The writer must retread his steps for a while, to show the events which had taken place in the city of Ghent since Ned Dyram and Sir Simeon of Roydon were last seen upon the stage. Whether the reader may think fit to do so or not must depend upon himself. All that the author can promise is, that he will be brief, and merely sketch the conduct of the personages left behind till he brings them up with the rest.
The arrival of Sir Simeon of Roydon in Ghent spread the same terror through the heart of poor Ella Brune that the appearance of a hawk produces in one of the feathered songsters of the bush or clouds. Had Richard of Woodville been there, she would have felt no apprehension; for to him she had accustomed herself to look for protection and support, with that relying confidence, that trust in his power, his wisdom, and his goodness, which perhaps ought never to be placed in man, and which is never so placed but by a heart where love is present. Had she been even in London, her terror would have been less; for even in those days--although they were dark and barbarous, although tumult and riot, civil strife and contention, injustice and wrong would, as we all know, take place in every different country--the peculiar character of the English people, the homely sense of justice and of right, which has been their chief characteristic in all ages, was sufficiently strong to render this island comparatively a land of security. Though there might be persons to oppress and injure, yet there were generally found some kind hearts and generous spirits to support and protect; and in short, there were more defences for those who needed defence than in any state in Europe.
Very different, however, was the case in Ghent, especially for a stranger; and Ella Brune well knew that it was so. She was aware that deeds could be done there boldly and openly, which in England would require cunning concealment and artful device, even for a chance of success; and the consequence was, that she kept herself immured within the walls of her cousin's dwelling, never venturing forth, even to breathe the air, but at night, and striving to make her companionship during the day prove as pleasant as possible to the worthy dame of Nicholas Brune. To her and to him she communicated the cause of her apprehensions; and it is but justice to the good folks to say, that they entered warmly into her feelings, and did all that they could to mitigate her alarm and give her encouragement. But Ella Brune, in answer to all assurances of safety, constantly replied, that she should never feel secure till Richard of Woodville had returned; and, as it was already beyond the period at which he had promised to be back, she looked for his appearance every day.
From such subjects sprang many a discussion between her and her good cousin, as to her future conduct. "Why, you know, my pretty Ella," he would say, "you could not go wandering after this gay young gentleman, over all the world; mischief would come of it, be you sure. Men are not to be trusted, nor pretty maidens either. We have all our weak moments; and if no harm happen to you, your fair fame would suffer. Men would call you his leman."
"Ay, that is what I fear," answered Ella Brune, "and that only; for though most men are not to be trusted, he is. But at all events," she continued, willing gently to remove all objections to the plan she was determined to pursue, "he might carry me safely with him to Burgundy, or to Liege, as he brought me here."
Nicholas Brune shook his head; and Ella said no more at that time; but gradually she put forward the notion of obviating all difficulties and objections, by assuming some disguise; and on that her good cousin pondered, thinking it a more feasible plan than any other, yet seeing many difficulties.
"As what could you go?" he said. "If at all, it must be in male guise; and though you would make a pretty boy enough, I doubt me they would find you out, fair Ella."
"Why not as a novice of the Black Friars?" demanded Madam Brune, who entered into the maiden's schemes more warmly and enthusiastically than her prudent husband; "then she would have robes longer than her own, to cover her little hands and feet, and a hood to shade her head. There is no punishment either for taking the gown of a novice."
"Then, as this man Dyram must be in the secret," added Ella Brune, "he could give me help and protection in case of need."
"Ah, ha! are you there?" cried Nicholas, laughing. But Ella shook her head, no way abashed, replying, "you are mistaken, cousin of mine; but perhaps you have so much respect for these holy men, the monks, that you would object to a profane girl, like me, taking their garb upon her?"
"Out upon them, the lazy drones," cried Nicholas Brune; "you may make what sport of them you like for that. I would put them all to hard labour on the dykes, if I had my will;" and he burst forth into a long vituperation of all the monastic orders, in terms somewhat too gross for modern ears, not even sparing the Holy Roman Catholic Church; but ending with another wise shake of the head, and an expression of his firm belief, that the scheme would not do.
Nevertheless, Ella Brune and his good dame were now perfectly agreed upon the subject, and worked together zealously, preparing all that was needful for Ella's disguise, while Ned Dyram brought them daily information of the proceedings of Sir Simeon of Roydon, and made them smile to hear how he had deceived the knight into the belief that Ella was far away from Ghent.
"But if he should discover the truth," said Ella Brune, really anxious that no one should suffer on her account, "may he not revenge himself on you, if you give him the opportunity by going every day and working in gold and silver under his eyes? I beseech you, Master Dyram, run no risk on my account. I would rather endure insult or injury myself, than that you should incur danger."
Ned Dyram's heart beat quick, though Ella said no more to him than she would have said to any one in the same circumstances; but he shook his head with a triumphant air, replying, "He dare not wag his finger against me."
He added no more, but turned to the subject of Ella's disguise, having before this been made acquainted with her project, and being, moreover, eager to second it; for the prospect of having to leave her behind in Ghent, if his young master should be called upon some more distant expedition, had often crossed his mind, producing very unpleasant sensations. Day after day, however, he visited Simeon of Roydon, and generally found him alone. Plenty of work was provided for him; and the payment was prompt and large. Now it was an ornamented bridle that he had to produce, encrusted all over with fanciful work of silver--now a testière or a poitral arabesqued with lines of gold. Sometimes he compounded perfumes or essences, sometimes he illuminated a book of canticles, which the knight intended to present to the monastery.
One morning, however, going somewhat earlier than was his wont, he met the monk, brother Paul, coming down the stairs from the knight's apartments. The cenobite gave him a grim smile, but merely added his benedicite and passed on. Ned Dyram paused and mused before he entered. More than once he had asked himself, what it was that detained Sir Simeon of Roydon so long in Ghent. The Court was absent--there was little to see, and less to gain; and the visit of father Paul gave him fresh matter for reflection. But Ned Dyram was one who, judging by slight indications, always prepared himself against probable results; and he now divined that the discovery of the truth in regard to Ella might not be far off.
