[Contents]CHAPTER LXIV.Lady de Vere and her Lovely Guest. Innocence and Purity endangered. The King’s Confessor and the Franciscan Friar.After the spectacle was over, and whilst the homeward procession was forming, Sir Patrick Hepborne was surprised by the wave of a fair hand, accompanied by a smiling bow of acknowledgment from a very beautiful woman in one of the balconies close to that of the King. From the richness of her attire, and the place that had been allotted to her, she was evidently a lady of some consequence. He returned the compliment, but, whilst he did so, he felt unconscious of having ever spoken to her, although, upon re-perusing her face, he remembered her as one whom he had seen at the King’s banquets, where he had observed that she was particularly noticed by the Sovereign. Turning to Sir Miles Stapleton, who stood by him, he besought him to tell her name.“What,” exclaimed Sir Miles in reply, “hast thou been at our English Court for so many days, Sir Patrick, and yet knowest thou not the Lady de Vere? Depardieux, it doth much surprise me that she hath not sooner sought thine acquaintance, for, by the Rood, she is a merry madam, and fond of variety. She hath been married but a short space, yet she already changeth her lovers as she doth her fancy robes.”“Is it possible?” cried Hepborne, in astonishment.“Possible, Sir Patrick!” returned the English knight; “perdie, I am surprised at thy seeming wonder. Are Scottish ladies then so constant to their lords that thou shouldst think this fickleness so great a marvel in the Lady de Vere? She hath been for some time an especial favourite of Majesty; that is, I would have thee to understand me, in friendship, not par amours, though there be evil tongues that do say as much.”“Indeed?” cried Hepborne.“Yea, they scruple not to say so,” continued Sir Miles; “but I, who better know the King, do verily believe that, albeit he is much given to idle dalliance with these free ladies of this licentious Court, there be but little else to accuse him of. Thou needst have no fear, therefore, Sir Patrick, that the dread of Majesty will interfere with thy happiness, if it be her will to receive thee as a lover; so I wish thee joy of thy conquest.[507]Trust me, I do more envy thee than I do the brave conqueror of the Lord Welles, much glory as he hath gained.”Sir Patrick turned away, at once confounded and disgusted. What! the Lady Eleanore de Selby, of whose excellence he had heard so much, the friend of the Lady Beatrice—was it possible that the contamination of a Court could have already rendered her a person of character so loose? He was shocked at the thought. He turned again to watch her motions, when he observed the King himself advance towards her as she was preparing to get into her saddle, and a private conversation pass between them, that drew the eyes of all the courtiers upon them; but Sir Patrick being called away to join the Scottish party, lost the opportunity of observing the conclusion of their conference.Whilst the procession was dispersing in the court-yard of the Tower, the Lady de Vere entered, riding on a piebald palfry, richly caparisoned. She was surrounded by a group of gay chevaliers, with whom she was talking and laughing loudly; but she no sooner espied Hepborne than she broke from among them and advanced to meet him.“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said she, smiling, “it erketh me that mine evil fortune hath hitherto yielded me no better than public opportunity to know him, who, by consent of all, is acknowledged to be the flower of Scottish chivalry. Trust me, my private apartments shall be ever open to so peerless a knight.”“Nay, Lady,” replied Sir Patrick, “the title thou hast been pleased to bestow on me belongeth not to me but to Sir David Lindsay and Sir William Dalzel, who have this day so nobly supported the honour of Scotland.”“They are brave knights, ’tis true,” replied the lady; “yet be there other qualifications in knighthood than mere brute strength or brute courage. That thou hast enow of both of these to the full as well as they, we who have heard of Otterbourne do well know. But in the graces of knightly deportment there be few who admit them to be thine equal, and of that few I do confess myself not to be one.”Hepborne bowed; but, disgusted alike with her freedom and flattery, he gave token of approval neither by manner nor words.“These are my apartments, Sir Knight,” continued the lady, pointing to a range of windows in a wing of the palace. “If thou canst quit the banquet to spend some merry hours with me this evening, trust me, thou shalt meet with no cold reception from the Lady de Vere.”[508]This invitation was seasoned by some warm glances, that spoke even more than her words; but Sir Patrick received both the one and the other with a silent and formal obeisance. The lady turned towards a flight of steps, and being assisted to dismount by an esquire, she tripped up stairs and along a covered terrace. A door opened at its farther extremity, and a lady appeared for a moment. It was the Lady Beatrice; he could not be mistaken; her image was now too deeply engraven on his heart. The blood bounded for a moment within his bosom, rushed through each artery with the heat and velocity of lightning, and then, as the thought of the Lady de Vere’s character arose within his mind, it returned cold as ice to its fountain-head, and froze up every warm feeling there. He felt faint, and his head grew giddy. He looked towards the door where the ladies were saluting each other with every mark of kindness, and his eyes grew dim as they vanished within the entrance.Almost unconscious of what he was doing, Sir Patrick turned his horse to go to his lodgings. As he recovered from the stunning effect of the spectacle he beheld, his mind began to be agonized by the most distressing thoughts. It was impossible that the Lady Beatrice, whom he believed to be so pure, could be the willing guest of so vile a woman, knowing her to be such. Yet, though such was his impression, he knew not well what to think. It was most strange that the Lady de Vere should have thus urged him to visit her while Beatrice was with her; unless, indeed, the latter were privy to it, and that it was on her account. But be this as it might, he liked not the complexion of matters; and, in a state of great perplexity and unhappiness, he reached the wine merchant’s, where, having given his horse to a groom, he slowly sought his chamber, unwillingly to prepare for the banquet.In going along the passage which led to his apartments, thinking of what so much occupied him, he, in a fit of absence, opened a door, believing it to be his own; and, to his great surprise, he found himself in a room, where some dozen or twenty persons were seated at a long table, on which lay some papers. His host was there among the rest, and the appearance of the knight threw the whole party into dismay and confusion. Hepborne drew back with an apology, and hastily shut the door; but he had hardly reached his own, when he heard the steps of his host coming hurrying after him.“Sir Knight,” said Master Ratcliffe, “’twas but some of those with whom I have had money dealings, come to settle interest with me.”[509]As Hepborne looked in his face, he was surprised to notice that it had exchanged its generous ruby red for a deadly paleness; the wine merchant was evidently disturbed; but neither this observation, nor the confusion he had occasioned among the party whom he had seen surrounding the table, could then find room in his mind for a moment’s thought. He therefore hastily explained that the interruption had been quite accidental on his part, and the wine merchant left him apparently satisfied. It will be easily believed that Sir Patrick Hepborne was but ill attuned for the revelry of the Royal banquet. He sat silent and abstracted, ruminating on the monstrous and afflicting conjunction he had that day witnessed, and perplexing himself with inventing explanations of the cruel doubts that were perpetually arising in his mind. The King broke up the feast at an earlier hour than usual, and Sir Patrick, glad to escape from the crowd, stole away by himself.As he was leaving the palace, he turned his eyes towards the casements of the Lady de Vere. They were eminently conspicuous, for they were open, and lighted up with great brilliancy, while the sound of the harp came from them. He thought of the invitation he had received, and hung about for some time, weighing circumstances, and hesitating whether he should immediately avail himself of it, that he might ascertain the truth, or whether he should, in the first place, endeavour to gather it by some other means. Passion argued for the first, as the most decided step, and prudence urged the second as the wisest plan; but whilst he was tossed between them, he was gradually drawn towards the windows by the unseen magnet within. As he got nearer, he ascertained that it was a man’s voice that sung the melody and words, to which the instrument was an accompaniment; and by the time he reached the bottom of the flight of steps, he could catch the remaining verses of a ballad, part of which had been already sung. They were nearly as follows:—“And wilt thou break thy faith with me,And dare our vows to rend?”“Hence!” cried the angry sire; “with theeMy Eda ne’er shall wend.“Her name doth prouder match demand;Lord Henry comes to-night;He comes to take her promised hand,And claim a husband’s right.“Then hence!”—The knight, in woful guise,Turned from the perjured gate;The maiden heard her lover’s sighs,All weeping where she sate.[510]“Now up and run, my bonnie page,Fly with the falcon’s wing,Fly swiftly to Sir Armitage,And give to him this ring.“And tell him, when the rippling fordShall catch the moonbeams light,I’ll leave the hated bridal board,To meet him there to-night.”The boy he found Sir ArmitageIn greenwood all so sad;But when he spied his lady’s page,His weeping eyne grew glad.And up leaped he for very joy,And kissed his lady’s ring,And much he praised the bonny boyWho did such message bring.“I’ll meet my lady by the stream,So, boy, now hie thee home;I’ll meet her when the moon’s broad beamComes dancing over the foam.”And now to grace the wedding-feastThe demoiselles prepare;There were the bridegroom, sire, and priest,But Eda was not there.She left her tyrant father’s tower,To seek her own true knight;She met him at the trysted hour,Prepared to aid her flight.“Sir Armitage, with thee I’ll rideThrough flood, o’er fell so steep;Though destined for another’s bride,My vow to thee I’ll keep.”“Oh bless thee, bless thee, lady mine,That true thy heart doth prove;Before yon moon hath ceased to shine,The priest shall bless our love.”He raised her on his gallant steed,And sprang him to his selle;“Keep, keep thy seat, my love, with heed,And grasp my baldrick well.”Beneath the moon the wavelets flash’d,Struck by the courser’s heel,And through the ford he boldly dash’d,Spurr’d by the pointed steel.High up his sides the surges rose,And washed the blood away;They lav’d fair Eda’s bridal-clothes,And fill’d her with dismay.“Alas, the stream is strong,” she cried.“Fear not, my love,” said he;“’Tis here the waters deepest glide,Anon we shall be free.”[511]Behind them rung a wild alarm,And torches gleam’d on high;Forth from the Castle came a swarm,With yells that rent the sky.Again the knight his iron heelDash’d in his courser’s side.He plung’d—his powerful limbs did reel—He yielded to the tide.Down went both mailed horse and knight;The maid was borne away,And flash’d the moonbeam’s silver lightAmid the sparkling spray.His daughter’s shriek the father heard,Far on the moonlit wave;A moment Eda’s form appear’d,Then sunk in watery grave.Peace never blest the sire again;He curst ambitious pride,That made him hold his promise vain,And sacred oaths deride.Still in his eye his sinking child,Her shriek still in his ear,Reft of his mind, he wanders wildMidst rocks and forests drear.But where that cross in yonder shadeOft bends the pilgrim’s knee,There sleep the gentle knight and maidBeneath their trysting tree.When the musician had finished, Sir Patrick Hepborne still continued to loiter with his arm on the balustrade of the stair, when the door opened, and he heard a feeble step on the terrace above. He looked upwards, and the light of a lamp that was burning in a niche fell on the aged countenance of a man who was descending. It was Adam of Gordon.“Adam of Gordon!” exclaimed Sir Patrick.“And who is he, I pray, who doth know Adam of Gordon so far from home?” demanded the minstrel. “Ah, Sir Patrick Hepborne; holy St. Cuthbert, I do rejoice to see thee. Trust me, the ready help thou didst yield me at Forres hath not been forgotten; though thou didst sorely mar my verses by thine interruption. Full many sithes have I tried to awaken that noble subject, but the witchery of inspiration is past, and——”“But how camest thou here?” demanded Hepborne, impatiently interrupting him.“Sir Knight, I came hither with a lady from the Borders,” said Adam, hesitatingly; “a lady that——”“Nay, speak not so mystically, old man,” replied Hepborne;[512]“I am already well aware of the story of the Lady Beatrice, and heartily do I curse mine own folly for permitting jealousy so to hoodwink mine eyes as to make me run blindly away from mine own happiness. I already guess that it was she whom thou didst accompany hither, and I know that she is now an inmate of those apartments, with the Lady de Vere, the daughter of the late Sir Walter de Selby.”“Nay, nay, so far thou art wrong, Sir Knight,” replied the Minstrel. “She to whom these apartments do belong is not the daughter of Sir Walter de Selby. True it is, indeed, that when the Lady Eleanore did leave Norham Castle, she did call the companion of her flight by the name of Sir Hans de Vere, a Zealand knight, kinsman to the Duke of Ireland; but some strange mystery doth yet hang over this affair, for he who doth own these gay lodgings, and who is the husband of this gay madam, is the identical Sir Hans de Vere I have just described, and yet he knoweth nought of the Lady Eleanore de Selby.”“Thy speech is one continued riddle, good Adam,” said Hepborne; “canst thou not explain to me?”“Nay, of a truth, Sir Knight, thou dost know as much as I do,” said the minstrel. “What hath become of the Lady Eleanore de Selby no one can tell. If he that she married be indeed a De Vere, he is at least no kin to the Duke of Ireland, as he or she would have us believe. There have been De Veres enow about the English Court since this King Richard began his reign, albeit that the day may be gone by with many of them, sith that their chief, the Duke of Ireland, hath been forced to flee into Zealand, where his race had its origin. But of all the De Veres, none doth answer the description of him whom the Lady Beatrice and I did see carry off the Lady Eleanore de Selby from Norham.”“Strange, most strange,” said Sir Patrick Hepborne; “but knowest thou aught of this Lady de Vere? Men’s tongues do talk but lightly of her.”“Nay, in good truth, I have begun to entertain strange notions of her myself,” replied Adam. “By’r Lady, she would have had me sing some virelays to-night that were light and warm enow, I promise thee, had I not feigned that I knew them not; and, by my troth, she spared not to chide me for my sober minstrelsy, the which she did tauntingly compare to the chanting of monks. My Lady, quoth I, consider I am but a rude Border——”“But say, old man,” cried Hepborne, impatiently interrupting him, “how did the Lady Beatrice seek shelter with such a[513]woman? Quick, tell me, I beseech thee, for I must hasten to rescue the poor and spotless dove from the clutch of this foul howlet.”“In the name of the Virgin, then, let us lose no time in thinking how it may best be done,” said Adam of Gordon earnestly; “St. Andrew be praised that thou, Sir Knight, art so willing to become the protector of an angel, who——Yet I dare not say how much thou art beloved. But, hush! we may be overheard here in the open air. Let us retreat to my garret yonder, where I will tell thee all I can, and then we may, with secrecy and expedition, concert what steps thou hadst best take.”Hepborne readily followed the minstrel to his small chamber, and there he learned the following particulars.The Lady Beatrice had no sooner recovered from the swoon into which she had been thrown by the appearance of the Franciscan at Sir Walter de Selby’s funeral, than she sent for the Minstrel, of whose attachment and fidelity she had already had many a proof, and imparted to him her design of quitting Norham Castle immediately. Without communicating her intention to any one else, she mounted that milk-white palfrey which had been the gift of Hepborne, and travelled with all speed to Newcastle, where she sought shelter in the house of a widowed sister of Sir Walter de Selby. There she lived for a short time in retirement, until at last she adopted the resolution of visiting London in search of her friend the Lady Eleanore, whom she believed now to be the Lady de Vere, that she might communicate to her the death of her father, if she had not already heard of that event, and entreat from her a continuance of that protection which she had so long afforded her. She and the Minstrel, therefore, went on board a ship sailing for the Thames; but having been tossed about by contrary winds, and even compelled to seek safety more than once in harbours by the way, they had only arrived in the metropolis three days before that of which we are now speaking.The Minstrel was immediately employed by the Lady Beatrice to make inquiry for the Lady de Vere, and he was readily directed to the lodgings of the lady of that name in the Tower. But he was no sooner introduced into her presence and that of her husband, Sir Hans de Vere, than he discovered that there was some strange mistake. To exculpate himself for his seeming intrusion on a knight and lady to whom he was an utter stranger, he explained the cause of his coming, and told whom he sought for, when, to his great dismay, he learned that no such[514]persons as those he described were known about the Court. Filled with chagrin, he returned to the Lady Beatrice, whose vexation may be more easily conceived than described. She was a stranger in London, in a wretched hostel, without a friend but old Adam to advise her, and severed for ever, as she feared, from the only human being on whom she could say that she had the least claim for protection. Despair came upon her, and hiding her face in her hands, she gave full way to her grief.Whilst she sat in this wretched situation, in which Adam in vain exerted himself to comfort her, a page arrived, with a kind message from Sir Hans and Lady de Vere, in which they offered her their house as a home, until she should have time to determine as to her future conduct. So friendly, so seasonable a proposal, was not to be rejected in her circumstances, even coming as it did from strangers, and the Lady Beatrice gladly became the guest of the Lady de Vere.So far went the Minstrel’s knowledge; but leaving Sir Patrick to question him as he pleases, we shall ourselves more deeply investigate the circumstances, as well as the secret springs of action which produced this event. It happened that just after the Minstrel’s interview with the Lady de Vere, King Richard came to idle an hour with her as he was often wont to do to gather the gossip of the Court. The lady told him what had passed, and the Monarch joined with her in the laugh it occasioned. The Lady de Vere had extracted enough of Beatrice’s history from the Minstrel to be able to answer the King’s questions.“And who may this Beatrice be?” demanded Richard.“A damsel, I believe, whom old De Selby picked up at the door of a Scottish peasant, and whom he fancied to educate as a companion to his daughter Eleanore,” replied Lady de Vere; “doubtless, now that he is dead, she seeks to hang herself about the neck of the heiress of her patron.”“And sith that she hath so come, might we not find some other neck for her to hang about?” said the King laughing. “Pr’ythee, send for her hither; we should be well contented to see this stray bird.”The Lady de Vere well knew her advantage in humouring all the wild fancies that entered the King’s head, and accordingly gave immediate obedience to his wishes, by sending to Beatrice the message we have already noticed. Fatigued to death by her voyage, Beatrice had no sooner complied with the invitation she had received, than she was compelled to retire to the apartment[515]the Lady de Vere had prepared for her; and she continued so long indisposed that she was unable to be present at the tilting.Towards the evening of that day, however, she was so far recovered as to quit her room; and, accordingly, when the procession returned from London Bridge, she hastened to pour out her gratitude to the Lady de Vere for the hospitable reception she had given her.Sir Hans went to the King’s banquet, but his lady remained with Beatrice; and the Minstrel was sent for to amuse them with his ballads. There was something free and bold in the manner of the Lady de Vere that was by no means agreeable to Beatrice; but believing that there was nothing worse in it than an unfortunate manner, she endeavoured to reconcile herself to it, in one who had shown her so much apparent friendship.They were seated in a luxuriously-furnished apartment, hung with tapestry of the richest hues, and lighted up by silver lamps, when the door opened, and Sir Hans de Vere entered, ushering in a young man, whom he introduced as the Earl of Westminster. The Lady de Vere smiled on the young nobleman, and Beatrice, though she had never heard of such a title, was aware that new lords were created so frequently, that there was little wonder she should be ignorant of it. The young Earl, who was very handsome, seemed to be on habits of great intimacy with Sir Hans de Vere and his lady. He seated himself by the Lady Beatrice, and began to trifle pleasantly with her, mixing up a thousand courtly compliments with the agreeable nothings that he uttered. Spiced wine and sweetmeats were handed round, and soon afterwards a small, but very tasteful and exquisitely cooked supper appeared, with wines of the richest flavour. The Lady Beatrice ate little, and refused to touch wine. The night wore apace. The young Earl of Westminster became more and more earnest in his endeavours to make himself agreeable to Beatrice, who began to find considerable amusement in his conversation, and insensibly permitted him to absorb her whole attention. Suddenly he began, in a sort of half-serious manner, to address her in a strain of tenderness that by no means pleased her. She prepared to shift her place; but what was her astonishment, when, on looking up, she saw that she and the young Earl were alone. Sir Hans de Vere and his lady had stolen unnoticed from the apartment. Beatrice started up to follow them.“Nay, stay to hear me, lovely Beatrice,” cried the Earl, endeavouring to detain her.