One morning, while the events which I have lately detailed were passing in the city of London, a man in a long brown gown, with a staff in his hand, a cross upon his shoulder, and a cockle-shell in his hat, walked slowly, and apparently wearily, into the little village of Abbot's Ann, and sat himself down on a stone bench before the reeve's door.
Recognising the pilgrim from some far distant land as she looked out of her casement window, the good dame, with the charitable spirit of the age, took him forth some broken victuals and a cup of ale, and inquired what news he brought from over sea. The wanderer, however, seemed more inclined to ask than answer questions, and was apparently full of wonder and amazement at the tragic story--which he had just heard, he said--of the death of the Lady Catherine Beauchamp. He prayed the good woman, for love and for charity's sake, to tell him all about it; and she, very willing to gratify him--for every country gossip gains dignity while telling a horrible tale--began at the beginning of the affair, as far as she knew it; and related how, just on the night after the last Glutton mass, as Childe Richard of Woodville, their lord's nephew, was riding down the road with a friend, he heard a shriek, and, on hurrying to the water, found the body of the poor young lady floating down the stream; how the two gentlemen bore her to the chanter's cottage; and how marks were found upon her person, which seemed to prove that she had come to her death by unfair means.
"And has the murderer been discovered, sister?" inquired the old pilgrim.
"Alas, no!" replied the reeve's wife; "there have been whispers about, but nothing certain."
"Ay, murder will out, sooner or later," answered the pilgrim. "And whom did the whispers point at?"
"Nay," replied Dame Julian, "I know not that I ought to say; but, to a reverend man like you, who have visited the shrine of St. James, there can be no harm in speaking of these things, especially as we all know that the whispers are false. Well, then--but you must tell nobody what I say--the lady's own lover--husband, indeed, I might call him, for they were betrothed by holy church--has been accused of having done the deed; but every one who knows Sir Harry Dacre is right sure that he would have sooner cut off both his hands; and, besides, the miller of Clatford Mill told me--'twas but yesterday morning--that, half an hour before sunset, on that very day when all this happened, he saw Sir Harry at his own place, and opened the gate for him to go through. He remembered it, he said, because the knight had torn his hand with a nail in the gate, by trying to open it without dismounting; and as soon as he was through, he rode on towards Wey Hill, which is quite away from here."
"Might he not have come back again by some other road?" asked the pilgrim.
"No," answered Dame Julian, "not without going four miles round; and, besides, the miller told me that his man Job saw the knight, half an hour after, at the top of Wey Hill, halting his horse, and gazing at the sun setting. Now that's a good way off, and this deed was done just after close of day."
"Then that clears him," replied the pilgrim; "but is there no one else suspected?"
The good woman shook her head, and he added--"Was nobody seen about here who might have had cause to wish the lady ill?"
"None," said Dame Julian, with a low laugh, "but one who might perhaps wish her dead; for he got all her wealth, which was prodigious, they say."
"Ay, was he seen about, then?" demanded the pilgrim; "there might be suspicion there."
"Why," said the reeve's wife, "he was staying up at the Hall, and passed homeward about three. It might be a little later, but not much. What became of him afterwards I do not know; and yet, now I think of it, he must have remained in the place some time, for he was seen an hour after, or more, by a girl, who asked me who he was."
"Tis a wonder she did not know him," said the pilgrim, "if she lives in this place."
"But that she does not," answered Dame Julian. "She dwells a good way off, and was here by chance."
"Ay, 'tis a sad tale, indeed," rejoined her companion; "but I must go, good dame. Gramercy for your bounty. But tell me,--I saw an abbey as I came along; have they any famous relics there?"
"Ay, that they have," rejoined the reeve's wife, with a look of pride. "Our abbey is as rich in relics as any other in England;" and she began an enumeration of all the valuable things that it contained; amongst which, the objects that she seemed to set the greatest store by, was a finger of St. Luke the Evangelist, the veil of the blessed Virgin, and one of the ribs of St. Ursula.
The pilgrim declared that he must positively go and visit them, as he never passed any holy relics without sanctifying himself by their touch.
He accordingly took his way towards the abbey direct, and visited and prayed at the several shrines which the church contained, having secured the company and guidance of one of the monks, who were always extremely civil and kind to pilgrims and palmers, when they did not come exactly in the guise of beggars. The present pilgrim was of a very different quality; and he completely won the good graces and admiration of the attendant monk, not so much, indeed, by the devotion with which he told his beads and repeated his prayers, as by his generosity in laying down a large piece of silver before the rib of St. Ursula, another at the shrine of St. Luke, and a small piece of gold opposite to the veil of the blessed Virgin.
Having thus prepared the way, the stranger proceeded to open a conversation with the monk, somewhat similar to that which he had held with Dame Julian, the reeve's wife; and now a torrent of information flowed in upon him; for his companion had been one of the brethren who accompanied the abbot to the cottage whither the body of Catherine Beauchamp had been carried. The tale, however, though told with much loquacity, furnished but few particulars beyond those which the pilgrim had already gained; for the monk appeared a meek, good man, who took everything as he found it, and deduced but little from anything that he heard. All that he knew, indeed, he was ready to tell; but he had neither readiness nor penetration sufficient to gather much information, or to sift the corn from the chaff.
The pilgrim seemed somewhat disappointed, for he was certainly anxious to hear more; and he was on the eve of leaving the church unsatisfied, when he beheld another monk pacing the opposite aisle, with a grave, and even dull air. He was an old man, with a short, thin, white beard, and heavy features, which, till one examined closely, gave an expression of stupidity to his whole countenance, only relieved by the small, elephant-like eye, which sparkled brightly under its shaggy eyebrow.
"What brother is that?" demanded the pilgrim, looking across the church.
"Oh, that is brother Martin," replied the monk; "a dull and silent man, from whom you will get nothing. He is skilled in drugs and medicines, it is true. His cell is like an alchymist's shop; but we all think he must have committed some great sin in days of old, for half his time is spent in prayers and penances, and the other half in distilling liquors, or roasting lumps of clay and other stuffs in crucibles and furnaces. 'Tis rather hard, the lord abbot favours him so much, and has granted him two cells, the best in the whole monastery, to follow these vain studies, which, in my mind, come near to magic and sorcery. I saw him once, with my own eyes, make a piece of paper, cut in the shape of a man, dance upright, as if it had life."
"I will speak to him," said the pilgrim, "and will soon let you know if there be anything forbidden in his studies; for I have been in lands full of witches and sorcerers, and have learnt to discover them in an instant."
"'Tis a marvel if he answers you at all," replied the monk; "for he's as silent as a frog; but, I pray you, let me hear what you think of him."
"Ay, that I will," rejoined the stranger; "but you must keep away while we talk together, lest the presence of another might close his lips. I will seek you out afterwards, brother; I think your name is Clement? so the porter told me."
