"Oh, I am very glad!" exclaimed Iola, in a tone so confiding, so joyful, that it made Chartley's heart thrill.
There is certainly something in trust and confidence that is wonderfully winning. Even with man--fierce, bloody, all-devouring man--it is hardly possible to resist sacred confidence. The birds, the beasts which trust us, and show their trust by cheerful familiarity, we spare and cherish. The robin hops upon the window sill, and we feed it with the crumbs from our table; and--to go from the least to the greatest--we are told, that if we too trust in God, He will feed us, as we feed the bird.
Yes, there is something very winning in confidence; and Lord Chartley, though he could not see the fair face of Iola distinctly, thought her more beautiful at that moment than when she had been sitting by his side at the abbey.
"Dear lady," he said, taking her hand and speaking in a low voice, "it rejoices me that you are glad; and right glad am I too, believe me, to find you, though I did not rightly expect it. I have seen our friend the woodman but now, and him whom you wot of. They are safely across the road; but I could not be satisfied, when I heard that you had gone back alone, without following you, to assure myself of your safety. Why did you--"
"But who is that--who is that up there?" demanded Iola, pointing with her left hand, in the direction of the spot where she had seen another figure standing, but not withdrawing her right from that of the young nobleman, and, on the contrary, creeping closer to him.
"Fear not," replied Chartley; "it is only my good slave. I stationed him there, to warn you there was danger on that path, while I crept through the trees, to see you safely to the cell. Why did you turn back? Are you afraid to go through the passage alone?"
"No, no," she answered; "but, alas, the door is closed, and cannot be opened from this side."
"Unfortunate indeed!" exclaimed Lord Chartley. "What is to be done now?--Where are you to pass the night?"
"Oh," replied Iola, in a frank cheerful tone, "I fear not now when you are with me. I will go at once to the good woodman's cottage, if you will but kindly take care of me till I reach it. I shall be quite safe there."
"It would be indeed a pleasant task," replied her young companion; "but it is impossible, either for you or me, dear lady, to reach the cottage without danger, to which you must not be exposed. There is already one troop of these men upon the road; and, if I judge rightly by the trumpet I heard just now, others will soon follow. It would seem that they have discovered our good friend's escape, and are pursuing him hither. Besides, the woodman will not be at his dwelling for several hours. I saw him across the road, just before the head of the troop came up the hill; and then, after watching for a moment, and perceiving that they sent parties forward, as if to patrol, I came on hither, fearful for you."
"You are very kind," said Iola, in a low and sweet but sad tone. "What I am to do now, I know not. I must pass the night in the wood, I fancy, like the poor children that they tell of. Would that I had brought warmer garments; for in truth it is not warm; and, what between fear and cold, I am shaking already.--What will become of me, I wonder?"
"Nay, the cold shall be soon remedied," answered the young nobleman. "This furred surcoat could not serve a fairer purpose or a fairer maid, though in truth it might hold two such slight fairy forms as this.--Nay, I insist upon it," he continued, as he wrapped the warm garment round her: "and as for fear, dear lady, tremble not for that. I will defend you with my life, and will not part with you, till I see you safely back within the walls of the abbey, or at least under your good aunt's protection. Besides, I have strong help at need, in the strength of my good Arab's arm. Woe be to the rover who meets the edge of his scimitar. Nevertheless, we must find out some place of refuge for the night, if it be but a bower of green boughs, where you can sleep while I guard you as your sentinel."
"It were better to seek some more secure hiding-place," answered Iola, "where these people will not find us. There is what they call Prince Edward's cave, I know not why; but that is on the other side of the road."
"The woodman spoke of an old castle on the hill," said the young nobleman. "I saw the keep too, towering up from below; but now I cannot tell which way it lies."
"Oh, I can find the way," cried Iola gladly. "I know every path thither, and almost every stone in the building. It lies on this side of the hill too, though it is more than a mile off."
"Then let us thither if you can find the way," replied Chartley. "Should we be pursued, we can play at hide and seek there, or, at the worst, make good some tower or staircase till help comes. Were I sure that there is any officer or man of repute with these bands, I should not fear for you, but so fair a flower must not be trusted in the rude hands of lawless soldiery."
Iola did not, or would not, notice the last words. Indeed, it is rare, when a phrase contains several parts, that more than one is attended to by any individual. She fixed at once upon what he had said regarding the old castle, and answered, "Oh, we can play at hide and seek with them there, for a year, if we can but reach it safely; and I think I can lead you thither by a path they will never dream of; for still, while approaching, it seems to be turning away from the object at which it aims."
"Somewhat like woman's wit, dear lady," answered Lord Chartley, laughing, "which I must say often takes the prettiest ways imaginable to its ends, in gay meanderings round and round. But come. There is no fear of their attempting to search the wood, this night at least, though they may try to watch all the outlets. We shall pass safe enough, if we enter upon no high roads."
"No, no," answered Iola, with a little spice of vengeance. "They shall be all crooked, narrow, and obscure, like man's policy. Here, we must turn up here, and take up your Moor by the way."
"Lean upon my arm then," said Chartley, drawing hers through his own. "You will need some support on this long journey."
"It will be like the journey of life," she answered, "where sometimes we must tread the narrow path singly and unsupported; sometimes guiding and helping each other."