He found no change in Simeon of Roydon when he entered, and the morning passed away as usual; but on the following day the knight received him with a smile so mixed in its expression that Dyram felt the hilt of his anelace, and returned him his look with one as doubtful.
"Shut the door, Master Dyram," said Sir Simeon of Roydon.
The man obeyed without the least hesitation; and the knight proceeded, "Think you, fellow, that it is wise and worthy to cheat and to deceive?"
"On proper occasions, and with proper men," replied Ned Dyram, calmly.
"Ah, you do?" cried the knight, with his brow bent; "Then let me tell you that you will deceive me no more."
"That depends upon circumstances and opportunity," answered Ned Dyram, with the same imperturbable effrontery as before. "I dare say you will not give me the means, if you can help it."
"What, if I take from you the opportunity of cheating any one again?" exclaimed Sir Simeon of Roydon. "What if, as you well deserve, I call up my men, and bid them dispose of you as they know how?"
"You will not do that," replied Dyram, without a shade of emotion.
"Why should I not?" demanded the knight, fiercely. "What should stop me? Out of these walls no secrets are likely to pass. Why should I not, I say?"
"Because," said Dyram, in a cool conversation tone, "there is a certain bridge in this city, over the river Lys, where you may have seen, as you pass along, a foolish figure cast in bronze, of two men, one going to cut off the other's head apparently. They represent a son who offered to execute his father, when, as old legends say--but I do not believe them--the sword flew to splinters in the parricide's hand. However, that has not much to do with the matter, as I see you perceive; but the fact is, that bridge is called the Bridge of the Decapitation--not, as many men fancy, on account of those two statues, but because it is there the citizens of this good town have a pious custom of putting to death knights and nobles, who have had the misfortune to become murderers. Now you must not suppose me so slow witted a man as to come to visit Sir Simeon of Roydon under such peculiar circumstances, without letting those persons know where I am, who may inquire after me if I do not reappear. I am always ready for such cases, noble knight, and to say truth, care little when I go out of the world, so that I have a companion by the way; and that, in this instance, at least, I have secured. 'Tis therefore, I say, you will abandon such vain thoughts."
Sir Simeon of Roydon gazed at him for a moment, with the expression of a fiend; but suddenly his countenance changed, and he fell into deep thought.
What strifes there are in that eternal battle-field, the human heart! What strifes have there not been therein, since the first fell passion entered into man's breast with the words of the serpent tempter--ay, with the words of the tempter; for man had fallen before he ate! But perhaps there is none more frequent, than the struggle between passion and policy in the bosom of the vehement and wily,--none more terrible either; for whichever gains the ascendancy, ruins the country round.
There was something in Dyram's demeanour that suited well with the character of him to whom he spoke. Opposed to him, it first excited wrath; but yet a voice whispered that such a man might be made most useful to his purposes, if he could but be won; and as the knight's anger abated, the question became, how could he be gained? In regard to Ella Brune, Roydon was aware of much that had taken place, but not of all; otherwise his course would have been soon decided. By this time he had learned that Ella had journeyed from England in the train of Richard of Woodville; he knew that Dyram had stayed behind--not dismissed by his master as the man had insinuated, but left in charge of his baggage; and Simeon of Roydon suspected, judging of others by himself, that he had been left in charge of Ella, also, by her paramour. But of Dyram's love for her he had no hint, though there might have arisen in his mind a vague surmise that such attachment did exist, from the fact which brother Paul had discovered and communicated, that Dyram visited her once at least each day.
That surmise, however, was enough to guide him some way, and after pausing and pondering, till silence became unpleasant, he said, "Perhaps, my good friend, you may be mistaken in what you fancy. No fears of the results you speak of would stay me, were I so minded. Those who have good friends dread no foes."
"That is what I say, sir," replied Ned Dyram, in the same tone; "I have no apprehensions, because I know there are those who will take care of me, or avenge me."
"You need have none," answered Sir Simeon of Roydon; "but not for that cause. There are other regards that would restrain me. You have deceived me, it is true; but you can deceive me no more; and now that I know your motives and your conduct, I think that our ends may not be quite so different as you imagine, and as I too imagined at first."
"Indeed!" said Ned Dyram, with a sarcastic smile. "I know not what your ends are, or what you think you know. Knowledge is a strange thing, noble knight, and those who fancy they know much, often know little."
"True, learned master," answered Simeon of Roydon; "but you shall hear what I know--I wish not to conceal it. Your young lord brought this fair girl to Ghent; then, being called to serve the Duke of Burgundy, left his sweet leman--" he paused upon the word, and saw his companion's visage glow; but Dyram said nothing, and the knight went on; "--left his sweet leman, with his other baggage, under your careful guard. She lives now in the house of one Nicholas Brune; and you see her daily. You love her; and, fancying that I seek her par amours, would fain hide from me where she is. That you see is vain; and I will show you, too, that what you suppose of me is false. I care not for the girl; though perchance I may have thought, in former days, to trifle with her for an hour. But I will tell you more, Dyram: I love not your lord, and I believe that you have no great kindness for him either. Is it not so?"
"All wrong together, puissant knight," replied Ned Dyram, with a laugh. "She is no leman of Richard of Woodville--Sir Richard, by the mass! for I have heard to-day he has been made a knight. Nay, more; he cares no farther for her, than as a boy, who has saved a bird from hawk or raven, loves to nourish and fondle it."
"That may be," answered Sir Simeon, who had now regained all his coolness; "you know more than myself of his doings; but of one thing we are both certain, she loves him; and it would need but his humour to make her his. Of that I have had proof enough before I crossed the sea."
Ned Dyram winced; but he replied boldly, "Because she looked coldly upon you."
"Nay, not so," said the knight; "but on account of signs and tokens not to be mistaken. However, if as you think he loves her not, my scheme falls to the ground."
"And what was that, if I may dare to ask?" demanded Ned Dyram.