[516]“Unhand me, my Lord,” cried she boldly, and at the same time tearing herself from him.“Hear me, only hear me,” cried the Earl, springing to the door, so as to cut off her retreat.This action still more alarmed her. She screamed aloud for help, and flying to the casement, threw it open; but the Earl dragged her from it by gentle force, and having shut it, he was vainly endeavouring to compose her, when the chamber door was burst open by a furious kick, and Sir Patrick Hepborne appeared, with his drawn sword in his hand.“King Richard!” cried the knight, starting back with astonishment: “Doth England’s King so far forget the duty of the high office he doth hold, as to become the destroyer instead of the protector of innocence? Yet, by St. Andrew, wert thou fifty times a king, thou shouldst answer to me for thine insult to that lady. Defend thyself.”The cool presence of mind exhibited by Richard whilst yet a stripling, on the memorable occasion of Wat Tyler being struck down by Walworth the Lord Mayor, showed that he was not constitutionally deficient in courage; but in this, as in everything else, he was wavering and uncertain, and no one was more liable than he to yield to sudden panic. Seeing Hepborne about to spring on him, he darted into an inner room, the door of which stood ajar.“Sir Patrick Hepborne!” cried the Lady Beatrice, her lovely face flushing with the mingled emotions of surprise, joy, gratitude, and love.“Yes,” cried the knight, throwing himself on one knee before her, “yes, Lady Beatrice, he who may now dare to call himself thine own faithful and true knight—he who hath now had his eyes cleared from the errors which blinded him—he who, whilst deeply smitten by those matchless charms, believed that in his adoration of them he was worshipping the Lady Eleanore de Selby—he who thus believing himself to be deceived and rejected, did yet continue to nourish the pure and enduring flame in his bosom after all hope had fled, and who now feels it glow with tenfold warmth, sith that hope’s gentle gales have again sprung up to fan it—he who will——But whither is my passion leading me?” cried he, starting up, and taking Beatrice’s hand; “this is no time for indulging myself in such a theme, dear as it may be to me. Lady, thou art betrayed. This is no fit place of sojournance for spotless virtue such as thine. The false Lady de Vere is one who doth foully minister to the King’s pleasures. Lose not a moment, I beseech you. I have seen[517]Adam of Gordon, who waits for us without. Fly then,” cried he, leading her towards the door, “fly with me; I will be thy protector. Let us haste from the impure den of this wicked woman, who would have——”Sir Patrick threw open the door as he pronounced these words, and in an instant he was prostrated on the floor by the blow of a halbert.“Seize him and drag him to a dungeon,” cried the Lady de Vere, with eyes flashing like those of an enraged tigress; “I accuse him of a treasonable attack on the sacred person of the King of England. He shall die the death of traitor.” The guards obeyed her, and lifting up the inanimate body of the knight, bore him away.“So,” cried the fury, “so perish those who shall dare to insult the love of the Lady de Vere; and as for thee, minion,” she said, turning round, “thou art a prisoner there during my pleasure.” And saying so, she pushed Beatrice into the room, and locked and bolted the door on the wretched damsel, who fell from her violence, and instantly swooned away.When the Lady Beatrice recovered, and began to recollect what had passed, she arose in a tremor, and tottering to a seat, rested herself for some moments, throwing her eyes fearfully around the apartment. Everything in it remained as it was. No one seemed to have entered since. The lamps had begun to burn so faintly, that they appeared to tell of the approach of midnight, and this idea was strengthened by the silence that prevailed everywhere both without and within the palace. She tried the bolts of the door, but, to her great horror, she found them fast. A faint hope of escape arose, when she remembered that the King had disappeared by the inner apartment, whence there might be a passage leading to other chambers. She snatched up an expiring hand lamp, and hastened to explore it. But there was no visible mode of exit from the room, and she now became convinced that the King must have returned through the apartment whilst she lay insensible, and that some one had liberated him from without. The recollection of the cruel wound, which she almost feared might have been Sir Patrick’s death blow, together with the certainty of his captivity, and the probable issue of it, now filled her mind with horror; and this, added to the perplexity of her present situation, so overcame her, that she sat down and wept bitterly.The lamps now, one after another, expired, until she was left in total darkness. She groped her way into the inner apartment, and, having fastened the door within,[518]threw herself upon the couch, and abandoned herself to all her wretchedness.Whilst the Lady Beatrice was lying in this distressing situation, she was startled by a noise. Suddenly a glare of light flashed upon her eyes; she rubbed them, and looked towards the spot whence it proceeded. A man in a friar’s habit stood near the wall; he held a lamp high, that its light might the better fill the room. Immediately behind him was an opening in the tapestry, the folds of which being held aside by a hand and arm, admitted the entrance of another shaven crowned head. To the terror of the Lady Beatrice, she recognized in this second monk the piercing eyes and powerful features of the very Franciscan whose dagger had so alarmed her at Lochyndorbe, and the sight of whom had so affected her at Sir Walter de Selby’s funeral. She attempted to scream, but fear so overcame her, that, like one who labours under a nightmare, her lips moved, but her tongue refused to do its office, and she lay with her eyes wide open, staring on the object of her dread, in mute expectation of immediate murder.“Is she there, Friar Rushak?” said he whom we have known by the name of the Franciscan.“She is here,” said the first monk, who bore the lamp; “all is quiet too—thou mayest safely enter.”The Franciscan who followed now stepped into the apartment, and came stealing forward with soft, barefooted tread.“Give me the light, Friar Rushak, that there may be no mistake,” said he, taking the lamp from his companion.The blood grew chill in the Lady Beatrice’s veins as the Franciscan approached the couch where she lay. He held the lamp so as to throw its light strongly upon her face.“It is she indeed,” said he, in a muttering voice, while his features were lighted up by a grim smile of satisfaction, which gradually faded away, leaving a severe expression in his lightning eye.“She trembles,” said Friar Rushak, advancing towards the couch with a terrible look; “conscious of her own depravity, she is guilt-stricken.”“Ay, she may well be guilt-stricken,” said the Franciscan.“Alas, of what am I accused, mysterious man?” cried the Lady Beatrice, clasping her hands together, and throwing herself on her knees before them. “Murder me not—murder me not. Let not the holy garments you wear be stained with the blood of innocence.”“Innocence!” cried Friar Rushak, “talk not thou of innocence![519]Why art thou in these apartments if thou be’st innocent?”“So help me the pure and immaculate Virgin, I am not here by mine own consent,” said the unhappy lady. “Murder me not without inquiry—I am a prisoner here—I was eager to escape—I should have escaped with Sir Patrick Hepborne, had not——”“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said the Franciscan, with a ferocious look. “Ay, so! The curse of St. Francis be upon him!”“Nay, nay, curse him not—oh, curse him not!” cried Beatrice, embracing the Franciscan’s knees. “Murder me if thou wilt, but, oh, curse not him, who at peril of his noble life would have rescued me from these hated walls.”“Yea, again I do say, may he be accursed,” cried the Franciscan, with increased energy and ferocity of aspect. “Full well do we know thy love for this infamous knight—full well do we know why he would have liberated thee.”“But to find thee here as a toil spread by the Devil to catch the tottering virtue of King Richard!” cried Friar Rushak.“Yea,” said the Franciscan, striking his forehead with the semblance of intense inward feeling, “to find thee a monster so utterly depraved, is indeed even more than my worst suspicions.”“What couldst thou hope, minion!” said Friar Rushak sternly; “what couldst thou hope from fixing thine impure affections on the Royal Richard.”“Blessed Virgin,” cried the tortured Beatrice, clasping her hands and throwing her eyes solemnly upwards, “Holy Mother of God, thou who art truth itself, and who canst well search out the truth in others, if I do speak aught else than truth now, let thy just indignation strike me down an inanimate corpse. I am here as an innocent victim to the treachery of the Lady de Vere. She it was who inveigled me into these apartments by pretended friendship, that she might make a sacrifice of me. I knew not even the person of King Richard; and had it not been for Sir Patrick Hepborne, who so bravely rescued me from his hand——”“Um,” said Friar Rushak, somewhat moved by what she had uttered; “thine appeal is so solemn, and it must be confessed that the evidence of those who did accuse thee of plotting against the King’s heart is indeed but questionable. It may be—But, be it as it may, it mattereth not, for thou shalt soon be put beyond the reach of weaving snares for Richard. Yet shall we try thee anon, for thou shalt see the King, and if by word or[520]look thou dost betray thyself, this dagger shall search thy heart, yea, even in the presence of Richard himself.”“King Richard!” cried Beatrice, with distraction in her looks. “Take me not before the King; let me not again behold the King. Where have they carried Sir Patrick Hepborne? In charity let me fly to him; he may now want that aid which I am bound to yield him.”“Nay, thou shalt never see him more.” said the Franciscan.“Oh, say not so, say not so—tell me not that he is dead,” cried the Lady Beatrice, forgetting everything else in her apprehension for Sir Patrick; “oh, if a spark of charity burns within your bosoms, let me hasten to him. I saw him bleeding, and on the ground—I heard him cruelly condemned to a dungeon—oh, let me be the companion of his captivity—let me watch by his pillow—let me soothe his sorrows—let me be his physician. If my warm life’s-blood were a healing balm, this gushing heart would yield it all for his minutest wound.” Her feelings overcame her, and she fell back, half fainting, on the floor.“Raise her head,” said Friar Rushak to the Franciscan, who was bending over her with some anxiety; and he applied to her nostrils a small golden box, containing some refreshing odour, which speedily began to revive her.“Alas!” said the Franciscan, “however innocently she may be here, as affects the King, her abandoned love for her seducer hath been too clearly confessed.”“She reviveth,” said Friar Rushak; “raise her to her feet. And now let us hasten, brother; the moments fly fast, and we have yet to effect our perilous passage through the——”“Is there no other way?” demanded the Franciscan.“None,” replied the Friar Rushak; “and if the King should——”“The King!” repeated Beatrice, with a thrill of dread.“Ay, Lady, the King,” replied the Friar Rushak, with a strong emphasis and a desperate expression; “but thou must wear this disguise to conceal thee,” continued he, opening out a bundle containing a Franciscan’s habit. “Draw the cowl over thy head and face; follow me with caution; and whatever thou mayest see, utter no word, or give no sign, else——Nay, let not thy breath he heard, or——Come on.”The Friar Rushak now led the way with the lamp, and the Lady Beatrice, shaking from a dread that even her loose disguise could not conceal, stepped after him through a spring door behind the tapestry, that led into a passage in the centre of the wall. The Franciscan followed, and shut the door behind him.[521]The passage was so narrow, that one person only could advance at a time. It was strangely crooked also, frequently bending at right angles, so as to defy all Beatrice’s speculation as to where they might be leading her. A dead silence was preserved by both her attendants, and they moved with a caution that allowed not a step to be heard. Friar Rushak halted suddenly, and turned round; the lamp flashed upon his face, and showed his angry eye; the Lady Beatrice fell back in terror into the arms of the Franciscan behind her. Friar Rushak put his finger to his open mouth, and then told her, in a whisper, to suppress the high breathing which her fears had created. The Lady Beatrice endeavoured to obey. Friar Rushak motioned to her and the Franciscan to remain where they were; he advanced three or four paces with great caution, and, slowly opening a concealed door, listened for a moment; then gently pushing aside the tapestry within, he thrust forward his head, and again withdrawing it, motioned to Beatrice and the Franciscan to advance.“They sleep,” whispered he. “Follow me—but no word, sign, or breath, as thou dost value thy life.”Friar Rushak entered within the tapestry, and the Lady Beatrice followed him into a magnificent chamber, lighted by a single lamp. A gorgeous bed occupied one end of the apartment. Over it, attached to the heavy Gothic ceiling, was a gilded crown, whence descended a crimson drapery, richly emblazoned with the Royal Arms of England, under which lay a young man, his head only appearing above the bed-clothes. She hastily glanced at his features, which the lamp but dimly illuminated. It was King Richard. His dark eye-lashes were closed, but she trembled lest he should awaken. Around the room were several couches, where his pages ought to have watched, but where they lay as sound as their Royal master.They had hardly stepped into the room, when a little dog came growling from under the King’s bed. The Lady Beatrice had nearly sunk on the floor, but the little favourite of the monarch instantly recognized Friar Rushak as a well-known friend, and quietly retreated to his place of repose. The pages showed no symptom of alarm, but the King turned in bed, and exposed his head more fully to view. The Lady Beatrice shook from head to foot as she looked towards him; but her apprehension was excited yet more immediately, when she beheld Friar Rushak at her side, with a menacing eye, and a dagger in his grasp. A sign at once conveyed to her that it was silence he wanted; and though she ventured not to breathe, her heart beat so against her side as she stood, that she felt as if the very[522]sound of its pulsations would break the slumbers of all around her. Again the King was quiet, and Friar Rushak moved on towards the opposite door. The Lady Beatrice drew the cowl more over her face, and, without daring to repeat her glance at the King, followed with as much caution as her sinking knees would permit her to use.The door was opened by Friar Rushak with the utmost gentleness, and they found themselves at one extremity of a suite of apartments, the long perspective of which was seen running onwards from one to another, and where they could perceive groups of dozing domestics lying on chairs, and stretched on benches, in every possible position. Through one of these rooms they passed, and then retreated by a side-door into a narrow circular stair, by which they descended to the hall of entrance, where they found about a dozen archers sitting slumbering by a great fire. These men roused themselves on their approach, and, starting up, sprang forward to bar their passage with their halberts. The Lady Beatrice became alarmed, and, in the trepidation that seized her, dropped the friar’s habit that had hitherto concealed her.“Ha!” exclaimed one of the soldiers, “a woman and two monks! Who may that considerate lord have been who hath thus taken the shrift with the sin?”“Silence, Barnaby,” cried another man; “that is the holy Father Rushak, the King’s Confessor.”“Let me pass, knaves,” cried Rushak.“Ay, ay, let him pass,” said another man; “he hath right of entrance and outgoing at all hours. I would not have thee try to stop him, an thou wouldst sleep in a whole skin to-morrow night.”The passage was cleared in a moment. The Lady Beatrice, overpowered with apprehension, was supported by the Franciscan.“Come on, brother,” cried Friar Rushak.“She faints,” cried the Franciscan.“Lift her in thine arms, then,” cried Rushak.The Franciscan raised her from the ground, and carried her half senseless to the door. At that moment a man entered, and brushed by them in breathless haste. He looked behind him at the group.“The Lady Beatrice!” cried he. “Ha, whither do ye carry her, villains?”“Answer him not, but run,” said Rushak, flying off at full speed across the court, followed by the sturdy Franciscan,[523]who carried his fair burden as if he felt not her weight. The steps of many people were heard following them. All at once the noise of a desperate scuffle ensued behind them, and the two monks, who stayed not to inquire the nature of it, pressed on towards a low archway that ran under the river-wall. The air blew fresh from the river on Beatrice’s cheek. She revived, and found that he who carried her was standing near an iron gate of ponderous strength, which Friar Rushak was making vain attempts to open.“Holy St. Francis assist us!” cried he, “I fear that my hands have erred, and that I have unluckily possessed myself of the wrong key.”“Hush,” said the Franciscan, “and keep close. The step of the sentinel on the wall above falls louder. He cometh this way.”They drew themselves closer to the wall. The sentinel’s step passed onward to the extremity of his walk, and then slowly returning, it again moved by, and the sound of it sank along the wall.“Try the key again, brother,” said the Franciscan; “the man is beyond hearing.”Friar Rushak again applied the key; the great bolt yielded before it; the gate creaked upon its hinges, and the Franciscan deposited his trembling burden, more dead than alive, in a little skiff that lay in the creek of the river running under the vault.“Thanks, kind brother,” said the Franciscan in a low tone of voice, to Friar Rushak; “a thousand thanks for thy friendly aid.”“Hush! the sentinel comes again,” whispered Friar Rushak.They remained perfectly still until the man had completed his turn, and was gone beyond hearing.“Now thou mayest venture to depart,” said Friar Rushak—“away, and St. Francis be with thee!” And so saying, he waved his hand, shut the gate, and quickly disappeared.The Franciscan got into the boat. A little crooked man, who had hitherto lain like a bundle of clothes in the bottom of it, started up, and began pushing it along by putting his hands against the side-walls until he got beyond the vault. Then he sat down and pulled the oars.“Who goes there?” cried the sentinel, “who goes there?—Answer me, an thou wouldst not have a quarrel-bolt in thy brain.”The Franciscan minded not, and the little figure went on, pulling with all his might. Beatrice sat trembling with affright.[524]It was dark, but she heard the sentinel’s step running along the wall, as if following the sound of the oars. He halted; the click of the spring of his arbaleste reached her ear, and the bolt that it gave wings to had nearly reached her too, for it struck with great force on the inside of the boat that was opposite to the man who shot it. The rower pulled off farther into the stream. The sentinel’s cry for raising the guard was heard; but the tide was now running down, and it bore the little boat on its bosom with so much swiftness that they soon lost all sound of the alarm.“Tell me, oh, tell me who art thou, and whither dost thou carry me?” cried Beatrice, her heart sinking with alarm as she beheld the walls of the city left behind them.“Daughter, this is neither the time nor the place for the explanation thou dost lack,” replied the Franciscan; “methinks I do hear the sound of oars behind us. Let me aid thee, Bobbin,” cried he, taking one of the oars, and beginning to pull desperately.The united strength of the two rowers now made the little boat fly like an arrow, and in a short time the eyes of the Lady Beatrice were attracted by five lights that burned bright in the middle of the river, and hung in the form of St. Andrew’s cross.“St. Francis be praised,” cried the Franciscan; “we are now near the bark that is to give us safety. Pull, Bobbin, my brave heart.”The lights grew in magnitude in the Lady Beatrice’s eyes, and the water beneath the shadowy hull blazed with the bright reflection.“Hoy, the skiff!” cried a stern voice in a north-country accent.“St. Andrew!” replied the Franciscan.“Welcome, St. Andrew,” said the voice from the vessel. “Hast thou sped, holy father?”“Yea, by the blessing of St. Francis and the Virgin,” replied the Franciscan.The lights, which were suspended to a frame attached to the round top of the short thick mast, were at once extinguished. The skiff came alongside, and the Lady Beatrice was lifted, unresisting, into the vessel, and carried directly into the cabin, and in a few minutes the anchor was weighed.“So, my brave men,” cried the master to his sailors, after they had got the anchor on board, “now, hoise up the mainsail. Take the helm, Bobbin; we shall drop slowly down till daylight doth appear.”[525]“Art thou sure of shaping thy course safely through all these intricate windings?” demanded the Franciscan.“Yea,” replied the commander, “as sure as thou hast thyself seen me when running between the Bass and the May. What, dost thou think that I have been herrying these English loons so long without gathering sea-craft as well as plunder? And then, have I not crooked Bobbin here as my pilot, who was bred and born in this serpent of a river? By St. Rule, but he knoweth every sweep and turn, yea, and every sand and shoal bank, blindfold. Had I not had some such hands on board, how dost thou think I could have carried off that spice-ship so cunningly, having to steer her through so many villainous eel-knots?”“I see thou art not a whit less daring than thy sire,” said the Franciscan.“Nay, an I were, I should ill deserve the gallant name of Mercer,” replied the other. “Thou didst witness enow of his exploits, I ween, the while that thou wert aboard of him, to remember thee well that he did neither want head to conceive, boldness to dare, nor coolness to execute. Trust me, I lack not my father’s spirit; and though I have not the fortune to sail with a fleet of stout barks at my back, as he was wont to do, yet, while the timbers of the tough old Trueman do hold together beneath me, I shall work these Southrons some cruel evil, to revenge the loss of my father and his ships. Haul from the land, Bobbin; haul off, to weather that point. Climb the forecastle and look out there, he who hath the watch.”
