In a large room, of the convent of Black Nuns, near Tewksbury, with a vaulted roof and one window at the farther end, seated at a small table, and with an open parchment book upon it, was the Princess Mary or Margaret of Scotland--for she is occasionally called in history by both those names. She was diligently examining the pages of the volume, in which seemed to be written a number of names, with comments attached to them, in the margin, in a different coloured ink. On the opposite side of the table stood an elderly man in the garb of a monk, who remained without speaking, and with his eyes fixed calmly upon the princess, apparently not at all comprehending the object of her search.
At length, when she had run her eye and her finger down the whole line of names upon every page, pausing for a moment here and there, to examine the observations attached to some particular entry, the princess raised her eyes to the old man's face, saying--
"And these are all the men of note, you are sure, good father, who fell at Tewksbury?"
"All who are buried here," replied the monk. "There were some others, whose names you will find, if you turn over two pages, who were borne away to rest elsewhere. They were not many; for their friends did not like to come forward and claim them, for fear of being compromised in what was called the treason. So all that were not claimed were buried here, and the rest, as I said, removed."
Mary turned over to the page which he mentioned, and found some twelve or fourteen other names, which, to her at least, were totally without interest. She then closed the book, and gave it to the monk, saying "I thank you much, good father. There is something to benefit your convent, and pay masses for the souls of those who fell."
The old man called down a blessing on her head, and walked slowly along to the end of the old vaulted room, in order to depart, passing a gay and sunny-looking girl as he did so. She advanced with a light step from the door, towards the princess's chair, looking, as she went by the old man in his sober grey gown, like spring by the side of winter; and, when she came near the lady, she said, holding up a small packet in her hand--
"Here is a curious thing, your highness, which has just been shown to me by an extraordinary sort of man. He wishes you to buy it; and in good truth it is not dear. I never saw anything more beautiful."
"I am not in the mood for buying gewgaws, child," replied the princess. "Well, show it to me, not that I shall purchase it; for of that there is little chance."
The young lady immediately advanced, and placed in her hand a golden cross, ornamented with sardonix stones, Mary hardly looking at it till she had received it fully, her mind being probably busy with what had just been passing. When her eyes at length fixed on it, however, her countenance underwent a strange and rapid change. Her cheek grew pale, her beautiful eyes almost started from their sockets, and with a low cry, as if of pain and surprise, she sank back into her chair.
"Good Heaven, what is the matter, lady?" exclaimed the girl. "Your highness is faint. Let me fly for help."
But Mary waved her hand for silence, covered her eyes for a moment, and then bending down her head over the cross, seemed to examine it attentively. But the girl, who stood by her side, saw clearly tears drop rapidly from her eyes upon the trinket.
The moment after, the princess dashed the drops away, and, turning to her attendant with a face full of eagerness, demanded:
"Where is the man? Bring him hither instantly."
The changes of expression in her countenance had been so lightning-like, so rapid, that the girl stood for a moment like one bewildered, but then, at an impatient gesture of the princess, hurried from the room. At the end of a minute or two she returned, followed by the piper, somewhat better clothed than usual, but still bearing evident signs of his class, if not of his profession, about him. The princess fixed her eyes upon his face, with a keen, penetrating, inquiring look, as if she would have searched his soul, and then said, turning to the girl who had accompanied him into the room: "Retire."
Still, after the attendant was gone, Mary continued to gaze upon the man before her in silence. It seemed as if she wished, before she spoke, to read something of his nature and his character from his looks. At length, in a low and tremulous but yet distinct voice, she asked:
"Where got you this cross?"
"That I must not say, lady," replied the piper. "Are you the princess Mary of Scotland?"
"I am," she answered. "Must not say?--Good faith, but you must say! This cross is mine; and I will know how you possessed yourself of it."
"If you be the princess Mary of Scotland, and that cross be yours," replied the piper, who was now quite sober, and had all his wits about him, "I was bid to tell you that the fate of the person you seek for may still be heard of near the abbey of St. Clare of Atherston. You may keep the cross without payment, for in reality it was sent to you as a token."
"Keep it," cried the princess, pressing it to her bosom, "that I will! I will never part with it more. Payment! Here, hold out your hand;" and, half emptying her purse into it, she added: "Had you brought me a king's crown, you had brought me nothing half so precious." Then, leaning her brow upon her fair hands, she fell into a long deep train of thought, which, perhaps, led her far away, to early days, and scenes of youthful joy and happiness, while hope, and love, and ignorance of ill, the guardian angels of youth's paradise, watched round her path and round her bed. At length, She seemed to tear herself away from the visions of memory; and looking up, she said, in a slow and somewhat sad voice--
"St. Clare of Atherston. Ay, it was near there, at Atherston moor. But, how can that be? I have watched, and enquired, and examined, and seen with mine own eyes; and there was no trace."
"I cannot tell your highness how it can be," replied the messenger; "for I know little or nothing; and guesses are often bad guides. But this I can do. I can lead you to one who can give you all the tidings you desire."
"Ha!" cried the princess, starting up. "Let us go. Let us go at once. I will give instant orders."
"Nay, sweet lady," answered the piper. "In good sooth, my horse must have some time for rest; and my old bones are weary too; for I have had scanty fare and long riding."
"You shall have refreshment," said the princess. "I would not be unmerciful, even in my impatience; but yet we must set out to-night. I will not lay my head upon a pillow till I am upon the way. Now tell me, before I send you to get food and rest, who is the person to whom you take me?"
"Nay, that I know not," replied Sam. "I have given my message as I received it. I know no more."
"Now this is very strange," exclaimed Mary, "and raises doubts. I know not that I have injured any one, or that there is any who should wish to do me wrong; but yet I have found that men will wrong each other full often without a cause, sometimes without an object. Yet this cross, this cross! I will go, whatever befall. This cannot lie or cheat. I will go. But one thing at all events you can tell me. Whither are you going to lead me. You must know the place, if not the person."
