The trumpet sounded on the green beyond the walls; and by torch and lantern light the young lord and his companions mounted in the court before the chapel, and rode forth to join their attendants, after bestowing some rich gifts upon the abbey. Though the sky was not unclouded, for there were large masses of heavy vapour rolling across the southern part of the horizon, and the night was much warmer than that which had preceded, auguring rain to the minds of the weather-wise, yet the moon was bright and clear, displaying every object upon the little green as clearly almost as if it had been day. Though not very fond of deeds of darkness, young Lord Chartley perhaps might have wished the beams of the fair planet not quite so bright. At all events, he seemed in a great hurry to proceed upon his journey, without any very strict inspection of his band; for he exclaimed at once--
"Now, Arden; now, Weinants; let us on at a quick canter. We shall sleep well tonight."
But the eye of Sir Charles Weinants scanned the party by the moonlight more accurately than that of his companion; and he demanded aloud--
"Why, where is the friar?"
"He is too unwell to ride on to-night. He will follow to-morrow," said Lord Chartley, in a careless tone; and, striking his horse with the spur, he proceeded, but not before he had remarked Sir Charles Weinants make a very particular sign to one of his own attendants. The knight raised his finger to his lips, pointed with his thumb to the abbey, and then held up two fingers of the same hand. No sooner was this done than he shook his rein, and followed his companion, apparently unconscious that he had been observed.
For a minute or two the young lord seemed uneasy, riding on in silence, and frequently giving a sharp glance round to those who came behind; but he soon recovered his equanimity, I might say cheerfulness, for he laughed and talked gaily with those around him, especially when they came to that part of the road where, passing through the forest, it ascended a hill so steep that the pace of the horses was necessarily slackened. Sir Charles Weinants, for his part, joined in, with his quiet gentlemanly cheerfulness, and seemed perfectly free and unembarrassed.
The subject of their conversation, it is true, was not a very merry one; for they soon began to speak of the discovery of a dead man lying on that very road, the night before--killed, as was supposed, by a fall from his horse--an account of which they had received at the abbey, where the corpse was still lying. Light-hearted superficial man, however, rarely suffers any event which happens to his neighbours to produce any very deep or permanent impression on himself; and it is wonderful how merry that party of gentlemen made themselves with the fate of the dead man.
"See what it is to go too fast, Weinants," said Lord Chartley. "Doubtless this fellow was riding a hired horse, and thought he might ride him, up hill and down dale, as hard as he liked; and so the poor beast threw him to get rid of an unpleasant burden."
"Served him quite right, I dare say," said bluff Sir William Arden.
"Why, how can you know, Arden?" demanded Sir Edward Hungerford, who was riding his own beast in the most delicate and approved manner of the times. "He might be as virtuous as an anchorite for aught you know."
"The best man that ever lived," answered Arden, "deserves every hour to break his neck, and worse too; and there never yet was a king's courier, which they say this was, who is not worthy of the pillory from the moment he puts the livery on his back. A set of vermin. I wish I had but the purifying of the court. You would see very few ears, or noses either, walking about the purlieus of the palace; and as for couriers, I'd set them upon horseback, and have relays of men behind them, to flog them on from station to station, for two or three thousand miles, till they dropped off dead from fatigue and starvation--I would indeed. They should neither have meat, nor drink, nor sleep, nor rest, till they expired."
Lord Chartley laughed, for he knew his friend well; and Sir Charles Weinants enquired--
"Why, what do the poor wretches do, to merit such high indignation, Arden?"
"Do!" exclaimed the other. "What do they not do? Are they not the petty tyrants of every inn and every village? Do they not think themselves justified by the beastly livery they wear, to rob every host and every farmer, to pay for nothing that they take, to drink ale and wine gratis, to kiss the daughter, seduce the wife, and ride the horses to death, because they are on a king's service, forsooth--out upon the whole race of them. We have not a punishment within the whole scope of our criminal law that is not too good for them."
"Hush, hush, Arden," cried Lord Chartley, laughing again; "if you do not mind, Weinants will tell the king; and it will be brought in high treason."
"How so, how so?" demanded Sir William Arden, with a start; for the very name of high treason was a serious affair in those days, when the axe was seldom long polished before it was dimmed again with human blood.
"Why, do you not know the old proverb, 'like master like man?'" asked Chartley; "so that if you abuse the king's couriers you abuse the king himself. It seems to me constructive treason at all events. What say you, Hungerford?"
