"Nay, ivy, nay,It shall not be, I wis;Let holly have the mastery,As the custom is."Holly stands in the hallFair to behold;Ivy stands without the doorShivering with cold.Nay, ivy, nay, &c."Holly and his merry menThey dance and play;Ivy and her maidensWeep a well-a-day.Nay, ivy, nay, &c."Holly hath berriesAs red as any rose;The forester and hunterKeep them for the does.Nay, ivy, nay, &c."Ivy hath berriesAs black as any sloe;There comes the owl,With his long whoop of woe.Nay, ivy, nay, &c."
"Nay, ivy, nay,
It shall not be, I wis;
Let holly have the mastery,
As the custom is.
"Holly stands in the hall
Fair to behold;
Ivy stands without the door
Shivering with cold.
Nay, ivy, nay, &c.
"Holly and his merry men
They dance and play;
Ivy and her maidens
Weep a well-a-day.
Nay, ivy, nay, &c.
"Holly hath berries
As red as any rose;
The forester and hunter
Keep them for the does.
Nay, ivy, nay, &c.
"Ivy hath berries
As black as any sloe;
There comes the owl,
With his long whoop of woe.
Nay, ivy, nay, &c."
In the meanwhile, the abbess herself had not been without occupation, for although the night was waning fast, the usual hour of rest long past, and the nuns in general retired to their cells, yet before she went to her own snug little room, the worthy lady saw, one after the other, several of the officers of the abbey in the great parlour. In dealing with these various personages, the worthy lady, notwithstanding her little knowledge of the world, showed a good deal of skill and diplomatic shrewdness. Her situation indeed was somewhat delicate; for she had to prepare against events, which she could not clearly explain to those with whom she spoke, and to give orders which would naturally excite surprise, without such explanation. She had prepared her story however beforehand; and she proceeded in a different manner with each of the different officers, as her knowledge of their several characters pointed out to her the most judicious course. To the porter of the great hall, a stout old man, who had been a soldier and had seen service, she said boldly, and at once; "Leave the lodging in charge of your boy, Giles, and go down directly through the hamlet, to all the tenants and socmen within a mile. Tell them there is danger abroad, and that they must be ready, with their arms, to come up the instant they hear the great bell ring. Bid them send out some lads to the vassals who live farther off, with the same news. Then come back hither, for we shall want you."
The man departed without a word, his answer being merely a low inclination of the head. The bailiff, who by right should have presented himself before the porter, but who had been impeded by the appropriation of sundry good things left from the supper table, appeared amongst the last. To him the abbess put on a very different countenance.
"Well, master bailiff," she said, with a light and cheerful smile, "have you heard anything of the bands at Coleshill?"
"Sad work, lady, sad work," replied the bailiff, casting his eyes up to heaven. "Why I understand that, last night, some of them stole Joseph Saxton's best cow, and cut it up before his face, hardly taking the hide off."
"That shows they were very hungry," said the abbess, laughing.
"Ay, lady," rejoined the bailiff, "these are not jesting matters, I can tell you. Why, I should not wonder if they drove some of the abbey lands before long; and we have not cattle to spare that I know of. There is no knowing what such hell-kites may do."
"That's very true," answered the abbess; "and so, my son, I think it will be better for you to sleep in the lodge for two or three nights; for we might want you on an occasion."
"Oh, there is no fear of their coming as far as this," answered the bailiff, who had no fondness for putting his head into any dangerous position.
"Nevertheless, I desire you to remain," answered the abbess; "'tis well to have somebody to take counsel with in time of need."
"Why, there is the friar, lady mother," replied the bailiff, still reluctant, "the friar, whom these young lords who were here left behind in the stranger's lodging. He would give you counsel and assistance."
"Ay, ghostly counsel and spiritual assistance," replied the abbess; "but that is not what I want just now, good friend; so you will stop as I said, and remember that I shall expect a bolder face this time, if anything should happen, than when the rovers were here before. Men fancied you were afraid.--However, send the friar to me now, if he be well enough to come. I will see what counsel I can get from him."
"Well enough!" cried the bailiff. "He is well enough, I warrant--nothing the matter with him. Why, he was walking up and down in the great court before the chapel, with his hood thrown back, and his bald crown glistening in the moonlight, like a coot in a water meadow."
Part of this speech was spoken aloud, part of it muttered to himself as he was quitting the room in a very sullen mood. He did not dare to disobey the orders he had received, for the good abbess was not one to suffer her commands to be slighted; and yet women never, or very rarely, gain the same respect with inferiors that men obtain; and the bailiff ventured to grumble with her, though he would have bowed down and obeyed in silence, had his orders come from one of the sterner sex.
However that might be, hardly three minutes elapsed before the friar entered the parlour, and carefully closed the door behind him. His conference with the abbess was long, continuing nearly an hour, and the last words spoken were, "Remember rightly, reverend father, the moment the bell sounds, betake yourself to the chapel, and stand near the high altar. You can see your way; for there is always a lamp burning in the chapel of St. Clare. Lock the great door after you; and I will come to you from our own gallery."
The bishop bowed his head and departed; and the abbess, weary with the fatigue and excitement of the day, gladly sought repose. All the convent was quiet around, and the nuns long gone to rest. Even the lady's two nieces had some time before closed their eyes in the sweet and happy slumber of youth.
Sleep soon visited the pillow of the abbess also; for she never remembered having sat up so late, except once, when King Edward, the libidinous predecessor of the reigning monarch, had visited the abbey during one of his progresses.
Still and deep was her rest; she knew nothing of the passing hours; she heard not the clock strike, though the tower on which it stood was exactly opposite to her cell. She heard not even the baby of St. Clare, when, a little before two o'clock, it was rung sharply and repeatedly. A few minutes after, however, there was a knock at the room door; but, no answer being given, a lay sister entered with a lamp in her hand, and roused her superior somewhat suddenly.
"Pardon, lady mother, pardon," she said; "but I am forced to wake you, for here is Dick the under forester come up to tell you, from Boyd, the head woodman, that enemies are coming, and that you had better take counsel upon it immediately. There is no time to be lost, he says, for they are already past the Redbridge turn, not a mile and a half off, and, alack and a well-a-day, we are all unprepared!"