"Ay, that I can tell, and may tell," replied Sam. "It is to the house of a poor honest Franklin, who labours his own land, in the heart of an old wood. A quiet and a secret place it is, nearly half way 'twixt Atherston and St. Clare. The man is a good and honest man too, lady, of more than seventy years of age, who lives in great retirement, rarely seen but once in every summer month at Atherston market, where he sells his corn and sheep; and when they are sold, he goes back upon his way, holding but little talk with any one."
"Seventy years of age," said the princess, thoughtfully. "Nay, that cannot be then."
"But indeed it is, lady," replied the piper, mistaking her meaning; "for I have known him twenty years myself and more, and have seen his hair grow grizzled grey, and then as white as snow."
"Did you ever know or hear," demanded the princess, "of a dying or wounded knight being carried thither, from any of the last combats that took place between Lancaster and York--I mean about the time of Tewksbury?"
"No," replied Sam; "but I was lying ill then, being hurt with a pike at Barnet, and could not walk for many a month."
"And you can tell no more?" asked the princess.
"No, nothing more," he answered, "but that there you will have the tidings which you seek, as surely as you see that cross in your hand."
"Come of it what will, I will go," said the princess. "But which is the safest road? for it is strongly rumoured here, that the earl of Richmond has landed somewhere on the coast, and that armies are gathering fast to meet him. We might be stopped."
"Oh no, all is quiet in this part of the land," replied the other; "and we can easily go by Evesham and Coventry. I heard all the news as I journeyed on. The earl, they say, has indeed landed in the far parts of Wales; but his force is very small, and not likely to stand against Sir Walter Herbert who commands there. A mere scum of that ever-boiling pot called France, with scattered and tattered gabardines, lean and hungry as wolves."
"They may be found as fierce as wolves," said the princess. "But it matters not. I will go, even should they be fighting in the midst of the road. Now, good man, you shall have food, and your horse too. I give you till four o'clock--time enough for rest. Be you ready; and, if you lead me aright, you shall have further recompense."
Her impatience somewhat outran the clock. She was on horseback with her train, some minutes before four; and, ere they paused for the night, they reached the small town of Evesham. The next day brought them to Coventry, and thence a short day's journey remained to Atherston. They arrived in the evening; but still there were two or three hours of light; and as soon as the princess had entered the small inn, to which she had sent forward harbingers, she ordered her guide to be called, and told him that in half an hour she would be ready to set out.
"The place cannot be far," she said, "for I remember the road well; and 'tis not a two hours' ride hence to St. Clare."
"Were it not better to wait till morning?" demanded Sam, with a look of some doubt. "It will take you well nigh an hour and a half to reach the place we are going to, and--"
"And what?" demanded Mary, seeing the man pause and hesitate.
"I was going to say," replied Sam, "that you must take but two attendants with you--men to hold the horses; and it might be as well to wait till morning, as I hear troops are gathering fast, and tending towards Nottingham, so that 'tis better to ride by daylight."
Mary gazed at him with some suspicions rising again in her mind; but yet the very wish to travel by daylight seemed to speak honesty of purpose.
"Was that what the man told you, whom I saw speaking to you at the door?" she asked.
"Yes," replied Sam. "He told me there were troops moving about in all directions."
"And why must I have only two men with me?" she demanded.
"I know not," replied the piper. "So I am told. But, if you have any fears, I will remain in the hands of your men, while you go in. They can easily drive a sword through me, if any evil happens to you; but I only say it is better to go in the morning, lest we should meet any of the roving bands which always flock to the gathering of armies. Be it, however, as you please."
Mary thought for two or three moments, but then rose, saying--
"I will go, and at once. I cannot rest in uncertainty. Let them bring forth the horses as soon as they are fed. We will ride quick, and make the way short."
From Atherston, for about half a mile, the little party pursued the highway, till shortly after crossing the little river Anker, from the banks of which they turned through lanes and by-paths, till they came to a piece of sloping ground, where two hills crossed each other with a low dell between them. A small stream ran in the valley; and beyond the opposite slope, towards the north west, extended a considerable mass of wood-land, over which were seen, rising at the distance of five or six miles, the ruined walls and towers of the old castle near St. Clare. The sun was already on the horizon, and the spot over which they rode was in shadow; but the sky was beautifully clear, and the golden light of the setting sun caught the high distant ruins, and the young trees upon the hill on which it stood.
"Here," said the piper, who was riding beside Mary to show her the way, "here was fought the last skirmish of the war. It was one of the most bloody too; for little quarter was given, and many a brave soldier and noble gentleman fell here."
"I know it well," said Mary, with her eyes full of tears. "I have been here to weep before now. Oh, that my eyes could pierce those green grassy mounds, and know who sleeps beneath."
"They were not all buried here," said Sam, in a low tone. "Some were buried at the abbey, and some at Atherston. Those were the knights and captains. The common soldiers lie here."
Mary rode on in silence; and more than once she wiped the tears from her eyes. A mile farther brought them to the wood; but from this side the distance to the franklin's house was farther; and the last quarter of a mile was ridden in twilight. At length, however, while they could still see, they came in sight of the low house, with its single story, and the cultivated ground around it; and pointing with his hand, the piper said, in a low voice--
"That is the house. Now you must go forward alone, lady; and when you reach the door knock hard with your hand, and they will give you admission. Ask to see the lady."
"The lady!" said Mary, in a tone of surprise.
"Yes," replied her guide, "the lady. I will stay here with the horses, in the hands of your servants. There you will get the tidings which you have long sought."
The lady dismounted, and, bidding the servants wait, walked along the little path. They could see her approach the house, and knock with her hand at the door. It was opened instantly, and she disappeared.
An old man, with a long white beard, presented himself before the princess countess of Arran, almost the moment after she had knocked, and, in answer to her demand to see the lady, simply said, "Follow me," and led the way along the passage. Her heart beat; her brain seemed giddy; her whole frame was agitated; but she went on; and, at the end of a step or two, her guide opened a door, and held it in his hand, till she had entered. Then closing it he retired.
