The sun rose behind some light grey clouds, and the blue sky was veiled; but the birds made the welkin ring from amongst the young leaves of the April trees, and told of the coming brightness of the day. Why, or wherefore, let men of science say; but one thing is certain, the seasons at that time were different from those at present; they were earlier; they were more distinct; spring was spring, and summer was summer; and winter, content with holding his own right stiffly, did not attempt to invade the rights of his brethren. Far in the north of England we had vines growing and bearing fruit in the open air. At Hexham there was a vineyard; and wine was made in more than one English county--not very good, it is to be supposed, but still good enough to be drunk, and to prove the longer and more genial reign of summer in our island. Thus, though the morning was grey, as I have said, and April had not yet come to an end, the air was as warm as it is often now in June, and every bank was already covered with flowers.
There were horses before the gate of Richard of Woodville's house, and men busily preparing them for a journey. There was the heavy charger, or battle horse, with tall and bony limbs, well fitted to bear up under the weight of a steel-covered rider; and the lighter, but still powerful palfrey, somewhat of the size and make of a hunter of the present day, to carry the master along the road. Besides these, appeared many another beast; horses for the yeomen and servants, and horses and mules for the baggage: the load of armour for himself and for his men which the young adventurer carried with him, requiring not a few of those serviceable brutes who bow their heads to man's will, in order to carry it to the sea-shore. At length all was prepared; the packs were put upon the beasts, the drivers were at their heads, the yeomen by their saddles; and with ten stout men and two boys, fourteen horses, three mules, a plentiful store of arms, and all the money he could raise, in his wallet, Richard of Woodville issued forth, gave his last commands to the old man and woman whom he left behind in the hall, and, springing into the saddle, began his journey towards Dover.
It was not without a sigh that he set out; for he was leaving the land in which Mary Markham dwelt; but yet he thought he was going to win honour for her sake--perchance to win her herself; and all the bright hopes and expectations of youth soon gathered on his way, more vivid and more glowing in his case, than they could be in that of any youth of the present day, taking his departure for foreign lands. If at present each country knows but very little in reality of its neighbour, if England entertains false views and wild imaginations regarding France and her people, and France has not the slightest particle of knowledge in regard to the feelings, character, and habits of thought, of the English, how much more must such have been the case in an age when communication was rare, and then only or chiefly by word of mouth! It is true that the state of geographical knowledge was not so low as has been generally supposed, for we are very apt to look upon ourselves as wonderful people, and to imagine that nobody knew anything before ourselves; and the difference between former ages and the present is more in the general diffusion of knowledge than in its amount. In the very age of which we speak, the famous Henry of Vasco was pursuing his great project for reaching India by passing round Africa, attempting to establish Portuguese stations on the coast of that continent, and to communicate with the natives; "e poi aver con essi loro comercio per l'onore e utiltà del Regno."[4]
The highways of Europe were well known; for mercantile transactions between country and country were carried on upon a system so totally different from that existing at present, that multitudes of the citizens of every commercial state were constantly wandering over the face of Europe, and bringing home anecdotes, if not much solid information, regarding the distant lands they had visited. The merchant frequently accompanied his goods; and the smaller traders, especially from the cities of Italy, travelled every season from fair to fair, and mart to mart, throughout the whole of the civilized world. Besides the communications which thus took place, and the information thus diffused, intelligence of a different sort was carried by another class, who may have been said to have represented in that day the tourists of the present. Chivalry, indeed, had greatly declined since the days of Richard I., and even since the time of the Black Prince; but still it was a constant practice for young knights and nobles of every country to visit the courts of foreign princes, in order either to acquire the warlike arts then practised, or to gain distinction by feats of arms. Few books of travels were written, it is true, and fewer read; for the art of printing had not yet, by the easy multiplication of copies, placed the stores of learning within the reach of the many; and one of the sources from which vast information might have been derived was cut off, by the general abhorrence with which the ever-wandering tribes of Israel were regarded, and the habitual taciturnity which had thus been produced in a people naturally loquacious.
Still a great deal of desultory and vague information concerning distant lands was floating about society. Strange tales were told, it is true, and truth deformed by fiction; but imagination had plenty of materials out of which to form splendid structures; and bright pictures of the far and the future, certainly did present themselves to the glowing fancy of Richard of Woodville, as he rode on upon his way. Knowing his own courage, his own skill, and his own strength; energetic in character, resolute, and persevering; animated by love, and encouraged by hope, he might well look forward to the world as a harvest-field of glory, into which he was about to put the sickle. Then came all the vague and misty representations that imagination could call up of distant courts and foreign princes, tilt and tournament, and high emprize; and the adventurous spirit of the times of old made his bosom thrill with dim visions of strange scenes and unknown places, accidents, difficulties, dangers, enterprises,--the hard rough ore from which the gold of praise and renown was still to be extracted.
Movement and exertion are the life-blood of youth; and as he rode on, the spirits of Richard of Woodville rose higher and higher; expectation expanded; the regrets were left behind; and "Onward, onward!" was the cry of his heart, as the grey cloud broke into mottled flakes upon the sky, and gradually disappeared, as if absorbed by the blue heaven which it had previously covered.
Through the rich wooded land of England he took his way for four days, contriving generally to make his resting-place for the night at some town which possessed the advantage of an inn, or at the house of some old friend of his family, where he was sure of kind reception. In the daytime, however, many of his meals were eaten in the open field, or under the broad shade of the trees; and, as he sat, after partaking lightly of the food which had been brought with him, while the horses were finishing their provender, the birds singing in the trees above often brought back to his mind the words of the minstrel's girl's lay:--
"The lark shall sing on high,Whatever shore thou rovest;The nightingale shall tryTo call up her thou lovest.For the true heart and kind,Its recompence shall find;Shall win praise,And golden days,And live in many a tale."