"I heed not who knows it," replied Roydon, at once. "I seek revenge, and thought to accomplish it by taking this girl from him. As to what is to follow, I care not. I never seek to see her more; would wed her to a hind, or any one. But if you judge rightly, and he loves her not, I am frustrated in this, and must seek other means."
There was a pause of several minutes; and both thought, or seemed to think, deeply. With Dyram it was really so; though the more shrewd and wise of the two, he had suffered the words of Roydon to fall upon the dangerous weaknesses of his bosom, like a spark into some inflammable mass; and doubt, suspicion, jealousy, were all in a blaze within. Yet he had sufficient power over himself to hide his feelings skilfully, and sought, neither admitting nor denying aught farther, to lead on the knight to speak of his purposes more plainly. But Simeon of Roydon saw there was a struggle, and that was sufficient for his purpose without discovering clearly what it was. He did speak more plainly then, and by many an artful suggestion, and many a promise, sought to lure Dyram on to aid in separating Ella Brune from him who could protect her; concealing carefully that it was on her his thirst of revenge longed to sate itself, though Richard of Woodville was not forgotten either; and before they parted, he thought that he had nearly won him to his wishes. The man did, indeed, hesitate; but the sparks of better feeling, which I have before said he possessed, burned up ere their conversation ended; and a doubt which, even in the midst of passion will rise up in the minds of the cunning and deceitful, that there may ever be a knavish purpose in others, made him desire to see his way more clearly.
All that the knight could gain was a promise that he would consider of his hints; and Dyram left him, with the resolution to draw from Ella Brune, by any means, a knowledge of her true feelings towards his master, and to watch every movement of Simeon of Roydon with a care that should let not the veriest trifle escape.
In the first object he was frustrated, as before; for the cold despair of Ella's love, its utter unselfishness, its high and lofty nature, was a veil to her heart which the eyes of one so full of human passion as himself could by no art penetrate. But, in his second, he was more successful--with the cunning of a serpent, with the perseverance of a ferret, he examined, he watched, he pursued his purpose. He had already wound himself into the confidence of several of the knight's servants; and he now took every means to gain some hold upon them, which was not indeed difficult, from the character of the men whom Roydon had chosen. Neither did he altogether cease his visits to their master, but, for many days, kept him negotiating as to the price of his services; and, although he could not exactly divine the end that the other proposed to himself, he learned enough to show him that Roydon was sincere, when he assured him that no love for Ella influenced him in seeking to remove her from the protection of Richard of Woodville. He then admitted that he loved her himself, in order to see what the knight would propose; and was not a little surprised to find how eagerly Roydon grasped at the fact, as a means to his own ends.
"Then she may be yours at a word," exclaimed Roydon, grasping his hand as if he had been an equal; "but aid me boldly and skilfully in what I seek, and she shall be placed entirely in your hands--at your mercy--to do with her as you will. Then, if you use not your advantage like a wise and resolute man, it is your own fault."
Dyram mused: the prospect tempted him: the strong passions of his nature rose up, and urged him on; he could not resist them; but still, cunning and cautious, he resolved to make his own position sure, and he replied, "I must first know your motive, noble knight. Men are not so eager without some object. What is it?"
"Revenge!" replied Sir Simeon of Roydon, vehemently, and he said truly; but then he added more calmly the next moment, "I am still unconvinced by what you have said, in regard to the feelings of your master. Though he may seek a higher lady as his wife--and, indeed, I know he does--yet he loves this girl, and will seek her par amours as soon as he has made sufficient way with her; for I persist not in saying that she is his leman. I have been acquainted with him longer than you have--since his boyhood; and he cannot hide himself from me as from others. At all events, that is my affair: I seek revenge, I tell you; and if I think I shall inflict a heavy blow on him, by making this girl your paramour, and am mistaken, the error will fall on myself. You will gain your ends, if I gain not mine."
"My paramour!" said Ned Dyram, thoughtfully.
"Ay--or your wife, if you will," replied the knight; "but, perchance, she will not, till forced, readily consent to be your wife--you understand me. I will give you every surety you may demand, that she shall remain wholly in your power. The course you follow afterwards must be of your own choosing."
The great tempter himself could not have chosen better words to work his purpose. It seemed, as if by instinct, that the one base man addressed himself to all that was weak in the other's nature; and there is a kind of divination between men of similar characters, which leads them to foresee, with almost unerring certainty, the effect of particular inducements upon their fellows.
Gradually, Dyram yielded more and more, resolving firmly all the while to do nothing, to aid in nothing, without insuring that his own objects also were attained; but, in the execution of such schemes, there are always small oversights. Passion so frequently interferes with prudence--the stream grows so much stronger as we are hurried on, that it is scarcely possible to stop when we would; and, when once the knave or the fool puts power into the hands of another, his own course is as much beyond his direction as that of a charioteer who would guide wild horses with packthread. How strange it is--perhaps the most wonderful of all moral phenomena--that any man should trust another in the commission of a bad action!
The question between Sir Simeon of Roydon and his lowlier companion speedily reduced itself to how Ella Brune was to be separated from those who could afford her protection; but the knight soon pointed out a means, instructed as he was by another, who kept himself in the dark.
"These people," he said, "with whom she resides, are known to be the followers of a new sect of heretics, which has sprung up in a distant part of Germany, and is similar to our own Lollards, only their apostle is named Huss, instead of Wickliffe. The girl herself is more than suspected of favouring these false doctrines. Such things are matters of no moment in your eyes or mine; but the zealous priesthood, fearful for their shaken power, are resolute to put such blasphemous notions down; and, if you can but discover when these Brunes go to one of their assemblies, which are kept profoundly secret, we can ensure that they shall be arrested. The girl, then left alone, shall be placed at your disposal. If she will fly with you from Ghent, for fear of being implicated, well. If not, on your bringing me the information, you shall have a sufficient sum of money to hire unscrupulous friends, and carry her whithersoever you will."
"But if she should accompany them to their assembly," said Ned Dyram at once, "how shall I ensure that she is not thrown into prison, tortured, perhaps burnt at the stake? No, no--that will never do!"