"Not so little prepared as you think, sister Grace," replied the abbess, rising at once, and hurrying on her gown. "You run to the porter, and tell him to toll the great bell with all his might, opening the gate to the men of the hamlet and the tenants, but keeping fast ward against the rovers. Then away with you, as soon as you have delivered that message, up to the belfry tower. The moon must be still up--"
"She's down, she's down," cried the nun, in great alarm.
"Then light the beacon," cried the abbess. "That will give light enough to see when they come near. As soon as you perceive men marching in a band, like regular soldiers, ring the little bell to give the porter notice; and, after watching what they do for a minute or two, come and tell me. Be steady; be careful; and do not let fright scare away your wits."
The nun hurried to obey; and in a minute after, the loud and sonorous alarm bell of the abbey was heard, shaking the air far and wide over the forest, with its dull and sullen boom.
Having delivered her message to the porter, the poor nun, with her lamp in her hand, hurried up the numberless steps of the beacon tower, trembling in every limb, notwithstanding the courageous tone of her superior. Upon the thick stone roof at the top she found an immense pile of faggots, ready laid, and mingled with pitch, and, lying at some distance, a heap of fresh wood, to be cast on as occasion required, with a large jar of oil and an iron ladle, to increase the flame as it rose up.
Fortunately, the night was as calm as sleep, and not a breath of wind crossed the heavens; otherwise the lamp would assuredly have been blown out in the poor sister's trepidation and confusion. As it was, she had nearly let it fall into the midst of the pile, in the first attempt to light the beacon; but the next moment the thin dry twigs, which were placed beneath, caught the fire, crackled, nearly went out again; and then, with a quantity of dull smoke, the fire rushed up, licking the thicker wood above. The pitch ignited; the whole pile caught; and a tall column of flame, some sixteen or seventeen feet high, rose into the air, and cast a red and ominous light over the whole country round. The buildings on the little green became distinctly visible in a moment, the houses of the priests and choristers, the cottages of the peasants and the labourers; and running her eye along the valley beyond, in the direction of Coleshill, the lay sister saw, coming through the low ground, just under the verge of the wood, a dark mass, apparently of men on horseback, at the distance of less than half a mile. At the same time, however, she beheld a sight which gave her better hope. Not only from the cottages on the green were men issuing forth and hurrying to the great portal of the abbey, but, along the three roads which she could espy, she beheld eighteen or twenty figures, some on foot, but some on horseback, running or galloping at full speed. They were all separate and detached from each other; but the flame of the beacon flashed upon steel caps and corslets, and spear heads; and she easily judged that the tenants and vassals, warned beforehand and alarmed by the sound of the great bell, were hastening to do the military service they owed.
When she looked again in the direction of the mass she had seen on the Coleshill road, she perceived that the head of the troop had halted; and she judged rightly that, surprised by the sudden lighting of the beacon and tolling of the bell, the leaders were pausing to consult.
For a moment, a hope crossed her mind that they would be frightened at the state of preparation which they found, and desist; but the next instant the troop began to move on again; and remembering the orders which she had received, she rang a lesser bell which hung near the beacon, still keeping her eyes fixed upon the party advancing up the valley.
Steadily and cautiously they came on; were lost for a minute or two behind the houses the hamlet; then reappeared upon the little green; and, dividing into three troops, the one remained planted before the great gates, while the others, gliding between the cottages and the walls of the abbey, filed off to the right and left, with the evident purpose of surrounding the whole building, and guarding every outlet. The poor nun, however, fancied, on the contrary, that they were gone to seek some favourable point of attack; and murmuring to herself, "The Blessed Virgin have mercy upon us, and all the saints protect us! There will never be men enough to protect all the walls," she hurried down to make her report to her superior; but the abbess was not to be found.
In a small cell, of size and proportion exactly similar to those of the nuns, though somewhat differently arranged and decorated, lay a very beautiful girl sound asleep. A light coif of network confined, or strove to confine, the rich glossy curling hair; but still a long ringlet struggled away from those bonds, and fell over a neck as white as ivory. The eyes, the bright, beautiful, speaking eyes, the soul's interpreters, were closed, with the long sweeping black eyelashes resting on the cheek; but still the beautiful and delicate line of the features, in their quiet loveliness, offered as fair a picture as ever met mortal sight. Stretched beyond the bedclothes too, was the delicate hand and rounded arm, with the loop, which fastened the night-dress round the wrist, undone, and the white sleeve pushed back nearly to the elbow. One might have sworn it was the hand and arm of some marvellous statue, had it not been for the rosy tips of the delicate fingers, and one small blue vein through which the flood of young and happy life was rushing.
The dull and heavy tolling of the great bell woke her not, though the sound evidently reached her ear, and had some indistinct effect upon her mind, for the full rosy lips of her small mouth parted, showing the pearly teeth beneath; and some murmuring sounds were heard, of which the only word distinguishable was "matins."
The next instant, however, her slumber was broken, for the abbess stood beside her with a lamp in her hand, and shook her shoulder, saying "Iola, Iola!"
The fair girl started up and gazed in her aunt's face bewildered; and then she heard the sullen tolling of the great bell, and various other sounds which told her that some unusual events were taking place.
"Quick, Iola," cried the abbess, "rise and dress yourself. I have a task for you to perform in haste, my child.--There, no care for your toilette. Leave your hair in the net. Lose not a moment; for this is a matter of life and death."
"What it is, my dear lady mother?" asked Iola, trying to gather her senses together.
"It is to convey one, whom his persecutors have followed even hither, to a place of safety," replied the abbess. "Listen, my child, and reply not. The friar you saw this night is a high and holy man, unjustly persecuted by an usurping king. That he has taken refuge here has been discovered. The abbey is menaced by a power we cannot resist. It would be searched, the sanctuary violated, and the good man torn from the altar, to imprisonment, or perhaps death, had I not the means of conveying him beyond the walls--ay, and beyond the reach of danger. You must be his guide, Iola, for I must not reveal the secret to any of the sisters; and if Constance is to take the veil, as has been proposed, she must not know it either."