"Very shocking indeed," said the gentleman whom he addressed, yawning heartily; "but I hate all couriers too. They are very unsavoury fellows, give you their billets with hot hands, and bring a hideous smell of horse flesh and boot leather into the chamber with them. I always order those who come to me to be kept an hour in a chill ante-room, to cool and air themselves."
From the characters of all who surrounded him, Lord Chartley seemed to draw no little amusement; but still, it would appear, his eye was watchful, and his ear too; for, when they had ridden about a couple of miles through the wood, and were in a shady place, where the beams of the moon did not penetrate, he suddenly reined in his horse, exclaiming--
"Some one has left the company--Hark! Who is that riding away?"
"Faith, I know not," said Sir Charles Weinants.
"I hear nobody," replied Hungerford.
"There go a horse's feet, nevertheless," cried Sir William Arden.
"Gentlemen all, have you sent any one back?" demanded the young baron, in a stern tone.
A general negative was the reply; and Chartley exclaimed--
"Then, by the Lord, I will find him. Ride on, gentlemen, ride on. I will overtake you soon."
"Let me come with you, my good lord," said Sir William Arden.
"No, no, I will find him, and deal with him alone," replied the young lord; and, turning his head to add--"You can wait for me at Hinckley if you will," he spurred on sharply, on the road which led back towards the abbey. The party whom he left remained gathered together for a moment, in surprise at the rapidity and the strangeness of his movements.
"In the name of fortune," cried Sir Edward Hungerford, "why does he not take somebody with him?"
"Every one knows his own business best," said Arden gruffly.
"Hush! hush!" said Sir Charles Weinants. "Let us hear which way he takes."
Now at the distance of perhaps two hundred yards behind them, the road through the wood divided into two; that on the left, by which they had come, leading direct to the abbey and its little hamlet; that on the right pursuing a somewhat circuitous course towards the small town of Atherston. The footfalls of Lord Chartley's horse, as he urged him furiously on, could be clearly heard as soon as Sir Charles Weinants had done speaking; and a moment after they seemed to take a direction to the right. The party still paused and listened, however, till it became clear by the sounds that the young nobleman had gone upon the road to Atherston.
Then Sir Charles Weinants drew a deep breath, and said, in an easy tone: "Well, let us ride on. We can wait for him at Hinckley. Doubtless, he is safe enough."
Sir William Arden seemed to hesitate; and Lord Chartley's steward said in a doubtful tone: "I think we ought to wait for my lord."
"You heard what he said himself," replied Sir Charles Weinants. "Our business is to go slowly on, and wait for him at Hinckley, if he does not overtake us by the way."
So was it in the end determined, and the party proceeded at a foot pace in the direction which they had before been taking. Mile after mile they rode on without being overtaken by their companion, every now and then pausing for a minute or two, to listen for his horse's feet, and then resuming their progress, till at length they arrived at Hinckley. They entered the inn yard, just at the moment that the carriers from Ashby de la Zouche to Northampton usually presented themselves with their packhorses; and they instantly had out landlord and ostlers, and all the retinue of the inn, with lanterns in abundance.
"Stay!" said Sir William Arden, as the attendants were hurrying to dismount, and lead their lords' horses to the stables. "Please Heaven, we will see who it is that is wanting."
"No need of that," exclaimed Sir Charles Weinants. "We shall learn soon enough, no doubt."
But the good knight, who was a steady campaigner, and one of the best soldiers of his day, adhered tenaciously to his purpose, ordered the gates of the inn-yard to be closed, and the doors of the house and of the stables to be shut and locked. He next insisted that the servants should draw up in separate bodies, the attendants of each master in a distinct line, and then made the ostlers carry their lanterns along the face of each.
"One of your men is wanting, Sir Charles Weinants," he said at length. "It must have been he who rode away, and left his company in the forest."
"More fool, or more knave he," replied Sir Charles Weinants, coolly. "He shall be punished for his pains by losing his wages. But, if I am not mistaken, there is another wanting too. Where is Lord Chartley's Moor? I have not seen him for some time, and do not perceive him now."
"He staid behind in the wood, Sir Charles," replied one of the servants, "to look after the noble lord. He said--let go who would, he would stay there."
"Perhaps my man staid for the same purpose?" said Sir Charles Weinants.
"No, sir," answered another of the servants, attached to Sir William Arden. "He left us some minutes before Lord Chartley, while we were still riding on through the forest."
"Well, gentlemen, I shall remain here till my friend comes," said Arden, in a marked tone; "for I do not altogether like this affair."
"And I shall stay, because I have had riding enough for one day; and the inn looks comfortable," said Sir Edward Hungerford.