[Contents]CHAPTER LXIV.Lady de Vere and her Lovely Guest. Innocence and Purity endangered. The King’s Confessor and the Franciscan Friar.After the spectacle was over, and whilst the homeward procession was forming, Sir Patrick Hepborne was surprised by the wave of a fair hand, accompanied by a smiling bow of acknowledgment from a very beautiful woman in one of the balconies close to that of the King. From the richness of her attire, and the place that had been allotted to her, she was evidently a lady of some consequence. He returned the compliment, but, whilst he did so, he felt unconscious of having ever spoken to her, although, upon re-perusing her face, he remembered her as one whom he had seen at the King’s banquets, where he had observed that she was particularly noticed by the Sovereign. Turning to Sir Miles Stapleton, who stood by him, he besought him to tell her name.“What,” exclaimed Sir Miles in reply, “hast thou been at our English Court for so many days, Sir Patrick, and yet knowest thou not the Lady de Vere? Depardieux, it doth much surprise me that she hath not sooner sought thine acquaintance, for, by the Rood, she is a merry madam, and fond of variety. She hath been married but a short space, yet she already changeth her lovers as she doth her fancy robes.”“Is it possible?” cried Hepborne, in astonishment.“Possible, Sir Patrick!” returned the English knight; “perdie, I am surprised at thy seeming wonder. Are Scottish ladies then so constant to their lords that thou shouldst think this fickleness so great a marvel in the Lady de Vere? She hath been for some time an especial favourite of Majesty; that is, I would have thee to understand me, in friendship, not par amours, though there be evil tongues that do say as much.”“Indeed?” cried Hepborne.“Yea, they scruple not to say so,” continued Sir Miles; “but I, who better know the King, do verily believe that, albeit he is much given to idle dalliance with these free ladies of this licentious Court, there be but little else to accuse him of. Thou needst have no fear, therefore, Sir Patrick, that the dread of Majesty will interfere with thy happiness, if it be her will to receive thee as a lover; so I wish thee joy of thy conquest.[507]Trust me, I do more envy thee than I do the brave conqueror of the Lord Welles, much glory as he hath gained.”Sir Patrick turned away, at once confounded and disgusted. What! the Lady Eleanore de Selby, of whose excellence he had heard so much, the friend of the Lady Beatrice—was it possible that the contamination of a Court could have already rendered her a person of character so loose? He was shocked at the thought. He turned again to watch her motions, when he observed the King himself advance towards her as she was preparing to get into her saddle, and a private conversation pass between them, that drew the eyes of all the courtiers upon them; but Sir Patrick being called away to join the Scottish party, lost the opportunity of observing the conclusion of their conference.Whilst the procession was dispersing in the court-yard of the Tower, the Lady de Vere entered, riding on a piebald palfry, richly caparisoned. She was surrounded by a group of gay chevaliers, with whom she was talking and laughing loudly; but she no sooner espied Hepborne than she broke from among them and advanced to meet him.“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said she, smiling, “it erketh me that mine evil fortune hath hitherto yielded me no better than public opportunity to know him, who, by consent of all, is acknowledged to be the flower of Scottish chivalry. Trust me, my private apartments shall be ever open to so peerless a knight.”“Nay, Lady,” replied Sir Patrick, “the title thou hast been pleased to bestow on me belongeth not to me but to Sir David Lindsay and Sir William Dalzel, who have this day so nobly supported the honour of Scotland.”“They are brave knights, ’tis true,” replied the lady; “yet be there other qualifications in knighthood than mere brute strength or brute courage. That thou hast enow of both of these to the full as well as they, we who have heard of Otterbourne do well know. But in the graces of knightly deportment there be few who admit them to be thine equal, and of that few I do confess myself not to be one.”Hepborne bowed; but, disgusted alike with her freedom and flattery, he gave token of approval neither by manner nor words.“These are my apartments, Sir Knight,” continued the lady, pointing to a range of windows in a wing of the palace. “If thou canst quit the banquet to spend some merry hours with me this evening, trust me, thou shalt meet with no cold reception from the Lady de Vere.”[508]This invitation was seasoned by some warm glances, that spoke even more than her words; but Sir Patrick received both the one and the other with a silent and formal obeisance. The lady turned towards a flight of steps, and being assisted to dismount by an esquire, she tripped up stairs and along a covered terrace. A door opened at its farther extremity, and a lady appeared for a moment. It was the Lady Beatrice; he could not be mistaken; her image was now too deeply engraven on his heart. The blood bounded for a moment within his bosom, rushed through each artery with the heat and velocity of lightning, and then, as the thought of the Lady de Vere’s character arose within his mind, it returned cold as ice to its fountain-head, and froze up every warm feeling there. He felt faint, and his head grew giddy. He looked towards the door where the ladies were saluting each other with every mark of kindness, and his eyes grew dim as they vanished within the entrance.Almost unconscious of what he was doing, Sir Patrick turned his horse to go to his lodgings. As he recovered from the stunning effect of the spectacle he beheld, his mind began to be agonized by the most distressing thoughts. It was impossible that the Lady Beatrice, whom he believed to be so pure, could be the willing guest of so vile a woman, knowing her to be such. Yet, though such was his impression, he knew not well what to think. It was most strange that the Lady de Vere should have thus urged him to visit her while Beatrice was with her; unless, indeed, the latter were privy to it, and that it was on her account. But be this as it might, he liked not the complexion of matters; and, in a state of great perplexity and unhappiness, he reached the wine merchant’s, where, having given his horse to a groom, he slowly sought his chamber, unwillingly to prepare for the banquet.In going along the passage which led to his apartments, thinking of what so much occupied him, he, in a fit of absence, opened a door, believing it to be his own; and, to his great surprise, he found himself in a room, where some dozen or twenty persons were seated at a long table, on which lay some papers. His host was there among the rest, and the appearance of the knight threw the whole party into dismay and confusion. Hepborne drew back with an apology, and hastily shut the door; but he had hardly reached his own, when he heard the steps of his host coming hurrying after him.“Sir Knight,” said Master Ratcliffe, “’twas but some of those with whom I have had money dealings, come to settle interest with me.”[509]As Hepborne looked in his face, he was surprised to notice that it had exchanged its generous ruby red for a deadly paleness; the wine merchant was evidently disturbed; but neither this observation, nor the confusion he had occasioned among the party whom he had seen surrounding the table, could then find room in his mind for a moment’s thought. He therefore hastily explained that the interruption had been quite accidental on his part, and the wine merchant left him apparently satisfied. It will be easily believed that Sir Patrick Hepborne was but ill attuned for the revelry of the Royal banquet. He sat silent and abstracted, ruminating on the monstrous and afflicting conjunction he had that day witnessed, and perplexing himself with inventing explanations of the cruel doubts that were perpetually arising in his mind. The King broke up the feast at an earlier hour than usual, and Sir Patrick, glad to escape from the crowd, stole away by himself.As he was leaving the palace, he turned his eyes towards the casements of the Lady de Vere. They were eminently conspicuous, for they were open, and lighted up with great brilliancy, while the sound of the harp came from them. He thought of the invitation he had received, and hung about for some time, weighing circumstances, and hesitating whether he should immediately avail himself of it, that he might ascertain the truth, or whether he should, in the first place, endeavour to gather it by some other means. Passion argued for the first, as the most decided step, and prudence urged the second as the wisest plan; but whilst he was tossed between them, he was gradually drawn towards the windows by the unseen magnet within. As he got nearer, he ascertained that it was a man’s voice that sung the melody and words, to which the instrument was an accompaniment; and by the time he reached the bottom of the flight of steps, he could catch the remaining verses of a ballad, part of which had been already sung. They were nearly as follows:—“And wilt thou break thy faith with me,And dare our vows to rend?”“Hence!” cried the angry sire; “with theeMy Eda ne’er shall wend.“Her name doth prouder match demand;Lord Henry comes to-night;He comes to take her promised hand,And claim a husband’s right.“Then hence!”—The knight, in woful guise,Turned from the perjured gate;The maiden heard her lover’s sighs,All weeping where she sate.[510]“Now up and run, my bonnie page,Fly with the falcon’s wing,Fly swiftly to Sir Armitage,And give to him this ring.“And tell him, when the rippling fordShall catch the moonbeams light,I’ll leave the hated bridal board,To meet him there to-night.”The boy he found Sir ArmitageIn greenwood all so sad;But when he spied his lady’s page,His weeping eyne grew glad.And up leaped he for very joy,And kissed his lady’s ring,And much he praised the bonny boyWho did such message bring.“I’ll meet my lady by the stream,So, boy, now hie thee home;I’ll meet her when the moon’s broad beamComes dancing over the foam.”And now to grace the wedding-feastThe demoiselles prepare;There were the bridegroom, sire, and priest,But Eda was not there.She left her tyrant father’s tower,To seek her own true knight;She met him at the trysted hour,Prepared to aid her flight.“Sir Armitage, with thee I’ll rideThrough flood, o’er fell so steep;Though destined for another’s bride,My vow to thee I’ll keep.”“Oh bless thee, bless thee, lady mine,That true thy heart doth prove;Before yon moon hath ceased to shine,The priest shall bless our love.”He raised her on his gallant steed,And sprang him to his selle;“Keep, keep thy seat, my love, with heed,And grasp my baldrick well.”Beneath the moon the wavelets flash’d,Struck by the courser’s heel,And through the ford he boldly dash’d,Spurr’d by the pointed steel.High up his sides the surges rose,And washed the blood away;They lav’d fair Eda’s bridal-clothes,And fill’d her with dismay.“Alas, the stream is strong,” she cried.“Fear not, my love,” said he;“’Tis here the waters deepest glide,Anon we shall be free.”[511]Behind them rung a wild alarm,And torches gleam’d on high;Forth from the Castle came a swarm,With yells that rent the sky.Again the knight his iron heelDash’d in his courser’s side.He plung’d—his powerful limbs did reel—He yielded to the tide.Down went both mailed horse and knight;The maid was borne away,And flash’d the moonbeam’s silver lightAmid the sparkling spray.His daughter’s shriek the father heard,Far on the moonlit wave;A moment Eda’s form appear’d,Then sunk in watery grave.Peace never blest the sire again;He curst ambitious pride,That made him hold his promise vain,And sacred oaths deride.Still in his eye his sinking child,Her shriek still in his ear,Reft of his mind, he wanders wildMidst rocks and forests drear.But where that cross in yonder shadeOft bends the pilgrim’s knee,There sleep the gentle knight and maidBeneath their trysting tree.When the musician had finished, Sir Patrick Hepborne still continued to loiter with his arm on the balustrade of the stair, when the door opened, and he heard a feeble step on the terrace above. He looked upwards, and the light of a lamp that was burning in a niche fell on the aged countenance of a man who was descending. It was Adam of Gordon.“Adam of Gordon!” exclaimed Sir Patrick.“And who is he, I pray, who doth know Adam of Gordon so far from home?” demanded the minstrel. “Ah, Sir Patrick Hepborne; holy St. Cuthbert, I do rejoice to see thee. Trust me, the ready help thou didst yield me at Forres hath not been forgotten; though thou didst sorely mar my verses by thine interruption. Full many sithes have I tried to awaken that noble subject, but the witchery of inspiration is past, and——”“But how camest thou here?” demanded Hepborne, impatiently interrupting him.“Sir Knight, I came hither with a lady from the Borders,” said Adam, hesitatingly; “a lady that——”“Nay, speak not so mystically, old man,” replied Hepborne;[512]“I am already well aware of the story of the Lady Beatrice, and heartily do I curse mine own folly for permitting jealousy so to hoodwink mine eyes as to make me run blindly away from mine own happiness. I already guess that it was she whom thou didst accompany hither, and I know that she is now an inmate of those apartments, with the Lady de Vere, the daughter of the late Sir Walter de Selby.”“Nay, nay, so far thou art wrong, Sir Knight,” replied the Minstrel. “She to whom these apartments do belong is not the daughter of Sir Walter de Selby. True it is, indeed, that when the Lady Eleanore did leave Norham Castle, she did call the companion of her flight by the name of Sir Hans de Vere, a Zealand knight, kinsman to the Duke of Ireland; but some strange mystery doth yet hang over this affair, for he who doth own these gay lodgings, and who is the husband of this gay madam, is the identical Sir Hans de Vere I have just described, and yet he knoweth nought of the Lady Eleanore de Selby.”“Thy speech is one continued riddle, good Adam,” said Hepborne; “canst thou not explain to me?”“Nay, of a truth, Sir Knight, thou dost know as much as I do,” said the minstrel. “What hath become of the Lady Eleanore de Selby no one can tell. If he that she married be indeed a De Vere, he is at least no kin to the Duke of Ireland, as he or she would have us believe. There have been De Veres enow about the English Court since this King Richard began his reign, albeit that the day may be gone by with many of them, sith that their chief, the Duke of Ireland, hath been forced to flee into Zealand, where his race had its origin. But of all the De Veres, none doth answer the description of him whom the Lady Beatrice and I did see carry off the Lady Eleanore de Selby from Norham.”“Strange, most strange,” said Sir Patrick Hepborne; “but knowest thou aught of this Lady de Vere? Men’s tongues do talk but lightly of her.”“Nay, in good truth, I have begun to entertain strange notions of her myself,” replied Adam. “By’r Lady, she would have had me sing some virelays to-night that were light and warm enow, I promise thee, had I not feigned that I knew them not; and, by my troth, she spared not to chide me for my sober minstrelsy, the which she did tauntingly compare to the chanting of monks. My Lady, quoth I, consider I am but a rude Border——”“But say, old man,” cried Hepborne, impatiently interrupting him, “how did the Lady Beatrice seek shelter with such a[513]woman? Quick, tell me, I beseech thee, for I must hasten to rescue the poor and spotless dove from the clutch of this foul howlet.”“In the name of the Virgin, then, let us lose no time in thinking how it may best be done,” said Adam of Gordon earnestly; “St. Andrew be praised that thou, Sir Knight, art so willing to become the protector of an angel, who——Yet I dare not say how much thou art beloved. But, hush! we may be overheard here in the open air. Let us retreat to my garret yonder, where I will tell thee all I can, and then we may, with secrecy and expedition, concert what steps thou hadst best take.”Hepborne readily followed the minstrel to his small chamber, and there he learned the following particulars.The Lady Beatrice had no sooner recovered from the swoon into which she had been thrown by the appearance of the Franciscan at Sir Walter de Selby’s funeral, than she sent for the Minstrel, of whose attachment and fidelity she had already had many a proof, and imparted to him her design of quitting Norham Castle immediately. Without communicating her intention to any one else, she mounted that milk-white palfrey which had been the gift of Hepborne, and travelled with all speed to Newcastle, where she sought shelter in the house of a widowed sister of Sir Walter de Selby. There she lived for a short time in retirement, until at last she adopted the resolution of visiting London in search of her friend the Lady Eleanore, whom she believed now to be the Lady de Vere, that she might communicate to her the death of her father, if she had not already heard of that event, and entreat from her a continuance of that protection which she had so long afforded her. She and the Minstrel, therefore, went on board a ship sailing for the Thames; but having been tossed about by contrary winds, and even compelled to seek safety more than once in harbours by the way, they had only arrived in the metropolis three days before that of which we are now speaking.The Minstrel was immediately employed by the Lady Beatrice to make inquiry for the Lady de Vere, and he was readily directed to the lodgings of the lady of that name in the Tower. But he was no sooner introduced into her presence and that of her husband, Sir Hans de Vere, than he discovered that there was some strange mistake. To exculpate himself for his seeming intrusion on a knight and lady to whom he was an utter stranger, he explained the cause of his coming, and told whom he sought for, when, to his great dismay, he learned that no such[514]persons as those he described were known about the Court. Filled with chagrin, he returned to the Lady Beatrice, whose vexation may be more easily conceived than described. She was a stranger in London, in a wretched hostel, without a friend but old Adam to advise her, and severed for ever, as she feared, from the only human being on whom she could say that she had the least claim for protection. Despair came upon her, and hiding her face in her hands, she gave full way to her grief.Whilst she sat in this wretched situation, in which Adam in vain exerted himself to comfort her, a page arrived, with a kind message from Sir Hans and Lady de Vere, in which they offered her their house as a home, until she should have time to determine as to her future conduct. So friendly, so seasonable a proposal, was not to be rejected in her circumstances, even coming as it did from strangers, and the Lady Beatrice gladly became the guest of the Lady de Vere.So far went the Minstrel’s knowledge; but leaving Sir Patrick to question him as he pleases, we shall ourselves more deeply investigate the circumstances, as well as the secret springs of action which produced this event. It happened that just after the Minstrel’s interview with the Lady de Vere, King Richard came to idle an hour with her as he was often wont to do to gather the gossip of the Court. The lady told him what had passed, and the Monarch joined with her in the laugh it occasioned. The Lady de Vere had extracted enough of Beatrice’s history from the Minstrel to be able to answer the King’s questions.“And who may this Beatrice be?” demanded Richard.“A damsel, I believe, whom old De Selby picked up at the door of a Scottish peasant, and whom he fancied to educate as a companion to his daughter Eleanore,” replied Lady de Vere; “doubtless, now that he is dead, she seeks to hang herself about the neck of the heiress of her patron.”“And sith that she hath so come, might we not find some other neck for her to hang about?” said the King laughing. “Pr’ythee, send for her hither; we should be well contented to see this stray bird.”The Lady de Vere well knew her advantage in humouring all the wild fancies that entered the King’s head, and accordingly gave immediate obedience to his wishes, by sending to Beatrice the message we have already noticed. Fatigued to death by her voyage, Beatrice had no sooner complied with the invitation she had received, than she was compelled to retire to the apartment[515]the Lady de Vere had prepared for her; and she continued so long indisposed that she was unable to be present at the tilting.Towards the evening of that day, however, she was so far recovered as to quit her room; and, accordingly, when the procession returned from London Bridge, she hastened to pour out her gratitude to the Lady de Vere for the hospitable reception she had given her.Sir Hans went to the King’s banquet, but his lady remained with Beatrice; and the Minstrel was sent for to amuse them with his ballads. There was something free and bold in the manner of the Lady de Vere that was by no means agreeable to Beatrice; but believing that there was nothing worse in it than an unfortunate manner, she endeavoured to reconcile herself to it, in one who had shown her so much apparent friendship.They were seated in a luxuriously-furnished apartment, hung with tapestry of the richest hues, and lighted up by silver lamps, when the door opened, and Sir Hans de Vere entered, ushering in a young man, whom he introduced as the Earl of Westminster. The Lady de Vere smiled on the young nobleman, and Beatrice, though she had never heard of such a title, was aware that new lords were created so frequently, that there was little wonder she should be ignorant of it. The young Earl, who was very handsome, seemed to be on habits of great intimacy with Sir Hans de Vere and his lady. He seated himself by the Lady Beatrice, and began to trifle pleasantly with her, mixing up a thousand courtly compliments with the agreeable nothings that he uttered. Spiced wine and sweetmeats were handed round, and soon afterwards a small, but very tasteful and exquisitely cooked supper appeared, with wines of the richest flavour. The Lady Beatrice ate little, and refused to touch wine. The night wore apace. The young Earl of Westminster became more and more earnest in his endeavours to make himself agreeable to Beatrice, who began to find considerable amusement in his conversation, and insensibly permitted him to absorb her whole attention. Suddenly he began, in a sort of half-serious manner, to address her in a strain of tenderness that by no means pleased her. She prepared to shift her place; but what was her astonishment, when, on looking up, she saw that she and the young Earl were alone. Sir Hans de Vere and his lady had stolen unnoticed from the apartment. Beatrice started up to follow them.“Nay, stay to hear me, lovely Beatrice,” cried the Earl, endeavouring to detain her.[516]“Unhand me, my Lord,” cried she boldly, and at the same time tearing herself from him.