"Constance will not take the veil, dear aunt," replied Iola quietly; "but I am quite ready to do whatever you will, and to help to the utmost of my power. But cannot the good man find the way himself if he be told, for I am as ignorant of it as he is?"
"He could find his way through the passage," replied the abbess, "easily enough, but not through the wood when he issues forth."
"Oh, I can guide him there, as well as Boyd's great hound Ban," answered the gay girl, "but where am I to take him, dear aunt?"
"First to the cell of St. Magdalen," answered the elder lady, "and thence by the wood walks to Boyd's cottage. If you push the door that closes the end of the passage strongly, you will find that it opens one of the panels at the back of the shrine. Mind you leave it ajar, however, till you come back; for, once closed, you will not be able to open it from that side. Then keep down the wood-road to the east, and most likely you will meet Boyd; for he will be watching. If not, go straight on to his house, and then return at once. I will let you into the chapel as soon as the men are gone.--Now, child, are you ready?"
"One moment, dear aunt, one moment," answered Iola. "Where is my hood?--I cannot clasp this gorget."
"Let me try," cried the abbess; but her trembling hands would not perform the work; and at last Iola succeeded herself.
"There is your hood, child," cried her aunt. "Now come--come quick. We shall have them at the gates before you are gone."
Hurrying along as fast as possible, she led her fair niece through several of the long vaulted passages of the abbey, and thence, by her own private entrance, into the chapel. The door leading to the nuns' gallery was locked; but one of the keys at the abbess's girdle soon opened it; and, advancing to the grated screen, she looked down into the choir before she ventured to descend.
All was still and quiet. The glimmering light from the shrine of St. Clare afforded a view up and down the church, and no human form was to be seen. Neither was any sound heard, except the swinging of the great bell, as it continued to pour forth its loud vibrating call for assistance over the whole country round. Through the richly ornamented windows, however, came flitting gleams of many-coloured light, as lanterns and torches were carried across the court, between the chapel and the portal; and once or twice the sounds of voices were heard; but the abbess distinguished the tongue of the porter, speaking with the peasants as they hurried in.
"I cannot see him," whispered the abbess, after looking down for a moment or two into the body of the church. "There can be surely no mistake."
Iola took a step forward, and put her face to the grate. "He may be behind that pillar," she said. "Yes, don't you see, dear aunt? The light from the shrine casts the shadow of something like a man upon the pavement?"
"Let us go down, let us go down," answered the abbess. "If he be not there, nobody else is, so we need not be afraid;" and, opening the door, leading to the lower part of the chapel, she descended the spiral staircase which was concealed in one of the large columns that supported both the roof of the building, and the gallery in which they had been standing. The light foot of Iola made little sound upon the pavement of the nave, as they proceeded towards the high altar; but the less elastic tread of the abbess in her flat-soled sandal soon called from behind the pillar a figure in a friar's gown and cowl.
In a calm and not ungraceful attitude, the old man waited for their coming; and when the light of the abbess's lamp shone upon his face, it displayed no signs of fear or agitation. "I have locked the door, sister," he said, "as you desired me; but I almost feared I had made some mistake, when I found you did not come; for I have been here from the moment the bell began to toll."
"I had to wake my niece to guide you, reverend and dear lord," replied the abbess; "but now let us hasten; for no time is to be lost. I am terrified for your safety. To stay were ruin, and there is even peril in flight."
"There was as much in the flight from Brecknock," answered the bishop calmly; "but I am ready, my sister; lead the way.--And so you are to be my guide, my fair child?" he continued, as they followed the abbess. "Are you not frightened?"
"No, father," answered Iola quietly. "God will, I trust, protect me; and I think there is more danger here than in the forest."
By this time they had passed round the great altar, and through a door in the screen, which separated the choir from the lady chapel behind. Immediately facing them was a large sort of flat pilaster, covered half way up, as was all that part of the building, with old oak panelling, in many places ornamented with rude sculptures. By a very simple contrivance the panelling, with which the pilaster was covered, was made to revolve upon hinges, concealed in the angle, where it joined the wall. The abbess found some difficulty indeed, amongst all the heads of dragons, and monkeys, and cherubim, and devils, with which the woodwork was richly but grotesquely ornamented, to discover that which served as a sort of handle. When she had found it, however, the whole of the lower part of the panelling moved back easily enough, and a door was seen behind on the face of the pilaster. It was low and narrow, suffering only one person to pass at once, and that with a bowed head. It was locked also at the moment; but the abbess took the key from her girdle, and the bishop opened the door easily with his own hands.
"And now, father, God speed you on your way," cried the abbess, "for I must go no further. There is the beacon bell ringing, which shows that these knaves are in sight. Here, take the lamp with you, Iola. The passage is long and dark."
"Heaven's benison be upon you, sister," said the bishop, "and may God protect you from all evil consequences of your Christian charity towards me. Well have you repaid the little kindness I once showed your brother in times long past, and leave me a debt of gratitude besides."
"Nay, nay, I beseech you be quick, dear lord," said the lady; and, passing through the doorway, the prelate and his fair guide found themselves in a small vaulted chamber, with the end of a long dark passage open before them. As soon as they had entered, the door was closed, and they could hear the screen of panelling which covered it roll back into its place. Iola led the way on through the passage before them; and the bishop, after gazing round the vaulted room for an instant, followed with a slower step and in silence. At the end of some fifteen or sixteen yards, a small descending flight of stairs presented itself; and Iola ran lightly down, holding the lamp at the bottom, till the bishop descended. He gazed on her beautiful face and figure with a fatherly smile, as, lifting the lamp above her head, she stood with the light falling on her fair forehead and graceful limbs.
"And so thy name is Iola, my fair daughter," said the bishop, when he reached her side; "and thou art the niece of our good sister the abbess. Which of her brothers is thy father?"
"She has but one still living, my lord," replied Iola. "My father is no more."
"Then you must be the daughter of Richard St. Leger Lord Calverly," said the bishop; "I knew him well."