"The same, the same," replied the monk. "I will go to the refectory." But, before he went, he paused for a minute or two, and watched the pilgrim crossing the nave, and addressing brother Martin. At first, he seemed to receive no answer but a monosyllable. The next instant, however, much to his surprise, Clement saw the silent brother turn round, gaze intently upon the pilgrim's face, and then enter into an eager conversation with him. What was the subject of which they spoke he could not divine, or, rather, what was the secret by which the pilgrim had contrived to break the charmed taciturnity of silent brother Martin; and his curiosity was so much excited, that he thought fit to cross over also, though with a slow and solemn step, in order to benefit by this rare accident. The small, clear, grey eye of brother Martin, however, caught Clement's movements in a moment, and laying his hand upon the sleeve of the pilgrim's gown, he led him, with a quick step, through a small side door that opened into the cloister, and thence to his own cell, leaving the inquisitive monk, who did not choose to discompose his dignity, or shake his fat sides by rapid motion, behind them in the church.
What turn their communications took, and whether the pilgrim discovered or not that brother Martin was addicted to the black art, Clement never learned--for the faithless visitor of the abbey totally forgot to fulfil his promise; and when, at the end of about two hours, he took his departure, it was by the back door leading from the cloister over the fields. The high road was at no great distance, and along it he trudged with a much more light and active step than that which had borne him into the village on his first appearance; so that, had good Dame Julian, the reeve's wife, seen him as he went back, she might have been inclined to think that brother Martin had employed upon him some magical device, to change age into youth.
About half a mile from Andover, the pilgrim turned a little from the road, and, sitting down in a neighbouring field, took out of his wallet a large kerchief, and an ordinary hood,--then stripped off his brown gown and hat, laying them deliberately in the kerchief, and next divested himself of a quantity of white hair, which left him with a shock head of a lightish brown hue, a short tabard of blue cloth, a stout pair of riding boots, and a dagger at his girdle.
"So ends my pilgrimage!" said Ned Dyram, as he packed up his disguise in the napkin; "and, by my faith, I have brought home my wallet well stored. Out upon it!--am I to labour thus always for others? No, by my faith! I will at least keep some of the crusts I have got for myself; and if others want them they must pay for them. Let me see;--we will divide them fairly. Dame Julian and brother Clement in one lot; brother Martin in the other. That will do; and if aught be said about it hereafter, I will speak the truth, and avow that, had I been paid, I would have spoken. Alchemy is a great thing;--without its aid I could never have transmuted brother Martin's leaden silence into such golden loquacity. Why, I have taught the old man more in an hour than he has learned in his life before; and he has given wheat for rye; so that we are even."
With these sage reflections, Ned Dyram put his packet under his arm and walked on to Andover--where, at a little hostelry by the side of the river, he paused and called for his horse, which was soon brought. A cup of ale sufficed him for refreshment, and after he had drained it to the dregs, he trotted off upon the road to London, still meditating over all that he had learned at Abbot's Ann and Dunbury Abbey, and somewhat hesitating as to the course which he had to pursue.
It would afford little either of instruction or amusement, were I to trace all the reflections of a cunning but wayward mind--for such was that of Edward Dyram. Naturally possessed of considerable abilities, quick in acquirements, retentive in memory, keen, observing, dexterous, he might have risen to wealth, and perhaps distinction; for his were not talents of that kind which led some of the best scholars of that day to beg from door to door, with a certificate of their profound science from the chancellors of their universities, but of a much more serviceable and worthy kind. A certain degree of waywardness of mind and inconstancy of disposition--often approaching that touch of insanity, which affected, or was affected by, those wise men the court fools of almost all epochs--and an unscrupulousness in matters of principle, which left his conduct often in very doubtful balance between honesty and knavery, had barred his advancement in all the many walks he had tried. He had strong, and even ungovernable animal impulses also, which had more than once led him into situations of difficulty, and between which and his natural ambition, there was the same struggle that frequently took place between his good sense and his folly. He laboured hard, not perhaps to govern his passions, but rather to keep their gratification within safe limits; and he felt a sort of ill-will towards himself when they overcame him, which generated a cynical bitterness towards others. That bitterness was also increased by a consciousness of not having succeeded in any course as much as the talents he knew himself to possess might have ensured; but it must not be supposed for one moment that Ned Dyram ever attributed the failure of his efforts for advancement to himself. The injustice or folly of others, he thought, or the concurrence of untoward circumstances, had alone kept him in an inferior situation. Though the King, on his accession to the throne, had extended to him greater favour than to any other of those who had participated in the wild exploits of his youth, simply because Ned Dyram had never prompted or led in any unjustifiable act, and had not withheld the bitterness of his tongue even from the youthful follies of the Prince, yet he felt a rankling disappointment at not having been promoted and honoured, without ever suspecting that Henry might have seen in him faults or failings that would have rendered him a more dangerous servant to a sovereign than to a private individual. Yet such was the case; for that great prince's eyes were clear-sighted and keen; and though he had not troubled himself to study all the intricacies of the man's character, he had perceived many qualities which he believed might be amended by mingling with the world in an inferior station, but which unfitted the possessor at the time for close attendance upon a monarch.
Ned Dyram, however, though affecting that bluntness which is so often mistaken for sincerity, was not without sufficient pliancy to conceal his mortification, and to perform eagerly whatever task the King imposed upon him. I do not say, indeed, that he proposed to perform it well, unless it suited his own views and wishes. He did the monarch's bidding with alacrity, because on that he thought his future fortune might depend; but he did not make up his mind to ensure success by diligence, activity, and zeal--satisfying himself by saying, that "the result must ever depend upon circumstances;" and one of those circumstances was always, in this case, Ned Dyram's own good will.
He had some hesitation, however, and some fear; for there was but one man in England whose displeasure he dreaded, and that man was the King. But yet I would not imply that it was his power he feared alone: he feared offending the man rather than the monarch, for Henry had acquired over him that influence which can be obtained only by a great and superior mind over one less large and comprehensive. It was the majesty of that great prince's intellect of which he stood in awe, not the splendour of his throne; and perhaps he might have yielded to the impression in the present instance, and done all that he ought to have done, had he not perceived too clearly the feelings which prompted him to do so; for as soon as he was conscious that dread of the King was operating to drive him in a certain direction, the dogged perversity of his nature rose up and dragged him to the contrary side. He called himself "a cowed hound;" and, with all the obstinate vanity of a wrong-headed man, he resolved to prove to himself that he had no fear, by acting in direct opposition to the dread of which he was conscious.
As the best way of conquering all scruples, he treated them lightly from that moment; quickened his horse's pace, stopped to sup and sleep about fifteen miles from London, and presented himself at the gates of the palace at an early hour next morning. There he was kept waiting for some time, as the King was at council; but at length he was admitted to the monarch's presence, and, in answer to questions, which evidently showed that he had been sent into Hampshire to collect information of a more definite character than had previously reached Henry's ears, in regard to the death of Catherine Beauchamp, he gave his sovereign at full all the tidings he had gained from Dame Julian, the reeve's wife, from brother Clement, and from two or three other persons, whom he had seen before he met with those I have mentioned. Of brother Martin, however, he said not a word; and Henry mused for several minutes without observation.
"Well," he said at length, "refresh yourself and your horse, Ned; and then go back and join your new lord. Here is largess for your service, though I am sorry you have been able to gain no more clear intelligence;" and at the same moment he poured the contents of a small leathern purse, which had been lying on the table, into his hand.