"All those ifs can be met right easily," answered Simeon of Roydon. "Ere you give any information, you can exact a promise from brother Paul--"
"A promise from brother Paul!" exclaimed Dyram, with a mocking laugh; "what! trust the promise of a monk! You are jesting, sir knight. Was there ever promise so sacred, sworn at the altar on the body of our Lord, that they have not found excuse for breaking or means of evading? Do you judge me a fool, Sir Simeon of Roydon?"
"Not so," rejoined the knight, "the danger did not strike me; but I see it now. It must be obviated, or I cannot expect you to go along with me. Yet--let me consider--methinks it were easily guarded against. Perchance she may not go; but, if she do, you can go with the party, take what number of men with you you like, and, in the confusion that must ensue, rescue your fair maiden. The gates, at this time of night, are not shut till ten; horses may be ready; and there is a castle, some five leagues off, on the road to Bruges, which I saw and cheapened three days since, as a place of residence during my exile. It is vacant now: you can bear her thither. To-morrow you can speak with father Paul yourself, and make your own terms as to leading him to the place of their meeting, if you discover it."
"No," replied Ned Dyram, "no! I will not go with him. I will be at their meeting with men I can trust; so can I be sure that I shall be near at hand to guard her. I will have it under his hand, too, that I am authorized by him to go; or, perchance, they may burn me likewise."
"You are too suspicious, my good friend," cried the knight, with a laugh that rang not quite so merrily as it might have done.
"A monk! a monk!" answered Dyram; "one can never doubt a monk too much. I will gain the intelligence wanted, sir knight; but I leave you to prepare this brother Paul to grant me all the security I ask, or he hears not a word from me; and so, good night!--you shall have news of me soon:" and, thus saying, he left him.
Simeon of Roydon bent down his head, and thought for several minutes; but at length he exclaimed, biting his lip, "He will shear down my revenge to a half--and yet, perhaps, that may be as bitter as death. To be the minion of a varlet!--'Twill be a fiercer, though a slower fire, than that of fagot and stake."
In a large old house, built almost entirely of wood, and situated in one of the suburbs of Ghent, far removed from all the noise and bustle of the more frequented parts of that busy town, there was a large old hall, in former years employed as a place of meeting by the linen weavers; but which, at the time I speak of, had been long disused for that purpose, when, the trade becoming more flourishing, its followers had built themselves a more splendid structure in the heart of the city.
In this hall were assembled, at a late hour of the day, about fifty personages of both sexes, and apparently of various grades and professions. Some were dressed in rather gay habiliments, some in staid and sober costume, but fine and costly withal, and some in the garb of the common artizans. The greater number, however, seemed of a wealthy class; but all appeared to know each other; and the rich citizen spoke in brotherly fellowship to the poor mechanic, the well-dressed burgher's wife nodded with friendly looks to the daughter of her husband's workman. There was one part of the hall, indeed, in which, for a moment, there was a momentary bustle caused by a beautiful girl in a mourning garb, of somewhat foreign fashion, expressing apparently a wish to quit the hall; but it was soon quieted; and a minute or two after, a tall, elderly man, with white hair, stood up at the end of a long table, having some books laid upon it, while the rest of the assembly sat on benches round, at some little distance, leaving a vacant space in the midst.
After pausing for a minute or two till all was silent, the old man began to speak, addressing his companions in a fine, mellow tone, and with a mild, persuasive air.
"My brethren!" he said, in the Flemish tongue, "although I be an ignorant man and not meet to deal with such high matters, you have permitted me to expound to you the opinions of wiser men than myself, and especially of the venerable John Huss, upon things that nearly touch the salvation of all; and on former occasions, I have shown you cause to see that very many corruptions and abominations have, by the wickedness of men, been brought into the Church of Christ. Amongst other points on which we have all agreed, there are these principal ones; that the word of God, first preached by the lowly and the humble to the poor and ignorant, should be laid open to all men, and committed to their own keeping, not being made to be put under a bed or hidden in a bushel, but to be a light shining in darkness, and leading every one in the way of salvation: that the Bible is no more the book of the priests than the book of the people, but is the property of all for the security of their souls. Secondly, we have agreed that there is but one mediator with God the Father, Jesus Christ our Lord; and that to worship, or invoke, or kneel down to even good and holy men departed, whom we are wont to call saints, is a gross idolatry, as well as the worship of statues, figures, or cross pieces of wood and stone; there being nothing that can save us, but faith in our Redeemer, and no intercession available but his; for, surely, it is a folly to suppose that men, who were sinners like ourselves, have power to help or save others when they have need of the one atonement for their own salvation. Thirdly, we have held, that in the mass there is no sacrifice, Christ having entered in once for all; and that to suppose that any man, by the imposition of a bishop's hands, receives power to change mere bread and wine into the substance of our Lord's body and blood, is a fond and foolish imagination devised by wicked priests for their own purposes. These were the points touched upon when last we met; and now, before we proceed farther, let us pray for grace to help us in our examination."
Thus saying, he knelt down at the end of the table--and all the rest, but one, followed his example, turning, and bending the knee by the benches around. The Hussite teacher raised his eyes and hands to heaven, and then, in a loud tone, uttered a somewhat long prayer, followed by the voices of his little congregation.
It was by this time growing somewhat dusk, for the sun must have been half way below the horizon; and the windows of the hall were narrow and far up; but nevertheless, when the kneelers raised themselves again at the conclusion of the prayer, and turned round towards the teacher, the eyes of all were fixed on one spot at the end of the table, and a universal cry burst from every lip. With some it seemed to be the sound of terror, with others that of rage and surprise; and well, indeed, might they feel astonished, for there, exactly opposite the old man who had led them in prayer, stood a figure frightful to behold, covered with long black shaggy hair, with two large horns upon its head, a pair of wings on its shoulders, swarthy and ribbed like those of a bat, and with the face, apparently, of a negro.[9]
Hardly had they time to recover from their surprise, and to ask themselves what was the meaning of the apparition they beheld, when the doors of the hall burst open, and a mixed multitude rushed in, consisting of monks and priests, and the whole train of varlets and serving men which, in that day, were attached to monasteries, chapters, and other religious institutions in great towns. Staves and swords were plenty amongst them; and, with loud shouts of "Ah, the heretics! Ah, the blasphemers! Ah, the worshippers of Satan!" they rushed on the unhappy Hussites, overpowering them by numbers. No resistance was made; in consternation and alarm, the unhappy seekers of a purer faith rushed towards the doors, and even the windows, in the hope of making their escape. But the attempt was vain; one after another they were caught by their furious enemies, while cries of triumph and savage satisfaction rose up from different parts of the hall, as captive after captive was seized and pinioned.