"I shall ride on, as soon as my horses have been fed and watered," rejoined Sir Charles Weinants, in a cold resolute tone; "because I have business of importance which calls me to Leicester."
His determination did not seem very pleasant to Sir William Arden, who looked at him steadily for a moment, from under his bent brows, and then walked once or twice up and down the court, without ordering the doors of the stables to be opened.
Weinants, however, took that task upon himself. His horses received their food and devoured it eagerly; and then, just as the carriers were arriving, Sir Charles Weinants rode out of the court yard, bidding his companions adieu in the most perfectly civil and courteous terms.
Sir William Arden suffered him to depart, but most unwillingly it must be confessed, and, when he was gone, turned to Sir Edward Hungerford, saying: "I should like to skin him alive, the cold-blooded double dealer. It is very strange, what can have become of Lord Chartley."
"Strange!" said Sir Edward Hungerford, in a tone of affected surprise; "why, he has gone to say a few more words to that pretty girl at the abbey, to be sure. I should not wonder to see him arrive in half an hour, with the dear little thing on a pillion behind him."
"Pshaw!" said Arden. "You are a fool;" and he turned into the inn.
It was a dark night; and the appearance of the cottage or hut was, in the inside at least, gloomy enough. The large wooden boards, which shut out wind and storm, covered the apertures that served for windows; and neither lamp nor taper, nor even a common resin candle, gave light within. Yet it was only a sort of half darkness that reigned in the first chamber, as one entered from the forest; for a large fire was burning on the hearth, and a log weighing some hundredweight had just been put on. The dry unlopped shoots, and withered leaves which still hung around the trunk of the decayed tree, had caught fire first, and the flame they produced went flashing round the walls with a sort of fitful glare, displaying all that they contained.
The room was a large one, larger indeed than many, in buildings with far greater pretensions; for the chief woodman had upon particular occasions to assemble a great number of his foresters under that roof. Whole deer were often brought in to be broken and flayed, as the terms were, and prepared for cooking, before they were sent down to the more delicate hands of the abbey. Besides, the woodman's house was usually in those days a place of general hospitality; and, indeed, the good ladies of the abbey always passed right willingly the charges which he sometimes had to make for the entertainment of strangers and wayfarers on their lands.
As compared with a poor man's cottage of the present day, that of the woodman was a large but very wretched abode; but as compared with the huts of the ordinary peasantry of the time, it was a splendid mansion. The walls were formed of large beams of wood, crossing and supporting each other in various strange directions, forming a sort of pattern or figure inside and out, not unpleasant to look upon. The interstices were filled up with mud, mingled with small gravel stones and thick loam; and the floor was of mud, well battened down and hardened, though, in spite of all care, it presented various inequalities to the foot. Ceiling, as may well be supposed, the chamber had none. Large, heavy, roughly hewn rafters appeared above, with the inside of the thatch visible between the beams. A partition wall, with a rude door in it, crossed the building at about one third of its length, but this wall was raised no higher than those which formed the enclosure, that is to say, about seven or at most eight feet; and thus, though the lower part of the building was divided into several chambers, a clear passage for air, or sound, or rats, or mice, existed immediately under the roof, from one end of the building to the other. The most solid or massive piece of architecture in the whole structure was the chimney, with its enormously wide hearth and projecting wings. These were all built of hewn stone, the same as that of which the abbey was composed; and before the cottage was raised around it--for the chimney was built first--the mass must have looked like an obelisk in the midst of the forest.
Although we have greatly abandoned that sort of building at present, and doubtless our houses are more warm and air-tight than those of that day; yet the plan of these large wooden frame-works, with the beams shown on the inside and the out, was not without its convenience. Thus nails and hooks, and shelves and cupboards, were easily fixed in, or against the walls, without any danger of knocking down the plaster, or injuring the painting. Indeed, I do not know what the woodman would have done without this convenience, for the whole walls, on three sides at least, were studded with hooks and pegs, from which were suspended all sorts of implements belonging to his craft, and a variety of other goods and chattels. There were axes, knives, saws, bills, wedges, mallets, hammers, picks; long bows, cross bows, sheaves of arrows, bags of quarrels, boar-spears, nets, and two or three pronged forks, some serrated at the edges like Neptune's trident, and evidently intended to bring up unwilling eels out of their native mud. Then again there were various garments, such as a woodman might be supposed to use, leathern coats, large boots, a cloth jerkin, apparently for days of ceremony, gloves made of the thickest parts of a buck's hide, and a cap almost shaped like a morion, of double-jacked leather, which would have required a sharp sword and strong arm to cut it through. But, besides this defensive piece of clothing, which was probably intended rather for the forest than the field, was the ordinary steel cap, back and breastplate of a feudal archer of the period; for each woodman was bound to serve the abbey in arms for a certain period, in case of need.