"The lark shall sing on high,
Whatever shore thou rovest;
The nightingale shall try
To call up her thou lovest.
For the true heart and kind,Its recompence shall find;
Shall win praise,And golden days,
And live in many a tale."
It seemed like the song of hope, and rang in his ear, mingling with the notes of the blackbird, the thrush, and the wood-lark, and promising success and happiness. The words, too, called up the image of Mary Markham, as she herself would have wished, the end and object of all his hopes and wishes, the crowning reward of every deed he thought to do. It is true that, with her, still appeared to the eye of memory the form of poor Ella Brune; but it was with very different sensations. He felt grateful to her for that cheering song; and, indeed, how often is it in life, that a few words of hope and encouragement are more valuable to us, are of more real and solid benefit, than a gift of gold and gems! for moral support to the heart of man, in the hour of difficulty, is worth all that the careless hand of wealth and power can bestow. But he felt no love--he might admire her, he might think her beautiful; but it was with the cold admiration of taste, not with passion. Her loveliness to him was as that of a picture or statue, and the only warmer sensations that he felt when he thought of her, were pity for her misfortunes, and interest in her fate. Nor did this arise either in coldness of nature, or the haughty pride of noble birth; but love was with him, as it was with many in days somewhat previous to his own, very different from the transitory and mutable passion which so generally bears that name. It was the absorbing principle of his whole nature, the ruling power of his heart, concentrated all in one--indivisible--unchangeable--a spirit in his spirit, a devotion, almost a worship. I say not, that in former times, before he had felt that passion, he might not have lived as others lived,--that he might not have trifled with the fair and bright wherever he found them,--that the fiery eagerness of youthful blood might not have carried him to folly, and to wrong; but from the moment he had learned to love Mary Markham, his heart had been for her alone, and the gate of his affections was closed against all others. Thus, could she have seen his inmost thoughts, she would have found how fully justified was her confidence, and might, perhaps, have blushed to recollect that one doubt had ever crossed her bosom.
It was about three o'clock on the evening of the fourth day, that Richard of Woodville--passing along by the priory, and leaving the church of St. Mary to the left, with the towers of the old castle frowning from the steep above, on one side, and the round chapel of the ancient temple house peeping over the hill upon the other--entered the small town of Dover, and approached the sea-shore, which, in those days, unencumbered by the immense masses of shingle that have since been rolled along the coast, extended but a short distance from the base of the primeval cliffs. Thus the town was then thrust into the narrow valley at the foot of the two hills; and the moment that the houses were passed, the wide scene of the sea, with a number of small vessels lying almost close to the shore, broke upon the eye.
The associations of the people naturally gave to the principal hostelry of the place a similar name to that which it has ever since borne. Though very differently situated and maintained, the chief place of public reception in the town of Dover was then called the Bark, as it is now called the Ship; and although that port was not the principal place through which the communication between England and France took place, yet, ever since Calais had been an English possession, a great traffic had been carried on by Dover, so that the hostelry of the Bark was one of the most comfortable and best appointed in the kingdom.
As every man of wealth and consequence who landed at, or embarked from, that port, brought his horses with him, numerous ostlers and stable boys were always ready to take charge of the guests' steeds; and as soon as a gentleman's train was seen coming down the street, loud shouts from the host called forth a crowd of expectant faces, and ready hands to give assistance to the arriving guests.
The first amongst those who appeared was Ned Dyram, in his blue tabard; and, although he did not condescend to hold his master's stirrup, but left that task to others, yet he advanced to the young gentleman's side, with some pride in the numbers and gallant appearance of the train, and informed him as he dismounted, that he had performed his errand in London; and also the charge which he had received for Dover, having engaged a large bark, named the Lucy Neville, to carry his master, with horses and attendants, to the small town of Nieuport, on the Flemish coast.
"The tide will serve at five o'clock, sir," he said. "There is time to embark the horses and baggage, if you will, while you and the men sup. We have plenty of hands here to help; and I will see it all done safely. If not, we must stop till to-morrow."
The host put in his word, however, observing, "that the young lord might be tired with a long journey, that it were better to wait and part with the morning tide, and that it was Friday--an inauspicious day to put to sea."
But the surface of the water was calm; the sky was bright and clear; and it was the last day of the period which Woodville had fixed, in his communication with the King, for his stay in England. He therefore determined to follow the opinion of Ned Dyram, instead of that of the host, which there was no absolute impossibility to prevent him from supposing interested; and, ordering his horses and luggage to be embarked, with manifold charges to his skilful attendant to look well to the safety of the chargers, he sat down to the ample supper which was soon after on the board, proposing to be down on the beach before his orders regarding the horses were put in execution.
The master and the man, in those more simple days, sat at the same board in the inn, and often at the castle: and as he knew that his own rising would be a signal for the rest to cease their meal, Richard of Woodville remained for several minutes, to allow the more slow and deliberate to accomplish the great function of the mindless. At length, however, he rose, discharged his score, added largess to payment, and then, with the "fair voyage, noble sir," of the host, and the good wishes of drawers and ostlers, proceeded to the shore, where he fully expected to find Ned Dyram busily engaged in shipping his baggage.
No one was there, however, but two or three of the horse-boys of the hotel, who saluted him with the tidings that all was on board. As he cast his eyes seaward, he saw a large boat returning from a ship at some small distance from the shore, with Ned Dyram in the stern; and in a few minutes after, the active superintendent of the embarkation jumped ashore, with a laugh, saying, "Ah, sir! so you could not trust me! But all is safe, no hide rubbed off, no knees broken, no shoulder shaken; and if they do not kick themselves to pieces before we reach Nieuport, you will have as stout chargers to ride as any in Burgundy. But you are not going to embark yet? The tide will not serve for half an hour; and I have left my saddle-bags at the hostel."
"Well, run quick and get them," replied his master. "I would fain see how all is stowed before we sail."