Thus saying, she walked on with him, leaning lightly on his arm, but musing as she went. Chartley spoke a few words to Ibn Ayoub, bidding him follow a few steps behind, and keep a watchful ear for any sounds of pursuit; and thus he and his fair companion proceeded for about five minutes in silence, till at length Iola broke from her fit of musing, saying abruptly, "Heaven help me! What would my poor aunt think if she knew that I was wandering here alone with you, my lord?"
Lord Chartley thought he perceived in those words a certain portion of doubt and fear, which he could not but own was natural, but yet he was very anxious to remove. "I trust she would be glad," he replied, "that you had met with one, by a strange accident, in whom you and she can fully trust, to guard and defend you against all wrong. I think you know that such a one is by your side."
"Oh that I do," she answered, looking up towards his face, though she could not see it. "Do not suppose I have any fears of you, my lord; for I feel as if I had known you many a year; and, though they say we should judge no man rashly, yet I am right sure you would neither wrong me nor see me wronged, for any good the world could give. My aunt, however, might be more suspicious; for she has strange notions of the world, and I trust not true ones."
Chartley was silent for a moment or two, and then laughed gaily.
"It were easy," he replied at length, "to say as I was just going to say--Trust me, and doubt all other men; but I had better say nothing of the kind, however, for I can neither tell you rightly why you should suspect others, nor give you a good reason why you should trust me. Happy is it, in my case, that you have no choice. Trust me you must, sweet girl, whether you will or not; but believe me," he added, thinking he felt a certain tendency to withdraw her arm from his, "believe me, that trust is not misplaced, and never will be. So now I will make no more professions. There is another blast of the trumpet; but it is farther off than before."
"It comes down the hill," answered Iola. "They have got farther on than we have; but yet we shall beat them, I trust; for the many are ever outwitted by the few, I hear, though, good sooth, I know nothing of life, and but repeat such sage sayings as an old nurse's songs, without being sure if they be to the right tune or not.--Oh, prudery," she continued gaily, "what would the dear nuns, and sister Bridget especially, say, if they could hear me thus chattering with a young lord, in a dark wood, when there is so much sad and sober earnest going on near?--You too, perhaps, think it strange; but I have had so little practice in concealing what I think, that my foolishness ever rushes to my lips before my slow wit can start forth to stop it."
"Nay, I think no such thing," replied Lord Chartley, "for, by my faith, the case is much the same with me. Besides, did we not make a bargain at supper time, that the casket was not to be closed, but all the jewels of the heart were to be left unveiled?"
"True," she answered. "It was a rash promise; but like all promises, I suppose, it must be kept; and indeed, had it not been made, I am afraid the course would have been the same; for the key of that casket which you talk of is seldom to be found when needed; and the lock is somewhat rusty, from being left always open.--Think not, however, I would act or speak thus to all men; for had you, as did the only young man I ever saw twice before yourself, talked of my beautiful eyes or my charming fingers--or even, like the friend who was with you, had you thrown out a pretty neat-turned compliment upon bright and beautiful looks, to be picked up by any one who thought it worth the stooping for, I should have been as grave and silent as a deaf canoness, or have run away from you as fast as my feet could carry me; but you spoke of better things, though gaily, and seemed to me to know what is due, from knight and gentleman, to a woman and a lady, and therefore, my good lord, I trust you as a friend, and speak to you as a brother."
Whatever were the feelings of Lord Chartley--whether he felt inclined to remain in the cool relationship of friend and brother, or whether there were not growing upon him sensations towards his fair companion of a somewhat warmer nature, he was well aware that fraternal regard is one of the very best and most serviceable trenches for attacking the citadel of a woman's heart, and consequently he thanked Iola gracefully for her trust, and did nothing in the world to scare the timidity of early confidence. Perhaps his was a character to win it more quickly than that of most men; gay, cheerful, brave, apparently thoughtless, but in reality considerate and reflective, light-hearted from strong corporeal health, fair fortunes, and self-reliance, as well as from a hopeful and sanguine heart, one seemed at once to see clear and distinct from the act to the motive, from the words to the emotions in which they originated. There was none of that misty clouded policy, none of that obscure and twilight art, which is sure to create suspicion and place the minds of others on their guard; but all was frank, open, free; and though people might judge him to be more rash than he really was, and heedless of consequences when he was in reality quite the reverse, no one ever for a moment suspected half the deep feeling that was in his heart, or the cool though rapid reflection which went on in his mind.
We are inclined to imagine that when a man acts quickly and decidedly, even in cases where there is no need of haste, that he acts imprudently and without due consideration. We say--"he might have taken time for thought."
But thought is a very different thing in the minds of different men. With one, it is the cart-horse which plods slowly along with its heavy load from one point of the road to another. With others, it is the race-horse, darting like an arrow shot from a bow to the object in view. The distance and the path are the same, but only they are travelled more rapidly in the one instance than in the other. Undoubtedly the race-horse was the illustration of Chartley's mind. It would have foamed and fretted to be restrained to the slow progress which many another man preferred; and when forced to proceed tardily, in order to keep the same pace as others, like the same horse, it would curvet and passage, showing its impatience by a thousand wild gambols.
