Oh, what a moment it was when, after seeing the wreck of the mill drift by, Richard of Woodville again held Mary Grey to his heart! He cared not who witnessed his emotions, he thought not of the crowd around, he thought not of her father's presence, or of the letter he had received on the preceding night. All he remembered, all he felt, was, that she was saved; and the knowledge of the dreadful death that had just overtaken those who had perished by their own obstinacy, added to the joy of that overpowering feeling, notwithstanding the horror of their fate.
Bearing her rather than leading her, her lover brought Mary to the shelter of the trees; for though the storm had somewhat abated, the rain was still coming down heavily; and there, while the tears poured fast from her beautiful eyes, one or two of the stout English archers, who had known her well at Dunbury, came quietly up and kissed her hand. The Count of St. Paul and his men stood looking on; Sir John Grey gazed upon the lover and the lady with a silent smile; and they themselves spoke not for many minutes, so intense were the emotions of their hearts.
At length, however, after a few low words of explanation with the Count of St. Paul, the old knight advanced to Woodville's side and took his hand, saying, "What, not a word to me, Richard?"
The young knight put his hand to his brow, and gazed at Mary's father in surprise, so different seemed his tone from that of the letter he had received.
"The surprise of seeing you here, noble knight," he answered, in a confused manner; "the joy of having been brought, as it were, by Heaven's own hand to save this dear lady, when I least expected to meet with her--all confounds me and takes away my words."
"Surprise at seeing us!" repeated Sir John Grey, in a tone of astonishment. "When you least expected to meet with her!--Have you not received my letter by the post of the Count of Charolois?"
"One letter, sir knight, I did receive," replied Woodville; "but it gave me no thought that I should see you here."
The knight gazed at him for an instant, with a look that seemed expressive of doubt as well as wonder. "Here is some mistake," he said. "I trust, my young friend, this catastrophe has not shaken your brain. But one letter have I written, and therein I besought you to meet us at Givet or at Dinant."
Richard of Woodville replied not, but beckoned to his page; and when the boy hurried up, took from him the gibecière which hung over his shoulder. With a hand hasty and agitated, he unfastened the three buttons and loops which closed it, and drew forth a paper, which in silence he placed in the hands of Sir John Grey.
The knight took it, gazed on the superscription, examined the seal, and then turned to the contents; but instantly exclaimed, as he read, "This is not mine! This is a fraud! I never wrote these words. The outside is from my hand; the seal, too, is seemingly my own; but not one of these harsh terms did I indite."
"Then I thank God!" replied Richard of Woodville, grasping his hand eagerly. "Nay, more, I thank the man who wrote it, though it may seem strange, noble knight. But perchance, had it not been for this and the despair it brought with it, I might have listened to the kind friends who would fain have persuaded me not to risk my life, or, as they thought, to lose it, for men who were strangers to me."
"What, then," cried Mary, rising from the ground on which she had been seated, "did you not recognise us?"
"I knew not when I left the shore," replied Richard of Woodville, "that there was one being on that miserable islet, whom I had ever beheld before. I merit no guerdon, dear one, for saving you, for I knew not what I did."
"A thousand and a thousand thanks, Richard," she answered, laying her fair hand upon his arm; "and far more thanks do I give you, than if you had perilled more to save me knowingly; for by such a deed, done for a mere stranger, you show my father that his child has not spoken of you falsely."
"Nay, dear Mary, I doubt it not," replied Sir John Grey; "by calumny and malice, all men may be for a time misled; but henceforth, my child, no one shall do him better justice than myself. You judged from acts that you had often seen and known; I had none such to judge by. But should he need defence hereafter, let him appeal to me. This must seem strange to you, my good lord," he continued, turning to the Count of St. Paul; "but we will explain it all hereafter. All, at least, that we can explain--for here is something that we must inquire into as best we may. This letter has been forged for some base end; but by whom, or for what, remains a mystery, though perhaps we may all suspect."
"Everything else seems clear enough," said the Count, with a smile; "though I understand but half you have said, yet I guess well, here has been love, and, as so often happens with love, love's traverses; and, in the end, the happy meed which attends due knightly service to a fair lady. As soon as my noble cousin appears, though by my faith he is somewhat long in coming--"
"I see his train, my lord, or I am blind," said the old man-at-arms, called Carloman. "Do you not perceive a long black line winding on there down from the hills, near a league distant, like a lean serpent?"