"The same, my lord," replied Iola; "and methinks I have heard that your lordship once saved his life. If I understood my aunt's words rightly but now, and you are the Lord Bishop of Ely, I have heard my uncle, the present Lord Calverly, say that the bishop of Ely had saved his brother's life, what time the red rose was broken from the stalk."
"I was not the Bishop of Ely then, daughter, but merely Robert Morton," replied the prelate; "one of King Edward's privy council, but one who took no share in policy or party strife, and only strove to mitigate the bloody rigour of a civil war, by touching men's hearts with mercy, when the moment served. The time will come, perhaps, when men will marvel that I, who faithfully once served King Henry, should serve, when he was dead, as faithfully his great opponent; but I had pondered well the course before me, and feel my conscience clear. I asked myself how I might do most good to men of every faction and to my country; and I can boldly say, my child, that I have saved more subjects for the crown of England--good honest men too, misled by party zeal--by interposing to stay the lifted hand of vengeance, than were slain by any of the mighty nobles who took part with either side in these horrible wars. I never changed my faction, daughter, for I never had one. And now the hatred of the reigning king has pursued me, because he knew right well that I would raise my voice against the wrong he did his brother's children."
To a mind well versed in the world's affairs, the fact of the good bishop entering into such apologetical explanations, at such a moment, and with such a companion, would have been sufficient to show that he did not feel quite sure his conduct was without reproach; for we always put our armour where we know we are weak. But Iola was too young and simple to suspect or to doubt; and she only looked upon him as the good and kind prelate, who, in times of intestine strife, had interposed to save her father's life. Joyful then at the task imposed upon her, she walked onward by his side; and the conversation, thus begun, proceeded in a somewhat lighter tone. The bishop asked her of her state, her future, her hopes, her wishes, and seemed to forget his own perilous situation in speaking and thinking of her. He was indeed a very fearless man, not with the rash, bold, enterprising courage of some, but with that calm tranquil abiding of results which can never exist without high hope and confidence in God. He had his faults, as all men have; but still he had many virtues, and, in an age when few were religious, felt the truths of Christianity, and knew religion to consist in something more than forms.
Once their conversation was interrupted by the sound of horses' feet, beating the ground immediately above them; and Iola started and looked up with an expression of fear.
"They will not break through, my child," said the prelate, with a smile, lifting his eyes to the solid masonry above. "That arch is thick and strong, depend upon it; but I suppose, by those sounds, we are already beyond the abbey walls?"
"I do not know," answered Iola, "for I have never been here before; but the lady abbess tells me, this passage will lead us out into St. Magdalen's cell, and thence I know the way well.
"How far is it?" asked the bishop.
"Oh, a long way," answered the fair girl, by his side, "nearly a mile."
She thought only of its distance by the ordinary path, which, as I have before said, took various turnings to avoid the ravine and the rivulet; but the passage that they were now pursuing, sunk by the steps which they had descended to a level below all such obstacles, abridged the distance by nearly one half. It is true that the bottom of the bed of the rivulet itself was somewhat lower than the top of the arched vault; but nevertheless the latter had been carried straight on and cemented, so as to be impervious to the water, while broken rocks and stones had been piled up above, concealing the masonry, and forming a little cascade in the stream. Thus, when they reached that spot, the rush and murmur of the waterfall was heard, and, turning her bright eyes to the prelate's face, Iola said:
"We must be passing under the river, I think."
"It is not unlikely, daughter," replied the bishop. "In other lands, which you most likely have never seen, I have beheld vast structures for carrying rivers from hill to hill, raised on high arches, underneath which the busy world of men passed to and fro, while the stream flowed overhead."
"I have heard of such things," replied Iola; "and oh, how I long to see those lands and to dream of all that mighty men have done in former days. How strange it is that such arts have not come down to us. Here we see nothing between the huge castle with its frowning towers, or the lordly church with its spires and pinnacles, and the wood cottage of the peasant, or the humble abode of the franklin."
"The bishop smiled at her.
"You have been but little in cities, my child," he said; "but your observation is just. It is strange that the arts of other ages have not descended to us; for one would suppose, if anything on earth could be permanent, it would be that knowledge and that skill which tend to the elevation, the protection, and the comfort of the human race, especially when the wonders they have performed, and the monuments they have raised, are still before our eyes, although in ruins. But birth, life, death, and corruption are the fate of nations, as well as of men, of systems as well as creatures, of the offsprings of the human mind as well as of the inheritors of the corporeal frame. As in the successions of the human race, however, we see the numbers of the population still increasing, notwithstanding periods of devastation and destruction; as those who are born and die give birth to more than their own decease subtracts, so probably the loss of the arts, the sciences, even the energies which one nation or one epocha has produced, is succeeded by the production of arts, sciences, energies, more numerous, if not more vigorous, in the nation or epocha which follows. But these have again their childhood, their maturity, their decay; and society with us, my daughter, is perhaps still in its infancy--I believe indeed it is."
Iola gazed at him surprised, and somewhat bewildered, for he had led her mind beyond its depth; and the good prelate read the expression aright, and replied to it--
"You are surprised at such reasonings," he said, "because you are not accustomed to them; but I believe those people above would be more surprised, if they knew that, at the very moment they are seeking me to destroy me, I am walking along calmly beneath their feet, talking philosophy with a fair young creature like yourself."
He spoke with a smile, and then cast down his eyes in a musing mood, but, still that high intelligent smile remained upon his lips, as if he found some amusement in watching the working of his own mind, amidst the strange circumstances with which fate surrounded him.
The moment after, the passage began to ascend, not exactly by steps, though the broad flat stones with which it was paved rose a little, one above the edge of the other, rendering the path somewhat rough and difficult. This lasted not long, however, and the bishop, raising his eyes, observed--
"There seems a door before us. Have you got the key?"
"It will open, on being pressed hard," replied Iola; "but I cannot think we have reached the cell yet. The way has seemed so short."