“Hear me, only hear me,” cried the Earl, springing to the door, so as to cut off her retreat.This action still more alarmed her. She screamed aloud for help, and flying to the casement, threw it open; but the Earl dragged her from it by gentle force, and having shut it, he was vainly endeavouring to compose her, when the chamber door was burst open by a furious kick, and Sir Patrick Hepborne appeared, with his drawn sword in his hand.“King Richard!” cried the knight, starting back with astonishment: “Doth England’s King so far forget the duty of the high office he doth hold, as to become the destroyer instead of the protector of innocence? Yet, by St. Andrew, wert thou fifty times a king, thou shouldst answer to me for thine insult to that lady. Defend thyself.”The cool presence of mind exhibited by Richard whilst yet a stripling, on the memorable occasion of Wat Tyler being struck down by Walworth the Lord Mayor, showed that he was not constitutionally deficient in courage; but in this, as in everything else, he was wavering and uncertain, and no one was more liable than he to yield to sudden panic. Seeing Hepborne about to spring on him, he darted into an inner room, the door of which stood ajar.“Sir Patrick Hepborne!” cried the Lady Beatrice, her lovely face flushing with the mingled emotions of surprise, joy, gratitude, and love.“Yes,” cried the knight, throwing himself on one knee before her, “yes, Lady Beatrice, he who may now dare to call himself thine own faithful and true knight—he who hath now had his eyes cleared from the errors which blinded him—he who, whilst deeply smitten by those matchless charms, believed that in his adoration of them he was worshipping the Lady Eleanore de Selby—he who thus believing himself to be deceived and rejected, did yet continue to nourish the pure and enduring flame in his bosom after all hope had fled, and who now feels it glow with tenfold warmth, sith that hope’s gentle gales have again sprung up to fan it—he who will——But whither is my passion leading me?” cried he, starting up, and taking Beatrice’s hand; “this is no time for indulging myself in such a theme, dear as it may be to me. Lady, thou art betrayed. This is no fit place of sojournance for spotless virtue such as thine. The false Lady de Vere is one who doth foully minister to the King’s pleasures. Lose not a moment, I beseech you. I have seen[517]Adam of Gordon, who waits for us without. Fly then,” cried he, leading her towards the door, “fly with me; I will be thy protector. Let us haste from the impure den of this wicked woman, who would have——”Sir Patrick threw open the door as he pronounced these words, and in an instant he was prostrated on the floor by the blow of a halbert.“Seize him and drag him to a dungeon,” cried the Lady de Vere, with eyes flashing like those of an enraged tigress; “I accuse him of a treasonable attack on the sacred person of the King of England. He shall die the death of traitor.” The guards obeyed her, and lifting up the inanimate body of the knight, bore him away.“So,” cried the fury, “so perish those who shall dare to insult the love of the Lady de Vere; and as for thee, minion,” she said, turning round, “thou art a prisoner there during my pleasure.” And saying so, she pushed Beatrice into the room, and locked and bolted the door on the wretched damsel, who fell from her violence, and instantly swooned away.When the Lady Beatrice recovered, and began to recollect what had passed, she arose in a tremor, and tottering to a seat, rested herself for some moments, throwing her eyes fearfully around the apartment. Everything in it remained as it was. No one seemed to have entered since. The lamps had begun to burn so faintly, that they appeared to tell of the approach of midnight, and this idea was strengthened by the silence that prevailed everywhere both without and within the palace. She tried the bolts of the door, but, to her great horror, she found them fast. A faint hope of escape arose, when she remembered that the King had disappeared by the inner apartment, whence there might be a passage leading to other chambers. She snatched up an expiring hand lamp, and hastened to explore it. But there was no visible mode of exit from the room, and she now became convinced that the King must have returned through the apartment whilst she lay insensible, and that some one had liberated him from without. The recollection of the cruel wound, which she almost feared might have been Sir Patrick’s death blow, together with the certainty of his captivity, and the probable issue of it, now filled her mind with horror; and this, added to the perplexity of her present situation, so overcame her, that she sat down and wept bitterly.The lamps now, one after another, expired, until she was left in total darkness. She groped her way into the inner apartment, and, having fastened the door within,[518]threw herself upon the couch, and abandoned herself to all her wretchedness.Whilst the Lady Beatrice was lying in this distressing situation, she was startled by a noise. Suddenly a glare of light flashed upon her eyes; she rubbed them, and looked towards the spot whence it proceeded. A man in a friar’s habit stood near the wall; he held a lamp high, that its light might the better fill the room. Immediately behind him was an opening in the tapestry, the folds of which being held aside by a hand and arm, admitted the entrance of another shaven crowned head. To the terror of the Lady Beatrice, she recognized in this second monk the piercing eyes and powerful features of the very Franciscan whose dagger had so alarmed her at Lochyndorbe, and the sight of whom had so affected her at Sir Walter de Selby’s funeral. She attempted to scream, but fear so overcame her, that, like one who labours under a nightmare, her lips moved, but her tongue refused to do its office, and she lay with her eyes wide open, staring on the object of her dread, in mute expectation of immediate murder.“Is she there, Friar Rushak?” said he whom we have known by the name of the Franciscan.“She is here,” said the first monk, who bore the lamp; “all is quiet too—thou mayest safely enter.”The Franciscan who followed now stepped into the apartment, and came stealing forward with soft, barefooted tread.“Give me the light, Friar Rushak, that there may be no mistake,” said he, taking the lamp from his companion.The blood grew chill in the Lady Beatrice’s veins as the Franciscan approached the couch where she lay. He held the lamp so as to throw its light strongly upon her face.“It is she indeed,” said he, in a muttering voice, while his features were lighted up by a grim smile of satisfaction, which gradually faded away, leaving a severe expression in his lightning eye.“She trembles,” said Friar Rushak, advancing towards the couch with a terrible look; “conscious of her own depravity, she is guilt-stricken.”“Ay, she may well be guilt-stricken,” said the Franciscan.“Alas, of what am I accused, mysterious man?” cried the Lady Beatrice, clasping her hands together, and throwing herself on her knees before them. “Murder me not—murder me not. Let not the holy garments you wear be stained with the blood of innocence.”“Innocence!” cried Friar Rushak, “talk not thou of innocence![519]Why art thou in these apartments if thou be’st innocent?”“So help me the pure and immaculate Virgin, I am not here by mine own consent,” said the unhappy lady. “Murder me not without inquiry—I am a prisoner here—I was eager to escape—I should have escaped with Sir Patrick Hepborne, had not——”“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said the Franciscan, with a ferocious look. “Ay, so! The curse of St. Francis be upon him!”“Nay, nay, curse him not—oh, curse him not!” cried Beatrice, embracing the Franciscan’s knees. “Murder me if thou wilt, but, oh, curse not him, who at peril of his noble life would have rescued me from these hated walls.”“Yea, again I do say, may he be accursed,” cried the Franciscan, with increased energy and ferocity of aspect. “Full well do we know thy love for this infamous knight—full well do we know why he would have liberated thee.”“But to find thee here as a toil spread by the Devil to catch the tottering virtue of King Richard!” cried Friar Rushak.“Yea,” said the Franciscan, striking his forehead with the semblance of intense inward feeling, “to find thee a monster so utterly depraved, is indeed even more than my worst suspicions.”“What couldst thou hope, minion!” said Friar Rushak sternly; “what couldst thou hope from fixing thine impure affections on the Royal Richard.”“Blessed Virgin,” cried the tortured Beatrice, clasping her hands and throwing her eyes solemnly upwards, “Holy Mother of God, thou who art truth itself, and who canst well search out the truth in others, if I do speak aught else than truth now, let thy just indignation strike me down an inanimate corpse. I am here as an innocent victim to the treachery of the Lady de Vere. She it was who inveigled me into these apartments by pretended friendship, that she might make a sacrifice of me. I knew not even the person of King Richard; and had it not been for Sir Patrick Hepborne, who so bravely rescued me from his hand——”“Um,” said Friar Rushak, somewhat moved by what she had uttered; “thine appeal is so solemn, and it must be confessed that the evidence of those who did accuse thee of plotting against the King’s heart is indeed but questionable. It may be—But, be it as it may, it mattereth not, for thou shalt soon be put beyond the reach of weaving snares for Richard. Yet shall we try thee anon, for thou shalt see the King, and if by word or[520]look thou dost betray thyself, this dagger shall search thy heart, yea, even in the presence of Richard himself.”“King Richard!” cried Beatrice, with distraction in her looks. “Take me not before the King; let me not again behold the King. Where have they carried Sir Patrick Hepborne? In charity let me fly to him; he may now want that aid which I am bound to yield him.”“Nay, thou shalt never see him more.” said the Franciscan.“Oh, say not so, say not so—tell me not that he is dead,” cried the Lady Beatrice, forgetting everything else in her apprehension for Sir Patrick; “oh, if a spark of charity burns within your bosoms, let me hasten to him. I saw him bleeding, and on the ground—I heard him cruelly condemned to a dungeon—oh, let me be the companion of his captivity—let me watch by his pillow—let me soothe his sorrows—let me be his physician. If my warm life’s-blood were a healing balm, this gushing heart would yield it all for his minutest wound.” Her feelings overcame her, and she fell back, half fainting, on the floor.“Raise her head,” said Friar Rushak to the Franciscan, who was bending over her with some anxiety; and he applied to her nostrils a small golden box, containing some refreshing odour, which speedily began to revive her.“Alas!” said the Franciscan, “however innocently she may be here, as affects the King, her abandoned love for her seducer hath been too clearly confessed.”“She reviveth,” said Friar Rushak; “raise her to her feet. And now let us hasten, brother; the moments fly fast, and we have yet to effect our perilous passage through the——”“Is there no other way?” demanded the Franciscan.“None,” replied the Friar Rushak; “and if the King should——”“The King!” repeated Beatrice, with a thrill of dread.“Ay, Lady, the King,” replied the Friar Rushak, with a strong emphasis and a desperate expression; “but thou must wear this disguise to conceal thee,” continued he, opening out a bundle containing a Franciscan’s habit. “Draw the cowl over thy head and face; follow me with caution; and whatever thou mayest see, utter no word, or give no sign, else——Nay, let not thy breath he heard, or——Come on.”The Friar Rushak now led the way with the lamp, and the Lady Beatrice, shaking from a dread that even her loose disguise could not conceal, stepped after him through a spring door behind the tapestry, that led into a passage in the centre of the wall. The Franciscan followed, and shut the door behind him.[521]The passage was so narrow, that one person only could advance at a time. It was strangely crooked also, frequently bending at right angles, so as to defy all Beatrice’s speculation as to where they might be leading her. A dead silence was preserved by both her attendants, and they moved with a caution that allowed not a step to be heard. Friar Rushak halted suddenly, and turned round; the lamp flashed upon his face, and showed his angry eye; the Lady Beatrice fell back in terror into the arms of the Franciscan behind her. Friar Rushak put his finger to his open mouth, and then told her, in a whisper, to suppress the high breathing which her fears had created. The Lady Beatrice endeavoured to obey. Friar Rushak motioned to her and the Franciscan to remain where they were; he advanced three or four paces with great caution, and, slowly opening a concealed door, listened for a moment; then gently pushing aside the tapestry within, he thrust forward his head, and again withdrawing it, motioned to Beatrice and the Franciscan to advance.“They sleep,” whispered he. “Follow me—but no word, sign, or breath, as thou dost value thy life.”Friar Rushak entered within the tapestry, and the Lady Beatrice followed him into a magnificent chamber, lighted by a single lamp. A gorgeous bed occupied one end of the apartment. Over it, attached to the heavy Gothic ceiling, was a gilded crown, whence descended a crimson drapery, richly emblazoned with the Royal Arms of England, under which lay a young man, his head only appearing above the bed-clothes. She hastily glanced at his features, which the lamp but dimly illuminated. It was King Richard. His dark eye-lashes were closed, but she trembled lest he should awaken. Around the room were several couches, where his pages ought to have watched, but where they lay as sound as their Royal master.They had hardly stepped into the room, when a little dog came growling from under the King’s bed. The Lady Beatrice had nearly sunk on the floor, but the little favourite of the monarch instantly recognized Friar Rushak as a well-known friend, and quietly retreated to his place of repose. The pages showed no symptom of alarm, but the King turned in bed, and exposed his head more fully to view. The Lady Beatrice shook from head to foot as she looked towards him; but her apprehension was excited yet more immediately, when she beheld Friar Rushak at her side, with a menacing eye, and a dagger in his grasp. A sign at once conveyed to her that it was silence he wanted; and though she ventured not to breathe, her heart beat so against her side as she stood, that she felt as if the very[522]sound of its pulsations would break the slumbers of all around her. Again the King was quiet, and Friar Rushak moved on towards the opposite door. The Lady Beatrice drew the cowl more over her face, and, without daring to repeat her glance at the King, followed with as much caution as her sinking knees would permit her to use.The door was opened by Friar Rushak with the utmost gentleness, and they found themselves at one extremity of a suite of apartments, the long perspective of which was seen running onwards from one to another, and where they could perceive groups of dozing domestics lying on chairs, and stretched on benches, in every possible position. Through one of these rooms they passed, and then retreated by a side-door into a narrow circular stair, by which they descended to the hall of entrance, where they found about a dozen archers sitting slumbering by a great fire. These men roused themselves on their approach, and, starting up, sprang forward to bar their passage with their halberts. The Lady Beatrice became alarmed, and, in the trepidation that seized her, dropped the friar’s habit that had hitherto concealed her.“Ha!” exclaimed one of the soldiers, “a woman and two monks! Who may that considerate lord have been who hath thus taken the shrift with the sin?”“Silence, Barnaby,” cried another man; “that is the holy Father Rushak, the King’s Confessor.”“Let me pass, knaves,” cried Rushak.“Ay, ay, let him pass,” said another man; “he hath right of entrance and outgoing at all hours. I would not have thee try to stop him, an thou wouldst sleep in a whole skin to-morrow night.”The passage was cleared in a moment. The Lady Beatrice, overpowered with apprehension, was supported by the Franciscan.“Come on, brother,” cried Friar Rushak.“She faints,” cried the Franciscan.“Lift her in thine arms, then,” cried Rushak.The Franciscan raised her from the ground, and carried her half senseless to the door. At that moment a man entered, and brushed by them in breathless haste. He looked behind him at the group.“The Lady Beatrice!” cried he. “Ha, whither do ye carry her, villains?”“Answer him not, but run,” said Rushak, flying off at full speed across the court, followed by the sturdy Franciscan,[523]who carried his fair burden as if he felt not her weight. The steps of many people were heard following them. All at once the noise of a desperate scuffle ensued behind them, and the two monks, who stayed not to inquire the nature of it, pressed on towards a low archway that ran under the river-wall. The air blew fresh from the river on Beatrice’s cheek. She revived, and found that he who carried her was standing near an iron gate of ponderous strength, which Friar Rushak was making vain attempts to open.“Holy St. Francis assist us!” cried he, “I fear that my hands have erred, and that I have unluckily possessed myself of the wrong key.”“Hush,” said the Franciscan, “and keep close. The step of the sentinel on the wall above falls louder. He cometh this way.”They drew themselves closer to the wall. The sentinel’s step passed onward to the extremity of his walk, and then slowly returning, it again moved by, and the sound of it sank along the wall.“Try the key again, brother,” said the Franciscan; “the man is beyond hearing.”Friar Rushak again applied the key; the great bolt yielded before it; the gate creaked upon its hinges, and the Franciscan deposited his trembling burden, more dead than alive, in a little skiff that lay in the creek of the river running under the vault.“Thanks, kind brother,” said the Franciscan in a low tone of voice, to Friar Rushak; “a thousand thanks for thy friendly aid.”“Hush! the sentinel comes again,” whispered Friar Rushak.They remained perfectly still until the man had completed his turn, and was gone beyond hearing.“Now thou mayest venture to depart,” said Friar Rushak—“away, and St. Francis be with thee!” And so saying, he waved his hand, shut the gate, and quickly disappeared.The Franciscan got into the boat. A little crooked man, who had hitherto lain like a bundle of clothes in the bottom of it, started up, and began pushing it along by putting his hands against the side-walls until he got beyond the vault. Then he sat down and pulled the oars.“Who goes there?” cried the sentinel, “who goes there?—Answer me, an thou wouldst not have a quarrel-bolt in thy brain.”The Franciscan minded not, and the little figure went on, pulling with all his might. Beatrice sat trembling with affright.[524]It was dark, but she heard the sentinel’s step running along the wall, as if following the sound of the oars. He halted; the click of the spring of his arbaleste reached her ear, and the bolt that it gave wings to had nearly reached her too, for it struck with great force on the inside of the boat that was opposite to the man who shot it. The rower pulled off farther into the stream. The sentinel’s cry for raising the guard was heard; but the tide was now running down, and it bore the little boat on its bosom with so much swiftness that they soon lost all sound of the alarm.“Tell me, oh, tell me who art thou, and whither dost thou carry me?” cried Beatrice, her heart sinking with alarm as she beheld the walls of the city left behind them.“Daughter, this is neither the time nor the place for the explanation thou dost lack,” replied the Franciscan; “methinks I do hear the sound of oars behind us. Let me aid thee, Bobbin,” cried he, taking one of the oars, and beginning to pull desperately.The united strength of the two rowers now made the little boat fly like an arrow, and in a short time the eyes of the Lady Beatrice were attracted by five lights that burned bright in the middle of the river, and hung in the form of St. Andrew’s cross.“St. Francis be praised,” cried the Franciscan; “we are now near the bark that is to give us safety. Pull, Bobbin, my brave heart.”The lights grew in magnitude in the Lady Beatrice’s eyes, and the water beneath the shadowy hull blazed with the bright reflection.“Hoy, the skiff!” cried a stern voice in a north-country accent.“St. Andrew!” replied the Franciscan.“Welcome, St. Andrew,” said the voice from the vessel. “Hast thou sped, holy father?”“Yea, by the blessing of St. Francis and the Virgin,” replied the Franciscan.The lights, which were suspended to a frame attached to the round top of the short thick mast, were at once extinguished. The skiff came alongside, and the Lady Beatrice was lifted, unresisting, into the vessel, and carried directly into the cabin, and in a few minutes the anchor was weighed.“So, my brave men,” cried the master to his sailors, after they had got the anchor on board, “now, hoise up the mainsail. Take the helm, Bobbin; we shall drop slowly down till daylight doth appear.”[525]“Art thou sure of shaping thy course safely through all these intricate windings?” demanded the Franciscan.“Yea,” replied the commander, “as sure as thou hast thyself seen me when running between the Bass and the May. What, dost thou think that I have been herrying these English loons so long without gathering sea-craft as well as plunder? And then, have I not crooked Bobbin here as my pilot, who was bred and born in this serpent of a river? By St. Rule, but he knoweth every sweep and turn, yea, and every sand and shoal bank, blindfold. Had I not had some such hands on board, how dost thou think I could have carried off that spice-ship so cunningly, having to steer her through so many villainous eel-knots?”“I see thou art not a whit less daring than thy sire,” said the Franciscan.“Nay, an I were, I should ill deserve the gallant name of Mercer,” replied the other. “Thou didst witness enow of his exploits, I ween, the while that thou wert aboard of him, to remember thee well that he did neither want head to conceive, boldness to dare, nor coolness to execute. Trust me, I lack not my father’s spirit; and though I have not the fortune to sail with a fleet of stout barks at my back, as he was wont to do, yet, while the timbers of the tough old Trueman do hold together beneath me, I shall work these Southrons some cruel evil, to revenge the loss of my father and his ships. Haul from the land, Bobbin; haul off, to weather that point. Climb the forecastle and look out there, he who hath the watch.”
CHAPTER LXIV.Lady de Vere and her Lovely Guest. Innocence and Purity endangered. The King’s Confessor and the Franciscan Friar.
Lady de Vere and her Lovely Guest. Innocence and Purity endangered. The King’s Confessor and the Franciscan Friar.
Lady de Vere and her Lovely Guest. Innocence and Purity endangered. The King’s Confessor and the Franciscan Friar.