The amount was far larger than Ned Dyram had expected;--for Henry was one of the most open-handed men on earth--and he paused, looked from the gold to the monarch, and seemed about to speak. At that moment, however, the door of the room opened, and a young gentleman entered in haste. By the stern and somewhat contracted, but high forehead--by the quick, keen eye, and by the compressed lips, Ned Dyram instantly recognised Prince John of Lancaster; and, at a sign from the King, he bowed low and quitted the presence.
Ella Brune sat on a stool at the feet of Mary Markham, on the day after Richard of Woodville's departure from London, and certainly a more beautiful contrast was seldom seen than between the fair lady and the minstrel girl, as the one told and the other listened to, the tale of the old man's death, and all that had since occurred. The eyes of both were full of tears, which did not run over, indeed, but hung trembling on the eyelid, like drops of summer dew in the cup of a flower; and Mary Markham, with the kind, familiar impulse of sympathy, stretched forth her fair hand twice, and pressed that of her less fortunate companion, as she told the tale of her sorrows, and her sufferings. The poor girl's heart yearned towards her gentle friend, as she remarked her sympathy for all she felt,--her grief at the death of the poor old man, her pleasure at the conduct of Ella's generous protector, her indignation at the persecution she had suffered from a man whom she herself scorned and despised. But one thing is to be remarked. The name of Sir Simeon of Roydon, Ella spoke plainly, and repeated often, during her narrative; but that of Richard of Woodville, from some latent feeling in her own heart, she shrunk from pronouncing. It might be, that the meaning looks and smiles of the people of the inn where she had visited him, made her believe that others would entertain the suspicions or fancies which she imagined that those looks implied. It might be that she doubted her own heart, or that she knew there really were therein sensations which she dreaded to acknowledge to herself, and still more to expose to the eyes of others. Thus she gave him any other designation than his own name. She called him "the noble gentleman who had befriended her," "her protector," "her benefactor,"--everything, in short, but Richard of Woodville.
Mary Markham observed this reserve; and, as woman's heart, even in the most simple and single-minded, is always learned in woman's secrets, Mary judged, and judged rightly, that gratitude was growing up in Ella's bosom into love. She could very well understand that it should be so; she thought it natural--so natural, that it could scarce be otherwise; and what she felt within herself would have made her very lenient to passion in others, even had she been more harsh and severe than she was. She took a deep interest in the poor girl and her whole history, and not less in her grateful love than in any other part thereof; so that she was anxious to learn who and what this unnamed benefactor was, in order that she might judge whether there was the least hope or chance of Ella's tenderness meeting due return.
"He was a generous and noble-hearted knight, indeed," she said; "more like the ancient chivalry, my poor girl, than the heartless nobility of the present day."
"He is not a knight," answered Ella, timidly; "but I am sure he soon will be, for he well deserves his spurs."
"And he is young and handsome, of course, Ella?" said Mary Markham, with a smile.
The minstrel girl coloured, but answered nothing; and Mary went on, saying, "But you must tell me his name, Ella; I would fain know who is this noble gentleman."
Thus plainly asked, Ella Brune could not refuse to answer; and, bending down her bright eyes upon the ground, she said, "His name is Richard of Woodville, lady."
She spoke in a tone so low, that the words might have been inaudible to any other ear than that of Mary Markham. The well-known sound, however, was instantly caught by her, producing emotions in her heart such as she had never felt before. Her very breath seemed stopped; her bosom fluttered, as if there had been a caged bird within; her cheek turned very pale, and then flushed warm again with the blood spreading in a brighter glow over her fair forehead and her blue-veined temples. Hers was not indeed a jealous disposition; her nature was too generous and frank to be suspicious or distrustful; but it is difficult for any woman's ear to hear that he to whom her whole affections are given is loved by another, and her heart not beat with emotions far from pleasurable.
Yet Mary schooled herself for what she felt--for the slight touch of doubt towards Woodville, and of anger towards Ella, which crossed her bosom for a moment. "It is not his fault," she thought, "if the girl loves him; nor hers either to love him for acts of generous kindness. She is no more to blame for such feelings than myself; the same high qualities that won my regard might well gain hers. He is too noble, too--too true and faithful to trifle with her, or to forget me. Yet, would this had not happened! It is strange, too, that he did not mention all this to me!"
But then she remembered how every hour he had spent with her had passed, how little time they had found to say all that two warm and tender hearts could prompt; how often they had been interrupted in the half-finished tale of love; how constantly it had been renewed whenever they were alone; and then she thought it not extraordinary at all that he had spoken of nothing else.
Such thoughts, however, kept her mute, with her eyes gazing on the tapestry at the other side of the room; and she saw not that Ella, surprised at her silence, had now raised her look, and was reading in the countenance--with the skill which peril and misfortune soon acquire in this hard world--all that was passing in the heart beneath. The poor girl's face was very pale, for she had her emotions too; but yet she was calmer than Mary Markham, for one of the chief sources of agitation was wanting in her bosom. She was without hope. She might love, but it was love with no expectation. The future, which to Mary's eyes was like the garden of the Hesperides, all hanging with golden fruit, was a desert to poor Ella Brune. She had no fear, because she had no hope. She had no doubts, because she had no trust. She was externally calm, for though there were painful sensations, there was no internal contention. She, therefore, it was who spoke first.
"You know him, lady," she said, in a sweet, gentle, humble tone; "and if you know him, you love him."
"I do know him," answered Mary Markham, with a trembling voice and glowing cheek--"I have known him well for years."
She paused there; but the moment after, she thought, with that generous confidence so often misplaced, but which was not so in this instance, "It were better to tell her all, for her sake and for mine. If she be good and virtuous, as I think, it cannot but lead to good to let her know the whole truth."
"Ay, Ella," she continued aloud, "and you are right. I do love him, and he loves me. We have plighted our faith to each other, and wait but the consent of others to be more happy than we are."
A tear trembled in the eye of Ella Brune; but what were the thoughts that flashed like lightning through her mind? "The lady loves him, and she sees I love him too. Jealousy is a strange thing, and a sad pang!--She may doubt him, even with such a friendless being as I am--I will sweep that doubt away;" and with a resigned, but gentle smile, looking in Mary's face, she said--"I was sure of it."
"Of what, Ella?" asked Mary Markham, with some surprise.
"That he loved some one, and was beloved again," replied the poor girl; and she repeated "I was sure of it."
"What could make you sure?" asked the lady, gazing at her with a less embarrassed look. "He did not tell you, did he?"
"Oh, no," answered Ella Brune. "All he told me was, that he was going afar to Burgundy, and that as he could not give me any further protection himself, he would send one of his men to inquire after me, that he might hear I was safe, and as happy as fate would let me be, but--" and she paused, as if she doubted whether to proceed or not.
"But what, Ella?" demanded Mary.
"Why, I was foolish, lady," said the girl; "and perhaps you may think me wrong too, and bold. But when I heard that he was going to Burgundy, I cried, 'Oh, that I were going with you!' And I told him that I had kinsfolk both in Liege and in Peronne; and then I knew by his look, and what he said, that there was some lady whom he loved, and who loved him."
"How did that enlighten you?" inquired Mary Markham. "Did he refuse you?--That were not courteous, I think."