"No very sweet comparison for a Prince's train," exclaimed the Count of St. Paul, laughing; "but faith, I see it not. Ah--yes--I catch it now. 'Tis he, 'tis doubtless he. Then when he comes, sir knight, we will on to Charleville, where, having dried our dripping clothes, we will tell the tale of this day's adventure over a pleasant meal: and will inquire how this deceit has taken place. Has yon young novice nought to do with it?" he continued, dropping his voice; "he holds aloof; and though he seems to murmur something to his rosary from time to time, yet, good faith, I put but small trust in the honesty of mumbling friars."
"No, no," replied Mary Grey, with a smile, "I will answer for him."
"Ah, ha!" cried the Count, laughing loud, with the rude jocularity of the day, "look to your lady, Sir Richard, or you may lose her yet. She answers for the honesty of a monk! By my fay, sweet lady, I would rather beard John the Bold in his house at Dijon, than do so rash a thing."
"But I can answer for him, too," replied Sir John Grey, gravely; "for, though he be now my clerk, he was not with me there, and so had no occasion to deceive me, even had he been disposed. But yonder, assuredly, comes the Count. I can see banners and pennons through the dim shower; but how we are to journey on with you to Charleville I hardly know, my good lord: for all but what we have brought in our pouches--horses and clothes and arms, and many a trinket, have gone down in that poor mill."
"I saw no horses in the stream," said Woodville.
"They were in the court on the other side," replied one of Sir John Grey's men; "and it had a stone wall. The water was up to the girths when we got into the second story, and I saw my poor beast, with bended head and open nostrils, snuffing the tide as it rose whirling round him. He soon drowned, I fear."
"'Tis but a league to Charleville, or not much more," said the Count, answering the English knight; "we will dismount some of our men, and make a litter for the lady and her maidens. Hark ye, Peterkin, ride back like light to the castle. In the Florence chamber you will find store of your lady's gear. My good wife is not here, sir knight; but she has left much of her apparel behind, which, though she be somewhat fatter than this fair dame, God wot, will serve to clothe her for the nonce. Ride away fast, boy; bring it to Charleville, and lose no time. Now to build a litter. Lances may serve for more purposes than one; and green boughs be curtains as well as canopies. Quick, my men, quick; let us see if ye be dexterous at such trades."
In about half an hour an advanced party of the Count of Charolois' band approached the bank of the river; but it was still so swollen, that though the Count of St. Paul and the two English knights went down as far as they could, and the rain by this time had well nigh ceased, the distance across, and the roaring of the stream, prevented their voices from being heard at the other side. While they were still striving to make the men comprehend that the bridge had been carried away, and that they must ride farther down the river, the young Count himself and the Lord of Croy, with a number of other knights and noblemen, appeared; and by signs, as words were vain, the Lord of St. Paul explained his meaning to them. He himself with his own party waited for about a quarter of an hour longer, till the hasty litter was prepared for Mary Grey; and then, with some on foot, and some on horseback, they moved on towards the point of rendezvous at Charleville.
It was a happy evening that which they passed in Charleville, for there is nought which so heightens the zest of pleasure as remembered pain; nought that so brightens the sense of security as danger past. All was bustle and confusion in the little town, which was not then fortified; every inn was full, every house was occupied; but it was willing bustle and gay confusion. From one hostel to another, parties were going every moment, and the door of that at which the young Count of Charolois had taken up his quarters, was besieged both by the townspeople and his own friends and followers. The tale of the swollen torrent, and the mill swept away, was told to the noble Prince by the Lord of St. Paul and Sir John Grey; and when Richard of Woodville, who had lingered a little with Mary Grey, appeared, the Count grasped his hand with a generous warmth, which was very winning in one so high, calling him frequently his friend; and then turning to Sir John Grey, he demanded, "Said I not, noble knight, of what stuff he was made?"
"You did him but justice, my good lord," replied the knight; "and I do him full justice now. Well has he won his lady's hand, and he shall have it."
"Come!" cried the Prince, starting up; "I will go offer her my homage, too. But why should we not see the wedding ere we part, Sir John?"
"Nay, nay, my lord," answered the English knight; "I have grown proud with restored prosperity; and my child must go to the altar in my own land, and with my own old followers round me."
Oh, slow age, how tardy is it to yield to the eager haste of youth! But Sir John Grey added words still less pleasant to the ear of Richard of Woodville. "When I return from the Court of the Emperor, my noble Prince," he continued, "I speed back at once to Westminster. I trust that your expedition will then be over; and Sir Richard here may follow me with all speed. Once there, I will not make him wait."