So it proved however; and approaching the door, she attempted to push it open, but it resisted her efforts. The bishop however aided; the door moved back; and, holding it open, he desired Iola to pass through into the cell which was now before them. It was a low vaulted Gothic chamber, opening on the side of the hill, by an arch with an iron grate, and having on one side a shrine and little altar. The bishop followed his fair guide into this small chapel; but Iola herself had forgotten her aunt's injunction regarding the door. The bishop let it slip from his hand, as he passed through; and it closed at once, leaving no trace of its existence in the old woodwork of the walls. Had Iola recollected the difficulty she might have in returning, she would certainly have been alarmed; and the sudden close of the door would probably have brought her aunt's warning to her remembrance, had not a sight been presented to her, immediately on entering the chapel, which at once occupied all her attention. Through the low archway which I mentioned appeared the walls and towers of the abbey, lighted up by the flame of the beacon, and by a blaze, red and smoky as if proceeding from torches both in the great court-yard between the chapel and the portal, and on the little green before the great gates. The green itself, was partly hidden by the priest's house and the cottages; but under the walls, to the north and west of the building, were seen several groups of men on horseback; and the sounds of loud voices speaking, and of men calling to one another, were borne to the ear distinctly, for the great bell by this time had ceased to toll, and there was no other sound to interrupt the murmur of the voices from the abbey.
By a natural impulse, Iola clasped her fair hands together, and uttered a low exclamation of fear; but the bishop gazed calmly forth for a moment, and then said--
"We had better hasten on our way, my child. Extinguish the lamp--Here, set it down here. We must not show ourselves more than we we can help, lest any eye should be turned this way."
"We must pass through the grate," said Iola, recalled to herself by the prelate's words; "for there is no other way out; but if we run quickly round to the back of the building, no one will see us."
"Let us go one at a time," said the bishop. "It is well to take every precaution, though I do not think the light is sufficiently strong to show us to those on the opposite side of the valley."
"Turn sharp to the right," said Iola, opening the iron grate, for the prelate to pass through; and, as soon as he was gone, she followed and rejoined him at the back of the building. "Now this way, this way," she continued hastily, anxious to lead him away from dangers, the imminence of which seemed now for the first time to strike her; and guiding him along one of the forest paths, she hurried on with a quick step, saying with one of her gay short laughs:
"They would not easily find us here. I could lead them through such a labyrinth that they would not know which way to turn to get out."
"You seem to know the forest well, daughter," said the bishop, in a good-humoured tone. "I fear me you have been fonder of rambling in the woods than conning dry lessons in the abbey of St. Clare."
He spoke in a gay and kindly manner, which conveyed no reproof; but Iola blushed a little while she answered--
"Surely! My dear aunt has not been very severe with me; and every day, when the sun was bright and the skies blue, I have gone out--sometimes with my girl Alice, sometimes alone, sometimes on foot, sometimes on a mule, sometimes to bear a message to woodman or tenant, sometimes for pure idleness. And yet not pure idleness either, my lord; for I do not know why, but amidst these old trees and upon the top of the hill, where I catch a view of all the woods and fields and rivers below, bright and beautiful and soft, it seems as if my heart rose up to Heaven more lightly than under the vault of the chapel and amongst its tall columns of stone. Then sometimes I sit beneath a spreading oak, and look at its giant limbs, and compare them with the wild anemone that grows at its foot, and lose myself in musing over the everlasting variety that I see. But hark! those voices are very loud. They cannot be coming nearer, surely."
"You are brave at a distance, daughter," said the bishop calmly; "but be not alarmed. They are only raised a little higher."
"Oh, no," she answered; "I am no coward; and you would see, if they did come near, I should not lose my wits."
Almost as she spoke, a voice exclaimed, in a one not very loud--
"Who goes there?" and Iola started, and laid her hand on the bishop's arm, as if to keep him back.
"It is Boyd the woodman's voice, I think," she said in a whisper. "Slip in behind that great tree, and I will go on and see."
"Who goes there?" repeated the voice again raised higher; and Iola, taking a step or two forward, demanded--
"Who is it that asks?"
"Is that you, Lady Iola?" said the voice, as soon as the woman's tone was distinguished.
"Yes," answered Iola. "Is it Boyd who speaks?"
"The same," answered the woodman. "Have you brought him? Where is he? Is he safe?"
"He is here, he is here," answered Iola. "Father, this is Boyd the woodman, in whom you can fully trust."
"Ah, lady, lady," murmured the woodman, coming forward, "where is the man in whom you can fully trust?"
Advancing towards him, Iola and the prelate found that he had been standing in a small open space at the angle of two roads, both of which led more or less directly to St. Magdalen's cell. The light on the spot was faint, but the woodman's tall and powerful figure was not to be mistaken; and, having resigned her charge to him, Iola turned to the prelate, saying,
"Now I will go back as fast as possible, father."
"Stay a moment, my child," replied the bishop. "May the Almighty bless and protect you, and guide you in safety unto all peace;" and he laid his hand tenderly on her head.
"Do not go in rashly, lady," said the woodman, "but stay in the little vaulted chamber at the end of the passage, till you hear matins sung in the chapel. The place will not be free of these rovers till then. If you hear not matins or prime, you may suppose that they still keep possession. In that case, you had better come away to me, dear lady--you know that I will take care of you."
"Oh, I know that well, Boyd," replied Iola. "Good night, good night--see to this reverend father's safety before all things."
"Ay, that will take two good hours at least," said the woodman, "or I would go back with you myself, dear lady; but I think you are safe enough alone."
"I have no fear," answered Iola; and she tripped lightly away, retreading the path back towards the cell.
That path led along the rising ground just at the verge of the forest, where the trees were thin and the undergrowth scanty, so that the sounds from the abbey continued to reach the fair girl's ears as she pursued it. She thought she heard the sound of horses' feet somewhat nearer, also, as if coming from the road that led up through the forest. At the same time it seemed to her that a redder glare, and a broader light spread over the sky, reflected thence upon the little footway which she trod. "They must have piled more wood upon the beacon," she thought; but yet she felt some degree of alarm.
