it will take a man an hour to get into his harness, with all these buckles and straps. But I will tell you what, Master Launcelot, I will have no tuilles over the cuissards; they were a barbarous and unnatural custom, and very inconvenient too. I was once nearly thrown to the ground in Gascony, by the point catching the saddle as I mounted."
"Oh! they are quite gone out of use," replied the armourer; "and we now either make the tassets long, or add a guipon of mail, coming down to the thighs."
The jambes or steel boots, the sollerets or coverings for the feet, the brassards, gauntlets, and vambraces were then discussed and purchased, not without some chaffering on the part of the old knight, who was a connoisseur in the price as well as in the fashion of armour; but Launcelot Plasse had so much to say in favour of his commodities, that he obtained very nearly the sum he demanded.
He then proceeded to prove to Sir Philip Beauchamp, that the suit would not be complete without the testière, the chanfron, and the manefaire and poitral of, the horse to correspond; and, though his customer was not inclined to spend anymore money, yet a soft word or two from Mary Markham won the day for the armourer, and he was directed to bring forth the horse armour for inspection.
While he and his men were busy fulfilling this command, the old knight turned, hearing some one speaking eagerly, and apparently imploringly, to his attendants; and, seeing an old woman poorly dressed conversing with them, he inquired, "What does the woman want, Hugh?"
"Ah! noble sir," replied the old dame, "if you would but interfere, it might save sin and wrong. I have just seen a poor girl dragged away by two men up to a house in the lane, called Burwash-house, where they have taken her in against her will."
"Ha!" cried Sir Philip Beauchamp; "why, he is an old and reverend man, my good Lord of Burwash, and will not suffer such things in his mansion. I will send up one of the men to tell him."
"The noble lord is not there, fair sir," replied the woman; "but he has lent his house to some gay knight, whose men do what they please with the poor people. 'Tis but yesterday my own child was struck by one of them."
"If there be wrong done, you must go to the officers of the duchy, good woman," answered the knight, whose blood was cold with age, and who could be prudent till he was chafed. "I will send one of the yeomen with you, to get you a hearing. These things should be amended; but when Kings' sons will beat the citizens, and brawl in Cheape, there is no great hope."
"Good faith, Sir Philip!" cried the armourer, who had just come forth, bearing the manefaire upon his arm, "if it be the Duke of Clarence you speak of, and his brother John, 'twas they got beaten, and did not beat. We Londoners are sturdy knaves, and take not drubbings patiently, whether from lord or prince."
"And you are right, too," replied the old knight; "men are not made to be the sport of other men. But what's to be done about this girl, Launcelot? You know the customs here better than I do. The good woman says they have carried a girl off against her will to Burwash-house here, hard by."
"Why, that's the back of it," cried Launcelot Plasse. "The old lord is not there, but in his stead one Sir Simeon of Roydon, who, if I mistake not, will never win much renown by stroke of lance. Wait a minute, my good woman, till I have sold my goods, and then I and my men will go up with you, and set the girl free, or it shall go hard, if you are certain she was taken against her will."
"She shrieked loud enough to make you all hear," replied the old woman.
"I thought there was a noise when we were hammering at the back piece," observed one of the men.
"I heard nothing," said Launcelot Plasse.
"Oh, go at once, go at once," cried Mary Markham; "you know not how she may be treated. We can wait till you return. Send the men with them, dear Sir Philip."
"I will go myself, Mary," replied the knight. "Come along, my men, leave one with the horses, and the rest follow."
"I am with you, Sir Philip," cried the armourer. "Bring your hammers, lads, we will make short work of oaken doors."
But ere Sir Philip Beauchamp had taken two steps up the lane, the casement of a large window in the house which had been pointed out, was thrown suddenly open, and a woman's head appeared. The sill of the window was some twelve or fourteen feet from the ground; but, to the surprise of all, without seeming to pause for a moment, the girl whom they beheld set her foot upon it, caught the iron bar which ran down the middle of the casement, seemed to twist something round it, and then suffered herself to drop, hanging by her hands, first from the bar, and then from a scarf.