"And know little about it when you do see," answered Ned Dyram, with his usual rude bluntness, or that which appeared to be such.
Richard of Woodville might feel a little angry at his saucy tone; but it was only a passing emotion, easily extinguished. "I certainly know little of stowing ships, my good friend," he answered, "seeing that I never was in one in my life; but common sense is a great thing, Master Dyram; and I am not likely to be mistaken as to whether the horses are so placed as to run the least chance of hurting themselves or each other. Back to the hostel, then, as I ordered, with all speed; and do not let me have to wait for you."
The last words were spoken in a tone of command, which did not much please the hearer; but there were certain feelings in his breast that rendered him unwilling to offend a master on whom he had no tie of old services; and he therefore hurried his pace away, as long as he was within sight. He contrived to keep Woodville waiting, however, for at least twenty minutes; and as the young gentleman gazed towards the ship, he saw the large and cumbersome sails slowly unfurled, and preparations of various kinds made for putting to sea. His patience was well nigh exhausted, and he had already taken his place in the boat, intending to bid the men pull away, when Ned Dyram appeared, coming down from the inn, and carrying his saddle bags over his arm, while a man followed bearing a heavy coffre.
Richard of Woodville smiled, saying to his yeoman of the stirrup, "I knew not our friend Ned had such mass of baggage, or I would have given him further time."
"He has got his tools there, I doubt," observed the old armourer; "for he is a famous workman, both in steel and gilding, though somewhat new-fangled in his notions."
The minute after Ned Dyram was seated in the boat, the men gave way, and over the calm waters of a sea just rippled by a soft but favourable breeze, she flew towards the ship. All on board were in the bustle of departure; and, before Richard of Woodville had examined the horses, and satisfied himself that everything had been carefully and thoughtfully arranged for their safety, the bark was under weigh. He looked round for Ned Dyram, willing to make up, by some praise of his attention and judgment, for any sharpness of speech on the shore; but the yeomen told him that their comrade had gone below, saying that he was always sick at sea; and the young gentleman, escaping from the crowd and confusion which existed amongst horses and men in the fore part of the vessel, retired to the stern, and took up his position near the steersman, while the cliffs of England, and the tall towers of the castle, with the churches and houses below, slowly diminished, as moving heavily through the water the bark laid her course for the town of Nieuport.
The bustle soon ceased upon the deck; some of the yeomen laid themselves down to sleep, if sleep they might; the rest were down below; the mariners who remained on deck proceeded with their ordinary tasks in silence; the wind wafted them gently along with a soft and easy motion; and the sun, declining in the sky, shone along the bosom of the sea as if laying down a golden path, midway between France and England.
The feeling of parting from home was renewed in the bosom of Richard of Woodville, as he gazed back at the slowly waning shores of his native land, leaning his arms, folded on his chest, upon the bulwark of the stern. He felt no inclination to converse; and the man at the huge tiller seemed little disposed to speak. All was silent, except an occasional snatch of a rude song, with which one of the seamen cheered his idleness from time to time; till at length a sweeter voice was heard, singing in low and almost plaintive tones; and, turning suddenly round, Woodville beheld a female figure, clothed in black, leaning upon the opposite side of the vessel, and gazing, like himself, upon the receding cliffs of England. He listened as she sang; but the first stanza of her lay was done before he could catch the words.
SONG.I.Oh, leave longing! dream no moreOf sunny hours to come;Dreams that fade like that loved shore,Where once we made our home.Farewell; and sing lullabieTo all the joys that pass us by.They go to sleep,Though we may weep,And never come again.--Nennie.II.Oh, leave sighing! thought is vainOf all the treasures past;Hope and fear, delight and pain,Are clay, and cannot last.Farewell; and sing lullabieTo all the things that pass us by.They go to sleep,Though we may weep,And never come again.--Nennie.III.Oh, leave looking--on the waveThat dances in the ray;See! now it curls its crest so brave,And now it melts away.Farewell; and sing lullabieTo all the things that pass us by.They go to sleep,Though we may weep,And never come again.--Nennie.
SONG.
I.
Oh, leave longing! dream no more
Of sunny hours to come;
Dreams that fade like that loved shore,
Where once we made our home.
Farewell; and sing lullabieTo all the joys that pass us by.
They go to sleep,Though we may weep,
And never come again.--Nennie.
II.
Oh, leave sighing! thought is vain
Of all the treasures past;
Hope and fear, delight and pain,
Are clay, and cannot last.
Farewell; and sing lullabieTo all the things that pass us by.
They go to sleep,Though we may weep,
And never come again.--Nennie.
III.
Oh, leave looking--on the wave
That dances in the ray;
See! now it curls its crest so brave,
And now it melts away.
Farewell; and sing lullabieTo all the things that pass us by.
They go to sleep,Though we may weep,
And never come again.--Nennie.
The voice was so sweet, the music was so plaintive, that, without knowing it, and though she sang in a low and subdued tone, the singer had every ear turned to listen. Richard of Woodville did not require to see her face, to recognise Ella Brune, though the change in her dress might have proved an effectual means of concealment, had she been disposed to hide herself from him. The peculiarly mellow and musical tone of her voice was enough; and, as soon as the lay ceased, Woodville crossed over and spoke to her.
But she showed no surprise at seeing him, greeting him with a smile, and answering gaily to his inquiry, if she knew that he was in the same ship,--"Certainly; that was the reason that I came. I am going to be headstrong, noble sir, for the rest of my life. I would not go to York, as you see; for I fancied that when people have got hold of that which does not belong to them, they may strike at any hand which strives to take it away, especially if it be that of a woman."
"You are right, Ella," answered Richard of Woodville; "I had not thought of that."
"Then I am going to Peronne, or it may be to Dijon," continued Ella, in a tone still light, notwithstanding the somewhat melancholy character of her song; "because I think I can be of service, perhaps, to some who have been kind to me; and then, too, I intend to amass great store of money, and marry a scrivener."