Hurrying on, she at length reached the spot where the path passed at the back of the cell, and turning quickly round the little building, the abbey, with the slight rise on which it stood, was once more before her sight. What was her terror and surprise at that moment, when she saw the beacon light extinguished, but a still wider and more fearful glare rising up from the little green, the houses surrounding which were all in flames. Several of the wooden cottages were already down, the still burning beams and rafters lying in piles upon the ground, like huge bonfires casting up a cloud of sparks into the flickering fiery air above; and across the glare might now be seen a number of dark figures moving about upon the green, some on horseback, some on foot. From the house of the priests and choristers was rising up a tall spire of flame, sometimes clear and bright, sometimes obscured by a cloud of smoke and sparks; but the abbey itself was still unfired, and stood out dark and solemn in the midst of the blaze, with the light gleaming here and there upon the walls and pinnacles.
The first sight startled and horrified her; but she did not pause to gaze at it, till she had entered the chapel and closed the iron gate, as if for protection; but then she stood and watched the flames for a moment or two, and at length asked herself what she should do.
"I will go back," she answered, after a moment's thought. "I will not be absent from my poor aunt's side at such a moment;" and she turned to seek the door into the passage. Then, for the first time, she perceived that it was closed, and recollected the warning of the abbess to leave it ajar. She now felt really terrified; and that need of protection and help, that want of something to lean upon and to trust in, which most women experience in the hour of danger, made itself terribly felt.
"What will become of me? Where shall I go? What shall I do?" she murmured anxiously; and then, again and again, cast a timid glance at the burning buildings on the opposite side of the dell. "I will go to Boyd's house," she said at length. "I can find protection there."
But suddenly she remembered what he had said, in regard to the time he should be occupied in providing for the safety of the bishop; but her determination was at length expressed--"I shall be more safe there than here at all events. I will go;" and, without further hesitation, she crept back into the path again.
Iola now knew for the first time in life, perhaps, what it is to fear, and how the imagination is excited by apprehension. The sight of the burning buildings had shaken her nerves. She crept along as stealthily as if she feared that every tree was an enemy. She thought she heard sounds too, near at hand as she went on, and then tried to persuade herself that it was but the waving of the trees in the wind. Then she felt sure that somebody must be near; she quickened her pace to reach a path which turned suddenly to the right; but at the very entrance, when she reached it, there was standing a figure, the form of which she could not distinctly see; but it seemed tall and thin, and garmented all in white, according to the popular idea of a phantom. She recoiled in terror, and would have fled back again; but there directly in her way was another figure; and a voice exclaimed, as she was turning once more to fly--
"Lady, lady, whither away? Stay yet a moment--stay, it is a friend."
She thought she knew the tones; but, as the stranger approached, she receded, asking--
"Who is it? Who is it?"
"It is Lord Chartley," he said. "Stay, stay! You are running upon danger."
The last words were needless; for, before they were fully uttered, Iola had not only stopped but sprung forward to meet him.
Human fate, or rather the fate of the whole human race, is but as a web of cloth fixed in the frame of circumstances, with an unseen hand continually throwing the shuttle. The threads may be infinite, and some far apart from others; some in the centre, some at the selvage, but all tied and bound together by filaments that run across and across, and never ceasing till the piece is finished. When will that be? Heaven only knows. Certainly not till the end of the world.
We must now, by the reader's permission, leave the thread of Iola, and take up that of the abbess where we last left it.
As soon as she had closed the door and pushed to the panelling which concealed it, the abbess reascended to the nun's gallery in the chapel, and thence proceeded into the great body of the building. She found, as may be supposed, the utmost confusion and alarm prevailing; for by this time the noise of the great bell, and of the various sounds that were rising up around the walls, had roused all the nuns from their pallets, and, with consternation in their countenances, they were hurrying hither and thither, seeking something, and not knowing very well what they sought. Although a good deal alarmed herself, and unable to foresee what might be the end of all that was taking place, the abbess, whose heart was naturally merry, could almost have laughed at the grotesque accidents which fear produced; but, having more mind and character than the whole convent put together, she at once proceeded to restore order.
"Go at once to the chapel," she said to every nun she saw; "gather all the sisterhood there, and see that none be omitted. I will join you soon."
This order had to be repeated frequently; for at every step she met some one, and several required it to be reiterated two or three times, before terror would suffer them to comprehend it.
At length, passing round the end of the chapel, the abbess entered the great court, and found to her joy and satisfaction a much greater body of men drawn up for her defence than she expected; for the woodman had not been idle during the morning, and many more of the peasantry had been warned to listen for the sound of the bell than the voice of the porter could summon. Four of the inferior foresters also had somehow found their way into the building, dressed in leathern coats and iron caps, and each carried on his shoulder a sort of weapon, which none within the walls had ever seen before. This was a sort of small cannon, fastened upon a rudely constructed stock, and fitted to carry a ball of the weight of two or three ounces. There was no lock, nor any contrivance even for applying fire to the touch-hole by one movement; but round the arm of the bearer was twined a coil of match, which one of the men was as at that moment lighting at the porter's lantern.[1]
"What is that? What is that?" cried the abbess; "it looks like a little falconet."
"It is a hand-gun, lady," said the forester. "Some of our people brought them from Burgundy; and Boyd sent in these four. When it is time to use them, we hoist them over our shoulders; and, while the men behind take aim, we fire."
The abbess mused, for the invention was quite new to her; and, strangely clumsy as it was, it seemed to her a wonderful discovery in the art of war. She even grew very valiant on the strength of it, and called aloud for the bailiff, to consult with him upon the means of defence. The bailiff could not be found, however; and the porter informed her, with a grin, that he had gone to the buttery, thinking that there must be the principal point of attack.
"Bring him hither directly," said the abbess; "bring him by the ears, if he will not otherwise come. In the mean time how many men have we here?"
"Three and thirty, my lady," replied the old porter, while one or two ran away to bring the bailiff; "three and thirty, besides the gun-men. I think we can make good the place till morning; and then we shall have the whole country up to help us. But if you would take my advice, you would lock that bailiff up in a cell. He cools men's hearts with his cowardice. I wish he were half as brave as you, my lady."
"Well then you must command, porter," said the abbess. "Let some of the men take their bows and cross-bows up to the top of the portal, while others keep watch upon the walls all round, that they may not raise ladders without our knowing it. Let the four men with the hand-cannons draw up across the chapel door for the present. They can there very well fire upon the gates, if the enemy should break them down."