After the spectacle was over, and whilst the homeward procession was forming, Sir Patrick Hepborne was surprised by the wave of a fair hand, accompanied by a smiling bow of acknowledgment from a very beautiful woman in one of the balconies close to that of the King. From the richness of her attire, and the place that had been allotted to her, she was evidently a lady of some consequence. He returned the compliment, but, whilst he did so, he felt unconscious of having ever spoken to her, although, upon re-perusing her face, he remembered her as one whom he had seen at the King’s banquets, where he had observed that she was particularly noticed by the Sovereign. Turning to Sir Miles Stapleton, who stood by him, he besought him to tell her name.“What,” exclaimed Sir Miles in reply, “hast thou been at our English Court for so many days, Sir Patrick, and yet knowest thou not the Lady de Vere? Depardieux, it doth much surprise me that she hath not sooner sought thine acquaintance, for, by the Rood, she is a merry madam, and fond of variety. She hath been married but a short space, yet she already changeth her lovers as she doth her fancy robes.”“Is it possible?” cried Hepborne, in astonishment.“Possible, Sir Patrick!” returned the English knight; “perdie, I am surprised at thy seeming wonder. Are Scottish ladies then so constant to their lords that thou shouldst think this fickleness so great a marvel in the Lady de Vere? She hath been for some time an especial favourite of Majesty; that is, I would have thee to understand me, in friendship, not par amours, though there be evil tongues that do say as much.”“Indeed?” cried Hepborne.“Yea, they scruple not to say so,” continued Sir Miles; “but I, who better know the King, do verily believe that, albeit he is much given to idle dalliance with these free ladies of this licentious Court, there be but little else to accuse him of. Thou needst have no fear, therefore, Sir Patrick, that the dread of Majesty will interfere with thy happiness, if it be her will to receive thee as a lover; so I wish thee joy of thy conquest.[507]Trust me, I do more envy thee than I do the brave conqueror of the Lord Welles, much glory as he hath gained.”Sir Patrick turned away, at once confounded and disgusted. What! the Lady Eleanore de Selby, of whose excellence he had heard so much, the friend of the Lady Beatrice—was it possible that the contamination of a Court could have already rendered her a person of character so loose? He was shocked at the thought. He turned again to watch her motions, when he observed the King himself advance towards her as she was preparing to get into her saddle, and a private conversation pass between them, that drew the eyes of all the courtiers upon them; but Sir Patrick being called away to join the Scottish party, lost the opportunity of observing the conclusion of their conference.Whilst the procession was dispersing in the court-yard of the Tower, the Lady de Vere entered, riding on a piebald palfry, richly caparisoned. She was surrounded by a group of gay chevaliers, with whom she was talking and laughing loudly; but she no sooner espied Hepborne than she broke from among them and advanced to meet him.“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said she, smiling, “it erketh me that mine evil fortune hath hitherto yielded me no better than public opportunity to know him, who, by consent of all, is acknowledged to be the flower of Scottish chivalry. Trust me, my private apartments shall be ever open to so peerless a knight.”“Nay, Lady,” replied Sir Patrick, “the title thou hast been pleased to bestow on me belongeth not to me but to Sir David Lindsay and Sir William Dalzel, who have this day so nobly supported the honour of Scotland.”“They are brave knights, ’tis true,” replied the lady; “yet be there other qualifications in knighthood than mere brute strength or brute courage. That thou hast enow of both of these to the full as well as they, we who have heard of Otterbourne do well know. But in the graces of knightly deportment there be few who admit them to be thine equal, and of that few I do confess myself not to be one.”Hepborne bowed; but, disgusted alike with her freedom and flattery, he gave token of approval neither by manner nor words.“These are my apartments, Sir Knight,” continued the lady, pointing to a range of windows in a wing of the palace. “If thou canst quit the banquet to spend some merry hours with me this evening, trust me, thou shalt meet with no cold reception from the Lady de Vere.”[508]This invitation was seasoned by some warm glances, that spoke even more than her words; but Sir Patrick received both the one and the other with a silent and formal obeisance. The lady turned towards a flight of steps, and being assisted to dismount by an esquire, she tripped up stairs and along a covered terrace. A door opened at its farther extremity, and a lady appeared for a moment. It was the Lady Beatrice; he could not be mistaken; her image was now too deeply engraven on his heart. The blood bounded for a moment within his bosom, rushed through each artery with the heat and velocity of lightning, and then, as the thought of the Lady de Vere’s character arose within his mind, it returned cold as ice to its fountain-head, and froze up every warm feeling there. He felt faint, and his head grew giddy. He looked towards the door where the ladies were saluting each other with every mark of kindness, and his eyes grew dim as they vanished within the entrance.Almost unconscious of what he was doing, Sir Patrick turned his horse to go to his lodgings. As he recovered from the stunning effect of the spectacle he beheld, his mind began to be agonized by the most distressing thoughts. It was impossible that the Lady Beatrice, whom he believed to be so pure, could be the willing guest of so vile a woman, knowing her to be such. Yet, though such was his impression, he knew not well what to think. It was most strange that the Lady de Vere should have thus urged him to visit her while Beatrice was with her; unless, indeed, the latter were privy to it, and that it was on her account. But be this as it might, he liked not the complexion of matters; and, in a state of great perplexity and unhappiness, he reached the wine merchant’s, where, having given his horse to a groom, he slowly sought his chamber, unwillingly to prepare for the banquet.In going along the passage which led to his apartments, thinking of what so much occupied him, he, in a fit of absence, opened a door, believing it to be his own; and, to his great surprise, he found himself in a room, where some dozen or twenty persons were seated at a long table, on which lay some papers. His host was there among the rest, and the appearance of the knight threw the whole party into dismay and confusion. Hepborne drew back with an apology, and hastily shut the door; but he had hardly reached his own, when he heard the steps of his host coming hurrying after him.“Sir Knight,” said Master Ratcliffe, “’twas but some of those with whom I have had money dealings, come to settle interest with me.”[509]As Hepborne looked in his face, he was surprised to notice that it had exchanged its generous ruby red for a deadly paleness; the wine merchant was evidently disturbed; but neither this observation, nor the confusion he had occasioned among the party whom he had seen surrounding the table, could then find room in his mind for a moment’s thought. He therefore hastily explained that the interruption had been quite accidental on his part, and the wine merchant left him apparently satisfied. It will be easily believed that Sir Patrick Hepborne was but ill attuned for the revelry of the Royal banquet. He sat silent and abstracted, ruminating on the monstrous and afflicting conjunction he had that day witnessed, and perplexing himself with inventing explanations of the cruel doubts that were perpetually arising in his mind. The King broke up the feast at an earlier hour than usual, and Sir Patrick, glad to escape from the crowd, stole away by himself.As he was leaving the palace, he turned his eyes towards the casements of the Lady de Vere. They were eminently conspicuous, for they were open, and lighted up with great brilliancy, while the sound of the harp came from them. He thought of the invitation he had received, and hung about for some time, weighing circumstances, and hesitating whether he should immediately avail himself of it, that he might ascertain the truth, or whether he should, in the first place, endeavour to gather it by some other means. Passion argued for the first, as the most decided step, and prudence urged the second as the wisest plan; but whilst he was tossed between them, he was gradually drawn towards the windows by the unseen magnet within. As he got nearer, he ascertained that it was a man’s voice that sung the melody and words, to which the instrument was an accompaniment; and by the time he reached the bottom of the flight of steps, he could catch the remaining verses of a ballad, part of which had been already sung. They were nearly as follows:—“And wilt thou break thy faith with me,And dare our vows to rend?”“Hence!” cried the angry sire; “with theeMy Eda ne’er shall wend.“Her name doth prouder match demand;Lord Henry comes to-night;He comes to take her promised hand,And claim a husband’s right.“Then hence!”—The knight, in woful guise,Turned from the perjured gate;The maiden heard her lover’s sighs,All weeping where she sate.[510]“Now up and run, my bonnie page,Fly with the falcon’s wing,Fly swiftly to Sir Armitage,And give to him this ring.“And tell him, when the rippling fordShall catch the moonbeams light,I’ll leave the hated bridal board,To meet him there to-night.”The boy he found Sir ArmitageIn greenwood all so sad;But when he spied his lady’s page,His weeping eyne grew glad.And up leaped he for very joy,And kissed his lady’s ring,And much he praised the bonny boyWho did such message bring.“I’ll meet my lady by the stream,So, boy, now hie thee home;I’ll meet her when the moon’s broad beamComes dancing over the foam.”And now to grace the wedding-feastThe demoiselles prepare;There were the bridegroom, sire, and priest,But Eda was not there.She left her tyrant father’s tower,To seek her own true knight;She met him at the trysted hour,Prepared to aid her flight.“Sir Armitage, with thee I’ll rideThrough flood, o’er fell so steep;Though destined for another’s bride,My vow to thee I’ll keep.”“Oh bless thee, bless thee, lady mine,That true thy heart doth prove;Before yon moon hath ceased to shine,The priest shall bless our love.”He raised her on his gallant steed,And sprang him to his selle;“Keep, keep thy seat, my love, with heed,And grasp my baldrick well.”Beneath the moon the wavelets flash’d,Struck by the courser’s heel,And through the ford he boldly dash’d,Spurr’d by the pointed steel.High up his sides the surges rose,And washed the blood away;They lav’d fair Eda’s bridal-clothes,And fill’d her with dismay.“Alas, the stream is strong,” she cried.“Fear not, my love,” said he;“’Tis here the waters deepest glide,Anon we shall be free.”[511]Behind them rung a wild alarm,And torches gleam’d on high;Forth from the Castle came a swarm,With yells that rent the sky.Again the knight his iron heelDash’d in his courser’s side.He plung’d—his powerful limbs did reel—He yielded to the tide.Down went both mailed horse and knight;The maid was borne away,And flash’d the moonbeam’s silver lightAmid the sparkling spray.His daughter’s shriek the father heard,Far on the moonlit wave;A moment Eda’s form appear’d,Then sunk in watery grave.Peace never blest the sire again;He curst ambitious pride,That made him hold his promise vain,And sacred oaths deride.Still in his eye his sinking child,Her shriek still in his ear,Reft of his mind, he wanders wildMidst rocks and forests drear.But where that cross in yonder shadeOft bends the pilgrim’s knee,There sleep the gentle knight and maidBeneath their trysting tree.When the musician had finished, Sir Patrick Hepborne still continued to loiter with his arm on the balustrade of the stair, when the door opened, and he heard a feeble step on the terrace above. He looked upwards, and the light of a lamp that was burning in a niche fell on the aged countenance of a man who was descending. It was Adam of Gordon.“Adam of Gordon!” exclaimed Sir Patrick.“And who is he, I pray, who doth know Adam of Gordon so far from home?” demanded the minstrel. “Ah, Sir Patrick Hepborne; holy St. Cuthbert, I do rejoice to see thee. Trust me, the ready help thou didst yield me at Forres hath not been forgotten; though thou didst sorely mar my verses by thine interruption. Full many sithes have I tried to awaken that noble subject, but the witchery of inspiration is past, and——”“But how camest thou here?” demanded Hepborne, impatiently interrupting him.“Sir Knight, I came hither with a lady from the Borders,” said Adam, hesitatingly; “a lady that——”“Nay, speak not so mystically, old man,” replied Hepborne;[512]“I am already well aware of the story of the Lady Beatrice, and heartily do I curse mine own folly for permitting jealousy so to hoodwink mine eyes as to make me run blindly away from mine own happiness. I already guess that it was she whom thou didst accompany hither, and I know that she is now an inmate of those apartments, with the Lady de Vere, the daughter of the late Sir Walter de Selby.”“Nay, nay, so far thou art wrong, Sir Knight,” replied the Minstrel. “She to whom these apartments do belong is not the daughter of Sir Walter de Selby. True it is, indeed, that when the Lady Eleanore did leave Norham Castle, she did call the companion of her flight by the name of Sir Hans de Vere, a Zealand knight, kinsman to the Duke of Ireland; but some strange mystery doth yet hang over this affair, for he who doth own these gay lodgings, and who is the husband of this gay madam, is the identical Sir Hans de Vere I have just described, and yet he knoweth nought of the Lady Eleanore de Selby.”“Thy speech is one continued riddle, good Adam,” said Hepborne; “canst thou not explain to me?”“Nay, of a truth, Sir Knight, thou dost know as much as I do,” said the minstrel. “What hath become of the Lady Eleanore de Selby no one can tell. If he that she married be indeed a De Vere, he is at least no kin to the Duke of Ireland, as he or she would have us believe. There have been De Veres enow about the English Court since this King Richard began his reign, albeit that the day may be gone by with many of them, sith that their chief, the Duke of Ireland, hath been forced to flee into Zealand, where his race had its origin. But of all the De Veres, none doth answer the description of him whom the Lady Beatrice and I did see carry off the Lady Eleanore de Selby from Norham.”“Strange, most strange,” said Sir Patrick Hepborne; “but knowest thou aught of this Lady de Vere? Men’s tongues do talk but lightly of her.”“Nay, in good truth, I have begun to entertain strange notions of her myself,” replied Adam. “By’r Lady, she would have had me sing some virelays to-night that were light and warm enow, I promise thee, had I not feigned that I knew them not; and, by my troth, she spared not to chide me for my sober minstrelsy, the which she did tauntingly compare to the chanting of monks. My Lady, quoth I, consider I am but a rude Border——”“But say, old man,” cried Hepborne, impatiently interrupting him, “how did the Lady Beatrice seek shelter with such a[513]woman? Quick, tell me, I beseech thee, for I must hasten to rescue the poor and spotless dove from the clutch of this foul howlet.”“In the name of the Virgin, then, let us lose no time in thinking how it may best be done,” said Adam of Gordon earnestly; “St. Andrew be praised that thou, Sir Knight, art so willing to become the protector of an angel, who——Yet I dare not say how much thou art beloved. But, hush! we may be overheard here in the open air. Let us retreat to my garret yonder, where I will tell thee all I can, and then we may, with secrecy and expedition, concert what steps thou hadst best take.”Hepborne readily followed the minstrel to his small chamber, and there he learned the following particulars.The Lady Beatrice had no sooner recovered from the swoon into which she had been thrown by the appearance of the Franciscan at Sir Walter de Selby’s funeral, than she sent for the Minstrel, of whose attachment and fidelity she had already had many a proof, and imparted to him her design of quitting Norham Castle immediately. Without communicating her intention to any one else, she mounted that milk-white palfrey which had been the gift of Hepborne, and travelled with all speed to Newcastle, where she sought shelter in the house of a widowed sister of Sir Walter de Selby. There she lived for a short time in retirement, until at last she adopted the resolution of visiting London in search of her friend the Lady Eleanore, whom she believed now to be the Lady de Vere, that she might communicate to her the death of her father, if she had not already heard of that event, and entreat from her a continuance of that protection which she had so long afforded her. She and the Minstrel, therefore, went on board a ship sailing for the Thames; but having been tossed about by contrary winds, and even compelled to seek safety more than once in harbours by the way, they had only arrived in the metropolis three days before that of which we are now speaking.The Minstrel was immediately employed by the Lady Beatrice to make inquiry for the Lady de Vere, and he was readily directed to the lodgings of the lady of that name in the Tower. But he was no sooner introduced into her presence and that of her husband, Sir Hans de Vere, than he discovered that there was some strange mistake. To exculpate himself for his seeming intrusion on a knight and lady to whom he was an utter stranger, he explained the cause of his coming, and told whom he sought for, when, to his great dismay, he learned that no such[514]persons as those he described were known about the Court. Filled with chagrin, he returned to the Lady Beatrice, whose vexation may be more easily conceived than described. She was a stranger in London, in a wretched hostel, without a friend but old Adam to advise her, and severed for ever, as she feared, from the only human being on whom she could say that she had the least claim for protection. Despair came upon her, and hiding her face in her hands, she gave full way to her grief.Whilst she sat in this wretched situation, in which Adam in vain exerted himself to comfort her, a page arrived, with a kind message from Sir Hans and Lady de Vere, in which they offered her their house as a home, until she should have time to determine as to her future conduct. So friendly, so seasonable a proposal, was not to be rejected in her circumstances, even coming as it did from strangers, and the Lady Beatrice gladly became the guest of the Lady de Vere.So far went the Minstrel’s knowledge; but leaving Sir Patrick to question him as he pleases, we shall ourselves more deeply investigate the circumstances, as well as the secret springs of action which produced this event. It happened that just after the Minstrel’s interview with the Lady de Vere, King Richard came to idle an hour with her as he was often wont to do to gather the gossip of the Court. The lady told him what had passed, and the Monarch joined with her in the laugh it occasioned. The Lady de Vere had extracted enough of Beatrice’s history from the Minstrel to be able to answer the King’s questions.“And who may this Beatrice be?” demanded Richard.“A damsel, I believe, whom old De Selby picked up at the door of a Scottish peasant, and whom he fancied to educate as a companion to his daughter Eleanore,” replied Lady de Vere; “doubtless, now that he is dead, she seeks to hang herself about the neck of the heiress of her patron.”“And sith that she hath so come, might we not find some other neck for her to hang about?” said the King laughing. “Pr’ythee, send for her hither; we should be well contented to see this stray bird.”The Lady de Vere well knew her advantage in humouring all the wild fancies that entered the King’s head, and accordingly gave immediate obedience to his wishes, by sending to Beatrice the message we have already noticed. Fatigued to death by her voyage, Beatrice had no sooner complied with the invitation she had received, than she was compelled to retire to the apartment[515]the Lady de Vere had prepared for her; and she continued so long indisposed that she was unable to be present at the tilting.Towards the evening of that day, however, she was so far recovered as to quit her room; and, accordingly, when the procession returned from London Bridge, she hastened to pour out her gratitude to the Lady de Vere for the hospitable reception she had given her.Sir Hans went to the King’s banquet, but his lady remained with Beatrice; and the Minstrel was sent for to amuse them with his ballads. There was something free and bold in the manner of the Lady de Vere that was by no means agreeable to Beatrice; but believing that there was nothing worse in it than an unfortunate manner, she endeavoured to reconcile herself to it, in one who had shown her so much apparent friendship.They were seated in a luxuriously-furnished apartment, hung with tapestry of the richest hues, and lighted up by silver lamps, when the door opened, and Sir Hans de Vere entered, ushering in a young man, whom he introduced as the Earl of Westminster. The Lady de Vere smiled on the young nobleman, and Beatrice, though she had never heard of such a title, was aware that new lords were created so frequently, that there was little wonder she should be ignorant of it. The young Earl, who was very handsome, seemed to be on habits of great intimacy with Sir Hans de Vere and his lady. He seated himself by the Lady Beatrice, and began to trifle pleasantly with her, mixing up a thousand courtly compliments with the agreeable nothings that he uttered. Spiced wine and sweetmeats were handed round, and soon afterwards a small, but very tasteful and exquisitely cooked supper appeared, with wines of the richest flavour. The Lady Beatrice ate little, and refused to touch wine. The night wore apace. The young Earl of Westminster became more and more earnest in his endeavours to make himself agreeable to Beatrice, who began to find considerable amusement in his conversation, and insensibly permitted him to absorb her whole attention. Suddenly he began, in a sort of half-serious manner, to address her in a strain of tenderness that by no means pleased her. She prepared to shift her place; but what was her astonishment, when, on looking up, she saw that she and the young Earl were alone. Sir Hans de Vere and his lady had stolen unnoticed from the apartment. Beatrice started up to follow them.“Nay, stay to hear me, lovely Beatrice,” cried the Earl, endeavouring to detain her.[516]“Unhand me, my Lord,” cried she boldly, and at the same time tearing herself from him.“Hear me, only hear me,” cried the Earl, springing to the door, so as to cut off her retreat.This action still more alarmed her. She screamed aloud for help, and flying to the casement, threw it open; but the Earl dragged her from it by gentle force, and having shut it, he was vainly endeavouring to compose her, when the chamber door was burst open by a furious kick, and Sir Patrick Hepborne appeared, with his drawn sword in his hand.“King Richard!” cried the knight, starting back with astonishment: “Doth England’s King so far forget the duty of the high office he doth hold, as to become the destroyer instead of the protector of innocence? Yet, by St. Andrew, wert thou fifty times a king, thou shouldst answer to me for thine insult to that lady. Defend thyself.”The cool presence of mind exhibited by Richard whilst yet a stripling, on the memorable occasion of Wat Tyler being struck down by Walworth the Lord Mayor, showed that he was not constitutionally deficient in courage; but in this, as in everything else, he was wavering and uncertain, and no one was more liable than he to yield to sudden panic. Seeing Hepborne about to spring on him, he darted into an inner room, the door of which stood ajar.“Sir Patrick Hepborne!” cried the Lady Beatrice, her lovely face flushing with the mingled emotions of surprise, joy, gratitude, and love.“Yes,” cried the knight, throwing himself on one knee before her, “yes, Lady Beatrice, he who may now dare to call himself thine own faithful and true knight—he who hath now had his eyes cleared from the errors which blinded him—he who, whilst deeply smitten by those matchless charms, believed that in his adoration of them he was worshipping the Lady Eleanore de Selby—he who thus believing himself to be deceived and rejected, did yet continue to nourish the pure and enduring flame in his bosom after all hope had fled, and who now feels it glow with tenfold warmth, sith that hope’s gentle gales have again sprung up to fan it—he who will——But whither is my passion leading me?” cried he, starting up, and taking Beatrice’s hand; “this is no time for indulging myself in such a theme, dear as it may be to me. Lady, thou art betrayed. This is no fit place of sojournance for spotless virtue such as thine. The false Lady de Vere is one who doth foully minister to the King’s pleasures. Lose not a moment, I beseech you. I have seen[517]Adam of Gordon, who waits for us without. Fly then,” cried he, leading her towards the door, “fly with me; I will be thy protector. Let us haste from the impure den of this wicked woman, who would have——”Sir Patrick threw open the door as he pronounced these words, and in an instant he was prostrated on the floor by the blow of a halbert.