The sun, as I have said, had sunk; but the twilight was clear, and the windows of the room looked towards the west, where lingered still the rosy hues of the setting sun. The room was filled with a sort of hazy purple air, and the objects which it contained, though shadowy and somewhat indistinct, could still be seen clearly enough. Standing not far from one of the windows, with the light background of the sky behind her, so that her features were not discernible, the princess Mary beheld the beautiful form of a girl, apparently eighteen or nineteen years of age. As the rays passing from behind glanced on the rich satin of her robe, and the gold lace that fringed the bodice, it was evident to Mary that the person before her was dressed in the gorgeous habiliments of the court of of that time. She could see nothing more at the first moment, but as the girl advanced towards her, the face was slightly turned towards the window, and the fine chiselled features were beheld in profile, showing at once, how beautiful they must be when the light of day displayed them more fully.
"Welcome, lady," said the sweet tones of Iola, the music of her voice thrilling upon the ear of the princess, like the notes of some delicate instrument, although there was much emotion in those tones. "You have come somewhat sooner than I expected. I presume I speak to the princess Mary."
"The same, my child," replied the lady, taking her hand, which Iola had partly offered. "This is a strange meeting; and you tremble more than I do, though I am told that from your voice I shall hear tidings which, whatever be their especial nature, may well shake and agitate my heart and frame."
"I am not wont to be so weak," said Iola; "nor to fear, nor to hesitate; but yet I cannot help it at this moment. Let us sit down for a while, and speak of other things, so that these emotions may pass away."
"They will but increase by delay," replied Mary; "and I am eager to hear from your lips, or indeed from any lips, those tidings which to me are as the words of Fate. Speak, then, dear child, speak at once, and tell me what you know."
"Nay, lady," said Iola, in a very grave and even melancholy tone, withdrawing her hand from that of the princess; "I have questions to ask as well as you; and they must be answered, before my lips are unsealed."
"Nay, this is cruel," said the princess Mary, "to torture me with delay, when the sight of that cross, the gift of early pure affection, to him I loved the best, and this mysterious journey, and this strange meeting, have raised my expectations--oh, that I dared say my hopes to the highest point--it is cruel indeed."
"No, not cruel," answered Iola. "Could the dead see all the actions of the living, would the living dare to meet the dead? I have a hard and painful task to perform, and I must perform it. Yet, dear lady, I would do it with all gentleness, for I have to ask painful questions--questions which, if my heart tell me true, may raise anger and indignation, as well as cause pain and sorrow."
"Speak then, speak then," said Mary, impatiently. "Let them be quickly over."
"Well, then, as it must be so," said Iola, "let me first say, I know the early history well, the marriage of the princess Mary to the earl of Arran, her brother's subject and friend, the advantage which base enemies took of his absence in Denmark, in his sovereign's service, to ruin his father and his uncle, to seize his estates, forfeit his honours, and blast his name--a name on which the voice of calumny never breathed till then."
Mary sank into a seat and covered her eyes with her hands; but Iola went on, seeming to hurry her words to get over her painful task with speed.
"I know, too," she said, "the generous devotion of the princess, that she fled in disguise from her brother's court, to warn her husband of his danger, when he returned from his successful embassy, bringing with him his sovereign's royal bride; I know that she sought his fleet in a poor skiff, and fled with him into exile and poverty; I know that she only returned to her own land, after years of exile, on the delusive promise that her petition and submission would recover his estates and honours, for him she loved. Hitherto, all is clear; but, now comes the question--Lady, forgive me," she continued, taking Mary's hand, and kissing it; "but I must pain you."
"Speak, dear child, speak," said the princess. "There is nought in my whole life, that I am not ready to tell here or anywhere."
"Well, then," said Iola, with a sigh; "did the princess Mary, when her husband was doing his knightly devoir here on this English ground, in behalf of the house which had befriended him and his, did she consent to a divorce from her once-loved lord, and----"
"Never, never, never!" cried the princess, starting from her seat, "never, by word or deed. What, has that dark tale come hither too? 'Twas done without my consent or knowledge; and, when done, I raised my voice and wrote my protest against it. They told me he was dead. They told me that he fell there, on Atherston moor--fell, as he lived, in noble deeds and gallant self-devotion."
"And then, hearing of his death," said Iola, in a voice sunk to the lowest tone with emotion; "the princess married James, Lord Hamilton."
"'Tis false!" exclaimed Mary, vehemently; and then, clasping Iola's hand in her own, she added: "Strange, mysterious girl, how is it that you, who know so much, do not know more? Hamilton was kind. He sought my noble husband as a brother, spoke in his favour to the king, raised his voice with mine; and, when at length the news of his death came, my brother and my sovereign signed a contract of marriage on my behalf, between him and me, and in his bounty gave lands and lordships to Lord Hamilton and the Princess Mary, his wife. They laid the contract before me, and I tore it and scattered it to the winds--for I had doubts," she added, in a low thoughtful voice. "I saw couriers going and coming to and from England, whose tidings were concealed from me; and, I had doubts--I have still doubts--that he died then. Now, I am sure he is dead, or they would not give me liberty to roam and seek his burial-place; for, ever since that day, when I tore the contract before my brother's face, in name I have been free, in truth a prisoner. I had but one faithful servant, whom I could trust. He, indeed, once deceived me, because he was himself deceived. He told me that my husband was dead in Denmark; and when we found, from certain intelligence, that he was here in England, warring for the house of Lancaster, the poor man was more thunderstruck than I was, for I had not believed the tale. Oh, how the heart clings to hope--how it clasps the faded flower, when even the root is withered. Still, still, till the end I hoped! With what tears I watered my pillow! With what prayers I wearied Heaven. Although I saw letters telling plainly that he died, sword in hand, on Atherston moor, I would not believe, till they told me at length, but a few months since, that, if I pleased, I might come and seek him myself. But, oh, dear child, that hope which I so fondly clung to would become a horror and a terror, if I could believe that my dear, my noble Arran, had been lingering on here, living, and yet doubting of my faith and truth. I know what his noble mind would have felt; I know how his kind and generous heart would have been wrung; I know the black despair into which he would have fallen. But it cannot be. I will not believe it. He would have written; he would have sent; he would have found some means to re-assure and comfort me. Now, then, I have answered all. Tell me, tell me, I beseech you, how died my husband? Where have they laid him? But you are weeping, my poor child."
"Stay a moment," said Iola, her voice half choked with sobs. "I shall recover in a minute. Then I will tell you all;" and, breaking away from her, she, quitted the room suddenly.