"You are gay, Ella," replied Woodville, somewhat gravely, sitting down beside her, as she still leaned over the side of the vessel.
"Do you see those waves?" she said; "and how they dance and sparkle?"
"Yes," replied her companion; "what then?"
"There are depths beneath!" answered Ella. "Henceforth I will be gay--on the surface, at least, like the sunny sea; but it is because I have more profound thoughts within me, than when I seemed most sad. Keep my secret, noble sir."
"That I will, Ella," replied Woodville; "but tell me--Did my servant find you out?"
"Yes, and did me good service," answered the girl; "for he brought me here."
"And the poor fool was afraid I should be offended," said Woodville; "for he has avoided mentioning your name."
"Perhaps so," rejoined Ella; "for he knew, I believe, that you did not wish to have me in your company. 'Tis a charge, noble sir; and a poor minstrel girl is not fit for a high gentleman's train."
"Nay, you do me wrong, Ella," answered Richard of Woodville; "right willingly, my poor girl, now as heretofore, in this as in other things, will I give you protection. I thought, indeed, that it might be better for yourself to remain; and there were reasons, moreover, that you do not know."
"Nay, but I do know, sir," replied Ella, interrupting him; "I know it all. I have made acquaintance with your lady-love, and sat at her knee and sung to her; and she has befriended the poor lonely girl, as you did before her; and she told me, she would neither doubt you nor me, though you took me on your journey, and protected me by the way."
"Dear, frank Mary!" exclaimed Richard of Woodville; "there spoke her own true heart. But tell me more about this, Ella. How did you see her?--when?--where?"
Ella Brune did as he bade her, and related to him all that had occurred to her since he had left London. As she spoke, her eye was generally averted; but sometimes it glanced to his countenance, especially when she either referred to Sir Simeon of Roydon, or to Mary Markham; and she saw with pleasure the flush upon her young protector's cheek, the knitted brow, and flashing eye, when she told the outrage she had endured, and the look of generous satisfaction which lighted up each feature, when she spoke of the protection she had received from good Sir Philip Beauchamp and the King.
"Ah! my noble uncle!" he said; "he is, indeed, somewhat harsh and rash when the warm blood stirs within him, as all these old knights are, Ella; but there never was a man more ready to draw the sword, or open the purse, for those who are in need of either, than himself. And so the King befriended you, too? He is well worthy of his royal name, and has done but justice on this arch knave."
"Not half justice," answered Ella Brune, with a sudden change of tone; "but no matter for that, the hand of vengeance will reach him one of these days. He cannot hide his deeds from God!--But you speak not of your sweet lady:--was she not kind to the poor minstrel girl?"
"She is always kind," answered Richard of Woodville. "God's blessing on her blithe heart! She would fain give the same sunshine that is within her own soft bosom, to every one around her."
"That cannot be," answered Ella Brune; "there are some made to be happy, some unhappy, in this world. Fortune has but a certain store, and she parts it unequally, though, perhaps, not blindly, as men say. But there's a place where all is made equal;" and, resuming quickly her lighter tone, she went on, dwelling long upon every word that Mary Markham had said to her, seeming to take a pleasure in that, which had in reality no small portion of pain mingled with it. Such is not infrequently the case, indeed, with almost all men; for it is wonderful how the bee of the human heart will contrive to extract sweets from the bitter things of life; but, perhaps, there might be a little art in it--innocent art, indeed--most innocent; for its only object was to hide from the eyes of Richard of Woodville that there was any feeling in her bosom towards him but deep gratitude and perfect confidence. She dwelt then upon her he loved, as if the subject were as pleasing to her as to himself; and, though she spoke gaily--sometimes almost in a jesting tone--yet there were touches of deep feeling mingled every now and then with all she said, which made him perceive that, as she herself had told him, the lightness was in manner alone, and not in the mind.
At all events, her conduct had one effect which she could have desired: it removed all doubt and hesitation from the mind of Richard of Woodville, if any such remained, in regard to his behaviour towards her;--it did away all scruple as to guarding and protecting her on the way, as far as their roads lay together.
One point, indeed, in her account puzzled him, and excited his curiosity--which was the sudden departure of his uncle and Mary from Westminster. "Well," he thought, "I never loved the task of discovering mysteries, and have ever been willing to leave Time to solve them, else I should have troubled my brain somewhat more about my sweet Mary's fate and history than I have done;" and, after pondering for a few moments more, he turned again to other subjects with Ella Brune. Pleased and entertained by her conversation, he scarcely turned his eyes back towards the coast of England, till the cliffs had become faint and grey, like a cloud upon the edge of the sky; while the sun setting over the waters seemed to change them into liquid fire. In the meantime, wafted on by the light breeze, the ship continued her slow way; and, as the orb of day sank below the horizon, the moon, which had been up for some little time, poured her silver light upon the water--no longer outshone by the brighter beams. The sky remained pure and blue; the stars appeared faint amidst the lustre shed by the queen of night; and the water, dashing from the stern, looked like waves of molten silver as they flowed away. Nothing could be more calm, more grand, more beautiful, than the scene, with the wide expanse of heaven, and the wide expanse of sea, and the pure lights above and the glistening ripple below, and the curtain of darkness hanging round the verge of all things, like the deep veil of a past and future eternity.
Neither Ella Brune nor Richard of Woodville could help feeling the influence of the hour, for the grand things of nature raise and elevate the human heart, whether man will or not. They lived in a rude age, it is true; but the spirit of each was high and fine; and their conversation gradually took its tone from the scene that met their eyes on all sides. They might not know that those stars were unnumbered suns, or wandering planets, like their own; they might not know that the bright broad orb that spread her light upon the waves was an attendant world, wheeling through space around that in which they lived; they had no skill to people the immensity with miracles of creative power; but they knew that all they beheld was the handiwork of God, and they felt that it was very beautiful and very good. Their souls were naturally led up to the contemplation of things above the earth; and while Richard of Woodville learned hope and confidence in Him who had spread the heaven with stars and clothed the earth in loveliness, Ella Brune took to her heart, from the same source, the lesson of firmness and resignation.