“Seize him and drag him to a dungeon,” cried the Lady de Vere, with eyes flashing like those of an enraged tigress; “I accuse him of a treasonable attack on the sacred person of the King of England. He shall die the death of traitor.” The guards obeyed her, and lifting up the inanimate body of the knight, bore him away.“So,” cried the fury, “so perish those who shall dare to insult the love of the Lady de Vere; and as for thee, minion,” she said, turning round, “thou art a prisoner there during my pleasure.” And saying so, she pushed Beatrice into the room, and locked and bolted the door on the wretched damsel, who fell from her violence, and instantly swooned away.When the Lady Beatrice recovered, and began to recollect what had passed, she arose in a tremor, and tottering to a seat, rested herself for some moments, throwing her eyes fearfully around the apartment. Everything in it remained as it was. No one seemed to have entered since. The lamps had begun to burn so faintly, that they appeared to tell of the approach of midnight, and this idea was strengthened by the silence that prevailed everywhere both without and within the palace. She tried the bolts of the door, but, to her great horror, she found them fast. A faint hope of escape arose, when she remembered that the King had disappeared by the inner apartment, whence there might be a passage leading to other chambers. She snatched up an expiring hand lamp, and hastened to explore it. But there was no visible mode of exit from the room, and she now became convinced that the King must have returned through the apartment whilst she lay insensible, and that some one had liberated him from without. The recollection of the cruel wound, which she almost feared might have been Sir Patrick’s death blow, together with the certainty of his captivity, and the probable issue of it, now filled her mind with horror; and this, added to the perplexity of her present situation, so overcame her, that she sat down and wept bitterly.The lamps now, one after another, expired, until she was left in total darkness. She groped her way into the inner apartment, and, having fastened the door within,[518]threw herself upon the couch, and abandoned herself to all her wretchedness.Whilst the Lady Beatrice was lying in this distressing situation, she was startled by a noise. Suddenly a glare of light flashed upon her eyes; she rubbed them, and looked towards the spot whence it proceeded. A man in a friar’s habit stood near the wall; he held a lamp high, that its light might the better fill the room. Immediately behind him was an opening in the tapestry, the folds of which being held aside by a hand and arm, admitted the entrance of another shaven crowned head. To the terror of the Lady Beatrice, she recognized in this second monk the piercing eyes and powerful features of the very Franciscan whose dagger had so alarmed her at Lochyndorbe, and the sight of whom had so affected her at Sir Walter de Selby’s funeral. She attempted to scream, but fear so overcame her, that, like one who labours under a nightmare, her lips moved, but her tongue refused to do its office, and she lay with her eyes wide open, staring on the object of her dread, in mute expectation of immediate murder.“Is she there, Friar Rushak?” said he whom we have known by the name of the Franciscan.“She is here,” said the first monk, who bore the lamp; “all is quiet too—thou mayest safely enter.”The Franciscan who followed now stepped into the apartment, and came stealing forward with soft, barefooted tread.“Give me the light, Friar Rushak, that there may be no mistake,” said he, taking the lamp from his companion.The blood grew chill in the Lady Beatrice’s veins as the Franciscan approached the couch where she lay. He held the lamp so as to throw its light strongly upon her face.“It is she indeed,” said he, in a muttering voice, while his features were lighted up by a grim smile of satisfaction, which gradually faded away, leaving a severe expression in his lightning eye.“She trembles,” said Friar Rushak, advancing towards the couch with a terrible look; “conscious of her own depravity, she is guilt-stricken.”“Ay, she may well be guilt-stricken,” said the Franciscan.“Alas, of what am I accused, mysterious man?” cried the Lady Beatrice, clasping her hands together, and throwing herself on her knees before them. “Murder me not—murder me not. Let not the holy garments you wear be stained with the blood of innocence.”“Innocence!” cried Friar Rushak, “talk not thou of innocence![519]Why art thou in these apartments if thou be’st innocent?”“So help me the pure and immaculate Virgin, I am not here by mine own consent,” said the unhappy lady. “Murder me not without inquiry—I am a prisoner here—I was eager to escape—I should have escaped with Sir Patrick Hepborne, had not——”“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said the Franciscan, with a ferocious look. “Ay, so! The curse of St. Francis be upon him!”“Nay, nay, curse him not—oh, curse him not!” cried Beatrice, embracing the Franciscan’s knees. “Murder me if thou wilt, but, oh, curse not him, who at peril of his noble life would have rescued me from these hated walls.”“Yea, again I do say, may he be accursed,” cried the Franciscan, with increased energy and ferocity of aspect. “Full well do we know thy love for this infamous knight—full well do we know why he would have liberated thee.”“But to find thee here as a toil spread by the Devil to catch the tottering virtue of King Richard!” cried Friar Rushak.“Yea,” said the Franciscan, striking his forehead with the semblance of intense inward feeling, “to find thee a monster so utterly depraved, is indeed even more than my worst suspicions.”“What couldst thou hope, minion!” said Friar Rushak sternly; “what couldst thou hope from fixing thine impure affections on the Royal Richard.”“Blessed Virgin,” cried the tortured Beatrice, clasping her hands and throwing her eyes solemnly upwards, “Holy Mother of God, thou who art truth itself, and who canst well search out the truth in others, if I do speak aught else than truth now, let thy just indignation strike me down an inanimate corpse. I am here as an innocent victim to the treachery of the Lady de Vere. She it was who inveigled me into these apartments by pretended friendship, that she might make a sacrifice of me. I knew not even the person of King Richard; and had it not been for Sir Patrick Hepborne, who so bravely rescued me from his hand——”“Um,” said Friar Rushak, somewhat moved by what she had uttered; “thine appeal is so solemn, and it must be confessed that the evidence of those who did accuse thee of plotting against the King’s heart is indeed but questionable. It may be—But, be it as it may, it mattereth not, for thou shalt soon be put beyond the reach of weaving snares for Richard. Yet shall we try thee anon, for thou shalt see the King, and if by word or[520]look thou dost betray thyself, this dagger shall search thy heart, yea, even in the presence of Richard himself.”“King Richard!” cried Beatrice, with distraction in her looks. “Take me not before the King; let me not again behold the King. Where have they carried Sir Patrick Hepborne? In charity let me fly to him; he may now want that aid which I am bound to yield him.”“Nay, thou shalt never see him more.” said the Franciscan.“Oh, say not so, say not so—tell me not that he is dead,” cried the Lady Beatrice, forgetting everything else in her apprehension for Sir Patrick; “oh, if a spark of charity burns within your bosoms, let me hasten to him. I saw him bleeding, and on the ground—I heard him cruelly condemned to a dungeon—oh, let me be the companion of his captivity—let me watch by his pillow—let me soothe his sorrows—let me be his physician. If my warm life’s-blood were a healing balm, this gushing heart would yield it all for his minutest wound.” Her feelings overcame her, and she fell back, half fainting, on the floor.“Raise her head,” said Friar Rushak to the Franciscan, who was bending over her with some anxiety; and he applied to her nostrils a small golden box, containing some refreshing odour, which speedily began to revive her.“Alas!” said the Franciscan, “however innocently she may be here, as affects the King, her abandoned love for her seducer hath been too clearly confessed.”“She reviveth,” said Friar Rushak; “raise her to her feet. And now let us hasten, brother; the moments fly fast, and we have yet to effect our perilous passage through the——”“Is there no other way?” demanded the Franciscan.“None,” replied the Friar Rushak; “and if the King should——”“The King!” repeated Beatrice, with a thrill of dread.“Ay, Lady, the King,” replied the Friar Rushak, with a strong emphasis and a desperate expression; “but thou must wear this disguise to conceal thee,” continued he, opening out a bundle containing a Franciscan’s habit. “Draw the cowl over thy head and face; follow me with caution; and whatever thou mayest see, utter no word, or give no sign, else——Nay, let not thy breath he heard, or——Come on.”The Friar Rushak now led the way with the lamp, and the Lady Beatrice, shaking from a dread that even her loose disguise could not conceal, stepped after him through a spring door behind the tapestry, that led into a passage in the centre of the wall. The Franciscan followed, and shut the door behind him.[521]The passage was so narrow, that one person only could advance at a time. It was strangely crooked also, frequently bending at right angles, so as to defy all Beatrice’s speculation as to where they might be leading her. A dead silence was preserved by both her attendants, and they moved with a caution that allowed not a step to be heard. Friar Rushak halted suddenly, and turned round; the lamp flashed upon his face, and showed his angry eye; the Lady Beatrice fell back in terror into the arms of the Franciscan behind her. Friar Rushak put his finger to his open mouth, and then told her, in a whisper, to suppress the high breathing which her fears had created. The Lady Beatrice endeavoured to obey. Friar Rushak motioned to her and the Franciscan to remain where they were; he advanced three or four paces with great caution, and, slowly opening a concealed door, listened for a moment; then gently pushing aside the tapestry within, he thrust forward his head, and again withdrawing it, motioned to Beatrice and the Franciscan to advance.“They sleep,” whispered he. “Follow me—but no word, sign, or breath, as thou dost value thy life.”Friar Rushak entered within the tapestry, and the Lady Beatrice followed him into a magnificent chamber, lighted by a single lamp. A gorgeous bed occupied one end of the apartment. Over it, attached to the heavy Gothic ceiling, was a gilded crown, whence descended a crimson drapery, richly emblazoned with the Royal Arms of England, under which lay a young man, his head only appearing above the bed-clothes. She hastily glanced at his features, which the lamp but dimly illuminated. It was King Richard. His dark eye-lashes were closed, but she trembled lest he should awaken. Around the room were several couches, where his pages ought to have watched, but where they lay as sound as their Royal master.They had hardly stepped into the room, when a little dog came growling from under the King’s bed. The Lady Beatrice had nearly sunk on the floor, but the little favourite of the monarch instantly recognized Friar Rushak as a well-known friend, and quietly retreated to his place of repose. The pages showed no symptom of alarm, but the King turned in bed, and exposed his head more fully to view. The Lady Beatrice shook from head to foot as she looked towards him; but her apprehension was excited yet more immediately, when she beheld Friar Rushak at her side, with a menacing eye, and a dagger in his grasp. A sign at once conveyed to her that it was silence he wanted; and though she ventured not to breathe, her heart beat so against her side as she stood, that she felt as if the very[522]sound of its pulsations would break the slumbers of all around her. Again the King was quiet, and Friar Rushak moved on towards the opposite door. The Lady Beatrice drew the cowl more over her face, and, without daring to repeat her glance at the King, followed with as much caution as her sinking knees would permit her to use.The door was opened by Friar Rushak with the utmost gentleness, and they found themselves at one extremity of a suite of apartments, the long perspective of which was seen running onwards from one to another, and where they could perceive groups of dozing domestics lying on chairs, and stretched on benches, in every possible position. Through one of these rooms they passed, and then retreated by a side-door into a narrow circular stair, by which they descended to the hall of entrance, where they found about a dozen archers sitting slumbering by a great fire. These men roused themselves on their approach, and, starting up, sprang forward to bar their passage with their halberts. The Lady Beatrice became alarmed, and, in the trepidation that seized her, dropped the friar’s habit that had hitherto concealed her.“Ha!” exclaimed one of the soldiers, “a woman and two monks! Who may that considerate lord have been who hath thus taken the shrift with the sin?”“Silence, Barnaby,” cried another man; “that is the holy Father Rushak, the King’s Confessor.”“Let me pass, knaves,” cried Rushak.“Ay, ay, let him pass,” said another man; “he hath right of entrance and outgoing at all hours. I would not have thee try to stop him, an thou wouldst sleep in a whole skin to-morrow night.”The passage was cleared in a moment. The Lady Beatrice, overpowered with apprehension, was supported by the Franciscan.“Come on, brother,” cried Friar Rushak.“She faints,” cried the Franciscan.“Lift her in thine arms, then,” cried Rushak.The Franciscan raised her from the ground, and carried her half senseless to the door. At that moment a man entered, and brushed by them in breathless haste. He looked behind him at the group.“The Lady Beatrice!” cried he. “Ha, whither do ye carry her, villains?”“Answer him not, but run,” said Rushak, flying off at full speed across the court, followed by the sturdy Franciscan,[523]who carried his fair burden as if he felt not her weight. The steps of many people were heard following them. All at once the noise of a desperate scuffle ensued behind them, and the two monks, who stayed not to inquire the nature of it, pressed on towards a low archway that ran under the river-wall. The air blew fresh from the river on Beatrice’s cheek. She revived, and found that he who carried her was standing near an iron gate of ponderous strength, which Friar Rushak was making vain attempts to open.“Holy St. Francis assist us!” cried he, “I fear that my hands have erred, and that I have unluckily possessed myself of the wrong key.”“Hush,” said the Franciscan, “and keep close. The step of the sentinel on the wall above falls louder. He cometh this way.”They drew themselves closer to the wall. The sentinel’s step passed onward to the extremity of his walk, and then slowly returning, it again moved by, and the sound of it sank along the wall.“Try the key again, brother,” said the Franciscan; “the man is beyond hearing.”Friar Rushak again applied the key; the great bolt yielded before it; the gate creaked upon its hinges, and the Franciscan deposited his trembling burden, more dead than alive, in a little skiff that lay in the creek of the river running under the vault.“Thanks, kind brother,” said the Franciscan in a low tone of voice, to Friar Rushak; “a thousand thanks for thy friendly aid.”“Hush! the sentinel comes again,” whispered Friar Rushak.They remained perfectly still until the man had completed his turn, and was gone beyond hearing.“Now thou mayest venture to depart,” said Friar Rushak—“away, and St. Francis be with thee!” And so saying, he waved his hand, shut the gate, and quickly disappeared.The Franciscan got into the boat. A little crooked man, who had hitherto lain like a bundle of clothes in the bottom of it, started up, and began pushing it along by putting his hands against the side-walls until he got beyond the vault. Then he sat down and pulled the oars.“Who goes there?” cried the sentinel, “who goes there?—Answer me, an thou wouldst not have a quarrel-bolt in thy brain.”The Franciscan minded not, and the little figure went on, pulling with all his might. Beatrice sat trembling with affright.[524]It was dark, but she heard the sentinel’s step running along the wall, as if following the sound of the oars. He halted; the click of the spring of his arbaleste reached her ear, and the bolt that it gave wings to had nearly reached her too, for it struck with great force on the inside of the boat that was opposite to the man who shot it. The rower pulled off farther into the stream. The sentinel’s cry for raising the guard was heard; but the tide was now running down, and it bore the little boat on its bosom with so much swiftness that they soon lost all sound of the alarm.“Tell me, oh, tell me who art thou, and whither dost thou carry me?” cried Beatrice, her heart sinking with alarm as she beheld the walls of the city left behind them.“Daughter, this is neither the time nor the place for the explanation thou dost lack,” replied the Franciscan; “methinks I do hear the sound of oars behind us. Let me aid thee, Bobbin,” cried he, taking one of the oars, and beginning to pull desperately.The united strength of the two rowers now made the little boat fly like an arrow, and in a short time the eyes of the Lady Beatrice were attracted by five lights that burned bright in the middle of the river, and hung in the form of St. Andrew’s cross.“St. Francis be praised,” cried the Franciscan; “we are now near the bark that is to give us safety. Pull, Bobbin, my brave heart.”The lights grew in magnitude in the Lady Beatrice’s eyes, and the water beneath the shadowy hull blazed with the bright reflection.“Hoy, the skiff!” cried a stern voice in a north-country accent.“St. Andrew!” replied the Franciscan.“Welcome, St. Andrew,” said the voice from the vessel. “Hast thou sped, holy father?”“Yea, by the blessing of St. Francis and the Virgin,” replied the Franciscan.The lights, which were suspended to a frame attached to the round top of the short thick mast, were at once extinguished. The skiff came alongside, and the Lady Beatrice was lifted, unresisting, into the vessel, and carried directly into the cabin, and in a few minutes the anchor was weighed.“So, my brave men,” cried the master to his sailors, after they had got the anchor on board, “now, hoise up the mainsail. Take the helm, Bobbin; we shall drop slowly down till daylight doth appear.”[525]“Art thou sure of shaping thy course safely through all these intricate windings?” demanded the Franciscan.“Yea,” replied the commander, “as sure as thou hast thyself seen me when running between the Bass and the May. What, dost thou think that I have been herrying these English loons so long without gathering sea-craft as well as plunder? And then, have I not crooked Bobbin here as my pilot, who was bred and born in this serpent of a river? By St. Rule, but he knoweth every sweep and turn, yea, and every sand and shoal bank, blindfold. Had I not had some such hands on board, how dost thou think I could have carried off that spice-ship so cunningly, having to steer her through so many villainous eel-knots?”“I see thou art not a whit less daring than thy sire,” said the Franciscan.“Nay, an I were, I should ill deserve the gallant name of Mercer,” replied the other. “Thou didst witness enow of his exploits, I ween, the while that thou wert aboard of him, to remember thee well that he did neither want head to conceive, boldness to dare, nor coolness to execute. Trust me, I lack not my father’s spirit; and though I have not the fortune to sail with a fleet of stout barks at my back, as he was wont to do, yet, while the timbers of the tough old Trueman do hold together beneath me, I shall work these Southrons some cruel evil, to revenge the loss of my father and his ships. Haul from the land, Bobbin; haul off, to weather that point. Climb the forecastle and look out there, he who hath the watch.”
After the spectacle was over, and whilst the homeward procession was forming, Sir Patrick Hepborne was surprised by the wave of a fair hand, accompanied by a smiling bow of acknowledgment from a very beautiful woman in one of the balconies close to that of the King. From the richness of her attire, and the place that had been allotted to her, she was evidently a lady of some consequence. He returned the compliment, but, whilst he did so, he felt unconscious of having ever spoken to her, although, upon re-perusing her face, he remembered her as one whom he had seen at the King’s banquets, where he had observed that she was particularly noticed by the Sovereign. Turning to Sir Miles Stapleton, who stood by him, he besought him to tell her name.
“What,” exclaimed Sir Miles in reply, “hast thou been at our English Court for so many days, Sir Patrick, and yet knowest thou not the Lady de Vere? Depardieux, it doth much surprise me that she hath not sooner sought thine acquaintance, for, by the Rood, she is a merry madam, and fond of variety. She hath been married but a short space, yet she already changeth her lovers as she doth her fancy robes.”
“Is it possible?” cried Hepborne, in astonishment.
“Possible, Sir Patrick!” returned the English knight; “perdie, I am surprised at thy seeming wonder. Are Scottish ladies then so constant to their lords that thou shouldst think this fickleness so great a marvel in the Lady de Vere? She hath been for some time an especial favourite of Majesty; that is, I would have thee to understand me, in friendship, not par amours, though there be evil tongues that do say as much.”
“Indeed?” cried Hepborne.
“Yea, they scruple not to say so,” continued Sir Miles; “but I, who better know the King, do verily believe that, albeit he is much given to idle dalliance with these free ladies of this licentious Court, there be but little else to accuse him of. Thou needst have no fear, therefore, Sir Patrick, that the dread of Majesty will interfere with thy happiness, if it be her will to receive thee as a lover; so I wish thee joy of thy conquest.[507]Trust me, I do more envy thee than I do the brave conqueror of the Lord Welles, much glory as he hath gained.”
Sir Patrick turned away, at once confounded and disgusted. What! the Lady Eleanore de Selby, of whose excellence he had heard so much, the friend of the Lady Beatrice—was it possible that the contamination of a Court could have already rendered her a person of character so loose? He was shocked at the thought. He turned again to watch her motions, when he observed the King himself advance towards her as she was preparing to get into her saddle, and a private conversation pass between them, that drew the eyes of all the courtiers upon them; but Sir Patrick being called away to join the Scottish party, lost the opportunity of observing the conclusion of their conference.
Whilst the procession was dispersing in the court-yard of the Tower, the Lady de Vere entered, riding on a piebald palfry, richly caparisoned. She was surrounded by a group of gay chevaliers, with whom she was talking and laughing loudly; but she no sooner espied Hepborne than she broke from among them and advanced to meet him.
“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said she, smiling, “it erketh me that mine evil fortune hath hitherto yielded me no better than public opportunity to know him, who, by consent of all, is acknowledged to be the flower of Scottish chivalry. Trust me, my private apartments shall be ever open to so peerless a knight.”
“Nay, Lady,” replied Sir Patrick, “the title thou hast been pleased to bestow on me belongeth not to me but to Sir David Lindsay and Sir William Dalzel, who have this day so nobly supported the honour of Scotland.”
“They are brave knights, ’tis true,” replied the lady; “yet be there other qualifications in knighthood than mere brute strength or brute courage. That thou hast enow of both of these to the full as well as they, we who have heard of Otterbourne do well know. But in the graces of knightly deportment there be few who admit them to be thine equal, and of that few I do confess myself not to be one.”
Hepborne bowed; but, disgusted alike with her freedom and flattery, he gave token of approval neither by manner nor words.
“These are my apartments, Sir Knight,” continued the lady, pointing to a range of windows in a wing of the palace. “If thou canst quit the banquet to spend some merry hours with me this evening, trust me, thou shalt meet with no cold reception from the Lady de Vere.”[508]
This invitation was seasoned by some warm glances, that spoke even more than her words; but Sir Patrick received both the one and the other with a silent and formal obeisance. The lady turned towards a flight of steps, and being assisted to dismount by an esquire, she tripped up stairs and along a covered terrace. A door opened at its farther extremity, and a lady appeared for a moment. It was the Lady Beatrice; he could not be mistaken; her image was now too deeply engraven on his heart. The blood bounded for a moment within his bosom, rushed through each artery with the heat and velocity of lightning, and then, as the thought of the Lady de Vere’s character arose within his mind, it returned cold as ice to its fountain-head, and froze up every warm feeling there. He felt faint, and his head grew giddy. He looked towards the door where the ladies were saluting each other with every mark of kindness, and his eyes grew dim as they vanished within the entrance.