With a foot of light, Iola trod the passage nearly to the end, and opened a door, from which immediately a light streamed forth.
Sitting at a table underneath a burning sconce, with his arms resting on the board, and his forehead on his arms, was a tall and powerful man, dressed in the garments of a nobleman of high rank, somewhat antiquated indeed in point of fashion, but still rich and in good taste. He seemed not to hear Iola's foot; for he moved not, although the stillness of his figure was broken by the heaving of his chest with a long, deep, gasping sigh. She laid her hand upon his arm, saying:
"Look up, look up. Sunshine has come again."
He raised his head with a start; and the countenance before her was that of Boyd the woodman.
With that eager grace so charming to see but indescribable in words, Iola caught his hand and kissed it, as he gazed upon her with a look of doubt and wonder.
"It is all false," she cried, "all utterly false! She is yours--has been yours always. True, through wrong, and persecution, and deceit, she is yours still--yours only."
"False," cried Boyd. "False? How can it be false? With my own eyes I saw the announcement of his sister's marriage to James Hamilton, in the king's own hand."
"He signed the contract," cried Iola, "without her consent; but she tore the contract, and refused to ratify it."
"But my letters, my unanswered letters?" said Boyd.
"She has been watched and guarded, surrounded by spies and deceivers," exclaimed Iola, eagerly. "Hear all I have to tell you. Much may even then remain to be explained, but, believe me, oh, believe me, all will be explained clearly and with ease."
"I know that one traitor, that John Radnor, was bought to tell her I was dead, when not ten days before he had spoken to me--me, ever his kind and generous lord--and knew that I was safe and well. I saw the proof of the villain's treachery; and I slew him; but, oh, I cannot think that there are many such. Yet they have been fiends of hell indeed; for torture, such as the damned undergo, were not more than they have fixed on me, by making me think my Mary, my beautiful, my devoted, false to him she loved."
"Oh, she was never false," cried Iola. "They thought to cheat her to her own despair, by tales of your death; but the instinct of true love taught her to doubt, till she had seen your tomb with her own eyes."
"I will go to her. I will go to her," cried the earl of Arran, rising up, and taking a step or two towards the door. But there he paused, and asked, "Does she still believe me dead?"
"She does," replied Iola, "though perhaps a spark of hope is kindled."
"Go and fan it into flame," replied the earl, "gently, gently, Iola. I will bear the delay. Yet come as soon as ever she can bear to see me. Do it speedily, dear girl, but yet not rashly."
"I will be careful. I will be very careful," said Iola; and, hurrying away, she returned to the chamber where she had left the Princess Mary, bearing a light with her.
"You have been long, my child," said the Princess; "but your young heart knows not the anguish of mine; and that fair face speaks no unkindness."
"It would speak falsely, did it do so," replied Iola. "Methinks the power to give joy and reawaken hope were the brightest prerogative that man could obtain from Heaven. And now be seated, dear lady; and I will sit on this stool at your feet, and tell you a tale, woven into which will be answers to all that you could question, with many a comfort too, and a balm for a crushed and wounded heart."
"Angel," cried the princess, drawing her to her and kissing her brow; "you look and speak like one of Heaven's comforting spirits."
"Listen then," said Lola. "'Tis more than ten years ago that a party of the lords of Lancaster, led by the gallant earl of Arran, as the most experienced of the troop, hastened across this country to join queen Margaret's force at Tewksbury. The news of Barnet had vaguely reached them; but still they hurried on in the direction which the retreating army had taken. The main body of their little force remained for the night on the green at St. Clare. I remember it well, though I was then but a child of eight years old; for the earl of Arran came to the Abbey, and I saw him there in his glittering armour. He came on here himself, with several other gentlemen, and lodged for the night at this house; for he had learned that a superior body of troops was on the way to cut him off, in the neighbourhood of Atherston. The old man whom you saw but now tried to persuade him to retreat; but his high courage and his good faith led him on; and, on the following day, he encountered the enemy on the moor, and, for nearly two hours, made his ground good against a force treble his own numbers. At length, however, in a strong effort to break through, having already received an arrow in the arm and a wound in the head, he was cast from his horse by a lance which pierced through and through his corslet. The troops then fled, and the day was lost."
Iola's voice trembled as she spoke, and Mary bent down her head upon her hands and wept.
"Be comforted," said the young girl, taking the princess's hand, and gazing up towards her. "Hear me out; for there is comfort yet."
"Ha!" exclaimed Mary, suddenly lifting her head. "Was he not slain then--was he not slain?"
"Hear me to the end," said Iola, "and hear me calmly. The old man you saw but now had been a follower of the house of Lancaster. He was interested too in that noble lord; and when he beheld the fugitives pass along the edge of the wood, and the fierce pursuers spurring after, he went away towards the field to see if he could aid the wounded. He found a number of the people from the abbey upon the field, and some of the good sisters. Litters were procured; the wounded men were removed; the dying had the consolation of religion; but the earl of Arran was not found amongst either. While the old man went his way, the litters travelled slowly to St. Clare. She who was abbess then asked anxiously for the earl of Arran; but they told her that he was neither amongst the wounded, nor the dying, nor the dead. She said they must be mistaken; for a soldier, who had stopped to get a draught of water at the fountain, had seen him fall pierced with a spear; and she sent them back with torches, for, by this time, it was night, to seek for him once more. They sought for him in vain; but the old franklin, as he had turned homewards, had seen something glitter in the bushes just at the edge of the wood. On looking nearer, he found that it was the form of an armed man, with the head of a lance in his breast. The staff was broken off."
"Oh, God, was he living?" exclaimed the princess.
"He was," replied Iola; "nay, be calm, be calm, and hear me out. I must tell the rest rapidly. The old man staid with him till nightfall; then got a cart and moved him hither, where a great part of his baggage had been left. They dared not send for a surgeon; for pursuit after the house of Lancaster was fierce, and slaughter raged throughout the land. But the old man himself extracted the lance's head, and stanched the bleeding by such simples as he knew. For three months he tended him as a father would a child; but for nearly a year he was feeble and unable to move."