Such was the first intimation Woodville had received of the course that lay before him and Sir John Grey; for the previous moments had passed in words of tenderness with her he loved, and in long, but not uninteresting, explanations with her father. He had hoped that their paths would lie together; and, without inquiring what motive should carry Sir John Grey with the Count of Charolois into the Duchy of Burgundy, he had arrived at the conclusion, that the knight's steps were bent thither as well as his own. It was a bitter disappointment, for imagination in such cases is ever the handmaid of hope; and Richard of Woodville had fancied that, in the course of the long expedition before them, many an opportunity must occur for urging upon Sir John Grey his petition for Mary's hand. Now, however, they were again about to be separated, with wide lands between them, and with the certainty of months, perhaps years, elapsing ere they met again.
It is strange, it is very strange, and scarcely to be accounted for, that people advanced in life, and experienced in the uncertainty of all life's things, seem to have a confidence in the future which the young do not possess. They delay, they put off without fear or apprehension; they calculate as if with certainty upon the time to come; while eager youth, on the contrary, at the very name of procrastination conjures up every difficulty and obstacle, every change and chance, not alone within the range of probability, but within the reach of fate. Perhaps it is, that the old have acquired a juster appreciation of all mortal joy; perhaps it is, that the keen edge of anticipation being dulled in themselves, they cannot comprehend the impatience of others: that, knowing how little any earthly gratification is really worth, they think it but a small matter, not meriting much thought, whether the hand of the future snatches the desired object from us or not, whether the butterfly, enjoyment, be caught by the boy that chases it, or escape.
So it is, however: Sir John Grey seemed not even to understand or to perceive the pain he was inflicting upon the lover; and, as Woodville knew that it would be of no use to argue, he made up his mind to enjoy the present as much as might be, and then with Mary's love for his guidance and encouragement, to seek honour and advancement in the fields before him.
After a few more words he accompanied the Count of Charolois, with the principal nobles of his train and Sir John Grey, to the hostel where the English knight had taken up his abode; but, as they entered, the eyes of Richard of Woodville fell upon the figure of a poor disconsolate looking boy, who stood near, with his arms folded on his chest, and his eyes bent down upon the ground, without being once lifted to the gay and glittering group that was passing in; and pointing him out to the Lord of St. Paul, the young knight said, "He was one of those saved from the mill, my lord; and, if I mistake not, he is of kin to some of the men who perished."
"Come hither, boy," said the Constable; "who art thou?"
"I am Edmé Mark, my lord," replied the boy, looking up with tearful eyes; "and all my friends are dead."
"Then are you the miller's son?" inquired the Lord of St. Paul.
"No, sir, his nephew," the boy answered, in the jargon of his country.
"Faith, then, we must do something for you," rejoined the nobleman. "Will you ride with me and be mycoustelier, or with that knight?"
"I would rather go with him," cried the boy, pointing to the young Englishman, "for he saved my life."
"Well, then, take him with you, Sir Richard," said the Lord of St. Paul. "You want to swell your band."
"Good faith, I have need, my lord," answered Richard of Woodville; "for the three men I left behind me when I came from Ghent, have never rejoined me."
"I saw some Englishmen with the Count's train in the court of his hostel," replied the Lord of St. Paul. "I knew them by their flat cuirasses, and their long arrows."
"Ah, I marked them not," answered Richard of Woodville; "but I will go and see.--Come hither with me, boy," he continued; and, followed by the lad, he retrod his steps in haste to the inn where he had found the Count. In the court he saw nothing but Flemings and Burgundians; but in the stables, tending their horses, he found the three men whom he sought, and who now informed him, in the brief and scanty words of the English peasant, that they had escorted Ella Brune to Bruges, and there had left her, she having assured them that she was safe, and required their protection no farther. They had then immediately returned to Ghent; for they had never received the written order which their leader had sent to them; and, having obtained speech of the Count of Charolois, had accompanied him on his expedition, according to his commands. Richard of Woodville mused over this intelligence for some minutes; and then, after placing the boy Edmé in their hands, with orders to take care of him, he hurried back to her he loved.
For three or four days Sir John Grey took advantage of the escort of the Count of Charolois, on his journey towards the Imperial Court, purchasing horses and clothing where he could find them, to supply the place of those lost in the torrent. During that time, as may be supposed, Richard of Woodville was constantly by Mary's side, and it passed happily to both: nor did any incident occur worthy of record here, till they reached the town of Bar, where they were destined to part. The last conversation that took place between them ere they separated, was in regard to Ella Brune, led on by a half jesting question addressed to Mary by her lover, if she had really never felt jealousy or doubt when so many suspected.