Almost unconscious of what he was doing, Sir Patrick turned his horse to go to his lodgings. As he recovered from the stunning effect of the spectacle he beheld, his mind began to be agonized by the most distressing thoughts. It was impossible that the Lady Beatrice, whom he believed to be so pure, could be the willing guest of so vile a woman, knowing her to be such. Yet, though such was his impression, he knew not well what to think. It was most strange that the Lady de Vere should have thus urged him to visit her while Beatrice was with her; unless, indeed, the latter were privy to it, and that it was on her account. But be this as it might, he liked not the complexion of matters; and, in a state of great perplexity and unhappiness, he reached the wine merchant’s, where, having given his horse to a groom, he slowly sought his chamber, unwillingly to prepare for the banquet.
In going along the passage which led to his apartments, thinking of what so much occupied him, he, in a fit of absence, opened a door, believing it to be his own; and, to his great surprise, he found himself in a room, where some dozen or twenty persons were seated at a long table, on which lay some papers. His host was there among the rest, and the appearance of the knight threw the whole party into dismay and confusion. Hepborne drew back with an apology, and hastily shut the door; but he had hardly reached his own, when he heard the steps of his host coming hurrying after him.
“Sir Knight,” said Master Ratcliffe, “’twas but some of those with whom I have had money dealings, come to settle interest with me.”[509]
As Hepborne looked in his face, he was surprised to notice that it had exchanged its generous ruby red for a deadly paleness; the wine merchant was evidently disturbed; but neither this observation, nor the confusion he had occasioned among the party whom he had seen surrounding the table, could then find room in his mind for a moment’s thought. He therefore hastily explained that the interruption had been quite accidental on his part, and the wine merchant left him apparently satisfied. It will be easily believed that Sir Patrick Hepborne was but ill attuned for the revelry of the Royal banquet. He sat silent and abstracted, ruminating on the monstrous and afflicting conjunction he had that day witnessed, and perplexing himself with inventing explanations of the cruel doubts that were perpetually arising in his mind. The King broke up the feast at an earlier hour than usual, and Sir Patrick, glad to escape from the crowd, stole away by himself.
As he was leaving the palace, he turned his eyes towards the casements of the Lady de Vere. They were eminently conspicuous, for they were open, and lighted up with great brilliancy, while the sound of the harp came from them. He thought of the invitation he had received, and hung about for some time, weighing circumstances, and hesitating whether he should immediately avail himself of it, that he might ascertain the truth, or whether he should, in the first place, endeavour to gather it by some other means. Passion argued for the first, as the most decided step, and prudence urged the second as the wisest plan; but whilst he was tossed between them, he was gradually drawn towards the windows by the unseen magnet within. As he got nearer, he ascertained that it was a man’s voice that sung the melody and words, to which the instrument was an accompaniment; and by the time he reached the bottom of the flight of steps, he could catch the remaining verses of a ballad, part of which had been already sung. They were nearly as follows:—
“And wilt thou break thy faith with me,And dare our vows to rend?”“Hence!” cried the angry sire; “with theeMy Eda ne’er shall wend.“Her name doth prouder match demand;Lord Henry comes to-night;He comes to take her promised hand,And claim a husband’s right.“Then hence!”—The knight, in woful guise,Turned from the perjured gate;The maiden heard her lover’s sighs,All weeping where she sate.[510]“Now up and run, my bonnie page,Fly with the falcon’s wing,Fly swiftly to Sir Armitage,And give to him this ring.“And tell him, when the rippling fordShall catch the moonbeams light,I’ll leave the hated bridal board,To meet him there to-night.”The boy he found Sir ArmitageIn greenwood all so sad;But when he spied his lady’s page,His weeping eyne grew glad.And up leaped he for very joy,And kissed his lady’s ring,And much he praised the bonny boyWho did such message bring.“I’ll meet my lady by the stream,So, boy, now hie thee home;I’ll meet her when the moon’s broad beamComes dancing over the foam.”And now to grace the wedding-feastThe demoiselles prepare;There were the bridegroom, sire, and priest,But Eda was not there.She left her tyrant father’s tower,To seek her own true knight;She met him at the trysted hour,Prepared to aid her flight.“Sir Armitage, with thee I’ll rideThrough flood, o’er fell so steep;Though destined for another’s bride,My vow to thee I’ll keep.”“Oh bless thee, bless thee, lady mine,That true thy heart doth prove;Before yon moon hath ceased to shine,The priest shall bless our love.”He raised her on his gallant steed,And sprang him to his selle;“Keep, keep thy seat, my love, with heed,And grasp my baldrick well.”Beneath the moon the wavelets flash’d,Struck by the courser’s heel,And through the ford he boldly dash’d,Spurr’d by the pointed steel.High up his sides the surges rose,And washed the blood away;They lav’d fair Eda’s bridal-clothes,And fill’d her with dismay.“Alas, the stream is strong,” she cried.“Fear not, my love,” said he;“’Tis here the waters deepest glide,Anon we shall be free.”[511]Behind them rung a wild alarm,And torches gleam’d on high;Forth from the Castle came a swarm,With yells that rent the sky.Again the knight his iron heelDash’d in his courser’s side.He plung’d—his powerful limbs did reel—He yielded to the tide.Down went both mailed horse and knight;The maid was borne away,And flash’d the moonbeam’s silver lightAmid the sparkling spray.His daughter’s shriek the father heard,Far on the moonlit wave;A moment Eda’s form appear’d,Then sunk in watery grave.Peace never blest the sire again;He curst ambitious pride,That made him hold his promise vain,And sacred oaths deride.Still in his eye his sinking child,Her shriek still in his ear,Reft of his mind, he wanders wildMidst rocks and forests drear.But where that cross in yonder shadeOft bends the pilgrim’s knee,There sleep the gentle knight and maidBeneath their trysting tree.
“And wilt thou break thy faith with me,And dare our vows to rend?”“Hence!” cried the angry sire; “with theeMy Eda ne’er shall wend.
“And wilt thou break thy faith with me,
And dare our vows to rend?”
“Hence!” cried the angry sire; “with thee
My Eda ne’er shall wend.
“Her name doth prouder match demand;Lord Henry comes to-night;He comes to take her promised hand,And claim a husband’s right.
“Her name doth prouder match demand;
Lord Henry comes to-night;
He comes to take her promised hand,
And claim a husband’s right.
“Then hence!”—The knight, in woful guise,Turned from the perjured gate;The maiden heard her lover’s sighs,All weeping where she sate.
“Then hence!”—The knight, in woful guise,
Turned from the perjured gate;
The maiden heard her lover’s sighs,
All weeping where she sate.
[510]
“Now up and run, my bonnie page,Fly with the falcon’s wing,Fly swiftly to Sir Armitage,And give to him this ring.
“Now up and run, my bonnie page,
Fly with the falcon’s wing,
Fly swiftly to Sir Armitage,
And give to him this ring.
“And tell him, when the rippling fordShall catch the moonbeams light,I’ll leave the hated bridal board,To meet him there to-night.”
“And tell him, when the rippling ford
Shall catch the moonbeams light,
I’ll leave the hated bridal board,
To meet him there to-night.”
The boy he found Sir ArmitageIn greenwood all so sad;But when he spied his lady’s page,His weeping eyne grew glad.
The boy he found Sir Armitage
In greenwood all so sad;
But when he spied his lady’s page,
His weeping eyne grew glad.
And up leaped he for very joy,And kissed his lady’s ring,And much he praised the bonny boyWho did such message bring.
And up leaped he for very joy,
And kissed his lady’s ring,
And much he praised the bonny boy
Who did such message bring.
“I’ll meet my lady by the stream,So, boy, now hie thee home;I’ll meet her when the moon’s broad beamComes dancing over the foam.”
“I’ll meet my lady by the stream,
So, boy, now hie thee home;
I’ll meet her when the moon’s broad beam
Comes dancing over the foam.”
And now to grace the wedding-feastThe demoiselles prepare;There were the bridegroom, sire, and priest,But Eda was not there.
And now to grace the wedding-feast
The demoiselles prepare;
There were the bridegroom, sire, and priest,
But Eda was not there.
She left her tyrant father’s tower,To seek her own true knight;She met him at the trysted hour,Prepared to aid her flight.
She left her tyrant father’s tower,
To seek her own true knight;
She met him at the trysted hour,
Prepared to aid her flight.
“Sir Armitage, with thee I’ll rideThrough flood, o’er fell so steep;Though destined for another’s bride,My vow to thee I’ll keep.”
“Sir Armitage, with thee I’ll ride
Through flood, o’er fell so steep;
Though destined for another’s bride,
My vow to thee I’ll keep.”
“Oh bless thee, bless thee, lady mine,That true thy heart doth prove;Before yon moon hath ceased to shine,The priest shall bless our love.”
“Oh bless thee, bless thee, lady mine,
That true thy heart doth prove;
Before yon moon hath ceased to shine,
The priest shall bless our love.”
He raised her on his gallant steed,And sprang him to his selle;“Keep, keep thy seat, my love, with heed,And grasp my baldrick well.”
He raised her on his gallant steed,
And sprang him to his selle;
“Keep, keep thy seat, my love, with heed,
And grasp my baldrick well.”
Beneath the moon the wavelets flash’d,Struck by the courser’s heel,And through the ford he boldly dash’d,Spurr’d by the pointed steel.
Beneath the moon the wavelets flash’d,
Struck by the courser’s heel,
And through the ford he boldly dash’d,
Spurr’d by the pointed steel.
High up his sides the surges rose,And washed the blood away;They lav’d fair Eda’s bridal-clothes,And fill’d her with dismay.
High up his sides the surges rose,
And washed the blood away;
They lav’d fair Eda’s bridal-clothes,
And fill’d her with dismay.
“Alas, the stream is strong,” she cried.“Fear not, my love,” said he;“’Tis here the waters deepest glide,Anon we shall be free.”
“Alas, the stream is strong,” she cried.
“Fear not, my love,” said he;
“’Tis here the waters deepest glide,
Anon we shall be free.”
[511]
Behind them rung a wild alarm,And torches gleam’d on high;Forth from the Castle came a swarm,With yells that rent the sky.
Behind them rung a wild alarm,
And torches gleam’d on high;
Forth from the Castle came a swarm,
With yells that rent the sky.
Again the knight his iron heelDash’d in his courser’s side.He plung’d—his powerful limbs did reel—He yielded to the tide.
Again the knight his iron heel
Dash’d in his courser’s side.
He plung’d—his powerful limbs did reel—
He yielded to the tide.
Down went both mailed horse and knight;The maid was borne away,And flash’d the moonbeam’s silver lightAmid the sparkling spray.
Down went both mailed horse and knight;
The maid was borne away,
And flash’d the moonbeam’s silver light
Amid the sparkling spray.
His daughter’s shriek the father heard,Far on the moonlit wave;A moment Eda’s form appear’d,Then sunk in watery grave.
His daughter’s shriek the father heard,
Far on the moonlit wave;
A moment Eda’s form appear’d,
Then sunk in watery grave.
Peace never blest the sire again;He curst ambitious pride,That made him hold his promise vain,And sacred oaths deride.
Peace never blest the sire again;
He curst ambitious pride,
That made him hold his promise vain,
And sacred oaths deride.
Still in his eye his sinking child,Her shriek still in his ear,Reft of his mind, he wanders wildMidst rocks and forests drear.
Still in his eye his sinking child,
Her shriek still in his ear,
Reft of his mind, he wanders wild
Midst rocks and forests drear.
But where that cross in yonder shadeOft bends the pilgrim’s knee,There sleep the gentle knight and maidBeneath their trysting tree.
But where that cross in yonder shade
Oft bends the pilgrim’s knee,
There sleep the gentle knight and maid
Beneath their trysting tree.
When the musician had finished, Sir Patrick Hepborne still continued to loiter with his arm on the balustrade of the stair, when the door opened, and he heard a feeble step on the terrace above. He looked upwards, and the light of a lamp that was burning in a niche fell on the aged countenance of a man who was descending. It was Adam of Gordon.
“Adam of Gordon!” exclaimed Sir Patrick.
“And who is he, I pray, who doth know Adam of Gordon so far from home?” demanded the minstrel. “Ah, Sir Patrick Hepborne; holy St. Cuthbert, I do rejoice to see thee. Trust me, the ready help thou didst yield me at Forres hath not been forgotten; though thou didst sorely mar my verses by thine interruption. Full many sithes have I tried to awaken that noble subject, but the witchery of inspiration is past, and——”
“But how camest thou here?” demanded Hepborne, impatiently interrupting him.
“Sir Knight, I came hither with a lady from the Borders,” said Adam, hesitatingly; “a lady that——”
“Nay, speak not so mystically, old man,” replied Hepborne;[512]“I am already well aware of the story of the Lady Beatrice, and heartily do I curse mine own folly for permitting jealousy so to hoodwink mine eyes as to make me run blindly away from mine own happiness. I already guess that it was she whom thou didst accompany hither, and I know that she is now an inmate of those apartments, with the Lady de Vere, the daughter of the late Sir Walter de Selby.”
“Nay, nay, so far thou art wrong, Sir Knight,” replied the Minstrel. “She to whom these apartments do belong is not the daughter of Sir Walter de Selby. True it is, indeed, that when the Lady Eleanore did leave Norham Castle, she did call the companion of her flight by the name of Sir Hans de Vere, a Zealand knight, kinsman to the Duke of Ireland; but some strange mystery doth yet hang over this affair, for he who doth own these gay lodgings, and who is the husband of this gay madam, is the identical Sir Hans de Vere I have just described, and yet he knoweth nought of the Lady Eleanore de Selby.”
“Thy speech is one continued riddle, good Adam,” said Hepborne; “canst thou not explain to me?”
“Nay, of a truth, Sir Knight, thou dost know as much as I do,” said the minstrel. “What hath become of the Lady Eleanore de Selby no one can tell. If he that she married be indeed a De Vere, he is at least no kin to the Duke of Ireland, as he or she would have us believe. There have been De Veres enow about the English Court since this King Richard began his reign, albeit that the day may be gone by with many of them, sith that their chief, the Duke of Ireland, hath been forced to flee into Zealand, where his race had its origin. But of all the De Veres, none doth answer the description of him whom the Lady Beatrice and I did see carry off the Lady Eleanore de Selby from Norham.”
“Strange, most strange,” said Sir Patrick Hepborne; “but knowest thou aught of this Lady de Vere? Men’s tongues do talk but lightly of her.”
“Nay, in good truth, I have begun to entertain strange notions of her myself,” replied Adam. “By’r Lady, she would have had me sing some virelays to-night that were light and warm enow, I promise thee, had I not feigned that I knew them not; and, by my troth, she spared not to chide me for my sober minstrelsy, the which she did tauntingly compare to the chanting of monks. My Lady, quoth I, consider I am but a rude Border——”
“But say, old man,” cried Hepborne, impatiently interrupting him, “how did the Lady Beatrice seek shelter with such a[513]woman? Quick, tell me, I beseech thee, for I must hasten to rescue the poor and spotless dove from the clutch of this foul howlet.”
“In the name of the Virgin, then, let us lose no time in thinking how it may best be done,” said Adam of Gordon earnestly; “St. Andrew be praised that thou, Sir Knight, art so willing to become the protector of an angel, who——Yet I dare not say how much thou art beloved. But, hush! we may be overheard here in the open air. Let us retreat to my garret yonder, where I will tell thee all I can, and then we may, with secrecy and expedition, concert what steps thou hadst best take.”
Hepborne readily followed the minstrel to his small chamber, and there he learned the following particulars.
The Lady Beatrice had no sooner recovered from the swoon into which she had been thrown by the appearance of the Franciscan at Sir Walter de Selby’s funeral, than she sent for the Minstrel, of whose attachment and fidelity she had already had many a proof, and imparted to him her design of quitting Norham Castle immediately. Without communicating her intention to any one else, she mounted that milk-white palfrey which had been the gift of Hepborne, and travelled with all speed to Newcastle, where she sought shelter in the house of a widowed sister of Sir Walter de Selby. There she lived for a short time in retirement, until at last she adopted the resolution of visiting London in search of her friend the Lady Eleanore, whom she believed now to be the Lady de Vere, that she might communicate to her the death of her father, if she had not already heard of that event, and entreat from her a continuance of that protection which she had so long afforded her. She and the Minstrel, therefore, went on board a ship sailing for the Thames; but having been tossed about by contrary winds, and even compelled to seek safety more than once in harbours by the way, they had only arrived in the metropolis three days before that of which we are now speaking.
The Minstrel was immediately employed by the Lady Beatrice to make inquiry for the Lady de Vere, and he was readily directed to the lodgings of the lady of that name in the Tower. But he was no sooner introduced into her presence and that of her husband, Sir Hans de Vere, than he discovered that there was some strange mistake. To exculpate himself for his seeming intrusion on a knight and lady to whom he was an utter stranger, he explained the cause of his coming, and told whom he sought for, when, to his great dismay, he learned that no such[514]persons as those he described were known about the Court. Filled with chagrin, he returned to the Lady Beatrice, whose vexation may be more easily conceived than described. She was a stranger in London, in a wretched hostel, without a friend but old Adam to advise her, and severed for ever, as she feared, from the only human being on whom she could say that she had the least claim for protection. Despair came upon her, and hiding her face in her hands, she gave full way to her grief.
Whilst she sat in this wretched situation, in which Adam in vain exerted himself to comfort her, a page arrived, with a kind message from Sir Hans and Lady de Vere, in which they offered her their house as a home, until she should have time to determine as to her future conduct. So friendly, so seasonable a proposal, was not to be rejected in her circumstances, even coming as it did from strangers, and the Lady Beatrice gladly became the guest of the Lady de Vere.
So far went the Minstrel’s knowledge; but leaving Sir Patrick to question him as he pleases, we shall ourselves more deeply investigate the circumstances, as well as the secret springs of action which produced this event. It happened that just after the Minstrel’s interview with the Lady de Vere, King Richard came to idle an hour with her as he was often wont to do to gather the gossip of the Court. The lady told him what had passed, and the Monarch joined with her in the laugh it occasioned. The Lady de Vere had extracted enough of Beatrice’s history from the Minstrel to be able to answer the King’s questions.
“And who may this Beatrice be?” demanded Richard.
“A damsel, I believe, whom old De Selby picked up at the door of a Scottish peasant, and whom he fancied to educate as a companion to his daughter Eleanore,” replied Lady de Vere; “doubtless, now that he is dead, she seeks to hang herself about the neck of the heiress of her patron.”
“And sith that she hath so come, might we not find some other neck for her to hang about?” said the King laughing. “Pr’ythee, send for her hither; we should be well contented to see this stray bird.”
The Lady de Vere well knew her advantage in humouring all the wild fancies that entered the King’s head, and accordingly gave immediate obedience to his wishes, by sending to Beatrice the message we have already noticed. Fatigued to death by her voyage, Beatrice had no sooner complied with the invitation she had received, than she was compelled to retire to the apartment[515]the Lady de Vere had prepared for her; and she continued so long indisposed that she was unable to be present at the tilting.
Towards the evening of that day, however, she was so far recovered as to quit her room; and, accordingly, when the procession returned from London Bridge, she hastened to pour out her gratitude to the Lady de Vere for the hospitable reception she had given her.
Sir Hans went to the King’s banquet, but his lady remained with Beatrice; and the Minstrel was sent for to amuse them with his ballads. There was something free and bold in the manner of the Lady de Vere that was by no means agreeable to Beatrice; but believing that there was nothing worse in it than an unfortunate manner, she endeavoured to reconcile herself to it, in one who had shown her so much apparent friendship.
They were seated in a luxuriously-furnished apartment, hung with tapestry of the richest hues, and lighted up by silver lamps, when the door opened, and Sir Hans de Vere entered, ushering in a young man, whom he introduced as the Earl of Westminster. The Lady de Vere smiled on the young nobleman, and Beatrice, though she had never heard of such a title, was aware that new lords were created so frequently, that there was little wonder she should be ignorant of it. The young Earl, who was very handsome, seemed to be on habits of great intimacy with Sir Hans de Vere and his lady. He seated himself by the Lady Beatrice, and began to trifle pleasantly with her, mixing up a thousand courtly compliments with the agreeable nothings that he uttered. Spiced wine and sweetmeats were handed round, and soon afterwards a small, but very tasteful and exquisitely cooked supper appeared, with wines of the richest flavour. The Lady Beatrice ate little, and refused to touch wine. The night wore apace. The young Earl of Westminster became more and more earnest in his endeavours to make himself agreeable to Beatrice, who began to find considerable amusement in his conversation, and insensibly permitted him to absorb her whole attention. Suddenly he began, in a sort of half-serious manner, to address her in a strain of tenderness that by no means pleased her. She prepared to shift her place; but what was her astonishment, when, on looking up, she saw that she and the young Earl were alone. Sir Hans de Vere and his lady had stolen unnoticed from the apartment. Beatrice started up to follow them.