"We have caught you in the fact," cried one.
"You shall blaspheme no more!" shouted another.
"I saw the arch enemy in the midst of them!" added a third.
"They were in the act of worshipping the devil!" said brother Paul.
"To the stake with them, to the stake with them!" roared a barefooted friar.
"You see what you have done," said Ella Brune to her cousin, who stood near with his arms tied. "This was very wrong of you, Nicholas."
"It was," answered Nicholas Brune, in a sorrowful tone; "but they can do no harm to you; for I and others can testify that you came, unknowing whither, and would have left us, if we had allowed you."
"Will they believe your testimony?" asked Ella, in a tone of deep despondency.
Before he could answer, brother Paul approached, and gazing at the fair unhappy girl with a malicious smile, he said, "Ah, ah, fair maiden, I knew your hypocrisy would be detected at length. I did not forget having seen you with the heretics at Liege."
Even as he spoke, however, there was a bustle at the door; and to the surprise of all the hall contained, a number of men completely armed appeared, having at their head a gentleman in the ordinary riding dress of the day, with the knightly spurs over his boots, and two long feathers in his cap.
"Stand there," he said in a loud voice, turning to the men who followed, "and let no one forth". Then striding through the hall with the multitude of priests and monks scattering before him, he advanced, gazing from right to left, till he reached the spot where Ella Brune was standing. A low murmur of joy burst from the poor girl's lips as Richard of Woodville approached; and she would fain have held out her hands towards him, but that her delicate wrists were tied with a hard cord.
Richard of Woodville gazed from her to father Paul, who stood beside her, with a stern brow; and then, in a low, but menacing voice, exclaimed, "Untie that cord, foul monk!"
"I will not," answered Father Paul, sullenly. "Who are you, that you should interrupt the course of justice, and rescue a blasphemous heretic from the stake?"
"Thou liest, knave!" answered Richard of Woodville. "She is a better Catholic than thou art, with all thy hypocritical grimaces;" and unsheathing his dagger, he cut the cord from Ella's wrist, and set her free.
"Ah, he draws his knife upon us!" cried father Paul. "Upon him! Cleave him down. Are there no brave men here?"
A rush was instantly made towards Richard of Woodville; and one man, with a guisarme, thrust himself right in his way; but laughing loud, the young knight bared his long, heavy sword, and waved it over his head, grasping Ella by the hand, and exclaiming in English, "On, my men! on! open a way, there!"
All but the most resolute of his opponents scattered from his path; and his stout followers forced their way forward into the hall, showing some reverence for the priests and monks, it is true; but striking the varlets and serving-men sundry heavy blows with the pommels of the swords, not easily to be forgotten. A scene of indescribable confusion ensued; the darkness of the hall was becoming every moment more profound--a number of the Hussites made their escape, and untied others; while still, through the midst of the crowd, Richard of Woodville slowly advanced towards the door, and knocking the guisarme out of the hand of one of the men who seemed most strongly bent on opposing his passage, he brought the point of his sword to his throat, exclaiming, "Back, or die!"
The sturdy varlet laid his hand upon his dagger; but, at the same moment, one of the English archers who had reached his side, struck him on the jaws with his steel glove, and knocked him reeling back amongst the crowd. Quickening his pace, Richard of Woodville hurried on, still holding Ella by the hand, and soon reached the top of the narrow stairs. There pausing at the door, he counted the number of his men, who had closed in behind him, to see that none were left, and then hastened down with his fair charge into the street, several other fugitive Hussites passing him as they fled with all the speed of terror.
As soon as they had reached the open road, the young Englishman turned to his followers, and ordered three of them to remain a step or two behind, to ensure that they were not taken by surprise, and to give notice if they were pursued. But the party of fanatic priests within were busy enough, in the wild riotous scene presented by the hall, now in almost total darkness, and often mistook one man for another in endeavouring to secure the prisoners that still remained in their hands. Thus Woodville and his companions were suffered to proceed on their way unfollowed, through numerous long and narrow streets, till they reached the inn where they had first alighted on their arrival in Ghent.
"Quick," cried Richard of Woodville to one of his attendants. "Saddle four horses and the mule; and you with Peter and Alfred be ready to set out. You must leave Ghent with all speed, my poor Ella," he continued, leading her into the inn. "I cannot go with you myself, but you shall hear from me soon, and the men will take care of you."
"I must go first to my cousin's house," said Ella, eagerly. "'Twill not take long to run thither and return. There are many things that I must take with me."
"You can pass round there as you go," replied Woodville; "less time will be lost, and there is none to spare. Here, host," he cried. "Host, I say!" But the host was not to be found; and one of the chamberlains, running up as the young knight and his followers stood under the arch, demanded, "What's your will, sir?"
"At what time are the city gates closed?" asked Richard of Woodville. "I have to levy men at Bruges for the service of the Duke, and must send some of my people on tonight."
"They do not shut till ten, sir, in this time of peace," replied the chamberlain; "so you have more than an hour; but even after that, an order from the cyndic will open them."
"That will do," replied Richard of Woodville; "they must set out at once."
A moment after, the horses were brought round, with the mule which Ella Brune had ridden from Nieuport, and placing her carefully thereon, the young knight gave some orders to his men in a low tone, added some money for their expenses, and with a kindly adieu to Ella, saw them depart. He then directed two of his archers to superintend the immediate removal of his baggage to the apartments which had been assigned him in the Graevensteen, to see to the care of the horses, and to rejoin him without loss of time. After which, followed by the rest of his attendants, he took his way back to the old castle of the counts of Flanders, and sought the chamber in the basement of one of the towers, which had been pointed out for his own by the Count of Charolois.