Short specimens of conversations are enough upon all ordinary occasions; and therefore I will only say, that the young nobleman and his fair companion, followed by the Arab, at the distance of eight or ten yards, threaded their way through the wood paths, lightly and easily, talking as they went. It may seem strange that they so soon lost the sense of apprehension, and could converse on other things, while dangers were round about; but it was a part of the characters of both, to be little and but transiently impressible by any thing like fear. Hope was ever predominant in the heart of each, and hope is certainly a great element of courage. Danger was thought of only while it was actually present; and imagination was fonder of plucking flowers than looking out for thorns. True, they stopped and listened from time to time, to make themselves sure that no enemies were near. True, that when Iola had to lead the way through one of those narrow paths, where two could not go abreast, she sometimes looked back to assure herself that Chartley was near her; but when they were together, they generally conversed gaily, and often even laughed, although Iola felt some apprehensions for her good aunt and her cousin, which could not be altogether removed, even by Chartley's assurances that the burning of the houses upon the green was the strongest proof of Richard's bands not having got into the abbey.
"Besides," he said, "I am quite sure that the commanders of these men, as long as they have the troops under their own eye, would not suffer them to commit any violence in a religious house; for the king himself is devout, as we all know, and though he might wink at a violation of sanctuary, for his own purpose, he would punish severely any unnecessary injury done in effecting it."
These arguments certainly were consolatory to Iola, and left the fears which still lingered, only as passing shades, coming across her mind for a moment, and soon disappearing, like those cast by light clouds floating over the sun in a summer's day.
Onward they walked then, amidst the branches of the wood, and along the paths out in the thick underwood, still covered by the brown leaves of the preceding year. The thaw which had prevailed since the night before had penetrated even into the depths of the wood; and the grass was covered with unfrozen drops which rendered it almost as white as under the hoar frost. This was peculiarly the case upon what may be called the first step of the hill; but the path soon began to ascend, at first winding gently about upon the upland slope, and then, spreading out to a greater width, ran along under some high cliffy banks, somewhat too steep to surmount in a direct line. Here, from time to time, a beautiful view of the abbey, with the lower grounds surrounding it, might have been obtained, had there been daylight; and even in the darkness of the night, aided by a faint light from the smoking ruins of the cottages on the green, the eye could distinguish the sombre masses of the old pile, rising above all the surrounding objects.
"You see the abbey is safe," said Chartley, in a low tone; "and the fires are going out. I hear no sound.--Perhaps these troops are withdrawn."
"We could soon see," said Iola, "if we turned to the westward, for there is a little point, which commands a view of the road."
Perhaps Chartley did not very much wish to see; for, to say the truth, he had no great inclination to part with his fair companion so soon. He had made up his mind, by this time, to the not unpleasant task of passing the rest of the night with her in the old castle. There was a spirit of adventure in it--a touch of that romance which is agreeable to almost every young man's mind. Nevertheless, he thought it more proper to follow the suggestion, although the result might be to convey her back to the abbey, and send him onward on his way to Hinckley. They turned then in the direction she indicated, and, at the distance of about a hundred and fifty yards, came to a spot where a small stream welled from the high bank, and the waters were gathered, before they crossed the road, into a small clear pool; a beautiful object and beautifully situated. The rugged cliff from which the spring flowed, like a parent looking into a child's eyes, bent over the fountain, and caught the image of itself. The stars were mirrored in it; and a light birch that grew beside it bent its head down to drink.
"I will sit here," said Iola, "upon this stone, where I have often sat before, if you will run up the bank by that little path, which will lead you to a spot where a greater part of the road can be seen. Stop where the path stops; and do not be long, for I shall be frightened. I do not know whether you can see anything upon the road in this dark night; but the sand is light of colour, so as to show anything dark moving upon it, I think."
"I will leave the Arab with you," said Chartley. "You can trust him fully. Stay with the lady, Ibn Ayoub," he continued, "and guard her as you would the prophet's tomb."
The man folded his arms upon his breast, and remained precisely in the same attitude, at the distance of three or four paces, while his lord ran lightly up the path; and Iola, seating herself by the fountain, gazed down upon the limpid water, from which a dim shadowy form looked up at her again. What were her thoughts then? Perhaps, she too contemplated the result of all obstacles to her return to the abbey being removed, the consequent parting with her young and kind companion, and the probability of her never meeting with him again. It was not without a feeling of regret. She almost wished that she had not proposed to Chartley to see whether the troops were still there or not; and then she was angry with herself for entertaining such feelings. Then she meditated upon the passing the night with him in the ruins; and certainly she did not regard such a thing in the same way that he did. She felt a little alarmed, of she knew not what, a hesitation, a doubt. It would feel very strange, she thought--almost wrong. While there had seemed no other choice, such feelings had never presented themselves, but now they were strong. It would be very pleasant, she could not deny, to have his society for some time longer--with friends and companions about them; but alone, in a remote place, with the world's eye afar--that eye which acts as a bond but a safeguard, a restraint but a justification--the matter was very different. Yet--strange human nature!--when, a moment after, she heard a blast of a trumpet coming from the road, and a loud voice shouting forth some orders, it was a relief to her. Perhaps she feared the parting with Chartley so soon, even more than passing of a night with him in the old castle. Dear girl, she could not help it. It was no fault of hers. Nature taught her to cling to that which had protected her. Nature taught her to love that which came upon her hitherto dull existence like the first gleam of summer's returning sunshine into the wintry sky.