They gazed, they wondered, they adored; and each spoke to the other some of the feelings which were in their hearts; but some only, for there were many that they could not speak.
"I remember," said Ella, at length, in a low voice, "when I was at a town called Innsbruck, in the midst of beautiful mountains, hearing the nuns chant a hymn, which I caught up by ear; and the poor old man and I turned it, as best we might, into English, and used often in our wanderings to console ourselves with singing it, when little else had we to console us. It comes into my mind to-night more than ever."
"Let me hear it, then, Ella," said Richard of Woodville; "I love all music."
"I will sing it," replied Ella; "but you must not hear it only. You must join in heart, if not in voice."
HYMN.Oh glorious! oh mighty! Lord God of salvation!Thy name let us praise from the depth of the heart;Let tongue sing to tongue, and nation to nation,And in the glad hymn, all thy works bear a part.The tops of the mountains with praises are ringing,The depths of the valleys re-echo the cry;The waves of the ocean Thy glories are singing,The clouds and the winds find a voice as they fly;The weakest, the strongest, the lowly, the glorious,The living on earth, and the dead in the grave!For the arm of thy Son over death is victorious,With power to redeem, and with mercy to save.Oh glorious! oh mighty! Lord God of salvation!To Thee let us sing from the depth of the heart;Let tongue tell to tongue, and nation to nation,How bountiful, gracious, and holy Thou art.
HYMN.
Oh glorious! oh mighty! Lord God of salvation!
Thy name let us praise from the depth of the heart;
Let tongue sing to tongue, and nation to nation,
And in the glad hymn, all thy works bear a part.
The tops of the mountains with praises are ringing,
The depths of the valleys re-echo the cry;
The waves of the ocean Thy glories are singing,
The clouds and the winds find a voice as they fly;
The weakest, the strongest, the lowly, the glorious,
The living on earth, and the dead in the grave!
For the arm of thy Son over death is victorious,
With power to redeem, and with mercy to save.
Oh glorious! oh mighty! Lord God of salvation!
To Thee let us sing from the depth of the heart;
Let tongue tell to tongue, and nation to nation,
How bountiful, gracious, and holy Thou art.
The night had fallen nearly an hour ere Richard of Woodville, Ella Brune, and the young Englishman's attendants, were seated for the first time round the table of a small Flemish inn, on the day after they had left the shores of their native land. Strange as it may seem, that with a wind not unfavourable, somewhat more than twenty-four hours should be occupied by a voyage of less than sixty miles; yet such had been the case between Dover and Nieuport; for it was more than five hours past noon, on the evening following that on which they set sail, when the bark that bore Richard of Woodville entered the mouth of the little river on which that port is situated. But the art of navigation was little known in those times; and the wind, which, though directly fair at first, was never strong enough to give the ship much way through the water, veered round soon after midnight, not to a point exactly contrary, but to one which favoured the course of the voyagers very little; so that if it had not again changed before night, another twelve hours might have been passed upon the sea. At length, however, the land, which had been for some time in sight, grew clear and more strongly marked; the towers of village churches were seen, distinct; and, anchoring as near the town as possible, the disembarkation was commenced without delay, in order to accomplish the task before nightfall. Nevertheless, ere horses and baggage were all safely on the shore, the day had well nigh come to an end; so that, as I have said, it was dark before the young Englishman, Ella Brune, and his attendants, were seated round the table of the poor hostel, which was the only place of entertainment that the town afforded.
Here first the services of the poor minstrel girl became really valuable to her protector; for notwithstanding the proximity of the English coast, not a soul in the hostel could speak aught else but the Flemish tongue. There were evidently numerous other guests, all requiring entertainment; though with a strange exclusiveness, hardly known in those days, they kept themselves closely shut up in the rooms which had been retained for their own accommodation; and as neither Woodville nor any of his train, not even excepting the learned Ned Dyram, knew one word of the language, the whole party would have fared ill, had not Ella, in tones which rendered even that harsh jargon sweet, given, in the quality of interpreter, the necessary orders for all that was required.
The greatest difficulty seemed to be in obtaining chambers, in which the somewhat numerous party of the young cavalier could find repose. The stable and the adjoining barn were full already of horses and mules, even to overflowing, otherwise they might have afforded accommodation to men who were accustomed in their own country to lie hard, and yet sleep lightly; and only one room of any size was vacant, with a small closet hard by, containing a low pallet. The latter, Richard of Woodville at once assigned to Ella Brune; the former he reserved for himself and three of his men, of whom Ned Dyram was one; and it was finally arranged that the rest should be provided with dry hay, mown from the neighbouring sandy ground, in the hall where they supped.
As soon as the meal was over, the board was cleared, the hay brought in, Ella retired to her pallet, Richard of Woodville to his; straw was laid down across his door for the three men; and the whole party were soon in the arms of slumber. Richard of Woodville dreamed, however, with visions coming thick and fast, and changing as they came, like the figures in a phantasmagoria. Now he was in the King's court, defying Simeon of Roydon to battle; now at the old hall at Dunbury, with Isabel, and Dacre, and Mary, and poor Catherine Beauchamp herself. Then suddenly the scene changed, and he was by the moonlight stream near Abbot's Ann, with Hal of Hadnock. He heard a voice call to him from the water: "Richard! Richard!" it seemed to cry, "Save me! Revenge me!--Richard, Richard of Woodville!"
He started suddenly up; but the voice still rang in his ears: "Richard of Woodville," it said, or seemed to say.