“Nay, stay to hear me, lovely Beatrice,” cried the Earl, endeavouring to detain her.[516]
“Unhand me, my Lord,” cried she boldly, and at the same time tearing herself from him.
“Hear me, only hear me,” cried the Earl, springing to the door, so as to cut off her retreat.
This action still more alarmed her. She screamed aloud for help, and flying to the casement, threw it open; but the Earl dragged her from it by gentle force, and having shut it, he was vainly endeavouring to compose her, when the chamber door was burst open by a furious kick, and Sir Patrick Hepborne appeared, with his drawn sword in his hand.
“King Richard!” cried the knight, starting back with astonishment: “Doth England’s King so far forget the duty of the high office he doth hold, as to become the destroyer instead of the protector of innocence? Yet, by St. Andrew, wert thou fifty times a king, thou shouldst answer to me for thine insult to that lady. Defend thyself.”
The cool presence of mind exhibited by Richard whilst yet a stripling, on the memorable occasion of Wat Tyler being struck down by Walworth the Lord Mayor, showed that he was not constitutionally deficient in courage; but in this, as in everything else, he was wavering and uncertain, and no one was more liable than he to yield to sudden panic. Seeing Hepborne about to spring on him, he darted into an inner room, the door of which stood ajar.
“Sir Patrick Hepborne!” cried the Lady Beatrice, her lovely face flushing with the mingled emotions of surprise, joy, gratitude, and love.
“Yes,” cried the knight, throwing himself on one knee before her, “yes, Lady Beatrice, he who may now dare to call himself thine own faithful and true knight—he who hath now had his eyes cleared from the errors which blinded him—he who, whilst deeply smitten by those matchless charms, believed that in his adoration of them he was worshipping the Lady Eleanore de Selby—he who thus believing himself to be deceived and rejected, did yet continue to nourish the pure and enduring flame in his bosom after all hope had fled, and who now feels it glow with tenfold warmth, sith that hope’s gentle gales have again sprung up to fan it—he who will——But whither is my passion leading me?” cried he, starting up, and taking Beatrice’s hand; “this is no time for indulging myself in such a theme, dear as it may be to me. Lady, thou art betrayed. This is no fit place of sojournance for spotless virtue such as thine. The false Lady de Vere is one who doth foully minister to the King’s pleasures. Lose not a moment, I beseech you. I have seen[517]Adam of Gordon, who waits for us without. Fly then,” cried he, leading her towards the door, “fly with me; I will be thy protector. Let us haste from the impure den of this wicked woman, who would have——”
Sir Patrick threw open the door as he pronounced these words, and in an instant he was prostrated on the floor by the blow of a halbert.
“Seize him and drag him to a dungeon,” cried the Lady de Vere, with eyes flashing like those of an enraged tigress; “I accuse him of a treasonable attack on the sacred person of the King of England. He shall die the death of traitor.” The guards obeyed her, and lifting up the inanimate body of the knight, bore him away.
“So,” cried the fury, “so perish those who shall dare to insult the love of the Lady de Vere; and as for thee, minion,” she said, turning round, “thou art a prisoner there during my pleasure.” And saying so, she pushed Beatrice into the room, and locked and bolted the door on the wretched damsel, who fell from her violence, and instantly swooned away.
When the Lady Beatrice recovered, and began to recollect what had passed, she arose in a tremor, and tottering to a seat, rested herself for some moments, throwing her eyes fearfully around the apartment. Everything in it remained as it was. No one seemed to have entered since. The lamps had begun to burn so faintly, that they appeared to tell of the approach of midnight, and this idea was strengthened by the silence that prevailed everywhere both without and within the palace. She tried the bolts of the door, but, to her great horror, she found them fast. A faint hope of escape arose, when she remembered that the King had disappeared by the inner apartment, whence there might be a passage leading to other chambers. She snatched up an expiring hand lamp, and hastened to explore it. But there was no visible mode of exit from the room, and she now became convinced that the King must have returned through the apartment whilst she lay insensible, and that some one had liberated him from without. The recollection of the cruel wound, which she almost feared might have been Sir Patrick’s death blow, together with the certainty of his captivity, and the probable issue of it, now filled her mind with horror; and this, added to the perplexity of her present situation, so overcame her, that she sat down and wept bitterly.
The lamps now, one after another, expired, until she was left in total darkness. She groped her way into the inner apartment, and, having fastened the door within,[518]threw herself upon the couch, and abandoned herself to all her wretchedness.
Whilst the Lady Beatrice was lying in this distressing situation, she was startled by a noise. Suddenly a glare of light flashed upon her eyes; she rubbed them, and looked towards the spot whence it proceeded. A man in a friar’s habit stood near the wall; he held a lamp high, that its light might the better fill the room. Immediately behind him was an opening in the tapestry, the folds of which being held aside by a hand and arm, admitted the entrance of another shaven crowned head. To the terror of the Lady Beatrice, she recognized in this second monk the piercing eyes and powerful features of the very Franciscan whose dagger had so alarmed her at Lochyndorbe, and the sight of whom had so affected her at Sir Walter de Selby’s funeral. She attempted to scream, but fear so overcame her, that, like one who labours under a nightmare, her lips moved, but her tongue refused to do its office, and she lay with her eyes wide open, staring on the object of her dread, in mute expectation of immediate murder.
“Is she there, Friar Rushak?” said he whom we have known by the name of the Franciscan.
“She is here,” said the first monk, who bore the lamp; “all is quiet too—thou mayest safely enter.”
The Franciscan who followed now stepped into the apartment, and came stealing forward with soft, barefooted tread.
“Give me the light, Friar Rushak, that there may be no mistake,” said he, taking the lamp from his companion.
The blood grew chill in the Lady Beatrice’s veins as the Franciscan approached the couch where she lay. He held the lamp so as to throw its light strongly upon her face.
“It is she indeed,” said he, in a muttering voice, while his features were lighted up by a grim smile of satisfaction, which gradually faded away, leaving a severe expression in his lightning eye.
“She trembles,” said Friar Rushak, advancing towards the couch with a terrible look; “conscious of her own depravity, she is guilt-stricken.”
“Ay, she may well be guilt-stricken,” said the Franciscan.
“Alas, of what am I accused, mysterious man?” cried the Lady Beatrice, clasping her hands together, and throwing herself on her knees before them. “Murder me not—murder me not. Let not the holy garments you wear be stained with the blood of innocence.”
“Innocence!” cried Friar Rushak, “talk not thou of innocence![519]Why art thou in these apartments if thou be’st innocent?”
“So help me the pure and immaculate Virgin, I am not here by mine own consent,” said the unhappy lady. “Murder me not without inquiry—I am a prisoner here—I was eager to escape—I should have escaped with Sir Patrick Hepborne, had not——”
“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said the Franciscan, with a ferocious look. “Ay, so! The curse of St. Francis be upon him!”
“Nay, nay, curse him not—oh, curse him not!” cried Beatrice, embracing the Franciscan’s knees. “Murder me if thou wilt, but, oh, curse not him, who at peril of his noble life would have rescued me from these hated walls.”
“Yea, again I do say, may he be accursed,” cried the Franciscan, with increased energy and ferocity of aspect. “Full well do we know thy love for this infamous knight—full well do we know why he would have liberated thee.”
“But to find thee here as a toil spread by the Devil to catch the tottering virtue of King Richard!” cried Friar Rushak.
“Yea,” said the Franciscan, striking his forehead with the semblance of intense inward feeling, “to find thee a monster so utterly depraved, is indeed even more than my worst suspicions.”
“What couldst thou hope, minion!” said Friar Rushak sternly; “what couldst thou hope from fixing thine impure affections on the Royal Richard.”
“Blessed Virgin,” cried the tortured Beatrice, clasping her hands and throwing her eyes solemnly upwards, “Holy Mother of God, thou who art truth itself, and who canst well search out the truth in others, if I do speak aught else than truth now, let thy just indignation strike me down an inanimate corpse. I am here as an innocent victim to the treachery of the Lady de Vere. She it was who inveigled me into these apartments by pretended friendship, that she might make a sacrifice of me. I knew not even the person of King Richard; and had it not been for Sir Patrick Hepborne, who so bravely rescued me from his hand——”
“Um,” said Friar Rushak, somewhat moved by what she had uttered; “thine appeal is so solemn, and it must be confessed that the evidence of those who did accuse thee of plotting against the King’s heart is indeed but questionable. It may be—But, be it as it may, it mattereth not, for thou shalt soon be put beyond the reach of weaving snares for Richard. Yet shall we try thee anon, for thou shalt see the King, and if by word or[520]look thou dost betray thyself, this dagger shall search thy heart, yea, even in the presence of Richard himself.”
“King Richard!” cried Beatrice, with distraction in her looks. “Take me not before the King; let me not again behold the King. Where have they carried Sir Patrick Hepborne? In charity let me fly to him; he may now want that aid which I am bound to yield him.”
“Nay, thou shalt never see him more.” said the Franciscan.
“Oh, say not so, say not so—tell me not that he is dead,” cried the Lady Beatrice, forgetting everything else in her apprehension for Sir Patrick; “oh, if a spark of charity burns within your bosoms, let me hasten to him. I saw him bleeding, and on the ground—I heard him cruelly condemned to a dungeon—oh, let me be the companion of his captivity—let me watch by his pillow—let me soothe his sorrows—let me be his physician. If my warm life’s-blood were a healing balm, this gushing heart would yield it all for his minutest wound.” Her feelings overcame her, and she fell back, half fainting, on the floor.
“Raise her head,” said Friar Rushak to the Franciscan, who was bending over her with some anxiety; and he applied to her nostrils a small golden box, containing some refreshing odour, which speedily began to revive her.
“Alas!” said the Franciscan, “however innocently she may be here, as affects the King, her abandoned love for her seducer hath been too clearly confessed.”
“She reviveth,” said Friar Rushak; “raise her to her feet. And now let us hasten, brother; the moments fly fast, and we have yet to effect our perilous passage through the——”
“Is there no other way?” demanded the Franciscan.
“None,” replied the Friar Rushak; “and if the King should——”
“The King!” repeated Beatrice, with a thrill of dread.
“Ay, Lady, the King,” replied the Friar Rushak, with a strong emphasis and a desperate expression; “but thou must wear this disguise to conceal thee,” continued he, opening out a bundle containing a Franciscan’s habit. “Draw the cowl over thy head and face; follow me with caution; and whatever thou mayest see, utter no word, or give no sign, else——Nay, let not thy breath he heard, or——Come on.”
The Friar Rushak now led the way with the lamp, and the Lady Beatrice, shaking from a dread that even her loose disguise could not conceal, stepped after him through a spring door behind the tapestry, that led into a passage in the centre of the wall. The Franciscan followed, and shut the door behind him.[521]The passage was so narrow, that one person only could advance at a time. It was strangely crooked also, frequently bending at right angles, so as to defy all Beatrice’s speculation as to where they might be leading her. A dead silence was preserved by both her attendants, and they moved with a caution that allowed not a step to be heard. Friar Rushak halted suddenly, and turned round; the lamp flashed upon his face, and showed his angry eye; the Lady Beatrice fell back in terror into the arms of the Franciscan behind her. Friar Rushak put his finger to his open mouth, and then told her, in a whisper, to suppress the high breathing which her fears had created. The Lady Beatrice endeavoured to obey. Friar Rushak motioned to her and the Franciscan to remain where they were; he advanced three or four paces with great caution, and, slowly opening a concealed door, listened for a moment; then gently pushing aside the tapestry within, he thrust forward his head, and again withdrawing it, motioned to Beatrice and the Franciscan to advance.
“They sleep,” whispered he. “Follow me—but no word, sign, or breath, as thou dost value thy life.”
Friar Rushak entered within the tapestry, and the Lady Beatrice followed him into a magnificent chamber, lighted by a single lamp. A gorgeous bed occupied one end of the apartment. Over it, attached to the heavy Gothic ceiling, was a gilded crown, whence descended a crimson drapery, richly emblazoned with the Royal Arms of England, under which lay a young man, his head only appearing above the bed-clothes. She hastily glanced at his features, which the lamp but dimly illuminated. It was King Richard. His dark eye-lashes were closed, but she trembled lest he should awaken. Around the room were several couches, where his pages ought to have watched, but where they lay as sound as their Royal master.
They had hardly stepped into the room, when a little dog came growling from under the King’s bed. The Lady Beatrice had nearly sunk on the floor, but the little favourite of the monarch instantly recognized Friar Rushak as a well-known friend, and quietly retreated to his place of repose. The pages showed no symptom of alarm, but the King turned in bed, and exposed his head more fully to view. The Lady Beatrice shook from head to foot as she looked towards him; but her apprehension was excited yet more immediately, when she beheld Friar Rushak at her side, with a menacing eye, and a dagger in his grasp. A sign at once conveyed to her that it was silence he wanted; and though she ventured not to breathe, her heart beat so against her side as she stood, that she felt as if the very[522]sound of its pulsations would break the slumbers of all around her. Again the King was quiet, and Friar Rushak moved on towards the opposite door. The Lady Beatrice drew the cowl more over her face, and, without daring to repeat her glance at the King, followed with as much caution as her sinking knees would permit her to use.
The door was opened by Friar Rushak with the utmost gentleness, and they found themselves at one extremity of a suite of apartments, the long perspective of which was seen running onwards from one to another, and where they could perceive groups of dozing domestics lying on chairs, and stretched on benches, in every possible position. Through one of these rooms they passed, and then retreated by a side-door into a narrow circular stair, by which they descended to the hall of entrance, where they found about a dozen archers sitting slumbering by a great fire. These men roused themselves on their approach, and, starting up, sprang forward to bar their passage with their halberts. The Lady Beatrice became alarmed, and, in the trepidation that seized her, dropped the friar’s habit that had hitherto concealed her.
“Ha!” exclaimed one of the soldiers, “a woman and two monks! Who may that considerate lord have been who hath thus taken the shrift with the sin?”
“Silence, Barnaby,” cried another man; “that is the holy Father Rushak, the King’s Confessor.”
“Let me pass, knaves,” cried Rushak.
“Ay, ay, let him pass,” said another man; “he hath right of entrance and outgoing at all hours. I would not have thee try to stop him, an thou wouldst sleep in a whole skin to-morrow night.”
The passage was cleared in a moment. The Lady Beatrice, overpowered with apprehension, was supported by the Franciscan.
“Come on, brother,” cried Friar Rushak.
“She faints,” cried the Franciscan.
“Lift her in thine arms, then,” cried Rushak.
The Franciscan raised her from the ground, and carried her half senseless to the door. At that moment a man entered, and brushed by them in breathless haste. He looked behind him at the group.
“The Lady Beatrice!” cried he. “Ha, whither do ye carry her, villains?”
“Answer him not, but run,” said Rushak, flying off at full speed across the court, followed by the sturdy Franciscan,[523]who carried his fair burden as if he felt not her weight. The steps of many people were heard following them. All at once the noise of a desperate scuffle ensued behind them, and the two monks, who stayed not to inquire the nature of it, pressed on towards a low archway that ran under the river-wall. The air blew fresh from the river on Beatrice’s cheek. She revived, and found that he who carried her was standing near an iron gate of ponderous strength, which Friar Rushak was making vain attempts to open.
“Holy St. Francis assist us!” cried he, “I fear that my hands have erred, and that I have unluckily possessed myself of the wrong key.”
“Hush,” said the Franciscan, “and keep close. The step of the sentinel on the wall above falls louder. He cometh this way.”
They drew themselves closer to the wall. The sentinel’s step passed onward to the extremity of his walk, and then slowly returning, it again moved by, and the sound of it sank along the wall.
“Try the key again, brother,” said the Franciscan; “the man is beyond hearing.”
Friar Rushak again applied the key; the great bolt yielded before it; the gate creaked upon its hinges, and the Franciscan deposited his trembling burden, more dead than alive, in a little skiff that lay in the creek of the river running under the vault.
“Thanks, kind brother,” said the Franciscan in a low tone of voice, to Friar Rushak; “a thousand thanks for thy friendly aid.”
“Hush! the sentinel comes again,” whispered Friar Rushak.
They remained perfectly still until the man had completed his turn, and was gone beyond hearing.
“Now thou mayest venture to depart,” said Friar Rushak—“away, and St. Francis be with thee!” And so saying, he waved his hand, shut the gate, and quickly disappeared.
The Franciscan got into the boat. A little crooked man, who had hitherto lain like a bundle of clothes in the bottom of it, started up, and began pushing it along by putting his hands against the side-walls until he got beyond the vault. Then he sat down and pulled the oars.
“Who goes there?” cried the sentinel, “who goes there?—Answer me, an thou wouldst not have a quarrel-bolt in thy brain.”
The Franciscan minded not, and the little figure went on, pulling with all his might. Beatrice sat trembling with affright.[524]It was dark, but she heard the sentinel’s step running along the wall, as if following the sound of the oars. He halted; the click of the spring of his arbaleste reached her ear, and the bolt that it gave wings to had nearly reached her too, for it struck with great force on the inside of the boat that was opposite to the man who shot it. The rower pulled off farther into the stream. The sentinel’s cry for raising the guard was heard; but the tide was now running down, and it bore the little boat on its bosom with so much swiftness that they soon lost all sound of the alarm.
“Tell me, oh, tell me who art thou, and whither dost thou carry me?” cried Beatrice, her heart sinking with alarm as she beheld the walls of the city left behind them.
“Daughter, this is neither the time nor the place for the explanation thou dost lack,” replied the Franciscan; “methinks I do hear the sound of oars behind us. Let me aid thee, Bobbin,” cried he, taking one of the oars, and beginning to pull desperately.
The united strength of the two rowers now made the little boat fly like an arrow, and in a short time the eyes of the Lady Beatrice were attracted by five lights that burned bright in the middle of the river, and hung in the form of St. Andrew’s cross.
“St. Francis be praised,” cried the Franciscan; “we are now near the bark that is to give us safety. Pull, Bobbin, my brave heart.”
The lights grew in magnitude in the Lady Beatrice’s eyes, and the water beneath the shadowy hull blazed with the bright reflection.
“Hoy, the skiff!” cried a stern voice in a north-country accent.
“St. Andrew!” replied the Franciscan.
“Welcome, St. Andrew,” said the voice from the vessel. “Hast thou sped, holy father?”
“Yea, by the blessing of St. Francis and the Virgin,” replied the Franciscan.
The lights, which were suspended to a frame attached to the round top of the short thick mast, were at once extinguished. The skiff came alongside, and the Lady Beatrice was lifted, unresisting, into the vessel, and carried directly into the cabin, and in a few minutes the anchor was weighed.
“So, my brave men,” cried the master to his sailors, after they had got the anchor on board, “now, hoise up the mainsail. Take the helm, Bobbin; we shall drop slowly down till daylight doth appear.”[525]
“Art thou sure of shaping thy course safely through all these intricate windings?” demanded the Franciscan.
“Yea,” replied the commander, “as sure as thou hast thyself seen me when running between the Bass and the May. What, dost thou think that I have been herrying these English loons so long without gathering sea-craft as well as plunder? And then, have I not crooked Bobbin here as my pilot, who was bred and born in this serpent of a river? By St. Rule, but he knoweth every sweep and turn, yea, and every sand and shoal bank, blindfold. Had I not had some such hands on board, how dost thou think I could have carried off that spice-ship so cunningly, having to steer her through so many villainous eel-knots?”
“I see thou art not a whit less daring than thy sire,” said the Franciscan.
“Nay, an I were, I should ill deserve the gallant name of Mercer,” replied the other. “Thou didst witness enow of his exploits, I ween, the while that thou wert aboard of him, to remember thee well that he did neither want head to conceive, boldness to dare, nor coolness to execute. Trust me, I lack not my father’s spirit; and though I have not the fortune to sail with a fleet of stout barks at my back, as he was wont to do, yet, while the timbers of the tough old Trueman do hold together beneath me, I shall work these Southrons some cruel evil, to revenge the loss of my father and his ships. Haul from the land, Bobbin; haul off, to weather that point. Climb the forecastle and look out there, he who hath the watch.”