"Does he live, does he live?" cried the princess.
"Can you bear it?" asked Iola. "He did live long, for many years; but he heard tidings which disgusted him with life. Hermit or monk he would not become; for he had other thoughts; but he cast off rank and state, and, putting on a lowly garb, he lived as a mere woodman in a forest near, a servant of the abbey where all my youth was spent."
"But now, but now!" demanded Mary. "Does he live now? Oh, tell me, tell me!"
As she spoke the door opened. Mary raised her eyes and gazed forward, with a look of wild bewilderment, and then, with a cry of joy and recognition, sprang forward and cast herself upon her husband's bosom.
Confusion and agitation pervaded England from end to end. Men gathered together in the streets and talked. Couriers passed between house and house. The fat citizen gossipped with his neighbour, over the events of the day, and looked big and important, as he doled out the news to his better half at home. The peasantry too were moved by feelings of their own. The village green and the alehouse had their politicians. The good wife looked anxious, lest Hob should be taken for a soldier; and the old men and women recalled the days when the feuds of York and Lancaster were at their height, and hoped that such times were not coming again.
Still, however, the news spread far and wide, that the earl of Richmond had landed on the Welsh coast, and was marching towards London to grasp the crown. From castle to castle, and city to city, and cottage to cottage, the rumour rolled on. He was there--actually there, upon English ground; the long-expected blow was struck; the long anticipated enterprise had begun.
Busy emissaries, too, whispered in every ear, that Richmond was affianced to the heiress of the house of York. There was no longer a question of York and Lancaster. It was no longer a fratricidal war between the descendants of the same ancestor; but York and Lancaster were united; and the long rival factions took their stand, and unfurled their banners, side by side, against one who was equally inimical to both. Every evil act which Richard had committed was called to memory, denounced, and exaggerated. False facts were fabricated, many of which have been transmitted to the present day, to blacken his character, and misrepresent his conduct. His views, his deeds, his very person, were all distorted, and the current of popular opinion was turned strongly against him. Still the prudent, the timid, and the idle, counselled together, and prepared to follow a temporising policy.
"Take my advice," said an old man to his neighbours, "keep quite quiet; take part with neither; let Lancaster cut York's throat or York Lancaster's, or both join to destroy Richard, we have nothing to do with such things. We shall suffer enough, whichever wins the day; but better to suffer in pocket than to die or get wounds in a cause which concerns us very little. One king is for us just as good as another; and as to the question of right, as no doctors have settled it, how should we be able to decide? Keep quiet, and let them fight it out amongst themselves."
Such was very commonly the feeling amongst the lower classes of the people; and many of a higher rank were moved by the same considerations. "If we fight for Richmond," they thought, "he may lose a battle; and then we are at the mercy of Richard. If on the contrary we march under the banners of Richard, he may be defeated, and Richmond have our fate in his hands."
The higher nobility, indeed, pursued a different course. They began to gather men; they made preparations for war; but they kept as secret as possible, in what direction they intended to act. They were in general very silent as to their intentions, though exceedingly busy and active in their preparation; and constant communications were passing from one to the other, the nature of which was not discovered.
The only one who seemed inactive in the realm was the king himself. He, so energetic and daring in the camp and the field, so astute and cautious in the council-chamber, for a time seemed to do very little. The first news of Richmond's armament, indeed, had almost cast him into a state of frenzy; but, when he learned that the earl had landed at Milford-haven with but three thousand men, his rage appeared to sink into contempt. He treated his coming as a mere bravado, and seemed to scorn the display of any extraordinary measures against so pitiful an attack.
"Sir Walter Herbert will give a good account of him," he said, when some of his courtiers spoke of the invasion. "Herbert has full five thousand men, choice soldiers, ready and fit to rid our soil of these French weeds, or I know nought of gardening. We shall soon hear news of him."
He did soon hear news; but it was that Richmond marched on unopposed through the land, that he had been joined by Rice ap Thomas, with a thousand men, that Savage had gone over to him, that Herbert made no movement to oppose his progress, that Wales was rising rapidly in his favour, that friends and supplies were pouring into his camp, and that he was rapidly advancing upon Shrewsbury. Then it was that Richard not only felt the necessity of energy, but became sensible of his danger, and began to act with that fierce and impatient eagerness which had formerly characterized him. His messengers hastened over all the country, calling every one he could count upon to arms, and ordering those who were doubtful to join him at Nottingham, without an hour's delay. Norfolk and Northumberland were summoned in the same terms; but while the one hastened to obey, with all the promptitude of zealous attachment, the other made no professions, but slowly raised men, and marched with tardy steps, into such a position that he could act as he judged fit, whenever the moment for action came. Catesby hurried up with all the men that he could raise; and many others came in with extraordinary speed; for though disaffection had spread wide, it was by no means universal; and many of those who were discontented were not willing to aid in hurling Richard from the throne. The army increased in number daily; and when the king compared his own force with that of Richmond, even after the latter had reached Shrewsbury, and had been joined by the young earl of that name, and the Lord Talbot, he laughed all fears of danger to scorn, and prepared to cast himself in the way of his enemy, in whatever direction he might bend his steps. Lord Calverly was sent to raise all his tenantry and dependants; and, amongst others to whom messengers were despatched, to call them immediately to the aid of the crown, were Fulmer and Chartley. The courier sent to the former found him on the full march from Dorsetshire, and returned to Richard with this reply to his summons--
"The Lord Fulmer craves the king's pardon, for moving without his commands; but having learned that the earl of Richmond had landed in Wales, he thought he could not be far wrong in marching at once, to offer his sword and his troops to his sovereign's service."
Richard was surrounded by many persons, when these words were reported; but shortly after, he whispered to Ratcliffe, who stood near him, saying--
"This youth Fulmer deserves well. He shall have his bride. But not yet, Ratcliffe--not yet. We must crush this Breton-nurtured young Richmond, and then we will have gay days and bridals. The girl must be brought to a place of security. We will send her to York."
"But your grace forgets that she is not at the abbey," replied Ratcliffe, who took the king's words for a command. "She must be found, before she can be sent to York."