"I hear," he exclaims. "Who calls?"
"What maiden is this thou hast with thee?" asked the voice. "Beware! Beware! Love will not be lightlied."
"Who is it that speaks?" demanded Richard of Woodville, rubbing his eyes in surprise and bewilderment. But no one answered, and all was silence. "Surely, some one spoke," said the young gentleman; "if so, let them speak again."
There was no reply; and Woodville was inclined to believe that his dream had been prolonged after he had fancied himself awake; but, as he sat up and listened, he heard the movement of some one amongst the straw at the end of the room; and, well aware that, if any of the men were watchful, it must be he who had the most mind, he exclaimed, "Ned Dyram! are you asleep?"
"No, sir," replied the man; "I have been awake these ten minutes."
"Did you hear any one speak just now?" demanded Woodville.
"To be sure I did," answered Dyram. "Some one called you by your name: it was that which roused me. They asked about the maiden, Ella, and bade you beware. Foul fall them! we have witches near."
Richard of Woodville instantly sprang from his bed, and advanced towards the casement. The moon was still shining; but when the young gentleman gazed forth, all without was in the still quiet of midnight. He could see the court of the hostel, and the angle of the building, formed by a sort of wing which projected from the rest, close to where he stood; but all was calm; and not a creature seemed stirring. He looked up to the windows in the wing, but there was no light in any.
"Whence did the sound seem to come, Ned?" he asked.
"It seemed in the room," replied the man. "Shall I strike a light? I have always wherewithal about me."
Richard of Woodville bade him do so; and a lamp was soon lighted. But Ned Dyram and his master searched the room in vain; and the other two inhabitants of the chamber slept soundly through all. At length, puzzled and disappointed, Woodville retired to bed again, and the light was extinguished; but the young gentleman did not sleep for some hours, listening eagerly for any sound. None made itself heard through the rest of the night, but the hard breathing of the sleeping yeomen; and, after watching till near morning, slumber once more fell upon Woodville's eyes, and he did not wake till the sun had been up an hour. The yeomen had already quitted the room without his having perceived it; and, dressing himself in haste, he proceeded to inquire of the host what strangers had lodged in his house during the preceding night, besides himself and his own attendants?
"None, but a party of monks and nuns," the man replied, through the interpretation of Ella Brune, whom Woodville had called to his aid.
"Ask him, Ella, of what country they were," said Richard of Woodville. But the man replied to Ella's question, that they were all Hainaulters, except two who came from Friesland; and that they were going on a pilgrimage to Rome.
Richard of Woodville was more puzzled than ever. For a moment he suspected that Ned Dyram might have played some trick upon him; for, notwithstanding the bluntness of that worthy personage, a doubt of his being really as honest and straightforward as the King believed him, had entered into Woodville's mind, he knew not well why. Reflecting, however, on the fact of Ned Dyram having encouraged Ella Brune to accompany them to the Continent, notwithstanding the opposite advice given by his master, the young gentleman soon rejected that suspicion, and remained as much troubled to account for what had occurred as before.
No farther information was to be obtained; and, as soon as his men and horses were prepared, Richard of Woodville commenced his journey towards Ghent; directing his steps in the first instance to Ghistel, through a country which presented, at that period, nothing but wide uncultivated plains and salt marshes, with here and there a village raised on any little eminence, or a feudal castle near the shore, from which, even in those days, and still more in the times preceding, numerous bands of pirates were sent forth, sweeping the sea, and occasionally entering the mouths of the English rivers. The inhabitants of the whole tract, from Ostend to the Aa, were notorious for their savage and blood-thirsty character; so much so, indeed, as to have obtained the name of the Scythians of the North; and Ella Brune, as she rode beside Richard of Woodville, on one of the mules which he had brought with him, and which had been freed from its share of the baggage to bear her lighter weight, warned her companion to be upon his guard, as the passage through that part of the country was still considered unsafe, notwithstanding some improvement in the manners of the people.
At first Woodville only smiled, replying, that he thought a party of eleven stout Englishmen were sufficient to deal with any troop of rude Flemings who might come against them. But she went on to give him many anecdotes of brutal outrages that had been committed within a very few years, which somewhat changed his opinion; and the appearance of a body of five or six horsemen, seemingly watching the advance of his little force, induced him to take some precautions. Halting within sight of the church of Lombards Heyde, he caused his archers to put on the cuirasses and salades with which they were provided for active service, and ordered them to have their bows ready for action at a moment's notice. He also partly armed himself, and directed the two pages to follow him close by with his casque, shield, and lance; and thus, keeping a firm array, the party moved forward to Ghistel, watched all the way along the road by the party they had at first observed, but without any attack being made. Their military display, indeed, proved in some degree detrimental to them; for that small town had been surrounded by ramparts some sixty or seventy years before, and the party of strangers was refused admission at the gates. On the offer of payment, however, some of the inhabitants readily enough brought forth corn and water for the horses, and food and hydromel for the men. One or two of them could speak French also; and from them Richard of Woodville obtained clear directions for pursuing his way towards Ghent. He now found that he had already somewhat deviated from the right track in coming to Ghistel at all; but as he was there, the men said that the best course for him to follow was to cross the country direct by Erneghem, and thence march through the forest of Winendale, along the high raised causeway which commenced at the gates of Ghistel.
As no likelihood of obtaining any nearer place of repose presented itself, the young Englishman proceeded to follow these directions, and towards three o'clock of the same day reached the village of Erneghem. Much to his disappointment, however, he found no place of entertainment there. The inhabitants were mostly in the fields, and but little food was to be obtained for man or horse. On his own account, Richard of Woodville cared little; nor did he much heed his men being broken in to privations, which he well knew must often befal them; but for Ella Brune he was more anxious, and expressed to her kindly his fears lest she should suffer from hunger and fatigue. But Ella laughed lightly, replying, "I am more accustomed to it than any of you."