The porter was venturing to remonstrate, pointing out that the gun-men would be better on the walls, when the unfortunate bailiff was dragged into the abbess's presence, with a face so pale and eyes so haggard, that his very look convicted him. He smelt strongly of wine too, so that it was clear he had been seeking to gain courage from other sources than his own heart.
"Coward!" cried the abbess, as soon as she saw him, "are you not ashamed to see women set you an example in defending the rights of the church, while you are slinking away from your duty? Take him hence," she continued, as he attempted to stutter forth some vain excuses. "Take him hence at once, and lock him up in the first cell on the left hand. Away with him, for fear his cowardice should become infectious!--Hark! They are upon the green. There is a trumpet. I will go up to the window above the gates, and speak with them. Let not the men shoot till I give the word."
Two or three of the people round besought her to forbear, especially the priest and the principal chorister; but the abbess not only persisted in her resolution, but besought them to accompany her, in a tone which did not admit of refusal; and, walking on with an air of more dignity than one would have supposed her little plump figure could display, she ascended the stairs in the left hand tower of the portal, and presented herself at the grated window just above the gates. The part of the green nearest to the abbey was now covered with armed men, principally on horseback, though some had dismounted and were approaching the gates. A group of six or seven, who were apparently leaders, were seen at a little distance on the left, and one of them was at that moment raising his voice to an armed peasant who had appeared upon the walls. The abbess, however, cut short this oratory in the commencement, by demanding, in that shrill high key which makes itself heard so much farther than even a louder voice at a lower note: "What want ye here, my masters? How come you here in arms before the abbey of St. Clare? Bid those men keep back from the gates! Else I will instantly bid the soldiers shoot and the cannon fire."
"Cannons!" cried one of the leaders with a laugh. "By my fay, the place seems a fortress instead of an abbey."
"You will find it so to your cost, uncivil churl, if you attempt to plunder here," cried the abbess. "Bid them keep back, I say, or bide the consequence!"
"Halt, there, keep back!" cried the leader who had before spoken; and pushing his own horse under the window where the abbess stood, he looked up, saying, "They were but going to ring the bell. Are you the lady abbess?"
"What need of six men to ring the bell?" exclaimed the abbess. "If you need so many hands to do small work, you will require more than you have brought here to get the gates open. I am the lady abbess, and I bid you go hence and leave me and my children at peace, upon pain of anathema, and the greater and the lesser excommunication. I know not whether ye be the same who came to plunder us some time ago; but, if ye be, ye will find us better prepared now than we were then, though it cost you dear, even at that time."
"Listen, listen, good lady," said the horseman; "for, if you do not hear, you cannot understand, and a woman's tongue is sometimes worse than a cannon."
"You will find the thunder of the church worse still," cried the lady.
"Of that we are not afraid," answered the other; "for we come not to plunder, or commit any act of violence, unless we are driven to it."
"Pardieu, this is all chattering and nonsense," cried another man, who had ridden up from behind. "Break open the gates, Sir John. If you do not, I will; for they will convey the man away, and by Heaven, if they do, I will burn the place about their ears!"
"Peace, peace!" cried the other. "They cannot convey him away. Our men are all round the walls. Listen to me for a moment, lady. We have certain information that a man took refuge here last night, disguised as a friar. Him we must have forth; and if you will bring him out and give him up, we will ride away quietly and leave you. If not, we must find our way in and take him. We should be sorry to hurt any of your people, or to do any damage; but, when a place is forced, you know, soldiers are under no command, and the consequence be upon your own head. We must have him out."
"Do you not know that this is sanctuary," cried the abbess, "and, even if he had committed parricide or treason, any man would be safe within these walls."
"Ay, but he has not committed any offence which makes sanctuary available," replied the other. "This is a deserter from his right standard, and we will have him forth, sanctuary or no sanctuary."
"There is no such man within the walls of St. Clare," replied the abbess. "I only stand up for the privileges of the place, because they are its privileges; but at the same time, I tell you that there is no sanctuary man here, of any kind or description whatever."
"Hell and damnation!" exclaimed the more vehement of the leaders. "Will you pretend to tell me that a man did not come here this very evening, habited as a friar, who never went forth again with those who brought him? On upon the gates there. This is all jugglery!"
"Hold yet a moment, ere it comes to strife," exclaimed the abbess; and the other leader also exclaimed:
"Hold, hold there! What would you say, lady? for we cannot be dallied with."
"I say," replied the abbess, "that the damnation you evoke will some day fall upon your own heads, if you pursue this course. Moreover, I tell you, that there is no such man here, nor any man at all, but the tenants and officers of the abbey. A friar certainly did come here this evening, with a goodly company of guests. He did not depart with them; but he went away afterwards, and is no longer here--hear me out! To save bloodshed, I will give you the means of satisfying yourselves, protesting, at the same time, against the act you commit, and clearly reserving my right to punish you for it, at an after time, when you shall not plead my permission as an excuse."
"We will look to that," cried one of the others boldly. "Open your gates. We shall not want excuses for anything we do."
"Nay!" answered the abbess. "I open not my gates to all your lewd band. Any six may enter, if they will, and search every corner of the abbey, from one end to the other. You will then soon see, that I have means of defence if I choose to exert them. If you accept the terms, bid all the rest of the men retire to the other side of the green. If not, I will tell the cross-bow men and cannoniers to fire."
"We must have ten with us, otherwise we shall never get through the search," said the leader, who had first spoken.
"Well, ten be it then," said the abbess. "We shall only have more in our hands to hang, if those without attempt to play us any treachery."
"You are merry, lady," said the leader. "Is it so agreed?"
"Yes!" replied the abbess; "bid your men back, quite to the other side. Then let ten advance, and I will come down and order them to be admitted."
She waited till she had seen the retreat of the band, to the far part of the green; and then descending, she gave her orders with great clearness and rapidity, directing such arrangements to be made as would display her little force to the greatest advantage, and ordering her porter as the commander-in-chief, to send two or three stout men with each party of the searchers, keeping a wary eye at the same time upon the band without, to insure they did not approach nearer to the gates.