Hanging from the beams above, was a very comfortable store of winter provision, several fat sides of bacon, half a side of a fallow deer salted and dried, and several strings of large sausages smoked in the most approved manner. Bunches of dried herbs too were there, and a salt fish or two, to eke out the lentil soup and eggs upon a fast day.
Within the wings of the large chimney, on a coarse wooden settle, and with his foot resting upon the end of one of the iron dogs or andirons, sat the woodman himself. His arms were crossed upon his chest. His back rested against the wall of the chimney; and his eyes were fixed upon the blazing fire, as if one of those musing fits had seized him, in which eye and fancy are at work, seeing castles, and towers, and landscapes, and faces in the mouldering embers, while the mind, abstracted from the outward scene, is busy in the quiet secrecy of the heart with things of more deep and personal interest. By his side sat a large wolf dog, of a kind not often seen in England, in form like a gigantic greyhound, covered with shaggy slate-coloured hair, thickly grizzled with grey, especially about the head and paws.
His long gaunt jaws rested on the woodman's knee; and sometimes he turned his contemplative eyes upon the fire, seeming to watch it, and muse upon its nature; and sometimes he raised them with a sleepy but affectionate look to his master's face, as if he would fain have spoken to him and asked him, "What shall we do next?"
Not a look did the poor hound get for some time, however, for his master had other things to think of; but at last the good man laid his hand upon the shaggy head, and said "Honest and true, and the only one!"
He then resumed his musing again, till at length the dog rose up, and, with slow and stately steps, advanced to the door, and putting down his nose, seemed to snuff the air from without. The woodman lifted up his head and listened; but the only sounds which were audible were those produced by the footfalls of a horse at a distance; and, turning round to the fire again with a well-pleased look, the woodman murmured, "Good. He is coming this way."
He did not budge from his settle, however, nor seem to pay much attention, till the rapid footfalls of the horse seemed to cease altogether, or turn, in a different direction. Then he looked up and said, "That is strange. He cannot have missed his way after having twice found it before."
He listened attentively; but still there was no sound audible to his ear; and it was the dog who first discovered that a stranger was approaching. A low growl and then a fierce sharp bark were the intimations which he gave, as soon as his ear caught the sound of a step, and his master immediately called him to him, saying, "Hither, Ban, hither. Down to foot--down, sir;" and the obedient hound immediately stretched himself out at length beside the fire.
The woodman, in the mean time, gave an attentive ear, and at length distinguished the steps of a man approaching, mixed occasionally with the slow fall of horses' hoofs upon turfy ground, where the iron shoe from time to time struck against a pebble, but otherwise made no noise. Nevertheless he sat still till the noise, after becoming louder and louder, stopped suddenly, as if the traveller had paused upon a small green which stretched out before the door, comparatively open and free from trees for the space of about three quarters of an acre, although here and there a solitary beech rose out of the turf, overshadowing the greater part of the space. No brushwood was there, however, and the small forest road traversed the green on its way towards the distant town, spreading out into a wide sort of sandy track, nearly opposite to the woodman's house.
As soon as the sound of footsteps ceased, the first inhabitant of the cottage strode across, and threw open the door, demanding, "Who goes there?"
The answer was as usual--"a friend;" but, before he gave him admission or credence, the woodman was inclined to demand further explanations, saying, "Every man in this day professes himself a friend, and is often an enemy. Say, what friend, and whence?"
The visitor, however, without reply, proceeded to fasten his horse to a large iron hook, which projected from one of the beams of the cottage, and then advanced straight towards the woodman, who still stood in his doorway. The man eyed him as he came near, and then, seeming better satisfied, retired a step or two to give him entrance. The traveller came forward with a bold free step, and without ceremony walked into the cottage, and took a seat by the fire.
"Now let us talk a little, my friend," he said, turning to the woodman; "but first shut the door."
The other did as he was bid, and then, turning round, gazed at the stranger from head to foot with a slight smile. After his contemplation was finished, he pulled his own settle to a little distance and seated himself, saying, "Well?" while the large hound, after snuffing quietly at the stranger's boots, laid his head upon his knee and looked up in his face.
"You are a hospitable man, I doubt not," said the visitor, "and will give me shelter for an hour or two, I trust. I have ridden hard, as you may see."