Onward from that place, the march of the travellers was through the deep green wood, which, at that time, extended from a few miles to the south of Thorout, almost to the gates of Bruges. The soil was marshy, the road heavy, and full of sand; but the weather was still beautifully clear, the sun shone bright and warm, a thousand wild flowers grew up under the shade, and the leafy branches of the forest offered no unpleasant canopy, even at that early period of the year. Neither village, nor house, nor woodman's hut, nor castle tower, presented itself for several miles; and as they approached a spot where the road divided into two, with no friendly indication to the weary traveller of the place to which either tended, Richard of Woodville turned towards Ella, asking--"Which, think you, I ought to follow, my fair maid? or had I better, like the knight-errant of old, give the choice up to my horse, and see what his sagacity will do, where my own entirely fails me?"
"What little I have," replied Ella, "would be of no good here; but I think the best road to choose would be the most beaten one."
"Often the safest, Ella," replied Richard, with a smile.
"Yet not always the most pleasant," answered Ella Brune. But, as she spoke, a human figure came in sight, the first that they had seen since they had left Erneghem. It was that of a stout monk, in a grey gown, with a large straw hat upon his head, tied with a riband under his beard. He was mounted upon a tall powerful ass, which was ambling along with him at a good pace; and though he pulled up when he saw the large party of strangers pausing at the separation of the two roads, he came forward at a slower pace the next moment, and, after a careful inspection of the young leader's person, saluted him courteously in the French tongue.--"Give you good day, and benedicite, my son," he said, bowing his head. "You seem embarrassed about your way. Can I help you?"
"Infinitely, good father," replied Richard of Woodville, "if you can direct me on the road. I am going to Ghent."
"Why, you can never reach Ghent to-night, my son," exclaimed the monk; "and you will find but poor lodging till you get to Thielt, which you will not reach till midnight, unless you ride hard."
"We shall want both food and lodging long ere that, good father," said Richard of Woodville. "Whither does this road you have just come up lead?"
"To Aertrick," replied the monk: "but you will get neither food nor beds there, my son, for so large a troop. 'Tis a poor place, and the priest is a poor man, who would lodge a single traveller willingly enough, but has no room for more, nor bread to give them; but your best plan will be to come with me to Thorout. 'Tis a little out of your way to Ghent; but yet you can reach that city to-morrow, if you will, though 'tis a long day's journey--well nigh ten leagues."
"Is there a hostel in Thorout, good father?" asked Richard of Woodville.
"One of the most miserable in Flanders, Hainault, or Brabant," answered the monk, laughing; "but we have a priory there, where we are always willing to lodge strangers, and let them taste of our refectory. We are a poor order," he continued, with a sly smile, "but yet we live in a rich country, and the people are benevolent to us, so that our board is not ill supplied; and strangers who visit us always remember our poverty."
"That we will do most willingly," said Richard of Woodville, "to the best of our ability, good father. But you see we have a lady with us. Now I have heard, that in some orders--"
"Ay, ay," replied the monk, laughing, "where the brotherhood are in sad doubt of their own virtue; but we are all grave and sober men, and fear not to see a fair sister amongst us--as a visitor, as a visitor, of course. It would be a want of Christian charity to send a fair lady from the gate, when she was in need of food and lodging. But come on, sir, if you will come; for we have still near a league to go, and 'tis well nigh the hour of supper, which this pious beast of mine knows right well. I had to drub him all the way to Aertrick, because he thought I had ought to be at vespers in the convent; and now he ambles me well nigh three leagues to the hour, because he knows that I ought to be back again. Oh, he has as much care of my conscience as a lady's father-director has of hers. Come, my son, if you be coming;" and therewith he put his ass once more into a quick pace, and took the road to the right.
In little more than half an hour the whole party stood before the gates of a large heavy building, inclosed within high walls, situated at a short distance from the town of Thorout; and the good monk, leaving his new friends without, went in to speak with the prior in regard to their reception. No great difficulty seemed to be made; and the prior himself, a white bearded, fresh complexioned old man, with a watery blue eye, well set in fat, came out to the door to welcome them. His air was benevolent; and his look, though somewhat more joyous than was perhaps quite in harmony with his vows, was by no means so unusual in his class as to call for any particular observation on the part of the young Englishman.
Far from displaying any scruples in regard to receiving Ella within those holy walls, he was the first to show himself busy, perhaps somewhat more than needful, in assisting her to dismount. It was evident that he was a great admirer of beauty in the other sex; but there were other objects for which he had an extreme regard; and one of those, in the form of the supper of the monastery, was already being placed upon the table of the refectory; so that there was no other course for him to pursue than to hasten the whole party in, to partake of the meal, only pausing to ask Richard of Woodville, with a glance at the black robe of serge and the white wimple of Ella Brune, whether she was a sister of some English order?
Woodville simply replied that she was not, but merely a young maiden who was placed under his charge, to escort safely to Peronne, or perhaps Dijon, if she did not find her relations, who were attached to the Court of Burgundy, at the former place.
The good prior was satisfied for the time, and led the way on to the refectory, where about twenty brethren were assembled, waiting with as eager looks for the commencement of the meal as if they had been fasting for at least four-and-twenty hours. To judge, however, from the viands to which they soon sat down, no such abstinence was usually practised; and capons, and roe-deer, and wild-boar pork, were in as great plenty on the table of the refectory as in the hall of a high English baron. Some distinction of rank, too, was here observed;[5]and the attendants of Richard of Woodville were left to sup with the servants of the convent, somewhat to their surprise and displeasure. The monks in general seemed a cheerful and well-contented race, fond of good cheer and rich wine; and all but one or two seemed to vie with each other in showing very courteous attention to poor Ella Brune, in which course the prior himself, and the brother questor, who had been Woodville's guide thither, particularly distinguished themselves.