Richard smiled, with one of his dark looks of serpent subtlety, in which a slight touch of scorn mingled with an expression of triumphant cunning.
"She needs not to be found," he answered; "but what said the young Lord Chartley to our summons? Has he returned no answer?"
"He called for his horse at the first word, sire," replied Ratcliffe, "and said, that in four days his tenants should be in the field."
"Impetuous ever!" said Richard; but then he fell into a fit of musing, and his brow grew somewhat dark. "Four days," he repeated, "four days That argues preparation. He has a two days' journey, speed as he will. His tenants shall be in the field--Ay, but for whom? Send some one after him. Bid him join us at Broughton, and let him be well watched."
"At Broughton, sire?" said Ratcliffe, in a doubtful tone.
"Yes," answered Richard; "we march tomorrow for Leicester. At Broughton we have him at our will. Have you heard from Lord Stanley, or his brother, Sir William?"
"He is true, I doubt not, sire," replied Ratcliffe; "the last news was that he had fallen back somewhat from Lichfield, upon the advance of Richmond, not having force to oppose him, since the defection of Sir George Talbot and the earl of Shrewsbury. But 'tis said his brother William is marching to join him with two thousand men, and they will fight the traitor as soon as they meet."
"That must not be," said Richard, with a stern thoughtful look. "If they win the field, a subject gains the honour which the crown should have. If they fail, they plume this gosshawk's wings with the eagle pens of victory, and many will draw to him after a won battle, many fall from us. There is ever, Ratcliffe, a light and fickle crowd, that flutters round success, heedless of right or merit, as clouds gather round the rising sun to gild their empty vapours in the beams that suck them up ere it be noon. No, no! We will have no one either snatch Richmond from our hand, or try and fail. Bid them fall back as he advances, till, with our kingly force, we overwhelm him like a rat in a torrent. Send off a post to-night; and, in the meanwhile, watch well the young Lord Strange. His neck is better security than his good father's faith. We will to Leicester early, before the army. But it must not lag behind. One day's march lost, and Richmond would slip by. He must not reach St. Paul's."
Thus saying, he turned to the rest of the courtiers, and spoke of other things.
The sun had set nearly an hour. The moon had not yet risen, and the forest was all in darkness; but there were many people round the door of the woodman's cottage. Horsemen, and men in armour, and a groom leading a beautiful white horse, evidently caparisoned for a lady. Through the chinks of the boards which covered the windows much light was streaming; and the scene within was an unusual one for such a place. There were four persons standing round a table, on which was laid a parchment; and Iola and Chartley had just signed it. The earl of Arran took the pen and gave it to the princess countess of Arran, who added her name to the act; and he, himself, then subscribed his own.
Two or three of the attendants, male and female, attested the deed likewise; and then the woodman, if we may still so call him, placed Iola's hand in Chartley's, saying, "Now, take her, noble lord, and place her beyond risk and danger as speedily as may be. To your honour she is trusted; and I do believe that neither your honour nor your love will ever fail; but yet, remember she is not your wife till the ceremonies of religion have consecrated the bond between you. I trust we shall all meet again soon, in the presence of those who may rightly judge of these matters; and I promise you there to prove, that the contract between this lady and the Lord Fulmer is utterly null and void, and that this contract is legal and good. To insure all, however--for who shall count upon even a single day--give this letter to the earl of Richmond, when you have joined him, and tell him it comes from the woodman who once sent him intelligence which saved him from captivity, and perhaps from death. Now, God's blessing be upon you, my children. Nay, let us have no farewells, dear Iola. Take her, Chartley, take her, and away."
"But was not Constance to meet us here?" said Iola, in a low tone. "I thought she was to be my companion."
"I fear that has gone wrong," said the woodman. "The abbey gates were closed an hour before sunset, and even one of my men was refused admission to the mere outer court; but I shall join you soon and bring you news. Though I can raise no great force, yet with what men I can muster I will not fail to help the noble earl with my own hand. So tell him."
Thus saying, he led Iola to the door of the cottage, with his own strong arms placed her on the horse's back, and then with one more blessing, retired from her side. Chartley sprang lightly and happily into the saddle, and the whole party rode on. It consisted of some twenty men besides the lover and his lady; and, at a quick pace, they proceeded through the forest, taking very nearly the same direction which had been followed by the woodman and the bishop of Ely, but by the general road, instead of the narrow and somewhat circuitous paths along which the prelate had been led.
I have not time or space to pause upon the feelings of Iola at that moment--at least, not to describe minutely. They were strange and new to her. She had encountered danger; she had resisted anger, without fear; but her circumstances now were very different. She was not only going alone with the man whom she loved into the wide world, with perils, changes, and events, surrounding them on all sides like a mist, through which the most piercing eye could not discover one ray of light, but she was quitting all old associations, breaking through every habit of thought, entering upon an entirely new state of being. The grave of a woman's first life is her marriage contract. Did she doubt? Did she hesitate? Oh, no, she feared for the future in one sense, but in one sense alone. She believed, she knew, she felt, that she had chosen well, that Chartley's love would not alter, nor his tenderness grow cold, that her happiness was in him, and was as secure as any fabric can be, built upon a mortal and perishable base; but she felt that in uniting her fate to his, if she doubled the enjoyments and the happiness of being, she doubled the dangers and anxieties also. She was much moved, but not by that consideration--in truth her emotion sprang not from consideration at all. It was a sensation--a sensation of the awfulness of the change; and though it did not make her tremble, yet whenever she thought of it, and all that it implied through the wide long future, a thrill passed through her heart which almost stepped its beatings.
With Chartley it was very different. Men cannot feel such things with such intensity, nay, can hardly conceive them. His sensations were all joyful. Hope, eager passion, gratified love, made his heart bound high, and filled it with new fire and energy. He was aware that many dangers were around them, that every hour and every moment had its peril, and that then a strife must come, brief and terrible, in which, perhaps, all his newborn joys might be extinguished in death. But yet, strange to say, the thought of death, which had never been very fearful to him, lost even a portion of its terrors rather than acquired new ones, by what might appear additional ties to existence. We little comprehend in these our cold calculating days--in an age which may be designated "The age of the absence of enthusiasms"--we little comprehend, I say, the nature of chivalrous love; nor, indeed, any of the enthusiasms of chivalry. I must not stay to descant upon them; but suffice it to say, Chartley felt that, whenever he might fall, to have called Iola his own, was a sufficient joy for one mortal life, that to do great deeds and die with high renown, loving and beloved and wept, was a fate well worthy of envy and not regret.