"Neither, Richard," she answered. "I could not suspect you; and besides, I had myself told that poor girl, that I would never doubt or be jealous; and I blamed you to her, Richard, for not taking her, when first she sought to go."
"She seems to have the gift of winning confidence, my Mary," replied the young knight; "and a blessed gift it is."
"'Tis only gained by deserving it, Richard, and not always then," answered Mary Markham: "but one cannot well doubt her, either. When one sees a clear stream flowing on abundantly, we judge that the source is pure; and all her thoughts gush so limpid from the heart, we cannot doubt that heart to be unpolluted too."
"Would that we knew where she is, my Mary," said Richard of Woodville, thoughtfully. "I fear for her much, left in the same land with that base villain, who has so persecuted her, and of whose dark wiles there seems no end."
"She is safe, she is safe," exclaimed the lady; "I have heard of her since she departed. She is safe, and with friends able and willing to protect her, I know; but I fear, indeed, that what you say is true in regard to that traitor, Simeon of Roydon. Do you doubt, Richard, that this forged letter from my father was some contrivance of his?"
"And yet," answered Woodville, "we can by no means trace it to him. The messenger declares he brought the packet as he received it. The Count says he placed your father's and his own together, and gave them to his page, who, in turn, vows he carried them straight to the messenger."
"It is strange, indeed," said Mary; "but as to poor Ella, she is safe; and wherever I am, I will do my best to befriend her, Richard."
They were alone; and he pressed her to his heart with feelings far brighter, far tenderer than mere passion; for beauty is but the expression of excellence; and when we find the substance, oh, how much more deeply we love it than the picture! The fairest features that ever were chiselled by the hand of nature, the sweetest form that ever woke wild emotions in the breast, could never have produced in the heart of Richard of Woodville, the sensations that he then felt towards Mary Grey.
Ere long they parted; and while she with her father wended on towards the Court of the Emperor--Sir John Grey, acting as a sort of precursor to the more splendid embassy soon after sent by Henry V.--the young knight followed the Count of Charolois to Dijon and Besançon, and aided to raise that force with which John the Bold soon after took the field against the rival faction of Armagnac, then all-powerful in the Court of France.
Months had passed. The clang of trumpets and timbrels had sounded beneath the walls of Paris, from morning till well nigh vespers; and the clear blue country sky was glowing with the last rays of the sun before he set. But, still the redoubted chivalry of Burgundy, with glittering arms and royal pageantry, stood upon the frosty ground before the gates, the towers of which were crowded with armed men who dared not issue forth to meet their enemies in the field, less because they doubted their own strength--for they were treble at least in number--than because they knew that, within that city, the popular heart beat high to take part with the bold Duke John, "the people's friend."
Faults he had many; crimes of a dark dye he had committed; the blood of the Duke of Orleans was fresh upon his hand; but his princely generosity, his daring courage, and more than all, his love of the Commons, a body grown everywhere already into terrible importance, wiped out all stains in the eyes of the citizens of Paris; and they longed to build up once more the fabric of his power on the ruin of those proud nobles, who, still in their attachment to pure feudal institutions, looked upon the craftsman and the merchant as little better than half emancipated serfs.
Long ere this period, the power of the middle classes had grown into an engine which might be guided, but could not be resisted without danger. In England, its influence had first been recognised by the great De Montford, who had wisely attempted to direct its young energies in a just and beneficial course; for which the land we live in--nay, perhaps the world--owes him still a deep debt of gratitude. Influenced by the character of the nation, its progress in this country was marked by slow but steady increase of strength; and it went on gaining fresh vigour, more from the natural result of contests between the various institutions which it was destined to supersede, than from its own efforts to extend its sphere. Rebellious nobles looked to it for aid; kings courted its support; usurpers submitted more or less their claims to its approval; and from each and all it obtained concessions. Seldom meeting any severe check--till in long after years, a fatal effort was made to raise an embankment against it, when it burst in a deluge over every obstacle--during the early period of our history it diffused itself calmly, more like the quiet overflowing of the fertilizing rill, than the rush and destructive outbreak of a pent-up torrent. But in France such was not the case, and for ages the struggle to resist it went on; while, partaking of the fierce but desultory and ungoverned activity of the people, it sometimes burst forth, sometimes was driven back, till at length its hour came, and it swept all before it, washing away the seeds of good and evil alike, and leaving behind a new soil for the plough, difficult to labour, and fertile of thorns as well as verdure.