There was one saturnine man, indeed, seated somewhat far down the table, with his head bent over his platter, who seemed to take little share in the hilarity of the others. From time to time he gave a side-long look towards Ella; but it was evidently not one of love or admiration; and Richard of Woodville was easily led to imagine that the good brother was somewhat scandalized at the presence of a woman in the convent. He asked the questor, who sat next to him, however, in a low voice, who that silent brother was; and it needed no farther explanation to make the monk understand whom he meant.
"He is a Kill-joy," replied the questor, with a significant look; "but he is none of our own people, though one of the order, from the abbey at Liege. He departs soon, God be praised; for he has done nothing but censure us since he came hither. His abbot sent him away upon a visitation--to get rid of him, I believe; for he was unruly there, too, and declared that widgeons could not be eaten on even an ordinary fast-day without sin, though we all know the contrary."
"He is not orthodox in that, at least," answered Richard of Woodville, with a smile. "Doubtless he thinks it highly improper for a lady to have shelter here."
"For that very reason," said the questor, in the same low tone in which their conversation had been hitherto carried on, "the prior will have to lodge you in the visitor's lodging, which you saw just by the gate; for he fears the reports of brother Paul. Otherwise he would have put you in the sub-prior's rooms, he being absent. But see, now he has done himself, how brother Paul watches every mouthful that goes down the throats of others!" The questor sank his voice to a whisper, adding, in a solemn tone, "He drinks no wine--nothing but water wets his lips! Is not that a sin?--a disparaging of the gifts of God?"
"It is, certainly, not using them discreetly," answered Richard of Woodville; "and, methinks, in these low lands, a cup of generous wine, such as this is, must be even more necessary to a reverend monk, who spends half his time in prayer, than to a busy creature of the world, who has plenty of exercise to keep his blood flowing."
"To be sure it is!" replied the questor, who approved the doctrine highly; and thereupon he filled Woodville's can again, with a "Benedicite, noble sir."
When the meal was over, the young Englishman remarked, that this grim brother Paul, of whom they had been speaking, took advantage of the little interval which usually succeeds the pleasant occupation of eating, to draw the prior aside, and whisper to him for several minutes. The face of the latter betrayed impatience and displeasure, and he turned from him, with a somewhat mocking air, saying aloud, "You are mistaken, my brother, and not charitable, as you will soon see. Hark! there is the bell for complines. Do you attend the service, sir?"
The last words were addressed to Richard of Woodville, who bowed his head, and answered, "Gladly I will."
"Oh, yes!" cried Ella, with a joyful look; "I shall be so pleased, if I may find a place in the chapel. I have not had the opportunity of hearing any service since I left London."
"Assuredly, my daughter!" said the prior, with a gracious look; "the chapel is open to all. We have our own place; but every day we have the villagers and townsfolk to hear our chanting, which we are somewhat vain of. You shall be shown how to reach it with your friends."
The monks took their way to the chapel by a private door from the refectory; and Richard of Woodville, with Ella, was led by a lay brother of the monastery through the court. Two or three women and one old man were in the chapel, and the short evening service began and ended, the sweet voice of Ella Brune mingling sounds with the choir, which, well I wot, the place had not often heard before. At the close, Richard of Woodville moved towards the door; but Ella besought him to stay one moment, and, advancing to the shrine of Our Lady, knelt down and prayed devoutly, with her beads in her hand. Perhaps she might ask for a prosperous journey, and for deliverance from danger; or she might entreat support and guidance in an undertaking that occupied the dearest thoughts of an enthusiastic heart; nor will there be many found to blame her, even if the higher aspirations, the holier and purer impulses that separate the spirit from the earth and lead the soul to Heaven, were mingled with the mortal affections that cling around us to the end, so long as we are bondsmen of the clay.
While she yet prayed, and while the monks were wending away through their own particular entrance, the old prior advanced to Woodville, who was standing near the door, and remarked, "Our fair sister seems of a devout and Catholic spirit. These are bad days, and there are many that swerve from the true faith."
At these words a conviction, very near the truth, broke upon Woodville's mind, as he recollected what Ella had told him of the opinions of old Murdock Brune and of his relations in Liege, and combined her account with the whispering of brother Paul, a monk from that very city. It was a sudden flash of perception, rather than the light of cold consideration; and he replied, without a moment's pause, "She is, indeed, a sincere and pious child of the Holy Roman Catholic Church; and she has been much tried, as you would soon perceive, reverend sir, if you knew all; for she has relations who have long since abandoned the faith of their fathers, and would fain have persuaded her to adopt their own vain and heretical opinions; but she has been firm and constant, even to her own injury in their esteem, poor maiden!"
"Ay, I thought so, I thought so!" replied the fat prior, rubbing his fat white hands. "See how she prays to the Blessed Virgin; and the Queen of Heaven will hear her prayers. She always has especial grace for those who kneel at that altar. Good night, brother;--good night! The questor and the refectioner will show you your lodging, and give you the sleeping cup. To-morrow I will see you ere you depart. God's blessing upon you, daughter," he added, as Ella approached. "I must away, for that father Paul has us all up to matins."
Thus saying, the old monk retired; and in the court Woodville found his friend the questor and another brother, who led him and his attendants to what was called the visitor's lodging, where, with a more comfortable bed than the night before, he slept soundly, only waking for a few moments as the matin bell rang, and then dropping asleep again, to waken shortly after daylight and prepare for his journey onward.
When he came to depart, however, there was one drawback to the remembrance of the pleasant evening he had passed in the monastery. A stout mule was saddled in the court, and the prior besought him, in courteous terms, to give the advantage of his escort to father Paul, who was about to set out likewise for Ghent. Richard of Woodville could not well refuse, though not particularly pleased, and placing a liberal return for his entertainment in the box of the convent, he began his journey, resolved to make the best of a companionship which he could not avoid.