"But not far or long since supper time," rejoined the woodman: "but what want you with me, my lord?"
"You seem to know me," said Lord Chartley, "and indeed are a very knowing person, if I may believe all.--Are you alone here?"
"Yes, we are man to man," answered the woodman with a laugh.
"Is there no one at the back of that door?" demanded Lord Chartley.
"Nothing more substantial than the wind," replied the other. "Of that there is sometimes too much."
"Pray how do you know me?" demanded Lord Chartley.
"I never said I know you," answered the woodman. "Are not your silks and satins, your gilt spurs, the jewel in your bonnet, to say nothing of the golden St. Barnabas, and your twisted sword hilt, enough to mark you out as a lord? But Lord, Lord, what do I care for a lord? However, I do know you, and I will tell you how far it is marvellous. I was in Tamworth yesterday, and saw a man wonderfully gaily dressed, upon a horse which must have cost full three hundred angels, with some forty or fifty followers, all gaily dressed too; so I asked one of the cunning men of the place, who the gay man on the fine horse was, and he answered, it was the young Lord Chartley. Was not that surprising?"
"Not very," replied Lord Chartley laughing; "but what came after was more marvellous; how this cunning man should have known that the young Lord Chartley would sup at the abbey of Atherston St. Clare tonight."
"It was," answered the woodman, in the same sort of ironical tone, "especially as the Lord Chartley mentioned his purpose gaily to Sir Edward Hungerford, and Sir Edward Hungerford told it to Sir Charles Weinants, and Sir Charles Weinants to his servant Dick Hagger, who, as in duty bound, told it to Boyd the woodman, and asked if there were really any pretty girls to be seen at the abbey, or whether it was a mere gibe of the good lord's."
"The good lord was a great fool for his pains," said Lord Chartley, thoughtfully; "and yet not so much so either, for it was needful to give a prying ass some reason for going."
"Take care, my good lord," replied the woodman, nodding his head sententiously, "Take care that you don't find the prying ass a vicious ass too. Those donkies kick very hard sometimes, and there is no knowing when they will begin."
"Oh, this is a soft fool," replied the nobleman. "I fear him not. There are others I fear more."
"And none too much," replied the woodman, "though this man you fear too little."
Lord Chartley sat and mused for several moments without reply. Then, raising his head suddenly, he looked full in the woodman's face, saying, "Come, come, my friend, we must speak more clearly. If what the abbess told me be true, you should know that we are upon no jesting matters."
"Good faith, I jest not, my lord," said the woodman. "I speak in as sober seriousness as ever I can use in this merry world, where everything is so light that nothing deserves a heavy thought. Why, here the time was, and I remember it well, when taking a man's life without battle or trial was held to be murder by grave old gentlemen with white beards. Now heads fall down like chesnuts about the yellow autumn time of the year, and no one heeds it any more than if they were pumpkins. Then again I recollect the time when a man confided in his wife and she did not betray him, and might lend his purse to his friend without having his throat cut as payment of the debt. Learned clerks, in those days, sang songs and not lewd ballads; and even a courtier would tell truth--sometimes. It is long ago indeed; but now, when life, and faith, and truth cannot be counted upon for lasting more than five minutes beyond the little present moment in which we stand, how can any man be very serious upon any subject? There is nothing left in the world that is worth two thoughts."
"Methinks there is," answered Lord Chartley; "but you touch upon the things which brought me here. If faith and truth be as short-lived as you would have it, master woodman, how would you, that either the abbess or I, or a person to whom I will at present give no name, should trust you in a matter where his life, ay, and more than his life, is perilled?"
"Faith, only as a dire necessity," answered the woodman, in an indifferent tone, "and because there is none other whom you can trust. The abbess will trust me, perhaps, because she knows me; you, because it is too late to think of any other means; and your nameless person, because he cannot help it."
"I know not that it is too late," replied Lord Chartley. "You have not got the tally board so completely in your hand, my friend, as to run up the score without looking at the other side. But, in a word, I have made a good excuse to leave my friends and servants, in order to see whether I could obtain some warrant for trusting you, in a matter of such deep importance as that which may perhaps be soon cast upon you."
"The best of all warrants for a man's good faith, my lord," answered the woodman, "is the certainty that he can gain nothing by breaking it. Now to speak plainly, I knew yesterday that good old Father Morton, bishop of Ely, was housed at Tamworth under the gown of a friar. To-night I know that he is lodged in the abbey. Had it so pleased me either yesterday or to-day, I could have brought over as many of King Richard's bands from Coleshill as would have soon conveyed his right reverence to the tower, and if reward is to be got, could have got it. Therefore, it is not a bit more likely that I should betray him, were he now standing under this roof, than yesterday in Tamworth, or to-day at Atherston St. Clare."