At the door stood a stout man-at-arms, whom Woodville had placed there that night after his meeting with Sir John Grey; for it may be necessary to mention here, what we did not pause to notice before, that the young knight had returned with Dyram to the Graevensteen to seek for his men, as soon as he heard of the danger which menaced poor Ella Brune.
Opening the door of the chamber, Richard of Woodville went in, and found Dyram seated at the table with his head leaning on his arms. He moved but slightly when his master entered, and Woodville, casting himself into a seat opposite, gazed at him for a moment with a stern and angry brow.
"Lookup, sir," he said at length; "in your terror and haste to remedy the evil you have caused, you have spoken too much not to speak more. You once boasted of telling truth. Tell it now, as the only means of escaping punishment."
"Is she saved?" asked Ned Dyram, raising his head, and gazing in his young master's face with a look of eager anxiety. "Is she saved? I care for nought else."
"Yes, she is saved," replied Richard of Woodville; "but with peril to her, and peril to me. I found her with her hands tied; and what may be the result, no one yet can tell. And so you love her!" he continued, gazing upon him thoughtfully. "A glorious means, indeed, to prove your love!"
"I have been deceived," said Dyram; "the villain cheated me. He promised that she should be mine; and when I told him of the day and hour when the assembly was to take place, thinking that I kept the power in my own hands, so long as I did not mention where they were to meet, they laughed me to scorn, and told me they wanted to know no more."
"They!" exclaimed Richard of Woodville. "They! whom do you mean?"
"Brother Paul," replied Dyram, hesitating--"brother Paul and--Well, it matters not, if you learn not from me, you will learn from others; so I will say it first myself--brother Paul and Simeon of Roydon."
"Simeon of Roydon!" exclaimed the young knight, starting up, and lifting his hand as if to strike him; "and have you been villain and traitor enough to betray this poor girl into the hands of that base and pitiful knave? By the Lord that lives, I have a mind to have you scourged through the streets of Ghent, as a warning to all treacherous varlets."
Dyram bent his brows upon him with a bold scowl, answering in a low muttering tone, "You dare not!"
The words had scarcely quitted his lips, when, with a blow on the side of the head, Richard of Woodville dashed him to the ground. The man started up, and drew his dagger half out of the sheath; but his master, who had recovered from his anger the instant the blow was given, so far at least as to be sorry that it had been struck at all, looked at him with a smile of cold contempt, and raising his voice, exclaimed, "Without, there!"
The archer instantly appeared at the door; and, pointing to Dyram, the young knight said, "Take away that knave, and put him forth from the castle, and from the band. He is not one of my own people, and unfit to be with them. He is a base and dishonest traitor, who betrays his trust. Away with him!"
Dyram glared upon him for a moment without moving, then thrust his dagger back into the sheath, raised his hand with the right finger extended, and shook it at Richard of Woodville, with his teeth hard set together, and a significant frown upon his brow. Then turning to the door, he passed the archer, saying, in a menacing tone, "Touch me not," and quitted the room.
"Perhaps I have been too harsh," thought Richard of Woodville, when the man Dyram was gone, and he sat alone in his chamber. "Surely that knave's conscience must be punishment enough. What must it be to think that we have betrayed a friend, violated a trust, injured one who has confided in us! Can Hell itself afford an infliction more terrible than such a memory? Methinks it were torment enough for the worst of men, to render remembrance eternal!"
And he was right--surely he was right. In this world we weave the fabric of our punishment with our sins.
As the young knight proceeded to reflect, however, his mind turned from Dyram to Sir Simeon of Roydon; and suddenly a light broke in upon him.--"It must be so!" he cried: "'tis this man has poisoned the mind of Sir John Grey against me. But that will be easily remedied."
The next instant he suddenly recollected the half-made appointment with Mary's father, which in all the bustle and excitement of the scenes he had lately gone through, had escaped his memory till that moment; and he started up, exclaiming, "This is unfortunate, indeed!--There may yet be time--I will go!" But as he turned towards the door, the clock of the castle struck. Nearly an hour had elapsed since the appointed period, for the stealthy foot of Time ever runs fastest when we could wish his stay. Nevertheless, Richard of Woodville went forth, received the password of the guard, and hurried to the inn to inquire whether or not the old knight had come during his absence. He was in some hope that such might not be the case; for Mary's father had ridden away abruptly without saying whether he accepted the appointment or not. But when Woodville reached the hostel he found, to his mortification, that Sir John Grey had not only been there, but had waited some time for his return, and had gone away, the host informed him, with a gloomy brow.
Sad and desponding, with all the bright hopes which had accompanied him into Ghent darkened, he strode back to the Graevensteen, and passed through the court to his apartments, remarking that there seemed a number of persons waiting, and a good deal of confusion, unusual at so late an hour; but his thoughts were busy with his own situation; and he walked on in the darkness to his chamber, without inquiry. There, leaning his head upon his hand beneath the light of the lamp, he gave himself up to bitter reflections, thinking how sad it is, that a man's happiness, his name, fame, purposes, abilities, virtues, should be so completely in the power of circumstances--the stones with which fate builds up the prison walls of many a lofty spirit.
While he was thus meditating, there was a knock at his chamber door, and bidding the applicant come in, the next moment he saw the young Lord of Lens enter. The youth's countenance betokened haste and agitation, and, closing the door carefully, he said, "The Count has just whispered me, to come and warn you, good knight, not to quit your apartments till he comes to you."
"How so?" asked Woodville, partly divining the cause of this injunction. "Do you mean, my young friend, that I am a prisoner?"