"No, he did not actually refuse," answered Ella Brune, "but he said, that it might hardly be; and I saw, he thought that his lady might be jealous--might suspect--"
Mary Markham put her hand on Ella's, with a warm smile, and said, "I will neither suspect him, nor be jealous of you, Ella--though perhaps I might have been," she added; "yes, perhaps I might, if I had heard you were with him, and I had not known why. Yet I should have been very wrong. Out upon such doubts I say, if they can prevent a true-hearted gentleman from doing an act of kindness to a poor girl in her need, lest a jealous heart should suspect him. But I will write to him, Ella: and yet it is now in vain; for he has left Westminster."
Ella gazed at her, smiling. "We know not our own hearts," she said; "and, perhaps, dear lady, you might be jealous yet."
"No, no!" cried Mary, with one of her own joyous laughs again. "Never, now. I am of a confiding nature, my poor girl; and I soon conquer those bitter enemies of peace, called doubts."
Ella Brune gazed round the room. "If I had some instrument, I could sing to you on that theme," she said.
"Nay, you can sing without, Ella," replied the lady. "I have none here, alas!"
"Well, I will sing it, then," answered Ella Brune; "'tis an old ditty, and a simple one;" and, leaning her hand on Mary Markham's knee, she sang:--
SONG."Trust! trust! sweet lady, trust!'Tis a shield of seven-fold steel.Cares and sorrows come they must;But sharper far is doubt to feel.Trust! trust! sweet lady, trust!"If deceit must vex the heart--Who can pass through life without?--Better far to bear the smartThan to grind the soul with doubt.Trust! trust! sweet lady, trust!"Trust the lover, trust the friend;Heed not what old rhymers tell.Trust to God: and in the endDoubt not all will still be well.Trust! trust! sweet lady, trust!"Love's best guide, and friendship's stay--Trust, to innocence was given;'Tis doubt that paves the downward way,But trust unlocks the gates of heaven.Trust! trust! sweet lady, trust!"
SONG.
"Trust! trust! sweet lady, trust!
'Tis a shield of seven-fold steel.
Cares and sorrows come they must;
But sharper far is doubt to feel.
Trust! trust! sweet lady, trust!
"If deceit must vex the heart--
Who can pass through life without?--
Better far to bear the smart
Than to grind the soul with doubt.
Trust! trust! sweet lady, trust!
"Trust the lover, trust the friend;
Heed not what old rhymers tell.
Trust to God: and in the end
Doubt not all will still be well.
Trust! trust! sweet lady, trust!
"Love's best guide, and friendship's stay--
Trust, to innocence was given;
'Tis doubt that paves the downward way,
But trust unlocks the gates of heaven.
Trust! trust! sweet lady, trust!"
"And so I will, Ella," cried the lady; "so have I ever done, and will do still; but methinks you have made the song to suit my ear."
"Nay, in truth, dear lady, it is an ancient one," replied Ella Brune; but ere she could add more, old Sir Philip Beauchamp strode into the room, with an air hurried, yet not dissatisfied.
"I have seen the King, Mary," he said; "and, on my life, he is a noble youth--right kingly in his port and in his words. His brother John, who won his spurs under my pennon when but a boy, soon got me speech of him; and you are to go with me at once to his presence, pretty maid. Nay, do not look downcast; he is no frightful tyrant, but a man that lady's eyes may look upon well pleased; and 'tis needful for your safety you should go."
"Must she go alone, dear knight?" asked Mary Markham, with kind consideration for the girl's fears.
"Alone! no. I am to go with her, to be sure," answered Sir Philip. "How, my fair Mary, you would fain go visit Henry, too! What would Richard of Woodville say?"
"He would trust," answered Mary Markham, giving a gay look to Ella. "However, I seek not to go, noble sir; but it would be better for this poor girl to have my maid, Maude, with her--for decency's sake," she continued, in a laughing tone; "you old knights are sometimes too light and gallant; and I must protect her from your courteous speeches by the way. Come with me, Ella. I have a cloak in my chamber that will suit well with your hood, and cover you all, so that nothing will be seen but the edge of your wimple. Then will you and Sir Philip escape scandal, if you both walk softly, and look demure, while Maude trips along beside you."
Though Mary Markham said no word of the minstrel girl's attire, and did not even glance her eye to the gold fringe upon her gown, yet Ella understood, and was thankful for, her kind care, and mentally promised herself, that, before that day was but, she would provide herself with plainer weeds. In less than five minutes she and the maid were ready to depart; and, accompanied by Sir Philip, they soon crossed the open ground before the Abbey and the Sanctuary, and entered the gates of the palace yard. At the private door of the royal residence they received immediate admission; for a page was waiting Sir Philip's return; but he led them, not to the small chamber where Henry had received Ned Dyram in the morning, and Sir Philip shortly after. Following, on the contrary, the larger staircase, the boy conducted the little party to a hall, then used as an audience chamber; and when they entered they at once perceived the King at the farther end, surrounded by a gay and glittering throng, and listening, apparently with deep attention, to an old man, dressed as a prelate of the Church, who, with slow and measured accents, was delivering what seemed a somewhat long oration. Whatever was the subject on which he spoke, it seemed to be one of much interest; for, ever and anon, the King bowed his head with a grave, approving motion, and a murmur of satisfaction rose from those around.
Slowly and quietly the old knight and his companions drew near, and then found that the good Bishop was arguing the King's title, not alone to the Duchies of Normandy, Aquitaine, and Anjou, which undoubtedly belonged of right to the English Crown, but also to the whole of France, which as certainly belonged to another. Sir Philip Beauchamp marked well the monarch's countenance as he listened, and perceived that, when the subject was the recovery of those territories which had descended to the race of Plantagenet from William the Conqueror, Fulke of Anjou, and Eleanor of Aquitaine, one of those grave inclinations of the head which marked his approbation followed; but that, when the claim of all France was considered, Henry paused, and seemed to meditate more on thoughts suggested by his own mind than on the mere words that struck his ear. The surrounding nobles, however, applauded all; and bright and beaming eyes were turned upon the prelate when he concluded his oration with the words--strange ones, indeed, in the mouth of a Christian bishop: "Wherefore, Oh my Lord, the King! advance your banner, fight for your right, conquer your inheritance; spare not sword, blood, or fire; for your war is just, your cause is good, your claim is true!"[3]
"Many thanks, my good lord," replied the King; "we will with our council consider duly what you have advanced; and we beseech you to pray God on our behalf, that we be advised wisely. Pity it were, indeed, to shed Christian blood without due cause; and, therefore, we shall first fairly and courteously require of our cousin the restitution of those territories undeniably appertaining to our crown; with the which we may content ourselves, if granted frankly; but if they be refused, a greater claim may perchance grow out of the denial of the smaller one; and, at all events, we shall know how, with the sword, to do ourselves right when driven to draw it. We will then beseech farther communion with you on these weighty matters, and, for the present, thank you much."
The Bishop retired from the spot immediately facing the King; and Henry's eye lighting on Sir Philip Beauchamp, he bowed his head to him, saying, "Advance, my noble friend. Ha! you have brought the girl with you, as I said;" and his look fixed upon the countenance of poor Ella Brune, with a calm and scrutinizing gaze, not altogether free from wonder and admiration, to see such delicate beauty in one of her degree, but without a touch of that coarse and gloating expression which had offended her in the stare of Sir Simeon Roydon.