"There is some truth in what you say," answered Lord Chartley; "and I believe the best plan is to let a good dog beat the ground his own way. Yet I would fain know how you were informed that such a person was with me."
"What has that to do with the matter?" answered the woodman. "Take it all for granted. You see I am informed. What matters how?"
"Because it is somewhat suspicious," answered Lord Chartley at once, "that you should gain intelligence having no reference to your calling or station, while others both shrewd and watchful have gained none."
"I have no intelligence," replied the woodman. "Everything is simple enough when we look at it close. I saw the bishop dismount, knew him, and understood the whole business in a minute. He was kind to some whom I loved in years long past; and I do not forget faces--that is all. But now, my good lord, you have somewhat squeezed me with examinations. Let me ask you a question or two, of quite as much moment. On what excuse did you leave your friends and servants?"
"Good faith, you know so much," replied Lord Chartley, "that methinks you might know that also. However, as I must trust you in more weighty matters, I may as well tell that too. I have some doubts of one of our party, who joined us just on the other side of Tamworth, and has adhered closely to us ever since."
"Like a wet boot to a swelled ancle, I will answer for it," said the woodman, "if you mean the knave Weinants."
"I mean no other," answered Lord Chartley; "but however to my tale;" and he proceeded to relate all that had occurred that night in the wood. "I did not follow the man, I pretended to follow," he continued, "because I knew that was in vain. He had got too far away from me; and, moreover, had I caught him, what could I have done? I have no power over Sir Charles Weinant's servants, and he had but to name his lord, and plead his orders, and my authority was at an end; but as the good lady abbess was very confident she could, by your help, insure our friend's safety, even should the abbey be searched, I came hither to make myself more sure, by talking with you myself."
While the young nobleman had been speaking, the woodman had risen up, with a somewhat eager and anxious eye, but continued gazing upon him, without interrupting him, till he had done.
"This must be looked to," he said, at length; "there is no time to be lost. Are you sure these excellent friends of yours have gone on?"
"So I besought them," answered the other.
"Besought them!" said the woodman. "We must have better security than beseechings;" and, taking a horn that was hanging against the wall, he went to the door and blew two notes, twice repeated.
"We shall soon have some tidings," he said, returning into the hut. "I have got my deer-keepers watching in different places; for our rogues here are fond of venison, as well as their neighbours, and care not much whether it be in or out of season."
"So then you are head keeper, as well as head woodman?" said Lord Chartley.
"Ay, my lord," answered the other. "We have no fine degrees and distinctions here. We mix all trades together, woodman, verderers, keepers, rangers. 'Tis not like a royal forest, nor an earl's park, where no man ventures out of his own walk. This Sir Charles Weinants," he continued, in a musing tone; "so he joined you on the other side of Tamworth. 'Tis strange he did not betray you earlier."
"He seemed not to know there was anything to betray," replied the young lord; "looked innocent and unconscious, and talked of points and doublets, and the qualities of Spanish leather, women, and perfumes, with Sir Edward Hungerford; or of horses, and suits of armour, cannon, and such like things, with Arden; or with me of sheep, poetry, and policy, the fit furnishing of an old hall, or a great feast for Christmas Day."
"He knew his men belike," said the woodman, with a cynical smile.
"Perhaps he did," replied the young lord, somewhat sternly, "and might be sure that, if he betrayed my friend in my company, I would cut his throat without waiting for royal permission, though he had all the kings in Christendom for his patrons."
"That might have a share in his discretion, it is true," answered the woodman; "but we must not have him hear our counsels now, and must make sure that he and his, as well as your own people, have ridden on."
"How can we learn that?" demanded Chartley.
"We shall hear anon," answered the woodman; and in a minute or two after the door opened, and a man in a forester's garb put in a round head covered with curly hair, demanding--
"What would you, master Boyd?"
"How goes all above?" demanded the woodman.
"All well," answered the forester.
"Upon the road," said Boyd; "upon the Hinckley road?"
"The company from the abbey just passed, all but three," replied the man. "One rode away first, and took the Coleshill road, so Tim Harris says. The other followed five minutes after, and came hither."
"Who was the third?" asked Lord Chartley eagerly.
The man did not answer for a moment, but looked to the woodman, who nodded his head, and then the other replied--
"'Twas the tawny Moor. He is up the road there, within sight of the door."