She then retired into the chapel, where she found the nuns all gathered round the great altar, like a swarm of bees. Having quieted and re-assured them, as well as she could, she betook herself to the window, which gave light to the gallery appropriated to the sisterhood, and, opening the lattice, looked out into the court. By this time, the ten men to whom she had promised admittance were entering, one by one, through the wicket; and she flattered herself that their faces, seen by the light of the torches, showed some surprise at the numbers collected for the defence of the place. The first part of the building, however, which they chose to search, was the chapel, and hurrying down, she met them at the great altar in the midst of her nuns. No incivility was committed; for the men without, with their loaded hand-guns, and some fifteen or sixteen others, with steel cross-bows in their hands, had imposed a salutary reverence upon the intruders. The chapel, however, was searched in every part; and when this was done, the soldiers gone, and the door once more locked, the abbess again resumed her station at the window, with a heart which, notwithstanding her bold exterior, beat somewhat anxiously for the departure of the band.
She saw the buildings on either side of the court examined thoroughly; and then, dividing into three parties, the searchers proceeded on their way, disappearing from her sight. She listened for their voices as they went, and could trace them part of the way round the great quadrangle; but then all was silent again, and she judged that they had gone to the most remote parts of the building--perhaps even to the gardens--to sweep it all the way up, in order to prevent the possibility of a fugitive escaping.
All was silent for a few minutes, except the low murmurs of the abbey-men speaking in the court below; but then came some sounds which startled and alarmed the abbess; for, after a crash, as of a door forced open, she could distinctly hear a shout of "Here he is, here he is! We've got him."
A loud murmuring of many tongues succeeded; and in a state of trembling anxiety, she waited for the result, till, to her great relief and even amusement, she beheld the whole party of ten re-appear, dragging along her cowardly bailiff in the midst of them, while several of the retainers of the abbey followed with a look of malicious fun upon their faces.
"Upon my life! upon my soul! by all the blessed saints, I tell you true," cried the unhappy bailiff. "Here, Giles, porter, tell them who I am, man--He can tell you--he can tell you."
"Faith, you are mistaken there, if you call me porter," said the man he addressed. "I know nothing about you. You are mistaken in me, good sir. I am the bailiff of the abbey."
"There, there," said one of the leaders of the soldiery. "It is all in vain, my good lord, so come along--there, take him out."
The abbess could not refrain from laughing, although she felt a strong inclination to interfere, and claim the poor bailiff as the especial property of the convent. Before she could make up her mind, however, the man was past the gates; but still, while one party of the searchers remained in the court, another turned back and pursued the examination, till not a hole or corner of the abbey was left unexplored.
In the meanwhile, however, a great deal of loud cursing and swearing was heard from the green; words of command were given, orders shouted forth; and at length, the porter hurriedly closed the wicket, exclaiming--
"Up to the walls! Bend your cross-bows! What are they about now?--You gunners, stand here below!--You pass not, sir, you pass not, till we know what all this is," he continued, addressing the leader who had first spoken to the abbess, and who, with three companions, now hurried into the court from the more secluded part of the building.
"I know not what it is any more than you do, my good man," replied the other; "but if you let me out, I will soon see."
"They are coming forward towards the gates, sir!" exclaimed the porter. "Shoot at them if they come too close, my men!--You are a knight, sir, it seems; and we will keep you as a hostage for the safety of the abbey."
"Nay, I cannot be answerable for that unless you let me forth," replied the other; "but if you do, I pledge my knightly word, as a gentleman and a Christian, that all the troops shall be drawn off, and the abbey left unmolested."
He spoke eagerly and hastily, evidently under some alarm but the old porter was not satisfied, and he replied--
"Here, put it down and your name to it. Here are pen and ink, and the visitor's book in the lodge." The officer hurried in, and did as was required at once; for the four unpleasant-looking hand culverins were pointed at him and his companions, and a lighted match in each man's hand ready to discharge them. "There it is," he said, when he had written, "Now let me pass."
The porter looked over the writing. Whether he could read or not, I cannot tell; but when he had satisfied himself as far as he was able, he cautiously opened the wicket, and let the intruders pass out one by one.
The commander led the way, hurrying on with a quick step; and he certainly did not arrive as soon as he could have wished.
"What is the matter?" he exclaimed; "what is the matter?"
"Mort Dieu!" cried the second in command, "we have been cheated, Sir John. This man is not the bishop after all. Here is one of our own people who knows him, and says he is really the bailiff."
"I am indeed," cried the miserable coward; "and if you would have let me, I would have told you all long ago."
"He Says, the friar was there not an hour ago," vociferated the second in command, "and that they must have got him out, either into these houses, or into the wood, as we were coming up the valley."
"Search the houses," said the commander; "and send a troop up the road to the wood."
"It is done, it is done," cried the other. "The men are furious; for they will lose all share of the reward. By Satan and all his imps," he added, "I believe they have set fire to the houses."
"This will come to a serious reckoning," said the commander gravely. "Try and stop the fire there. Call off the men;" and, as promptly as might be, he did all that was possible to remedy the evil that had been done. As every one who has had the command of rude men must know, however, there are times when they become perfectly ungovernable. Such was the case at present. They were an irregular and ruthless body who now surrounded the abbey; and without attending to the orders they received, to the remonstrances or even to the threats of their commander, they set fire to every building on the right hand side of the green. Nor would the others have escaped the same fate, nor the abbey itself have been left unassailed, had not the officer, as a last resource, commanded the trumpets to sound, and ordered all who could be gathered together to march up the road, for the purpose of searching the forest.
The stragglers followed, as soon as they found that the principal part of the troop had left them; and the whole force, except three or four, who remained to complete the pillage of the priest's house, marched slowly up, till a halt was sounded under the first trees of the wood.
There, however, the officer in command selected some twenty men from his band, and rode back to the abbey green. The rest of the men halted where they stood, inquiring of each other what could be the meaning of this proceeding.
He gave no explanation even when he returned; but the next morning, at daybreak, three bodies were found hanging by the neck from poles stuck into the thatch of one of the unconsumed cottages.