"Is the knight I sent for, here?" demanded the King, turning towards the page.
"Not yet, Sire," answered the boy.
"Well, then," said Henry, "though it is but fair that a man accused should hear the charge against him, we must proceed; and you lords will witness what this young woman says, that it may be repeated to him hereafter. Now, maiden, what is this which the worthy knight, Sir Philip Beauchamp, has reported concerning you and Sir Simeon of Roydon?"
To say that Ella Brune was not somewhat abashed would be false; for she did feel that she was in the presence of the most powerful King, and the most chivalrous court in Europe; she did feel that all eyes were turned upon her, every ear bent to catch her words. But there were truth and innocence at her heart, the strongest of all supports. There was the sense of having been wronged also; and, perhaps, some feeling of scorn rather than shame was roused by the light smiles and busy whisper that ran round the lordly circle before which she stood; for there is nothing so contemptible in the eyes, even of the humble, if they be wise and firm of heart, as the light and causeless, but oppressive sneer of pride--whether that pride be based in station, fortune, courtliness, or aught else on earth; for the true nobility of mind, which sometimes impresses even pride with a faint mark of its own dignity, never treads upon the humble.
Henry, however, heard the buzz, and felt offended at the light looks he saw. "My lords!" he said, in a tone of surprise and displeasure; "I beseech you, my good uncle of Exeter, warn those gentlemen of that which the King would not speak harshly. This is no jesting matter. Wrong has been done--I may say almost in our presence, so near has it been to our palace gates; and, by the Queen of Heaven, such things shall not escape punishment, while I wear the crown or bear the sword. When I am powerless to defend the meanest of my subjects, may death give my sceptre to more mighty hands; when I am unwilling to do justice to any in the land, may my enemies take from me the power I have borne unworthily. Go on with your tale, maiden."
Ella Brune obeyed the King's order, with a voice that faltered at first, but the rich sweet tone of which soon called the attention of all to what she said; and, taking up her story from the beginning, she related the death of her old companion, the interview which she had first had with Sir Simeon of Roydon, and the violent manner in which she had been carried off, as she was returning to the hostelry where she lodged. As she spoke she gained confidence; and though, ere she had proceeded far, the base knight himself entered the presence, and placed himself exactly opposite to her, glaring at her with fierce and menacing eyes, her tongue faltered no more; and she went on to speak of her second interview with him, telling how she had forced back the lock of the door with her dagger--how the servants of the knight had not ventured to seize her, under the belief that the weapon was poisoned--and how she had dropped from the great window at the end of the corridor into the lane below.
As soon as she had done, Roydon stepped forward, as if to reply; but old Sir Philip Beauchamp, who stood by Ella's side to give her support, waved his hand, saying, "Silence, boy! till all be said against you--then speak if you list. As far as the carrying off of this poor little maid is concerned, a good woman of the neighbourhood saw the deed done, and can bear witness respecting it, if farther testimony is required. I saw the manner of her escape as she has told it, and knocked down one of this knight's knaves just as he clutched her. So far her story is confirmed. What passed between him and her in private, they only know; but I would take her word against his in any town; for I know him to be a wondrous liar."
A laugh ran round the royal circle; and Sir Simeon of Roydon put his hand to his dagger; but the King turned towards him, saying, "Now, sir, have you aught to answer?--Is this story true or false?"
"Somewhat mixed, Sire;" answered Simeon of Roydon, with a sneer upon his lip. "The young woman is rather fanciful. I will own, that because she has a pretty face, as you may see, and bright eyes, and a small foot, and rounded ankle, she pleased my fancy; and, although of somewhat low degree for such an honour, I thought to make her my paramour for a time, as many another man might do. Minstrel girls and tomblesteres are not generally famed for chastity; and, by my faith! I thought I showed her favour when I told my servants to find her out and bring her to my lodging. If they used any violence, 'twas not my fault, for I bade them treat her gently; and, as to her confinement at my house, that is pure fancy--she might have gone whenever she chose."
"'Tis strange, then," said the King, with a scornful smile, "that she should take such means of going. People do not usually leap out of a window, when they can walk through a door."
"What made you bellow after her, like a wild bull?" demanded Sir Philip Beauchamp, turning to the culprit: "I heard you with my ears, and so did many more, shout to your knaves to follow her, lest she should to the King. I know your voice right well, sir knight, and will vouch for its sweet sounds."
"Doting fool!" murmured Simeon of Roydon.
"Doting!" cried the old knight; "take care you don't feel my gauntlet in your face, lest I send you home as toothless as I sent your serviceable man. You will find that there is strength enough left to crush such a worm as you."
"Silence, Sir Philip!" said the King. "Sir Simeon of Roydon, according to your own account, you have committed an offence for which, if it had been done within the gates of our good city of London, the sober citizens would, methinks, have set you on a horse's back, with your face to the tail, and marched you in no pleasant procession. But, I must add, I do not believe your account; it seems to me to bear no character of truth about it. Yet, that you may not stand upon my judgment alone, if there be one of these good lords here present, who will say they do, upon their honour, believe that this poor maiden speaks falsely, and you tell the simple truth, you shall go free. What say you, lords--is the girl true, or he?"
"The girl!--the girl!" cried all the voices round.
"However men may love leaping," said John of Lancaster, "they seek not to break their necks by springing from a window, when they can help it."
"Well, then," continued Henry, "you must carry your amorous violence to other lands, Sir Simeon of Roydon. You have committed a discourteous and unknightly act, and must give us time to forget it. We will not touch you in person or in purse, in goods or lands; but we banish you for two years from the realm of England. Bestow yourself where you will, but be not found within these shores after one month from this day, which space we give you to prepare. Is this a just award, my lords?"
The gentlemen round bowed their heads; and Henry, turning to the good old knight, added, with a gracious smile, "I thank you much, Sir Philip Beauchamp, for bringing this matter to my knowledge. These are deeds that I am resolved to check, with all the power that God entrusts to me."
"Heaven bless your Grace, and ever send us such a King!" replied the old knight; and, taking Ella by the hand, with a lowly reverence to the monarch, he led her from the hall.
Henry, it would seem, dismissed his court at once; for before the minstrel girl and her companion had reached the bottom of the stairs, they were surrounded by several of the younger nobles, who were all somewhat eager to say soft and flattering things to the fair object of the day's interest, notwithstanding some rough reproof from good Sir Philip Beauchamp. But as he and his young charge were passing out with Mary Markham's maiden, a low deep voice whispered in Ella's ear, "I swear, by Christ's sepulchre, I will have revenge!"--and the next moment Sir Simeon of Roydon passed them, mounted his horse in the palace-yard, and rode furiously away.
It was late in the evening of the same day of which we have just been speaking, when Ella Brune returned to her hostelry. She had gone back to thank fair Mary Markham for her kindness, intending only to stay for a few moments; but her new friend detained her till the sun was near his setting, and then only let her depart under the escort of Hugh of Clatford and another yeoman, after extracting a promise from her that she would return on the following morning, after the sad ceremony of her grandsire's funeral was over. And now Ella sat in her lonely little chamber, with the tears filling her bright eyes, which seemed fixed upon a spot of sunshine on the opposite wall of the court, but, in reality, saw nothing, or, at least, conveyed no impression to the mind. Why was it Ella wept? To say truth, Ella herself could not, or would not tell. It was, perhaps, the crowding upon her of many sad sensations, the torrent swelled by many smaller rills, which caused those tears; and yet there was one predominant feeling--one that she wished not to acknowledge even to her own heart. What can I call it? How shall I explain it? It was not disappointment; for, as I have said before, she did not, she had never hoped. No, the best term for it is, love without hope; and oh! what a bitter thing that is!