"Let him rest, let him rest," said the woodman. "Can you trust him, my good lord?"
"Better than I could trust a king, a minister, or a lover," replied Chartley. "If ever there was true faith, out of a big dog, it lies under that brown skin."
"To Coleshill?" said the woodman, musing and turning round the horn in his hand, as if he were examining it curiously. "Ten miles by the nearest way. We shall hear more soon, but not for three hours, I wot. Go along Dick, and get two or three more upon the Coleshill road, about half a mile or so from the abbey. Set one up in a tree; and if he sees a band of men coming down, let him sound three notes upon his horn, over and over, till he is answered. You, yourself, as soon as you hear the sound, run down to the abbey, and make St. Clare's baby call out aloud. Tell the portress to let the lady abbess know there are enemies coming near, and that she had better take counsel immediately. Then draw altogether here, as many men as you can get, for we may have work to do. Away with you! And now, my good lord," he continued, as the man shut the door, "I must have my supper, and if you like to share it, you shall have woodman's fare."
"I have supped already," replied Lord Chartley; "and methinks you eat late for a forester. They are always ready enough for their meals."
"I am ready enough for mine," replied the woodman, "seeing that no morsel has passed my lips this day. I never touch food, of any kind, till midnight is near at hand. I am like a hunting dog, which, to do its work well, should have but one meal a-day."
"Your habits are somewhat strange, for a man of your condition," said Lord Chartley, "and your language also."
"Oh," said the woodman, "as for my language, I have seen courts, and am courtly. Why, I was for several years a lackey to a great man; but my preferment was spoiled by the jealousy of other lackeys, so, to save myself from worse, I ran away and betook myself to the woods and wilds; but I can be as delicate and mincing as a serving maid should need be, and as full of courtesies as a queen's ape. I am like every widow of sixty, and like every parson in rusty black without a parish; I have had my sorrows and seen my best days, which makes me at times melancholic; but I haven't forgot my gentility, when it suits my turn, nor the choice words which one perfunctorily gathers up in courts."
All this was said in a bitter and sneering manner, as if he made a mockery of the very acquirements he boasted of; and Lord Chartley replied: "By my faith, I believe your last trade is honester than your first, my good friend. However, get your supper, and tell me in the mean while, in plain English, what you think all this will come to."
The woodman took down a large bowl from a shelf on the one side of the room, and poured a part of the milk that it contained into an iron pot. This he suspended over the fire, by a hook which hung dangling over the blaze, and when the milk began to boil, scattered a handful of oatmeal in it, stirring it round at the same time, till it was of a tolerable thick consistency. Upon this mess, when he had removed it from the fire and placed it on the table, he poured the rest of the milk cold. But it must not be supposed that all this time he had refrained from speaking. On the contrary, in brief and broken sentences, he replied to the young nobleman's question, saying, "What will become of it? Why, simply Richard's bands will be down about the abbey in an hour or two, and will search every corner of it--or set it on fire, perchance, or any thing else that they please to do."
"They will hardly dare, I think," said Lord Chartley. "This abbey, I am told, has the privilege of sanctuary, and if King Richard has a quality on earth, on which he can justly pride himself, it is his strictness in repressing the lawless violence which has risen up in times of long and fierce contention."
"Ay, lawless violence in other men," said the woodman; "but crimes committed in our own cause become gentle failings in the eyes of tyrants. The man who punishes a robber or assassin, rewards a murder committed on the king's behalf. Was princely Buckingham the other day judged by the laws or sentenced by his peers? No, no. The king's word was warrant enough for his death, and would be for the sacking of the abbey. There is but one respect which could save it. This king would fain be thought religious; and he has respected sanctuary before now--where it served the purposes of a prison as well as a refuge; but he is cunning as well as resolute; and he will find means to hide his share in the deed he profits by. Look you here now, my good lord; suppose some band of mere plunderers attacks the abbey, as was done not very long ago; then an obnoxious bishop may fall into the king's hands, without his avowing the deed."
"But his officers would be recognised," replied Lord Chartley.
"True, if the deed were committed by regular troops under noble leaders," said the woodman; "but these bands at Coleshill are mere mercenaries, gathered together in haste when the report first ran that the earl of Richmond was coming over hither. Since then, the king knows not what to do with them; and there they lie, living at free quarters upon the people. These are men, easily disavowed. But it will be as I have said; of that be you assured. If the bishop is now within the abbey, it will go hard but they will seek him there. Then, if the abbess is wise and follows counsel, she will send him forth to me, and I will provide for his safety."