A moment after, Chartley's step was heard returning; and, running down the bank, he said:
"They are upon the road still, and moreover, preparing to surround the wood by patrols, probably with the intention of searching it thoroughly to-morrow. Let us on, sweet Iola, and seek our place of refuge, for we have no choice left; and they may perchance push some of their parties along these broader paths to-night. I should not like to come into collision with them, if I can help it. Here, let me stay your steps;" and once more he drew her arm through his.
"I had hoped," answered Iola--little hypocrite--"that they were all gone, and that you might be spared farther trouble on my account to-night."
"Trouble!" said Chartley; and he laughed. "I know not what you feel, dear lady; but I cannot, for my life, think all this night's adventure so very disastrous. I grieve, of course, that you should be alarmed or pained in any way; but yet a few hours of such sweet society, the power of protecting, assisting, supporting you, the linking of feelings, and sympathies, and associations with yours, even for so short a space, has something very pleasant in it. Whatever may be our fate hereafter, Lady Iola, we shall both remember this night, as one of those high points of time, which raise their heads out of the ocean of the past, and glitter afar in the light of memory."
"I must tell him about myself and my fate," thought Iola; but Chartley pursued the subject no farther; and turning back upon their steps, they renewed their ascent towards the castle, winding along amongst the trees, which were there farther apart and less encumbered by underwood.
How rapidly the wild encroaches upon the cultivated, when the hand of man is once withdrawn. In former years--not very long before, certainly not a century--the detached elevation in the wood, on which the castle stood, had been covered with smooth clean-shaven green turf, without tree or shrub, which could cover an approaching enemy from the shafts of the garrison. It had its road winding round it from the principal gate, and passing, till it approached the edge of the neighbouring forest, within bow shot of some loop-hole or battlement, at every turn. Now the trees had grown over the whole mount, as thick and close as anywhere in the wood--over road and all; and nothing but a pathway remained, where bands of retainers had formerly ridden up and down on horseback. The self-sown oaks, indeed, were small and thin; but there were some enormous ash trees, and large fine elms and beeches, which no one would have supposed of so late a growth. A great number of birches--"the ladies of the wood,"--mingled their slight silvery stems with the sturdier and more lordly forest trees, and the winged seeds of the ash, wafted to the walls, had planted themselves here and there, wherever a fallen stone had left a vacant space in the mortar, and had shot up into feathery shrubs, fringing the ancient battlements and cresting the tall tower. Thus, in the early summer time, when leaves are green, the castle at a distance could hardly be distinguished from the forest.
Up the small path I have mentioned, Iola and Chartley took their way, and at length stood under the old arch of the barbican. One of the towers which had flanked it had fallen down, and, filling up the fosse, afforded a firmer path than the drawbridge, which, partly broken down, I know not whether by age or war, offered but an insecure footing. One of the long beams indeed, and two or three of the planks, still hung by the heavy chain used formerly to raise the bridge; but Iola hesitated, although she had often crossed before, fearing, in the darkness, to lose her footing on the bridge, or to stumble amongst the stones, if she chose the path over the fallen tower. Chartley instantly divined her doubt, and going on part of the way over the drawbridge, held out his hand, saying: "Let me steady your steps. It is quite firm."
Iola followed at once; and the Arab came after; but when they reached the great gate, the lady again paused, saying, "It is so dark, I fear we shall never find our way about the building, without the risk of some accident, for many of the steps are broken down, and fragments of the walls encumber the doorways, although some of the rooms in the keep are almost as if they had been just inhabited. I wonder how long it is to daybreak."
"I have not heard the bell for lauds," replied Chartley, "and therefore, probably, three or four hours may elapse before we see the face of day. Perhaps, however, we can contrive to light a fire somewhere in the court, for the high trees and walls would screen it from the eyes of the men upon the road."
"Let us find our way into the great court first," said Iola. "There is plenty of dry wood about the place, if we could but find a light."
"That will be soon obtained," answered Lord Chartley, "and, perhaps, something that may serve the purpose of a torch or candle also;" and, speaking a few words to the Arab, which Iola did not understand, he led the way forward, stretching out his hands, like a blind man, to make sure of the path he trod; for, if the night was dark without, the darkness was doubly deep under the shadow of the arch. After passing through the gateway, the great court seemed light enough by comparison. In the centre rose the large keep or donjon tower, frowning heavily over the scene below; and forth from the side of the keep came a pile of very ancient buildings, now silent and desolate like the rest.
Chartley and Iola are now alone; for the Arab had left them. But yet she did not and she would not fear, for she had great confidence in her companion, and woman's confidence is of a very capacious measure. Nor did he wrong it--shame upon him who does--but, guiding her quietly to the flight of steps leading into the keep, he made her sit down upon the dilapidated stairs, and stood beside her, talking about subjects which could awake no emotion, or a very slight one, and, informing her that he had sent the slave to seek for materials to light a fire. None of those events, however, occurred, which continually happen to people cast upon a desert island. There were none of those appliances or means at hand, with which wandering sailors are usually supplied accidentally. No bituminous pine was found to fulfil the office of a torch; and at length after the Arab's return, the only resource of the fugitives was to light a fire, after the most ancient and approved fashion, by a flint and steel. This, however, was accomplished with less difficulty than might have been expected, the young lord's dagger supplying the steel, and flints being numerous in the neighbourhood. The old brown leaves, and the young but well-dried shoots, soon caught the flame; and in a few minutes the joyous light was spreading round the old court yard, and raising Iola's spirits by the very look.