During the whole of that morning she had had no time to dwell upon it; she had been occupied while she remained with Mary Markham in struggling against her own sensations--not examining them. But now she paused and pondered: in solitude and in silence, she gave way to bitter thought; but it was not with the weak and wavering irresolution of a feeble mind. On the contrary, though the anguish would have its tear, she regarded her present fate and future conduct with the firm and energetic purposes of a heart inured to suffer and to decide. Her mind rested upon Richard of Woodville, upon his kindness, his generosity, his chivalrous protection of her who had never met with such protection before; and the first strong determination of her mind expressed itself, in the words she murmured to herself, "I will repay it!"
Then, again, she asked herself, "Why should I feel shame, or fear, or hesitation now, at the thought of following him through the world--of watching for the hour, for the moment, when God may grant me the grace to serve him? He loves another, and is loved by another! He can never be anything to me, but the friend who stood forward to help me in the hour of need. What has sex, or station, to do with it? Why should I care more than if I were a man? and how often do the meanest, by watchful love, find an opportunity to deliver or to support the highest and the mightiest! Why should I think of what men may say or believe? True in my own heart, and conscious of my truth, I may well laugh at suspicion, which follows such as I am, whatever course they take. How often have I been thought a ribald and a losel, when I have guarded my words, and looks, and actions, most carefully! and now I will dare to do boldly what my heart tells me, knowing that it is right. Yet, poor thing," she added, after a moment, "thou art beggar enough, I fear! thou must husband thy little store well. Let me see; I will count my treasure. There are the fifty half nobles sent me by the King, and those my dear protector gave me. Now for the little store of the poor old man;" and, drawing a key from her bosom, she crossed the room to where, upon a window-seat, there stood a small oaken coffer, containing her apparel and that of the poor old minstrel. After opening the box, and taking out one or two instruments of music which lay at the top, she thrust her hand further down, and brought forth a small leathern pouch, fastened by a thong bound round it several times. It cost her some trouble to unloose it; but at length she spread out the mouth, and poured the contents upon the top of the clothes in the coffer. She had expected to see nothing but silver and copper; but amongst the rest were several pieces of gold; and besides these, was a piece of parchment, tied up, with some writing upon it, and a gold ring, set with a large precious stone. The former she examined closely, and read the words with some difficulty; for they were written by no very practised hand, in rough and scattered characters. She made it out at length, however, to be merely "My Ella's dowry;" and a tear fell upon it as she read. She thought that the handwriting was her father's.
She then looked at the ring, and saw by its lustre that it must be of some value; but a strip of leather which was sewn round the gold caught her eye, and she found it, too, traced with some rude characters. They only expressed a date, however, which was 21 July, 1403, and what it meant she knew not. Opening the parchment packet, she then proceeded to examine of what her little dowry consisted; and, to her surprise and joy, she found forty broad pieces of gold. "Nay," she exclaimed, "this is, indeed, wealth; why, I am endowed like a knight's daughter." And well might she say so; for when we remember the difference between the value of gold in that day and at present, the amount she now possessed,--what with the sum she had just found, and the penalty imposed by the King on Simeon of Roydon,--was equal to some six or seven hundred pounds.
"I shall have enough to follow him for ten years," said Ella Brune, gazing on the gold, "without being a charge to any one; and then there may still remain sufficient to gain me admission to a nunnery. But I will lay it by carefully:" and placing all the gold she had, except the few pieces that had been loose in the pouch, into the parchment which had contained her dowry, she tied it up again carefully, and restored it to its place.
"Yet I will be avaricious," she said. "I will disencumber myself of everything I do not want, and change it into coin.--Shall I sell this ring? No; it may mean something I do not know. 'Tis easily carried, and might create suspicion if I disposed of it here. Perhaps my cousin at Peronne can tell me more about it. How shall I sell the other things? Nay, I will ask the hostess to do it for me. She will think of her own payment, and will do it well!"
After carefully putting back the ring and the money, she opened the door of the room, and called down the stairs, "Hostess, hostess! Mistress Trenchard!"
"Coming, coming, little maid," said the good dame, from below. "Do not be in haste; I am with you in a minute;" and, after keeping Ella waiting for a short time, more to make herself of importance than because she had anything else to do, she came panting up the stairs, closed the door, and seated herself on the side of the low bed.
"Well, my poor Ella," she said, "what want you with me? Yours is a sad case, indeed, poor thing. My husband and I both said, when you and poor old Murdock Brune went away to foreign lands, leaving your own good country behind you, that harm would come of it."
"And yet he died in England," replied Ella, with a sigh; "but what you say is very true, hostess; no good has come of it; and we returned poorer than we went--I have wherewithal to pay my score," she added, seeing a slight cloud come over good Mistress Trenchard's face; "but yet I shall want more for my necessity; and I would fain ask you a great favour."
"What is that?" asked the hostess, somewhat drily.
"It is simply, that you would sell for me a good many of these things that I do not want," answered Ella. "Here are several instruments of music, which I know cost much, and must produce something."
"Oh, that I will, right willingly!" replied the hostess; "and 'tis but right and fitting that you should trust such matters to one who is accustomed to buy and sell, than to do it yourself, who know nothing of trade, God wot. I will have them to Westcheape, where there are plenty of fripperies; or carry them to the Lombards, who, perhaps, know more about such matters."
"I should think that the Lombards would purchase them best," answered Ella; "for one of these instruments, the viol, was purchased out of Italy, when my grandfather was chief minstrel to the great Earl of Northumberland."
"Ay, I remember the time well," said Mistress Trenchard. "Murdock Brune was a great man in those days, and rode upon a grey horse, fit for a knight. He used to pinch my cheek, and call me pretty Dolly Trenchard, till my husband was somewhat crusty;--and so the viol is valuable, you think?"
"Yes, and the ribible, too," answered Ella Brune; "for they were cut by a great maker in Italy, and such are not to be found in England."
"I will take care, I will take care," rejoined the hostess. "Gather them all together, and I will send up Tom, the drawer, for them, presently. To-morrow I will take them to the Lombards; for it is somewhat late this evening."
"Nay, but I have other favours to ask of you, dame," said Ella Brune. "To-morrow they bury the poor old man, and I must have a black gown of serge, and a white wimple; and I would fain that you went with me to the burial, if you could steal away for an hour; for it will be a sad day for me."
"That will I do, poor maiden," replied the hostess, readily; not alone because she took a sincere interest in her fair guest, but because in those days, as in almost all others, people of inferior minds found a strange pleasure in bearing part in any impressive ceremony, however melancholy. As so much of her spare time was likely to be occupied on the morrow, she agreed to run up to Cheape that very night, before the watch was set, and to purchase for Ella Brune the mourning garments which she required. The latter commission she performed fully to the poor girl's satisfaction, returning with a loose gown of fine black serge, ready made, and a wimple and hood of clear lawn, little differing from that of a nun.