"Oh no!" answered the other, "'tis for your own safety. There are enemies of yours in the castle; and perhaps if they were to see you, they might seize you even here. You know not the daring of these men of Ghent, and how, when passion moves them, they set at nought all authority. They would arrest you in the very presence of the Prince, if they thought fit; and they are even now pouring their complaints into the Count's ear. Luckily, however, they know not that you are in the Graevensteen; and, with a show of loyal obedience, of which they have very little in their hearts, they are affecting to ask permission, as you are one of his knights, to have you sought for in the town to-morrow and apprehended, for something rather rash that you have done this evening."
"I have done nothing rash, my friend," replied Woodville, gravely, "but only what I would do again to-morrow, if the case required it--only, in fact, what my knightly oath required: I have but rescued a defenceless woman from wrong and oppression. I can justify myself easily to the Count or any other gentleman of honour."
"Well, wait till he comes," answered the young nobleman; "for though you might be able to set yourself right at last, yet you would ill brook imprisonment, I wot; and perhaps even the Count might not be able to save you from these people's hands, if you were found just now. They are a furious and unruly set; and the priests have got syndics and magistrates of all kinds on their side."
"I have heard tales of their doings," replied Richard of Woodville; "but I cannot bring myself to fear them. However, I will, of course, obey the Count's commands, and wait here till he is pleased to send for me."
"I will bear you company," replied the young Lord of Lens, "for I love not the presence of these foul citizens; and heaven knows how long they may stay with their orations, as lengthy and as flat as one of their own pieces of cloth."
To say the truth, Richard of Woodville would have preferred to be alone; but he did not choose to mortify the good-humoured young lord by suffering him to perceive that his presence was a restraint; and, sometimes in grave conversation, sometimes in light, they passed nearly an hour; till at length numerous sounds from the court-yard gave notice that the deputation of the good citizens was taking its departure. For half an hour more they waited, in the expectation of soon receiving some messenger from the Count de Charolois, but none appeared; and at length Richard of Woodville besought his companion to seek some intelligence. The young nobleman readily undertook the task, and opened the door to go out; but, on the very threshold, was met by the Count himself, followed by the Lord of Croy. The expression of the Prince's countenance was grave and troubled; and, seating himself, he made a sign to the rest to do so likewise; and then, looking at Woodville with an anxious and careful smile, he said, "This is an awkward business, my friend."
"If told truly, it is a very simple one, my lord the Count," replied the knight.
"It may be simple, yet have very dangerous results," said the young Prince, gravely. "These men of Ghent are not to be meddled with lightly; and, though their insolence must some day be checked--and shall--yet this is not the time to do it. It seems, by their account, that you brought a pretty light-o'-love maiden with you hither from England; and that she having been found, with a number of other heretics, worshipping, they assert, the devil himself, who was seen in proper form amongst them" (Woodville smiled); "you delivered her with the strong hand from the people sent to seize the whole party. What makes you laugh, Sir Richard?"
"Because, my good lord," replied the young knight, "you, here in Flanders, do not seem to understand monks and priests so well as we do in England. They have made a fair story of it, which is almost all false. I am as good a catholic as any of them, though I have not had my head shaved. I believe all that the Church tells me, for I doubt not that the Church knows best; but I can't help seeing that she has got a great number of knaves amongst her ministers."
"But what is the truth of the story, sir knight?" said the Lord of Croy. "I told the Count that I was sure they had made a mountain of a molehill."
"Thanks, my good lord," answered Woodville. "The truth is simply this: the poor girl is a good and sincere catholic, and has been bitterly tried; for many of her relations are what we call Lollards, a sort of heretics like your Hussites, and she has steadfastly resisted all their false notions. She was persecuted and ill-treated in England, by a base and unworthy man--a knight, heaven save the mark!--one Sir Simeon of Roydon, now banished from the English court for his ill-treatment of her. She, having relations in this land--amongst others Nicholas Brune, your goldsmith, sir--quitted London to join them. I found her in the same ship which brought me over; and, in Christian charity and common courtesy, gave her protection on the way. She is no light-o'-love, my lord, but a good and honest maiden; and I would be the last to sully her purity by word or deed. As soon as I reached Ghent, and found out where her cousin dwelt, I placed her safely under his roof, and thought of her no more, accompanying you to Lille. A servant, however, whom I left with my baggage and some spare horses here in Ghent--a clever knave, but a great rogue--was smitten, it seems, by her beauty on the way, and went often to see her. On my return, while I was speaking with Sir John Grey in the street, this man came up importunately, and told me, if I did not save her, she was lost. Hurrying along with him to gather my men together, I found that a certain monk or friar, named Brother Paul, had combined with others, of whom I have since discovered this Simeon of Roydon was one, to seize upon the poor girl, with the whole party of her friends, at a heretic meeting in the old Linen-weavers' Hall. On their promise to give her up to him, this scoundrel servant of mine, Dyram, had betrayed to the cunning monks at what hour the assembly was to be held; but, when he asked for the securities they had promised, that she should be placed in his hands, they laughed him to scorn. He is a persevering knave, however, and, by one means or another, gained a knowledge of all their proceedings and intentions, and found that they had dressed up one of their varlets as the arch-enemy, covering him with the skin of a black cow, and setting the horns upon his head. This mummer was to be placed under the table in the hall--as doubtless he was, for I saw something of the figure when I went in--and as soon as it grew dusk, he was to rise up amongst the heretics, giving a sign for the others to rush in. Knowing the girl to be a catholic, as I have said, and free from all taint of this heresy--"
"Then why went she thither?" demanded the Count de Charolois.
"She told me afterwards, my lord," replied the young Englishman, "that her cousin Nicholas and his wife had deceived her, and, anxious to convert or pervert her to their own notions, had taken her to this place, without letting her know whither she was going. She says they will acknowledge it themselves, if they are questioned, and also that she strove to go away when she found where she was, but was prevented by them. However, knowing her to be a good catholic, and certain that the whole matter was contrived out of some malice towards her, I had no hesitation in hastening to her deliverance. I used no farther violence than was needful to set her free, took no part in delivering the others, of whose religious notions I knew nothing, and--"
"The greater part of them escaped, it seems," said the Lord of Croy.