"Ah, now we can rest here in comfort," said, the young lady gazing around her; "but the light is not yet sufficient to see the inside of the hall."
"But still you cannot sleep here, sweet Iola," answered her companion. "I and the slave will go in and light a fire in the hall, if you will tend this in the meanwhile."
"Nay," she answered, "I want not to sleep;" and she detained him gently by the arm. "Let us sit down here. See here is a stone bench bowered in the ivy. We can pass the night in telling tales; and first you shall inform me how you came hither on foot in the forest, when I thought you had gone away for Leicester."
Lord Chartley easily satisfied her on that point; and seated on the stone bench by her side, as near as possible, gazing from time to time on her bright countenance, by the gleams of the firelight, he related to her all that had occurred to him since he had left the abbey.
"As to my being on foot," he said, "your good friend the woodman judged it best that I and my Arab should leave our horses at his hut, for fear of attracting attention. All I hope is, that they will not be found there by these good gentlemen, who are watching the wood; for it might be dangerous if they were recognised as my property."
"There is a great risk indeed," said Iola anxiously. "What will you do if such should be the case?"
"As best I can," answered Chartley. "I never premeditate, dear lady; for I always remark that those who go lightly and carelessly through the world go the farthest. The circumstances of the moment determine my conduct; and as I have no ties to bind me but those of honour and truth, no ambitious schemes to be frustrated or executed, no deeds done that I am ashamed of, so I have never any great store of fears for the future, nor much need of forming plans at any time for after action."
"Happy are those," answered Iola, with a sigh, "who, as you say, have no ties to bind them."
Her reply was a natural one, springing at once from what was passing in her own heart. Something had whispered that it would be better to tell her companion, that her own fate was linked to another, that she had been contracted in fact in infancy, by her relations, to a person of whom she knew nothing. The thought of informing him of her fate, however, led her to think of that fate itself; and thence came the sigh and the answer that she made. But as soon as it was uttered, she felt that it rendered more difficult, nay impossible, the task of telling the circumstances as she had meditated. The words she had just spoken, the sigh she had just breathed, expressed too clearly the regret that she really felt; but to explain to him the source of that regret, to show him the nature of the tie that oppressed her, would, she thought, be unwomanly and indecent.
Her words, however, had not been unmarked; and Chartley, reading them wrongly, pressed her gaily for explanation.
"Nay," he said, "you have no ties to regret. Your good aunt, the abbess, told me herself, that you are not destined for the life of the convent. If you do take the veil, it must be from some fancied resolution of your own heart, against which it is the duty of every knight and gentleman to war. Fie, fie! Let those who have tasted the world and found it bitter; let those to whom it has pleased Heaven to deny beauty, and grace, and mind, and kindly feeling; let those who have sorrows to mourn, or evil acts to repent, seek the shades of the convent; but do not bury there charms of person, and mind, and heart, such as yours, intended by Heaven to be the blessing and the hope and the comfort of another. I must not, I will not have it."
He spoke so eagerly, so warmly, and his eyes looked so bright, that Iola felt glad the Arab was standing near piling fresh wood upon the fire. She knew not how to answer; but at length she said, "I am not destined for a convent; but there may be other ties as binding as the vow to the veil."
"You are not married," exclaimed Chartley, starting; and then he added, with a laugh--a gladsome laugh, "No, no. You told me yourself that you had only seen one other young man twice in life besides myself."
"No, not married--" answered Iola, casting down her eyes, and speaking in a low and sad tone. But her farther reply was interrupted; for the Arab suddenly lifted his finger with a warning gesture, and said in a low voice:
"Steps come."
"Let us into the old hall," said Chartley, rising, and taking a burning brand from the fire. "This will give us some light at least. Ibn Ayoub, stay you in the archway till I return. I will come directly; but let no one pass."
The Arab drew a long sharp pointed knife from his girdle, saying; "I will take care;" and the young lord and Iola hurried, through the gateway of the keep, into the interior of the building.
In a small, but rich and beautiful, Gothic chamber, splendidly decorated, and splendidly furnished, sat a gentleman, in the very prime of life, at a table covered with manifold papers. His dress was gorgeous; but the eye rested hardly for a moment on the splendour of his apparel, for there was something in his countenance which at once fixed all attention upon itself. The features were delicate and beautiful, the eyes dark, keen, and expressive. The lips were somewhat thin, and apparently habitually compressed, though when they parted they showed a row of teeth as white as snow. The long dark brown hair was of silky fineness and gloss, bending in graceful waves about a brow broad, high, and majestic, which would have been perfect in form, had not habit or nature stamped a wrinkled frown upon it, while some long lines, the traces of deep thought, furrowed the wide expanse which age had not yet had time to touch. He was in the prime of life, the early prime, for he had not yet seen three and thirty years, and not a particle of bodily or mental energy had been lost; but yet his form did not give any promise of great strength, for he was somewhat below the middle height, and the limbs seemed small and delicate. One shoulder was rather higher than the other, but not so much so as to be a striking deformity; and the left arm seemed somewhat smaller than its fellow. No means had been taken to conceal these defects; and yet he might have passed anywhere for an exceedingly good-looking man, had it not been for a certain expression of fierce and fiery passion which occasionally came into his countenance, blending strangely with the look of sarcastic acuteness which it usually bore. It was upon his face at that moment, as he read a letter before him; but it passed away speedily, and it was with a bitter smile he said--speaking to himself, for there was no one else in the room--
"Not know? He must be made to know! We will pluck the heart of this treason out;" and he wrote a few words hastily on the back of the letter which he had been reading.