Ella gazed on the dress with some emotion, murmuring to herself,--"Ay, the cloister; it must end there, at last!--Well, prayer and peace!--'tis the calmest fate, after all."
But the sale of the instruments of music, and several other small articles, was not executed quite as well. Men were rogues in those times, as at present, though, perhaps, in the improvement of all things, roguery has not been neglected, and the good Lombards took care not to give more than half the value of the goods they purchased. Neither Ella nor good Mistress Trenchard herself knew any better, however; so that the latter thought she had made a very good bargain, and the former was content. Her store was by this means considerably increased; and, a short time before the appointed hour, Ella, with the hostess, set out towards the hospital of St. James, for the sad task that was to be performed that day.
I will not pause upon the hours that followed. Dark and sorrowful such hours must ever be; for the dim eyes of mortality see the lamp of faith but faintly, and there is nought else to light our gaze through the obscure vault of death to the bright world of re-union. Put the holy promises to our heart as eagerly, as fondly as we will, how difficult is it to obtain a warm and living image of life beyond this life! How the clay clings to the clay! How the spirit cleaveth to the dust with which it hath borne companionship so long! Strange, too, to say, that we can better realize in our own case the idea of renewed existence, than in the case of those we love. It is comparatively easy to fancy that we who have lived to-day, shall live to-morrow;--that we, who lie down to rest ourselves in sleep and to rise refreshed, shall sleep in death, and wake again renewed. There is in every man's own heart a sentiment of his immortality, which nothing can blot out, but the vain pride of human intellect--the bitterest ashes of the forbidden fruit. But when we see the dearly loved, the bright, the beautiful, the wise, the good, fall, like a withered leaf, into the dark corruption of the tomb--the light go out like an extinguished lamp--and all that is left, all that has been familiar to our living senses, drop into dust and mingle with its earth again, the Saduceean demon seizes on us; and it requires a mighty struggle of the spirit, prayer, patience, resignation, hope, and faith, to win our belief from the dark actuality before us, and fix it on the distant splendour of a promised world to come.
They were sad hours for poor Ella Brune; and when they were over, the chambers of the heart felt too dark and lonely for her to admit any thoughts but those of the dead. She sent, therefore, to Mary Markham, to tell her that she was too wobegone to come that day; and, returning to her little chamber at the inn, she sat down to weep, and pass the evening with her memories.
On the following morning early, she once more set out for Westminster, and passed quietly along the road till she reached Charing; but near the hermitage and chapel of St. Catherine, just opposite the cross, she perceived a man standing gazing up the Strand, with the serpent embroidered on the black ground, which distinguished the followers of Sir Simeon of Roydon. Her fears might have betrayed her; for she forgot for a moment the complete change of her dress, and fancied that she must be instantly recognised; but the instant after, recovering her presence of mind, she drew the hood far over her face, and passed the man boldly, without his even turning to look at her. She then made her way on towards Tote-hill, and soon came to the gates of the house in which Sir Philip Beauchamp had taken up his temporary abode.
Few but the higher nobility, or persons immediately attached to the Court, indulged in those days in the luxury of a dwelling in London or the neighbouring city; and when business or pleasure called inferior personages to the capital, they either took up their dwelling at a hostel, or found lodging in the mansions of some of the great families to whom they were attached by friendship or relationship. Nor was such hospitality ever refused, so long as the house could contain more guests; for each man's consequence, and sometimes his safety, depended upon the number of those whom he entertained; and even when the lord was absent from his own dwelling, the doors were always open to those who were known to be connected with him. Thus Sir Philip Beauchamp had found ready lodging in the house of one of the numerous family of that name, the head of which was then the Earl of Warwick, though, ere many years had passed, an only daughter bore that glorious title into the house of Neville.
When Ella reached the mansion, the porter, distinguished by the cognizance of the bear, was standing before the gates, talking with a young man, who seemed to have just dismounted from a tired horse, and held the bridle-rein cast over his arm.
In answer to Ella's inquiry for the Lady Mary Markham, the old servant laughed, saying, "Here is another!--if it goes on thus all day, there will be nothing else but the opening of gates for a pretty lady who is not here. She departed last night with Sir Philip, fair maid. They went in great haste, good sooth I know not why; for 'twas but two hours before, the sturdy old knight told me he should stay three days; but they had letters by a messenger from the country, so perchance his daughter is ill."
"The blessed Virgin give her deliverance!" said Ella, turning away with a disappointed look; and, bending her steps back towards the city of London, she walked slowly on along the dusty road, absorbed in no very cheerful thoughts, and marking little of what passed around her. But few people were yet abroad between the two towns--the Strand was almost solitary; and she had nearly reached the wall of the garden of Durham House, which ran along to the Temple, when she heard a voice behind her exclaim, in a sharp tone, "Why do you follow her, master knave?"
"What is that to you, blue tabard!" replied another tongue.
"I will let you know right soon, if you do not desist," answered the first.
"Whom do you serve?" asked the second.
"The King!" was the reply; "so away with you."
Ella looked round, and beheld the man whom she had found speaking with the porter a moment before, bending his brows sternly upon the servant of Sir Simeon Roydon, whom she had seen watching near the hermitage of St. Catherine, as she passed up the Strand. The latter, however, seemed to be animated by no very pugnacious spirit, for he merely replied, "Methinks one man has a right to walk the high road to London as well as another."
But he did not proceed to enforce this right by following the course he had been pursuing; and, crossing over from the south to the north side of the way, he was soon lost amongst the low shops and small houses which there occupied the middle of the road.
"I will ride along beside you, fair maiden," said Ned Dyram, for he it was who had come up, "though I should not wonder, from what the porter told me just now, if you were the person I am looking for."
He spoke civilly and gravely; and Ella replied, with a bright smile, "Ha! perhaps it is so; for he said he would send. Whom do you come from?"
"I come from Richard of Woodville," answered the man; "and I am sent to a maiden named Ella Brune, living not far up the new street somewhat beyond the Old Temple, in an hostelry called the Falcon."
"'Tis I--'tis I!" cried Ella. "Oh! I am glad to see you."
Her bright eyes lighted up, and her fair face glowed with an expression of joy and satisfaction, which added in no small degree to its loveliness; for, though we hear much of beauty in distress being heightened by tears, yet there is an inherent harmony between man's heart and joy, which makes the expression thereof always more pleasant to the eye than that of any other emotion.
Ned Dyram gazed at her with admiration, but withdrew his eyes the moment after, and resumed a more sober look. "I will give you all his messages by and by," he said, "for I shall lodge at the Falcon to-night, and have much to say. But yet I may as well tell you a part as we go along," he continued, dismounting from his horse, and taking the bridle on his arm. "First, fair maiden, I was to ask how you fared, and what you intended to do?"
"I have fared ill and well," answered Ella Brune; "but that is a long story, and I will relate it to you afterwards; for that I can talk of, though the people of the house should be present; but what I am to do is a deeper question, and I know not well how to answer it. I have friends at the court of Burgundy--"
"What, then, are you of noble race, lady?" asked Ned Dyram, in an altered tone.