"With that I had nothing to do," replied Richard of Woodville. "I contented myself with cutting the cords they had tied round the poor girl's wrists; and making my way with her out of the hall, leaving the monks and their menée to settle the matter with the others as they thought fit."
"And where is the maiden now, my friend?" asked the Count de Charolois.
"I instantly sent her out of the town with three of my men," replied Richard of Woodville. "I thought it the surest course."
The Count looked at the Lord of Croy, as if for him to speak; and the young English knight, somewhat hastily concluding that they entertained doubts of his word, exclaimed, after a moment's pause, "I trust that you do not disbelieve me, sir? You cannot suppose that an English gentleman, of no ill repute, would tell you a falsehood in a matter such as this?"
"No, no, my friend, no, no," replied the Count, "I do not doubt you for a moment. I only look to our good comrade here, to speak what is very unpleasant for me to say. Indeed, I do not know how to explain it to you; for you will naturally think that my father's power ought to be sufficient to protect one of his own knights against his own people."
"The truth is, Sir Richard," said the Lord of Croy, "that the citizens of Ghent are an unruly race; and if they once get you in their hands, they may treat you ill. If my lord the Count were to resist them, there is no knowing what they might do. I would not answer for it, in such a case, that we should not see them in arms before the castle gate, ere noon to-morrow."
"That shall never be on my account, noble prince," replied the knight, turning to the Count; "but, under these circumstances, it were wise in me to quit the town of Ghent."
"That is exactly what I wish to say," answered the Prince; "but, in truth, it seems most ungrateful of me to propose such a thing to you, my friend. Undoubtedly, if you are not pleased to go, I will defend you here to the best of my power; and my father would soon give us aid, in case of necessity; but I need not tell you, that to have Ghent again in revolt, just on the eve of a new war with the Armagnacs in France, might be ruinous to all his schemes, and fatal to his policy. Moreover, if they were to accuse him of countenancing heresy here, it would do him a bitter injury; for the people in Paris have just pronounced that the sermon preached by one of his doctors, Jean Petit, is heretical."
"Well," answered Richard of Woodville, "I can go to Bruges, my lord, where you said I should find good archers, and can be carrying on my levies there."
The Count shook his head, saying, "That will be no place of safety. These good folks of Ghent, and those of Bruges, so often at deadliest enmity, are now sworn friends; and the Brugeois would give you up without a thought. No, what I have to propose is this, that you should go an hour or two before daylight to my cousin Waleran de St. Paul, who is now raising troops upon the Meuse. I shall have to pass thither also; for my father sends me into Burgundy, and I cannot go through France. If you will wait for me between Chimay and Dinant, I will join you within ten days, and we will go on to the west, and raise what men we can at Besançon."
"So be it, my noble lord," replied Richard of Woodville; "but where shall I find the Count?"
"You will find him at Chimay," replied the young prince. "He has a castle two leagues thence, on the road to Dinant. From me you shall hear before I come. I will meet you somewhere in the Ardennes. Make all your preparations quickly; and, in the meanwhile, I will write letters to my uncles of Brabant and Liege, that you may have favour and protection as you pass."
Richard of Woodville thanked him for his kindness in due terms, and, as soon as the young Count, with the Lords of Croy and Lens, had left him, called his servants, and gave orders to prepare once more for their immediate departure. Fortunately, it so happened that he had ordered all his baggage to be brought from the inn, so that no great time was lost; and in about an hour all was ready to set out. The letters of the young Count, however, had not arrived, and Richard of Woodville waited, pondering somewhat anxiously upon the only difficulty which presented itself to his mind, namely, how he was to recal the men whom he had sent with Ella Brune upon the side of Bruges, without depriving her of aid and protection at the moment when she most needed it. It was true, he thought, she had no actual claim upon him; it was true that he had done more for her already than might have been expected at his hands, without any motive but that of compassion; but yet he felt that it would be cruel, most cruel, to leave her in an hour of peril, undefended and alone. "We take a withering stick and plant it in the ground," says Sterne; "and then we water it, because we have planted it;" and Richard of Woodville was one who felt that the kindness he had shown did give her a title to expect more.
At first he thought of bidding the men rejoin him, and bring her with them; but then the glance which Sir John Grey had cast upon him as her name was mentioned, came back to his mind, and he said, "No, that must not be. For her sake and my own, she must go no farther with me. Men might well think, if she did, that there were other ties between us than there are. I will bid them take her to England, or place her anywhere in safety, and then come. To Sir John Grey I must write--and to my sweet Mary also. I may well trust her, I hope, to plead my cause, and repel the charges which this base villain has brought. Yet, 'tis most unfortunate that this event should have occurred at such a moment."
He was still thinking deeply over these matters, when the door opened, and the young Count of Charolois appeared alone. "Here are the letters, my friend," he said. "I have ordered some of my people to go with you for a mile or two beyond the gates, in order to secure you a safe passage. Is there aught I can do for you while you are absent?"
"One thing, my noble lord," replied the young knight, a sudden thought striking him--"if you will kindly undertake to be my advocate with one whose good opinion is to me a matter of no light moment. You must know that Sir John Grey--so long an exile in your father's dominions, but now empowered by King Henry to treat, in conjunction with Sir Philip de Morgan, at the Court of Burgundy--has one daughter, plighted to me by long love, by her own promises, and by her father's also; but some scoundrel--the same, I do verily believe, who has made all this mischief--I mean Sir Simeon of Roydon--has brought charges against me to that good knight, which have altered his countenance towards me. Called suddenly away, I have no means of explanation; and I leave my name blighted in his opinion. The accusation, I believe, refers to this poor girl, Ella Brune; but you may tell Sir John, and I pledge you my knightly word you will tell him true, that there is nought between her and me but kindness rendered on my part to a woman in distress, and gratitude on hers to one who has protected her."
"I will not fail," replied the young prince, giving him his hand, "nor will I lose any time before I explain all as far as I know it." Thus saying, he walked out with Woodville into the court, where the horses stood prepared; and, in a few minutes, the young wanderer was once more upon his way.