Then, however, he paused, laid his finger on his temple, and thought deeply for a minute or two. "No," he said at length, "no! It must be passed over. If they catch him in the abbey, the lad's fault shall be passed over. He has served the purposes of a decoy--done good service without knowing it; and we will not kill the bird that lures the game to us, though it little thinks that it betrays its fellows--perhaps imagines it is serving them, not us. I have heard there was friendship between the bishop and his father; and we must alienate no friends just now.--Friends!" he continued, with a bitter sneer. "What are friends? I know but one, whom men can ever count upon; and he dwells here;" and at the same time he laid his hand significantly on his own broad forehead.
He then took the pen again, and struck out the words he had written on the paper, pushed it aside, raised another, and, after glancing over it, clapped his hands, exclaiming--
"Without, there!"
A servant instantly appeared; and the king, for it was Richard himself, demanded--
"Did you not tell me that this man, John Radnor, had been killed by a fail from his horse?"
"Yes, sire," answered the servant, "so the posts say, who brought your grace the news that the earls of Richmond's fleet had been dispersed. He was found dead upon the road, but with his purse and papers all secure, so that they could not be thieves who slew him."
"I trust there are few such left in the land," said Richard. "I have done something already to crush the lawless spirit engendered in this country by long turbulence and domestic strife; and I will trample out the last spark ere I have done. By Christ, the name of thief shall be unknown in the land if I live long enough.--I grieve for this man," he continued, musing. "He was a serviceable knave, and one to whose dexterity we could trust instructions somewhat difficult to write, and yet not make him an ambassador.--Send Sir John Thoresby to me," he continued, "and as soon as Sir Charles Weinants comes, give him admission."
With a low reverence, the man withdrew; and the king busied himself with the papers again, till the door opened and a gentleman in black entered the room.
"Let those be answered, Sir John," said the king, pushing some letters to him, "and take order that lodging and entertainment be prepared at York for the Princess Countess of Arran. Send off too, by a private hand, which can be trusted, a letter to the king her brother, greeting him well from us, and telling him that the secret note, sent with the letters of the countess, has been received. Bid him set his mind at ease, for that the matter is very sure, and that, search as she will, search will be fruitless, so that she can come safely.--Have you seen the queen?"
"I passed her but now, your grace, in the hall," replied the gentleman; "and she enquired if there were any news from Middleham. She seemed much alarmed on account of the prince's illness."
"Oh, it is nothing, it is nothing," answered the king. "It will soon pass. Children are well and ill in a day. The next post will bring us news that he is better; but women are full of fears. Yet it is strange we have not heard to-day. I will go and see her, while you write here;" and, with a slow pace and thoughtful air, he quitted the room.
At the end of a short corridor, Richard opened a door, which gave him admission to a large old hall, in one part of which were seated several young ladies of high family, working busily at embroidery frames. At one of the tall arched windows, gazing out on the prospect below, with a look of restless anxiety on her face, stood the fair and unfortunate daughter of the earl of Warwick, his youngest and his best beloved, whom, with the prophetic spirit of parental affection, he had endeavoured in vain to hide from the pursuit of him who never set his eyes upon an object without sooner or later attaining it. She was richly dressed, according to the mode of those times; and her slight figure and her fair face still retained many traces of that delicate and feminine beauty which had once so highly distinguished them.
The instant she heard her husband's step, she turned quickly round with a timid and inquiring glance; but Richard was in one of his milder moods. The subject of his thought and hers was one of common affection; and he advanced tenderly towards her, and took her in his arms, saying--
"I have heard nothing, Ann; but cast these fears from your mind. I trust that this is nothing but one of those sicknesses of childhood which come and pass away like spring showers."
The tears came into the queen's eyes, rising from very mingled emotions. Her apprehension for her child, her husband's tenderness, the feeling perhaps of her own failing health, the recollections of early years, all moved her heart; and yet she feared that her emotions might rouse an impatient spirit in Richard's breast.
It was not so, however; and, pressing her somewhat closer to him, he said--
"Well, well, wipe away your tears, love. If we hear not better tidings to-day, thou shalt go to Middleham, and I will go with thee."
"Thanks, my gracious lord, thanks," replied the queen. "Perhaps it is but a weak woman's fears for her only one, that so sink my spirit; but I feel to-day a sort of awe, as if of approaching fate."
"You give way, you give way," said Richard with a slight touch of impatience. "However, there is good news abroad. This rash exiled earl of Richmond, whom you have heard of, doubtless, has seen his Breton ships--which the good doating duke now bitterly regrets he lent him--dispersed and broken by a heavy tempest; and he himself has slunk back to St. Maloes; but I have already limed some twigs for this light bird, which will yet stick to his feet; and he may find conveyance into England more speedy, though not so prosperous as that which he has been contriving for himself.--How now, Lovel? You look perilous grim, as if you and your cognizance had changed countenances."