In these middle ages of which I write, few were wise enough to see the existence, and comprehend the inevitable course, of the great latent principle which was destined to take the place of every other. The fact--the truth--that all power is from the people, and that wisdom is the helm which must guide it, was a discovery of after times; and was, moreover, so repugnant to the spirit of the feudal system--that strange, but great ideal--that in the land where feudal institutions were most perfect, the men who owed them all, never dreamed that they could be swept away by the seemingly weak and homely influences which they were accustomed to use at their will: even as our ancestors, not many years ago, little imagined that the vapour which rose from the simmering kettle of the peasant or the mechanic, would one day waft navies through the ocean, and reduce space to nothing.
If there were any in that land of France who, without a foresight of what was to be, merely owned the existence of a great popular power, it was but to use it for their own purposes, ever prepared to check it the moment it had served their object. Some, indeed, in habits of mind and disposition, were of a character to win its aid by demeanour and conduct, and such was pre-eminently John the Bold. Strange too, to say, that very chivalrous spirit which characterized so many of his actions, won to his side a great body of the nobles without alienating the middle and the lower classes; but it was, that he was more the knight than the feudal baron--more the sovereign than the great lord. It must never be forgotten, in viewing the history of those times, that the original object of the institution of chivalry, was to correct the evils of the feudal system; to strike the rod from the hand of the oppressor, to defend the defenceless, and to right the wronged; and had chivalry remained in its purity, it might have averted long the downfall of the system with which it was linked. The people loved the true knight as much as they hated the feudal lord; and long after the decay of the order, even the affectation of its higher qualities both won regard from the lower classes, and excited the admiration of all those above them, who retained any sparks of the spirit which once animated it.
Thus, the Duke of Burgundy, though surrounded by many of the highest in the land, and possessed of their affection in an extraordinary degree, was popular with the trader in his shop, and the peasant in his cot. Town after town had opened its gates to him as he advanced; and now he stood before the gates of Paris, trusting to the citizens to rise and give him admission. But the love with which he was regarded by the people was as well known to others as to himself, and all chance of a demonstration in his favour had been guarded against with the most scrupulous care. The Dauphin Duke of Aquitaine, whether willingly or unwillingly it is difficult to say, marched through the streets of the capital surrounded by the family of Orleans, and the partizans of Armagnac, and followed by no less than eleven thousand men-at-arms, exhorting the populace in every quarter, by the voice of a herald, to remain tranquil, and resist the suggestions of the agents of the Burgundian faction: "and thus," says one of the historians of the day, "they provided so well for the guard of the town, that no inconvenience occurred."
The walls and gates were covered with soldiery; the heralds and messengers of the Duke were not suffered to approach, though their words were peaceful; and some of the Burgundian nobles who ventured too near, in order to speak with those whom they thought personally friendly, were driven back by arrows and quarrels. Even the kings of arms were threatened with death if they approached within bow-shot; and, though one was found bold enough to fix the letters of which he was the bearer, on a lance before the gate of St. Anthony, and others contrived to obtain secret admission into the town, to distribute the Duke's proclamation amongst the people, and even affix copies to the gates of the churches and palaces, so strict was watch kept upon the citizens, that a rising was impossible.
Disappointed and angry, but with apparent scorn, the Duke, who had not sufficient forces to render an attack upon the wall successful, even if it had been politic to make it, withdrew to St. Denis at nightfall; and the menacing array disappeared from before Paris, like a pageant that had passed away. The leaders of the troops of Burgundy, separated from those of Flanders and Artois, took up their abode where they had been quartered in the morning, at the hostel called "the Lance," nearly opposite to the abbey; and, while the Duke remained for several hours closeted with some of his oldest councillors, the Lord of Croy drew Richard of Woodville apart from the rest, and whispered that he wished to speak with him alone in his chamber.
The young knight followed him at once; for the intimacy which had arisen between them at Lille, and on the road to Ghent, had ripened into friendship during their long expedition into Burgundy; and without preface, the noble Burgundian exclaimed, as soon as the door was closed, "This will not go forward, Woodville. The Duke, bold as he is, will not strike a stroke against the King's capital, with the King therein. I see it well; and, with this enterprise, passes away my hope of delivering my poor boy John, who lies, as you know, a prisoner at Montl'herry, unless I can take some counsel for his aid."
"Nay, my good lord," replied Richard, with a smile; "doubtless you have taken counsel already, and all I can say is, that if I can aid you, my hand is ready. Can you not march to Montl'herry, and deliver him? The country is clear of men, for every one capable of bearing arms for the enemy, has been gathered into Paris."