"But where? But how?" demanded Lord Chartley. "This forest is not of such extent that you could shelter him from any keen pursuit."
The woodman looked at him with a smile, and then replied: "We do not trust all its secrets to every one. They are more intricate than you imagine. There are a thousand places where he might be hid, not to mention the old castle on the hill. It was a stronghold of the family of the Morleys, taken and sacked in the civil wars, under the fourth Harry, and the lands given over to the abbey. There is many a chamber and many a hall there, which would puzzle the keenest-scented talbot of all the king's pack, to nose out a fugitive therein. You might almost as well hunt a rat through the cript of an old church as seek for any one hiding there. That is one place; but there are a dozen others; and whither I will take him must be decided at the time. However, rest you sure that, once out of the abbey walls, and in my charge, he is safe."
"We must trust so," replied the young nobleman; "and your goodwill and intentions, I doubt not; but fate is out of any man's keeping, my good friend, and indeed we are all in hers. However, we must do as we can, and leave the rest to God's good will, who shapes all things as seems fit unto him, and often overrules our wishes and designs for excellent purposes that we cannot foresee. While you take your supper--a somewhat poor one for a strong man--I will go out and tell my good Arab, Ibn Ayoub, that I am safe and well. Otherwise, having marked me hither, he will stay watching near, till I or the sun come forth."
"Well bethought," answered the woodman. "'Tis strange how faithful these heathens sometimes are. Bring him in hither, and let him stable his horse and yours in the shed behind the cottage. He will find the way there, round to the left."
Let us now return within the abbey walls for a while, and see what was passing there. The departure of the guests had left behind, at least with some of the fair inmates, that sensation of vacant dulness, which usually succeeds a period of unusual gaiety, especially with those whose ordinary course of life is tranquil if not tedious.
Iola felt that the convent would seem much more cheerless than before; and, as she stood with her cousin Constance in the little private parlour of her aunt, conversing for a few minutes, before they retired to rest, upon the events of the day, her light heart could not help pouring forth its sensations, innocent and natural as they were, to her somewhat graver and more thoughtful cousin.
"Good lack, dear Constance," she said, "I wish they would not show us such bright scenes and give us such gay moments, if they are both to be snatched away again the next minute. How heavy will the next week be, till we have forgotten all these gay feathers, and silks, and satins, and gold embroidery, and gentle speeches, and pleasant wit."
"Nay, I hope, Iola, that you did not have too many gentle speeches," replied her cousin, with a quiet smile; "for I saw somebody's head bent low, and caught the sound of words whispered rather than spoken, and perceived a little pink ear turned up to catch them all."
"Oh, my man was the most charming ever seen," answered Iola; "just fitted for my companion in a long ride through the forest, as thoughtless, as careless, as merry as myself; who will forget me as soon as I shall forget him, and no harm done to either. What was your man like, Constance? He seemed as gruff as a large church bell, and as stern as the statue of Moses breaking the tables."
"He was well enough for a man," answered Constance. "He might have been younger, and he might have been gentler in words; for his hair was grizzled grey, and he abused everybody roundly, from the king on his throne to the horseboy who saddled his beast. He was a gentleman notwithstanding, and courteous to me; and I have a strong fancy, dear Iola, that his heart is not as hard as his words, for I have read in some old book that hard sayings often go with soft doings."
"Ha, ha, say you so, Constance dear?" replied Iola; "then methinks you have been prying a little closely into the bosom of this Sir William Arden. Well, you are free, and can love where you list. I am like a poor popinjay tied to a stake, where every boy archer may bend his bow at me, and I do nothing but sit still and endure. I often wonder what this Lord Fulmer is like, my husband that is to be, God wot. I hope he is not a sour man with a black beard, and that he does not squint, and has not a high shoulder like the king, and has both his eyes of one colour; for I hate a wall-eyed horse, and it would be worse in a husband--unless one of them was blind, which would indeed be a comfort, as one could be sure of getting on the blind side of him."
"How your little tongue runs," said her cousin. "It is like a lapdog fresh let out into the fields, galloping hither and thither for pure idleness."
"Well, I will be merry whatever happens," answered Iola gaily. "'Tis the best way of meeting fate, Constance. You may be as grave and demure as a cat before the fire, or as sad and solemn as the ivy on an old tower. I will be as light as the lark upon the wing, and as cheerful as a bough of Christmas holly, garlanding a boar's head on a high festival; and she sang with a clear sweet voice, every note of which was full of gladness, some scraps of an old ballad very common in those days.