Still he had some faint notion of what must be passing in her breast. He felt that the very situation must agitate her; he fancied that the mere material danger that surrounded them might alarm her; and he hastened to cheer and re-assure her as much as might be.
"I trust, dearest Iola," he said, "that I shall not weary you by this fast riding, after all the agitation of to-day. Once past Tamworth, and we shall be more secure; for all my men muster at Fazely; and I trust to find myself at the head of three hundred horse."
"Do you stop at Tamworth?" asked Iola. "I have heard that there are parties of the king's troops there."
"We must leave it on the right, where the roads separate," replied Chartley. "Stanley, I hear, is retreating somewhere in this direction from Lichfield; but him I do not fear. If we reach Lichfield in safety, all danger is past. Ride on, dear one, for a moment, while I speak to some of the men in the rear. I will not be an instant ere I return to your side."
He might perceive something to raise apprehension, as he thus spoke, or he might not; but Chartley dropped back, and gave orders to two of the men, to keep at the distance of a hundred yards behind the rest, and if the slightest signs of pursuit were observed, to give instant warning; and then, while returning towards Iola, he paused for an instant by the Arab. "Ibn Ayoub," he said, "in case of attack, I give thee charge of the most precious thing I have. Shouldst thou see signs of strife, seize the lady's bridle, and away for safety, wherever the road is clear. Fleet will be the horses that can keep pace with thine and hers. A town, called Lichfield, is the place where we must meet. Thou hast once been there, and dost not forget."
"Why should the emir fight, and the slave fly?" asked Ibn Ayoub; "but be it as thou wilt."
"It must be so," answered his lord; "now, ride up closer to us, and remember my words."
Thus saying, he spurred on and renewed the conversation with Iola, in a cheerful though tender tone, and dear words were spoken, and bright hopes expressed, which made the way seem short. They recalled the past, they talked of the night when they had first met, and their sojourn in the forest, and Iola forgot in part her agitation, in the thrilling dreams of memory; but every now and then she would wake from them with a start, and recollect that she was there with Chartley--there alone--not to return in a few hours to the friends and companions of early youth, but in one, or, at most, two short days, to be his wife, to renounce all other things for him, and to merge her being into his. It was very sweet; but it was awful too, and, as from a well in her heart, new feelings gushed and almost overpowered her.
They had passed the turning of the road to Tamworth, and were riding on towards Fazely. All danger of an attack from that side seemed over; and Chartley's conversation became lighter and more gay, when suddenly one of his men rode up from behind, saying:
"There are some horsemen following, my noble lord. They are but three indeed, of that I am sure, for I rode up to that little hillock on the common, whence I can see for half a mile. But I thought it best to tell you."
"Spies, perhaps," said Chartley, in a calm tone. "If so, I would fain catch them, and bring them in to Fazely. Ride on, dearest Iola. I will take ten men, and see who these gentlemen are. All is prepared for you at Fazely, and we are beyond peril now. I will follow you at once. Ibn Ayoub, guard the lady."
"Chartley, you would not deceive me?" said Iola; "if there be danger, I would share it at your side."
"Indeed, there is none," replied Chartley, "you heard, dear one, what the man said. I know no more. There are but three men. They can make no attack, and indeed no resistance."
He turned his horse's head as he spoke, and, taking the eight last men of the troop with him, rode back to the rear. He had not far to go, however; for, about two hundred yards behind, he plainly saw the figures of three horsemen, one in front and two following, coming at a quick pace along the road. He halted his little troop when he could distinguish them, and as they approached nearer, exclaimed:
"Stand! Who comes here?"
"Is that thee, Lord Chartley?" asked a voice, which the young nobleman thought familiar to his ear.
"It matters not who I am," he replied; "you cannot pass till you declare yourself."
"May I never wear aught but a sorry-coloured cloth cloak and brown hosen," cried the other, "if that be not Chartley's tongue. I am Sir Edward Hungerford; do you not know me?"
"Faith, Hungerford!" replied Chartley, laughing; "like a kingfisher, you are better known by your feathers than your voice. But what brings you this way?"
"Seeking you, good my lord," replied Hungerford, riding up. "I have been over at Atherston enquiring for you, and then upon a certain green near a certain abbey; and I fear me, by riding through these roads, in this dusty August, I have utterly polluted a jerkin of sky blue satin, of the newest and quaintest device--would you could see it; and yet now 'tis hardly fit to be seen, I doubt--but faith, all the news I could get of you, was that you had ridden away towards Fazely, where your musters are making, and, as I rode down to the bridge on the Coleshill road, I caught a sound of horses' feet, and followed."
"But what might be your object?" asked Chartley; "what your pressing business with me?"
"Nay, I will tell you, when we get to Fazely," replied Hungerford; "and we had better ride on quick, for I must bear back an answer to Tamworth to-night."
The society of Sir Edward Hungerford, at Fazely, was by no means what Chartley desired; and he determined on his course at once.
"Gramercy, Hungerford!" he said; "these are perilous times, which break through courtesies and abridge ceremonies. Fazely is in possession of my merry men. It is an open undefended village, and I will let none into it, but my own people."
"Why, you do not look on me as a spy," replied Hungerford, in an offended tone; "your hospitality is scanty, my lord Chartley."
"If you have to return to Tamworth to-night, Hungerford, it is not hospitality you seek," answered Chartley; "true, I do not look on you as a spy, or ought, but the best-dressed man of honour in the land; but I do hold it a point of prudence, in times like these, to let no one know the numbers and disposition of my little force, when one can never tell in what ranks one may see him next. In a word, my gentle friend, I have heard that you have been of late with good Lord Fulmer, down in Dorsetshire; and Lord Fulmer is much doubted at the court, let me tell you--of his love for me there is no doubt. Now, if you were seeking me at Atherston and elsewhere, you can speak your errand here as well as at Fazely."