"I have thought of it, Woodville," replied the Lord of Croy; "but a large body moving across the country would soon call the foe forth in great numbers; and, moreover, my lord the Duke could ill spare so many men as your band and mine would carry off. But I would give my land of Nuranville to any one who would lead a small party to Montl'herry, and set free the boy, as I have planned it."
"Ah, my lord, I thought your scheme was fixed," said the young knight, laughing at the circuitous manner in which his friend had announced his wishes. "Let me know what it is, and as I said before, if I can succour your son, I am ready."
"To say truth, it is the boy's own device," replied the Burgundian; "he has made a friend of the chaplain in the castle, where they hold him; and by this good man's hands I receive letters from him. He tells me that, if a small body of resolute gentlemen, not well known to be of our party, could enter the town and keep themselves quiet therein for one day, he could find means to go forth to mass and escape under their escort. I have chosen out twenty of my surest men; but, as it was needful that they should pass for followers of the Duke of Orleans, I could not send any one to command them who had gained much renown in France, lest he should be known. Thus they want a leader; and where can I find one of sufficient experience, and yet not likely to be recognised, if you refuse me?"
"That will I not, my lord," replied Richard of Woodville; "but I must have the Duke's leave. Who are the men to go with me? I know most of those under your banner."
"Lamont de Launoy," replied the Burgundian, "Villemont de Montebard, whom you know well; and Jean Roussel are amongst them. Then, as for the Duke's leave, that is already gained; for I spoke to him as we marched back tonight; and he himself suggested that you should lead the party, because you speak the French tongue well, and yet your face is unknown in France."
"A work of honour and of friendship shall never find me behind, my lord," replied the young knight; "and I will be ready to mount an hour before daylight; but I must have full command, my lord. Some of your men are turbulent; so school them well to obey; and, in the mean time, I will despatch a letter or two, for good and evil news have reached me here together."
"The good from your fair lady, I can guess," said the Lord of Croy, "for I have heard to-day of her father's journey back through Ghent towards England. The evil is not without remedy, I trust?"
"No, I trust not," replied Woodville; "it comes from a dear friend of mine, Sir Henry Dacre, who writes word that some one has done me harm in the King's opinion, and speaks of letters sent from his Highness long ago, requiring my return, surely delivered, and yet unnoticed and unanswered. Now, no such letters ever reached my hand; nor can I dream who could have power to wrong me with King Henry; for the only one inclined to do so is a banished man."
"Three times have I remarked a stranger amongst your people, since we were at Charleville," answered the Lord of Croy; "once it was at Besançon, once at Toul, and the other day again at Compiegne. His face is unknown to me, and yet he was talking gaily with your band, as if he were one of them; but he stayed not long; for this last time, I saw him as I passed through the court of the inn, and he was gone when I returned."
"It shall be inquired into," replied Richard of Woodville. "But now I must to these letters, my good lord; and tomorrow, an hour ere daybreak, I will be in the saddle. Pray God give us success, and that I may restore your son to your arms."
The Lord of Croy thanked him as such prompt kindness might well merit, and took his leave; but as soon as he was gone, Richard of Woodville leaned his head upon his hand in thought, and with a somewhat dark and gloomy brow remained in meditation for several minutes.
"What is it makes me so sad?" he asked himself; "it cannot be this empty piece of malice, from some unworthy fool, whose calumnies I can sweep away in a moment, and whose contrivances I can frustrate by a word of plain truth. The King does not believe that I would contemn his commands--in his heart he does not, I am sure! Yet I feel as if some great misfortune hung upon the wings of the coming hours! Perchance I may fall in this very enterprise. Who can tell? Many a man finds his fate in some petty skirmish who has passed through stricken fields unwounded. The lion-hearted Richard himself brought his life safe from Palestine, and a thousand glorious fields--from dangers of all kinds, sufferings, and imprisonment, to lose it before the walls of a pitiful castle scarce bigger than a cottage. Well, what is to be, will be; but I must provide against any event;" and, calling some of his men to speak with him, he told them that he was about to be absent for three days, taking no one with him but his page. He then gave them directions, in case of any mischance befalling him, either to find their way back to England, or to continue to serve with the band of the Lord of Croy; but, at all events, unless specially summoned by the King of England, not to quit the Duke as long as he remained in the field. This done, he turned to his letters, and remained writing till a late hour of the night.