She was still some five or six feet from the ground, however; and Mary Markham, who had been watching eagerly, clasped her hands, and turned away her head. Sir Philip Beauchamp, and the men who accompanied him paused, and they could hear a voice from within exclaim, "Follow her like light, by the back door! She will to the King, and that were ruin. What fear you, fool? She has broken the dagger in the lock, do you not see?"
As he spoke, the girl, after a momentary hesitation, during which she hung suspended by the hands, wavering with the motion which she had given herself in dropping from above, let go her hold, and sank to the ground. Fortunately the lane was soft and sandy; and she fell light, coming down, indeed, upon one knee, but instantly starting up again unhurt.
She then gazed wildly round her for an instant, and put her hand to her head, as if asking herself whither she should fly; but the sight of the old knight and his companions, and the sound of an opening door on the other side, brought her indecision quickly to an end, and running rapidly forward, she cast herself at Sir Philip Beauchamp's feet, embracing his knee, and crying, "Save me!--save me, noble sir!"
At the moment she reached the good old man, two stout fellows, who had rushed from a door in the wall, and followed her at full speed, were within two paces of her; and one of them caught her by the arm, even at the knight's feet, as he was in the act of commanding him to keep aloof.
"Stand back, fellow!" thundered Sir Philip Beauchamp, with the blood coming up into his withered cheek; and the next moment, in the midst of an insolent reply, he struck the knave in the face with his clenched fist, knocking him backwards all bloody on the ground.
The other man, who had more than once accompanied Sir Simeon of Roydon to Dunbury, and recognised its lord, slunk back to the house, stopped some others who were following, and then hastened in, to tell his master in whom Ella Brune had found a protector.
The man who had been knocked down, rose, gazed fiercely at the knight, and then looked behind him for support; but seeing his companions retreating, he too retrod his steps, not without muttering some threats of vengeance; while the old armourer cried after him, "Never show your faces again in the lane, knaves, or we will hide you back like hounds, or pound you like strayed swine."
In the meanwhile, Sir Philip had raised up the poor girl; and Mary Markham was soothing her tenderly, as Ella, finding herself safe, gave way to the tears which her strong resolution had repressed in the actual moment of difficulty and danger.
"Come, come, do not weep, poor thing," said the knight, laying his large, bony hand upon her shoulder. "We will take care of you. Who is it that has done this?"
"A bad man, called Simeon of Roydon," replied Ella Brune, wiping away the tears.
"We know him," said Mary Markham, in a kindly tone; "and do not love him, my poor girl."
"And I have cause to love him less, noble lady," replied Ella Brune, waving her head mournfully. "'Tis but two nights ago he killed the last friend I had; and now he would have wronged me shamefully."
"Killed him!" exclaimed Mary; "what! murdered him?"
"'Twas the same as murder," replied the girl; "he rode him down in a mad frolic--a poor blind man. He is not yet in his grave."
"Come, come--be comforted," said Sir Philip. "Let us hear how all this chanced."
"We will be your friends, poor girl," added Mary Markham; and then, turning to the old knight, she asked, in a low tone, "can we not take her home with us?"
Sir Philip gazed at the minstrel's girl from head to foot, and then shrugged his shoulders slightly, with a significant look, as he remarked her somewhat singular dress.
"Nay, nay," said Mary Markham, in the same low tone; "do not let that stop you, noble friend. There may be some good amongst even them."
"Well, be it as you will, Mary," answered the old knight; "she must be better than she looks, to do as she has done. Come, poor thing--you shall go home with us, and there tell us more. Wait till I have finished the purchase of this harness, and we will go along back to Westminster; though how to take you through the streets in that guise, I do not well know."
"Get a boat, sir, at a landing by the Temple," said Launcelot Plasse, "and send the horses by land."
"A good thought," replied the knight; and thus it was arranged, the whole party returning to the armourer's shop, and thence, after the bargain was made, and all directions were given, proceeding to the water-side, where a boat was soon procured, which bore them speedily to the landing-place at Westminster.