"Oh, no!" replied Ella Brune, with a faint smile. "The cousin of whom I speak is but a goldsmith to the Count of Charolois; but, 'tis a long journey for a woman to take alone, through foreign lands, and amongst a people somewhat unruly."
"Why not come with us?" inquired Ned Dyram; "we sail from Dover in three days, and our company will be your protection. Did not Childe Richard tell you he was going?"
"Yes," answered Ella Brune, casting down her eyes, "but he did not seem to like the thought of having a woman in his company."
"Faith! that is courteous of the good youth," cried Ned Dyram, with a low sharp laugh. "He may win his spurs, but will not merit them, if he refuses protection to a lady."
"That, I am sure, he would not do," replied Ella, gravely. "He has given me the noblest protection at my need; but he may not think it right."
"No, no; you have mistaken him," said Ned Dyram. "He is courteous and kind, without a doubt. He might think it better for yourself to go to York, as he bade me tell you, and to see your friends there, and to claim your rights; but if you judge fit to turn your steps to Burgundy instead, depend upon it he will freely give you aid and comfort on the way. If he did doubt," added the man, "'twas but that he thought his lady-love might be jealous, if she heard that he had so fair a maiden in his company--for you know he is a lover!"--and he fixed his eyes inquiringly on Ella's face.
"I know he is," she answered, calmly, and without a change of feature. "I know the lady, too; but she is not unwilling that I should go; and I dread much to show myself in York."
"Why so?" demanded Ned Dyram. But Ella Brune was not sufficiently won by his countenance or manner to grant him the same confidence that she had reposed in Richard of Woodville; and she replied, "For many reasons; but the first and strongest is, that there are persons there who have seized on that which should be mine. They are powerful; I am weak; and 'tis likely, as in such case often happens, that they would be willing to add wrong to wrong."
"Not only often, but always," replied Ned Dyram; "therefore I say, fair maiden, you had better come with us. Here's one arm will strike a stroke for you, should need be; and there are plenty more amongst us who will do the like."
Ella answered him with a bright smile; but at that moment they were turning up the lane opposite the gate of the Temple, and she paused in her reply, willing to think farther and see more of her companion before she decided.
"Stay, fair maiden!" continued Ned Dyram, who well knew where the hostelry of the Falcon was situate--"It may be as well to keep our counsel, whatever it be, from host and hostess. Gossip is a part of their trade; and it is wise to avoid giving them occasion. I will give you, when we are within, a letter from my young lord, and read it to you, too, as perchance you cannot do that yourself; but it will let the people see that I am not without authority to hold converse with you, which may be needful."
"Nay," answered Ella, "I can read it myself; for I have not been without such training."
"Ay, I forgot," rejoined Ned Dyram, with one of his light sneers; "had you been a princess, you would not have been able to read. Such clerk-craft is only fit for citizens and monks. I wonder how Childe Richard learned to read and write. I fear it will spoil him for a soldier."
The satire was not altogether just; for, though it did not unfrequently happen that high nobles and celebrated warriors and statesmen were as illiterate as the merest boors, and in some instances (especially after the wars of the Roses had deluged the land with blood, and interrupted all the peaceful arts of life) the barons affected to treat with sovereign contempt the cultivation of the mind, yet such was not by any means so generally the case, as the pride of modern civilization has been eager to show. We have proofs incontestable, that, in the reigns of Richard II., Henry IV., and Henry V., men were by no means so generally ignorant as has been supposed. The House of Lancaster was proud of its patronage of literature; and, though more than one valiant nobleman could not sign his own name, or could do so with difficulty, there is much reason to believe that the exceptions have been pointed out as the rule; for we know that many a citizen of London could not only maintain, without the aid of another hand, long and intricate correspondence with foreign merchants, but also took delight in the reading during winter's nights of Chaucer and Gower, if not in studying secretly the writings of Wickliffe and his disciples.
Ella Brune replied not, but walked on into the house, calling the good hostess, who, in that day as in others, often supplied the place of both master and mistress in a house of public entertainment. Ned Dyram followed her with his eyes into the house, scrutinizing with keen and wondering glance the beauties of form which even the long loose robe of serge could not fully conceal. He marvelled at the grace he beheld, even more rare at that day amongst the sons and daughters of toil than at present; and, although the pride of rank and station could not, in his case, suggest the bold disregard of all law and decency in seeking the gratification of passion, his feelings towards Ella Brune were not very far different from those of Sir Simeon of Roydon. He might have more respect for the opinion of the world, by which he hoped to rise; he might even have more respect for, and more belief in, virtue, for he was a wiser man; he might seek to obtain his ends by other means; he was even not incapable of love,--strong, passionate, overpowering love; but the moving power was the same. It was all animal; for, strange to say, though his intellect was far superior to that of most men of his day; though he had far more mind than was needful, or even advantageous, in his commerce with the world of that age, his impulses were all animal towards others. That which he cared for little in himself, he admired, he almost worshipped, in woman. It was beauty of form and feature only that attracted him. Mind he cared not for--he thought not of; nay, up to that moment, he perhaps either doubted whether it existed in the other sex, or thought it a disadvantage if it did. Even more, the heart itself he valued little; or, rather, that strange and complex tissue of emotions, springing from what source we know not, entwined with our mortal nature--by what delicate threads who can say?--which we are accustomed to ascribe to the heart, he regarded but as an almost worthless adjunct. His was the eager love--forgive me, if I profane what should be a holy name, rather than use a coarser term--of the wild beast; the appetite of the tiger, only tempered by the shrewdness of the fox. I mean not to say it always remained so; for, under the power of passion and circumstances, the human heart is tutored as a child. Neither would I say that aught like love had yet touched his bosom for Ella Brune. I speak but of his ordinary feeling towards woman; but feelings of that sort are sooner roused than those of a higher nature. He saw that she was very beautiful--more beautiful, he thought, than any woman of his own station that ever he had beheld; and that was enough to make him determine upon counteracting his master's wishes and counsel, and persuading Ella to turn her steps in the same course in which his own were directed. He knew not how willing she was to be persuaded; he knew not that she was at heart already resolved: but he managed skilfully, he watched shrewdly, through the whole of his after-communications with her during the day. He discovered much--he discovered all, indeed, but one deep secret, which might have been penetrated by a woman's eyes, but which was hid from his, with all their keenness--the motive, the feeling, that led her so strongly in the very path he wished. He saw, indeed, that she was so inclined; he saw that there was a voice always seconding him in her heart, and he took especial care to furnish that voice with arguments which seemed irresistible. He contrived, too, to win upon her much; for there was in his conversation that mingling of frankness and flattering courtesy, of apparent carelessness of pleasing, with all the arts of giving pleasure, and that range of desultory knowledge and tone of superior mind, with apparent simplicity of manner, and contempt for assumption, which of all things are the most calculated to dazzle and impress for a time. 'Tis the lighter qualities that catch, the deeper ones that bind; and though, had there been a comparison drawn between him, who was her companion for a great part of that evening, and Richard of Woodville, Ella Brune would have laughed in scorn; yet she listened, well pleased, to the varied conversation with which he whiled away the hours, when she could wean her thoughts from dearer, though more painful themes; yielded to his arguments when they seconded the purposes of her own heart, and readily accepted his offered service to aid her in executing the plan she adopted.