In the square of the pretty town of Montl'herry, nearly opposite the church, and under the domineering walls of the château, were two hostels, or inns, the one called the Wheatsheaf, and the other the Bunch of Grapes; for, in those days, as in the present time, the houses of public reception were not only more numerous in France than in any country in the world, but were ornamented with signs taken from almost every object under the sun, and from a great many that the sun never shone upon. As every one knows, the little town of Montl'herry is situated on a high isolated and picturesque hill; and down one of the streets running from thePlaceor square, could at that time be seen the rich plain stretching out by Longpont to Plessis-Saint Père, with the numerous roads which cross it in different directions towards Epinay, Ville-aux-bois, and other small towns, as well as the highway towards Paris.
Before these two inns on the morning of a cold but clear day, towards the end of February, were collected some twenty men-at-arms, who had been lodging there from the night before, and who seemed now preparing to ride away upon their farther journey, after the morning meal, then called dinner, should have been discussed. In the meantime, they were undergoing a sort of inspection from their leader, a young man of a tall and powerful frame, and a handsome and engaging countenance, bronzed with the sun and marked with a scar upon his brow. Though he moved easily and gracefully under the weight, he was covered with complete armour from the neck to the heels, which displayed the spurs of knighthood. His casque lay upon the bench at the door of the Wheatsheaf, and leaning negligently against the wall of the inn appeared the lances of the men-at-arms, who each stood beside his horse, while the knight passed from one to another, making some observation to each, sometimes in a tone of reproof, sometimes in words of praise. The host of one of the inns stood before his door observing their proceedings, and some half-a-dozen little boys were spending their idleness in gazing at the glittering soldiery.
Towering above appeared the ancient castle held by the partizans of the Orleans or Armagnac faction; and when it is remembered that these below were soldiers of the House of Burgundy, and that the young knight at their head was Richard of Woodville, it must be acknowledged that this was a somewhat bold stratagem thus to parade a body of hostile troops in the midst of an enemy's town. The young leader, however, well knew that nothing but the assumption of perfect ease and security could escape suspicion, and confirm the tale which had been told of his band being a party of the men of Orleans.
The gate of the castle he could not see; but from time to time as he passed from one man to another, he looked round to the door of the church, and presently, as the clock struck, he held up his fingers, saying, "What hour is that?" and then as he counted, he turned somewhat sharply to the host, exclaiming, "By the Lord, you have kept us so late for our dinner, that we shall have time to take none. Bring the men out some wine. Quick, my men, quick. On with your bacinets!"
The host assured him that the meal would be served in a minute; but the knight replied, "A minute! Did you not tell me so half an hour ago? Quick, bring out the wine, or we shall be obliged to go without that. What do you think our lord will say, if we wait for your minutes?" and while the host retired to bring the wine, the men assumed their casques, and Richard of Woodville whispered to one who seemed superior to the rest--"He is in the church. I saw him go in with the priest."
"So did I," replied the other; "but he has got a guard with him."
"We must not mind that," replied Woodville; "we shall have some start of them; for they will all be at dinner in the castle--no horses saddled, no armour buckled on. Mount, my men, mount. You can drink in the stirrups. Now, boy, give me my casque."
The page ran and brought the bacinet; the host returned with the wine; and each man drank a deep draught and handed the cup and tankard to his neighbour. Richard of Woodville then sprang into his saddle, his page mounted, and taking the bridle of a spare horse, which was then very generally led after the commander of a party, followed his lord, as, with his lance in his hand, he headed his little troop, and took his way across the Place, saying aloud, as he rode slowly forward, "One prayer to our Lady, and I am with you."
The host gazed after them to the door of the church, but thought it nothing extraordinary that a young knight should follow so common and laudable a custom as beginning a journey with a petition for protection. When, therefore, Richard of Woodville dismounted with two of his men, and entered the sacred building, he turned himself into his own house again, and applied himself to other affairs. In the meanwhile, the knight strode up the nave, looking around him as he went, while his two companions followed close behind.
Some half dozen women, principally of the lower orders, were the only persons at first visible; but in one of the small chapels, from which the sound of a voice singing mass was heard, they soon after perceived a young gentleman, habited in the garb of peace, kneeling at a little distance from the altar, before which stood a priest in robes, performing the functions of his office.
"That is he," whispered one of the Burgundians to Richard of Woodville, and advancing straight to the young Lord of Croy, the knight took him by the arm, saying, in a low tone, "You are wanted, John of Croy. Where is the guard who was with you?"
"Somewhere in the church, speaking with a woman who was to meet him here," said the young lord, rising. "Perhaps we may get out without his seeing us."