"But you cannot read a billet here as well as at Fazely," replied Hungerford, "no, nor smell out the contents--though I had it scented before I brought it, which he had omitted."
"Who is he?" asked Chartley.
"My noble friend, Lord Fulmer, to be sure," answered the gay knight.
"Ah, then, I guess your errand," replied Chartley; "here, let us dismount and step aside. Mundy, hold my horse." Springing to the ground, he walked to a little distance from his men, with Sir Edward Hungerford.
"Now my good friend," he said, "let me have it in plain words, and as briefly as may suit your courtly nature."
The message, which Hungerford delivered in somewhat circuitous terms, and with many fine figures of speech, was what Chartley anticipated; and he replied at once--
"I will not baulk him, Hungerford, though good faith, he might have chosen a more convenient season. Yet I will not baulk him; but, as the person challenged, I will dictate my own terms."
"That is your right," said Hungerford, "we can have the cartel fairly drawn out, and signed by each."
"Good faith, no," answered Chartley; "the first of my conditions is, that there be no cartel. We have no time for fooleries. Events are drawing on, in which all personal petty quarrels must be lost; but still, although I might refuse, and refer our difference to a future time, when peace is restored, yet I will not seek delay, if he will demand no other terms but those I can grant at once. Thus then, I will have no parade of lists, and witnesses, and marshals of the field; but I will meet him sword to sword, and man to man, my bare breast against his. Alone too let it be. There is no need of mixing other men in our quarrels. It must be immediate too; for I have not time to wait upon his pleasure. To-morrow at dawn, tell him, I will be alone upon the top of yonder little hill, behind which the moon is just rising, if that silver light in the sky speaks truth. There we can see over the country round, so that his suspicious mind cannot fear an ambush. I will be alone, armed as I am now, with sword and dagger only. Let him come so armed likewise, and he shall have what he seeks. These are my conditions, and thereon I give you my hand. Be you the witness of our terms; and if either take advantage, then rest shame upon his name."
"I will tell him, my good lord," replied Hungerford, "but I cannot answer he will come; for these conditions are unusual. 'Tis most unpleasant fighting before breakfast. Men have more stomach for a hearty meal, than a good bout of blows."
"Good faith, if he have no stomach for the meal I offer, he may even leave it," answered Chartley. "'Tis the only time, and only manner that he shall have the occasion. You own, yourself, I have a right to name the terms."
"Undoubtedly," replied Hungerford. "Yet still the manner is most uncustomary, and the hour comfortless. If I were a general I would never let my men fight till after dinner: An Englishman gets savage in digestion, owing to the quantity of hard beef he eats, and always should be brought to fight at that hour when he is fiercest. However, as such is your whim, I will expound it to Lord Fulmer; and now, my noble lord, I trust you will not hold my act unfriendly, in bearing you this billet, which I will leave with you, although I have delivered the substance."
"Not in the least, Hungerford," replied Chartley. "I believe, like many another man, you are better, wiser, than you suffer yourself to seem."
"Thanks, noble lord," replied the knight, moving by his side towards their horses; "but there was one important matter, which I forgot to mention, though I have borne it in my mind for several months."
"Ay, what was that?" demanded Chartley, stopping.
"That last night at Chidlow," replied Hungerford, "your doublet was looped awry. Were I you, I would strictly command the valet of my wardrobe to begin at the lowest loop, and so work upwards; for it has a singular and unpleasant effect upon the eye to see apparel out of place, especially where slashings and purfling, or bands, or slips, or other regular parts of the garment are out of symmetry. For my part I cannot fancy any fair lady looking love upon such a disjointed garment."
"I will follow your sage advice," replied Chartley, laughing; "and now, good night, Hungerford. Another evening I trust to entertain you better."
Thus they parted; and Chartley, putting his horse to speed, rode after Iola and her companions. They had reached Fazely, however, before he overtook them; and the young lord found the master of his household, with all due reverence, showing the lady Iola to the apartments in the large farm-house which had been prepared for her.
The place was not a palace assuredly; but many a little graceful decoration had been added to its plain accommodations, since Chartley's messenger had arrived that evening. Garlands of flowers had been hung above the doors, fresh rushes strewed the floors, and wreaths of box hung upon the sconces.
All was bustle too in the village. Groups of men in arms were seen lingering about; and merry sounds came from the ale-house opposite. Iola's heart, however, sunk a little, when she saw the many signs of approaching warfare, although those who were to take part therein, and peril life and happiness, seemed to treat it as a thoughtless May-day game. A buxom country girl was waiting to attend upon her, some light refreshments were spread out in the hall; and when Chartley's step and Chartley's voice were heard, the momentary sensation of dread passed away, and she felt that the first perils were passed.
An hour, a little hour, they stayed together, in sweet dreamy talk; and then Chartley led her to her chamber, where a bed had also been prepared for the maid. With a kind and gentle adieu, Chartley bade her rest well, that she might be refreshed for their march on the following day, and then returned to hear reports, and give directions.
The next was a busy hour. Orders, inquiries, the receipt of intelligence, the examination of rolls and accounts, filled up the time; and then, dismissing all to repose, the young lord sat down to write. Two or three letters were speedily finished; one to Lord Stanley, one to the Earl of Richmond, and one to Sir William Arden. A few brief tender lines to Iola he folded up and put in his own bosom; after which he wrote some directions upon paper, sealed them, and then marked upon the back--"To be opened and followed if I be not returned by eight of the clock--Chartley."
And then he sat, and leaned his head upon his hand, and thought. He would not retire to rest, lest he should not wake in time; but the hours of the night slipped by; and at length he rose, and broke the slumbers of his drowsy master of his household, who, though startled at seeing his lord by his bed-side, could hardly be brought to understand what was said to him.
"Here, take these orders," said Chartley. "Put them under your pillow for to-night, and see that they be executed at the hour named to-morrow."
"I will, my lord. Yes, my lord, I will," replied the man, rubbing his eyes; and having given him the paper, Chartley procured a cup of cold water, drank it for refreshment after his sleepless night, and then proceeded to the stable. There, with his own hands, he saddled his horse; then mounted, and rode away.