"I grieve to be the bearer of bad tidings, gracious sire," replied Lord Lovel, to whom these words were addressed, and who had entered the room the moment before. "I did not know that either of your graces were here, and was hastening to your closet."
"But the news, the news," cried Richard, eagerly. "Heavy tidings grow doubly weighty by long carrying. Out with them, man. Is there a new insurrection in the west?--Has Richmond landed?--Speak, speak at once!"
"I had better have your grace's private ear for a few minutes," replied Lord Lovel, in a low and very sad tone, at the same time giving a glance towards the queen. Her eyes were fixed upon his face, and she caught the expression at once.
"My boy," she exclaimed. "He is worse. He is hopeless--I see it there--I see it there;" and she pointed with her hand to his face.
Richard gazed at him in profound deathlike silence, with his brow knitted over his fine keen eyes, and the thin pale lip quivering fearfully. It was a terrible thing to see the traces of such deep and unwonted emotion on that powerful and commanding countenance; and Lovel felt almost afraid to proceed. Richard tried to speak, but, for the first time in life, his voice found no utterance; and all he could do was to make a vehement sign for his favourite to go on.
"Alas, sire," said Level, in a tone of unfeigned anguish, "your worst fears are, I grieve to say--"
"No, no," cried Richard, in a broken voice, grasping his arm as if he would have sunk the fingers into the flesh. "No, no, not the worst--not the worst!--He is very ill, you would say--the physicians have no hope--but we will find more, wiser, skilfuller! There are simples of great power--there are--there are--no, not dead, not dead--no, not dead, not dead!--Oh, Jesu!" and he fell headlong to the ground.
The unhappy queen stood with her hands clasped together, her eyes bent upon the floor, not a trace of colour in her cheeks or lips. She moved not, she spoke not, she wept not, she uttered no cry, but remained standing like a statue where the words had reached her ears with all the terrible anguish of the moment concentrated in her heart.
In the meantime, the embroidery frames were cast away. Her ladies gathered round her, and drew her gently to her chair of state, in which they placed her unresisting; but there she remained, precisely as they had seated her, with her eyes still bent down, and her lips still motionless. At the same time, Lovel raised the king, and called loudly for assistance. Attendants hurried in, and amongst them the messenger from Middleham, who had brought the tidings of the young prince's death, and had been left at the door by Lord Lovel, when he undertook to communicate the sad intelligence. But it was long ere Richard could be brought to himself; and then he sat where they had placed him, rubbing his brow with his hand, and muttering broken sentences to himself. At length he looked up, and gazed with a curious wild expression of countenance--still shrewd, still cunning, but hardly sane; and then he laughed aloud, and, rising from his chair, exclaimed:
"Why, this is well. Why, this is mighty well! We'll march ten thousand men on York, to-morrow, and then to Middleham.--We'll have cannon too, ay, cannon too, lest the usurper should refuse to give up the boy. Why, he is the son of a king, a prince--a prince, I tell you, Lovel, the dog--Ha, ha, ha! That was a merry distich--
'The cat, the rat, and Lovel, the dog,Rule all England under the hog.'
'The cat, the rat, and Lovel, the dog,Rule all England under the hog.'
But we paid the poet handsomely. Kings should be always bountiful to poets. Good Sir John Collingburn, he little thought that he should be hanged for the cat, drawn for the rat, and quartered for Lovel the dog--Ha, ha, ha! It is very good."
At that moment, the queen's lips moved; and, raising her eyes towards heaven, she began to sing a sweet and plaintive air, in a very musical voice:
"The castle stood on a hill side,Hey ho, hey ho,And there came frost in the summer tide,Hey ho, the wind and the snow."A boy looked from the casement there,Hey ho, hey ho,And his face was like an angel's fair;Hey ho, how the violets grow."The snow, it fell on his golden hair,Hey ho, hey ho,And the wind has blighted the flower so fair,Hey ho, the flower's laid low."
"The castle stood on a hill side,
Hey ho, hey ho,
And there came frost in the summer tide,
Hey ho, the wind and the snow.
"A boy looked from the casement there,
Hey ho, hey ho,
And his face was like an angel's fair;
Hey ho, how the violets grow.
"The snow, it fell on his golden hair,
Hey ho, hey ho,
And the wind has blighted the flower so fair,
Hey ho, the flower's laid low."
"I think I'll go to bed, ladies. It is growing dark; but this night gear is somewhat stiff and cold, and I think it is dabbled with blood--Blood, blood, blood! Yes it is blood!" and she uttered a loud scream.[2]
In the midst of this distressing scene Lord Lovel stood like one bewildered; and he noted not that, while the king was speaking, another person, none of the ordinary attendants had entered the room. Now, however, Sir Charles Weinants pulled him by the sleeve, saying, in a low voice: "I ought to speak with the king immediately; but he seems in no fit state, my lord. What is all this?"
"Hush, hush," said Lovel, in a whisper. "Go into the closet. I will come and speak with you, for I have full instructions. The king is indisposed, with the sad news from Middleham. He will soon be better. I will join you in a minute. Your business will bear no delay."