"Never mind if he do," said Richard of Woodville; "we shall be far on the way before they are in the saddle;" and hurrying on with the young Lord of Croy, he reached the door of the church without interruption. The priest could not but see the whole of their proceedings, but he took no notice, going on with the service devoutly.
The clang of the step of armed men, however, had caught another ear; and just as the young Lord of Croy was passing out, a voice was heard exclaiming, "Whither are you going, young sir?"
Richard of Woodville turned his head and replied, "Home!" and then issuing forth, closed the door, and thrust his dagger through the staple that confined the large heavy latch. The horse led by the page was close at hand; and John of Croy, with his deliverers, sprang into the saddle, and rode out of Montl'herry at full speed.[11]
The precaution of the English knight in fastening the door proved less serviceable than he had hoped, however; for as they passed down the street, he turned and saw the man who had been sent to guard the prisoner--having found exit by some other means--running as fast as he could go towards the castle; and when they reached the foot of the hill, the sound of a trumpet came, borne upon the breeze from above.
On, on, the little party hurried, however; and they had already gained so much ground, that every prospect of escape seemed before them. But unfortunately, no one was well acquainted with the road: Richard of Woodville and his company had found their way thither as best they could; and the young Lord of Croy, who was at the head of the band, while Woodville brought up the rear, turned into a wrong path in the wood near Longpont, so that some time was lost ere they got right again. They were just issuing forth on a road which leads to the left of Lonjumeau, when the sound of pursuit caught the ear; and at the same moment the horse of the page stumbled and fell.
"Up, up, boy!" cried Richard of Woodville, drawing in his rein, as he had nearly trodden the poor youth under his horse's feet; and then adding to those before, "Ride on! ride on!" he stooped and held out his hand to the lad, who staggered up, confused and half stunned with the fall. Before the horse could be raised, and the youth mount, coming round the angle of the wood, by a shorter cut, appeared the pursuers from Montl'herry. The Burgundians had followed the order to ride on, which, had they been the young knight's own band, they might, under the circumstances, have perchance disobeyed. Woodville gazed after them, turned his eyes towards the enemy--the foremost of whom was not more than a hundred yards distant--took one moment for consideration; and then, setting his lance in the rest, he spurred on towards the enemy. The man met him in full career; but, not prepared for such a sudden encounter, was unhorsed in a moment, and the two or three who followed, pulled in the rein. The young knight's object was gained; their pursuit was checked; and the advantage of even a few minutes was everything for the young Lord of Croy.
"Surrender, knight, surrender!" cried the voice of one of the opposite party; but Woodville, though he well knew that such must be the result at last, resolved to struggle for a farther delay; and exclaiming, "What! to half-a-dozen squires? Never! never!" he reined back his horse, as if to take ground for a fresh career, and again charged his lance which had remained unsplintered, while his page rode up behind, asking, "May I fight too, noble sir?"
"No, boy, no! Keep back!" cried the knight; and at the same moment a more numerous party appeared to the support of the Armagnacs, led by a baron's banner. They bore down straight towards him, some one still calling upon him to surrender; and, seeing that farther resistance was vain, Woodville raised his lance and took off his gauntlet as a sign that he yielded.
"After them, like lightning!" cried the voice of a gentleman in a suit of richly ornamented steel. "A knight is a good exchange for a squire; but we must not let the other escape.--Now, fair sir, do you yield, rescue or no rescue?"
"I do," answered the young knight; "there is my glove, and I give you my faith."
"Pray let us see your face," continued the nobleman, raising his own vizor, while the greater part of his troop rode on after the young Lord of Croy. Richard of Woodville followed his example; but neither was known to the other, though as it afterwards proved they had once met before.
"May I ask your name, fair sir?" demanded the captor, in the courteous tone then used between adversaries.
"Richard of Woodville," replied the young knight; and a smile instantly came upon the countenance of the other, who replied, "A follower of Burgundy, or I mistake. I regret I was not up sooner, good knight; for if the heralds gave me the name truly, I owe you a fall. When last we met, I was neither horsed nor armed for combat properly. The chance might have been different this time."
"Perhaps it might, my Lord the Count," answered Woodville; "fortune is one man's to-day, another's to-morrow. Mine is the turn of ill luck, else had I not been here a prisoner."
"I bear no malice, sir," rejoined the Lord of Vaudemont; "but if you please, we will ride back to Montl'herry;" and following the invitation, which was now a command, the young knight accompanied his captor, saying to himself, "I felt that this enterprise would end ill, for me at least."
He knew not how far the evil was to extend.