Thus saying, he turned to the king again; and Sir Charles Weinants, with a slow and quiet step, crossed the hall, and, proceeding through the short corridor I have mentioned, reached the king's closet. He there found Sir John Thoresby, writing diligently; and the latter merely raised his head for an instant, gave a brief nod, and resumed his occupation. Sir Charles Weinants, ever discreet, walked to the window, and looked out; for, as I have before said, there were manifold papers and letters on the table, and he knew that it was dangerous even to let the eye pause upon any of Richard's secrets. He waited there with persevering patience, saying not a word to Sir John Thoresby, and never turning round his head, till Lovel entered the room, at the end of about ten minutes, and boldly dismissed the secretary for a few moments.
"Now, Sir Charles," said the king's favourite. "His grace, thank Heaven, is somewhat better, and will soon be well. We have persuaded him to let blood; for his spirits are too much oppressed. This is a severe blow, the death of the young prince, and will make many changes in the realm. You received the king's letter?"
"In safety, my good lord," replied Sir Charles, "but not the letter which was to have followed, informing me whether the Duke of Bretagne would receive me on this errand or not."
"How is that?" exclaimed Lord Lovel. "We sent it to York, thinking to find you there;" and he laid his hand upon his brow and thought. "Ratcliff, in his last letter, received but this morning, assured me that he had sent it on to you at Tamworth, by a trusty messenger, who was passing from Scotland to the king. Now it should have reached you some days ago, for Ratcliff thought we were at Coventry, and his letter to me has gone round."
"It never reached me, my lord," replied Sir Charles Weinants, "and yet I made known my name and quality wherever I came, and bade my servants watch well, in order that no news from the court might miss me."
"It must be inquired into," replied Level; "but in the mean time you must hasten your departure; for I have seen the reply from Bretagne, and you will be received with all favour. Monsieur Landais is fully gained; and all that is required is some one to confirm the king's promises, and give an earnest of his goodwill towards the duke. You must set out this very night. I trust by that time his grace will be well enough to see you himself and give you his last instructions; for his is not a mind to bend long, even under the burden cast upon it."
These words seemed intended to conclude the conversation; but Sir Charles Weinants still stayed and mused. At length he looked up in Lovel's face with a smile, saying, "I always love to be successful in my negotiations; and methinks this young vapouring earl may take fright when he hears of my coming. Were it not better to go with the most perfect secrecy?"
"Nay, that would be hardly possible," answered Lovel; "but we have been thoughtful. You must go in some sort as a fugitive. A report has already been spread that you are suspected by the king. Measures will be taken to strengthen the belief; and, while you bear full powers as his envoy, and the money for Landais, you must quit the court suddenly by dark; and with a small train affect to seek refuge in Britanny. The news of your disgrace has gone before; but good Monsieur Landais is made aware of the truth, and prepared to receive you."
Sir Charles Weinants was not altogether well pleased with the arrangement; but he was discreet--very discreet; and he did not think fit to make any objection. However, he knew there could be no harm in establishing a claim where none previously existed; for he was well aware that great men are ever ready enough to deny a claim, whether it exists or not. He therefore said quietly, "The king's will, of course, I submit to without a murmur, my good lord; but it is a very unpleasant sort of reputation for an ambassador to appear with, that of a fugitive and a traitor; and I trust that his grace will, remember that I take upon myself such a character solely in obedience to his commands."
"You shalt not be forgotten, Sir Charles," replied Lovel, entertaining, but not uttering, precisely the same sentiment which was afterwards boldly propounded by a vast-minded but little-spirited man namely, that "to submit to indignities is the way to rise to dignities."
"The king never neglects," he said, "those who place themselves in painful situations for his service. And now, Sir Charles, prepare, prepare--but quietly; never forgetting that your preparations are to be those of a fugitive. The ambassador is to come after, you know. When you have Harry of Richmond firm in your grasp, the splendour of your train shall efface the memory of its scantiness now. Hark! There is the king's voice, and his step coming hither. Do not wait or take any notice. I dare say the barber is here to bleed him."[3]
The next instant Richard entered the closet, and Sir Charles Weinants passed him, bowing low and reverently. But the king took no farther notice of him than merely by giving a slow and inquiring glance, from under his bent brows, at the face of his envoy; and then seating himself in a chair, he suffered one of two persons who followed him into the room to withdraw his arm from his doublet, the barber-surgeon, who was close behind, directing the valet particularly to give him the left arm, as that was nearest to the heart. The servant then held a silver basin, while the operator made his preparations and opened a vein. During all this time Richard uttered not a word, but sat with his brows contracted, and his dark thoughtful eyes fixed upon vacancy, till the sombre red bleed began to flow forth from the vein; and then he turned his look upon the stream, and seemed to watch it curiously. At length, he lifted his right hand to his head, saying, "I am better--open the window. Give me air;" and the servant instantly hurried to obey his commands. The barber suffered the blood still to flow on, for a little while, and then bound up the king's arm.
"I am better," said Richard. "I am better;" and, stretching forth his hands, he added, in an imperative tone. "Leave me--all leave me! I am better--I would be alone."
The whole party hastened to obey, and, as soon as they were gone, Richard, the iron-spirited relentless Richard, placed his hands before his eyes, and wept. It is a terrible sight to see a man weep at any time. What must it have been to see tears forced from such a heart as Richard's!