To the surprise of Iola, and certainly not less to that of good Ibn Ayoub, though with Mahommedan gravity he gave no voice to his wonder, Chartley burst into a violent fit of laughter.
"Good Heaven, what is it?" exclaimed Iola, looking up; and at the same moment Chartley sprang down from the chair, still laughing.
"Forgive me, dear Iola," he said, taking her little hand and kissing it, "but did you ever see the devil play on a bag-pipe?"
"I never saw the devil at all," replied Iola, with a bewildered look; "but I do not understand what you mean."
"I mean, sweet friend, that this is evidently a piper, and, if I mistake not much, 'tis man I saw in Tamworth this very morning and yesterday also. He seemed the life and soul of the people round, a merry happy-hearted fellow, whom they call Sam the Piper, with a breast without guile, if one may judge by his face, which bespeaks him no one's enemy but his own. Strange to say, he would drink neither wine nor ale, though I offered him either, and though his face betrayed many a potation past, if not present. Stay a while. I will go out and see. If it be the man I mean, I will bring him in; for by all means we will have the piper of our faction."
"But are you sure that it is safe?" said Iola, timidly, but holding his arm to detain him.
"Oh, he will not betray us," exclaimed Chartley; "and besides we can keep him here as long as we like."
"But if it should prove to be the--the--" said Iola, adding, after a moment's pause, "some evil being."
Chartley laughed again; and gently putting his arm round her for a single instant, he said--
"Fear not, Iola. With the angels in those eyes upon my side, I would undertake to protect you against all the evil spirits in the universe."
Iola dropped the eyelids over the lustrous orbs below; and a blush spread over her cheek like the crimson light of the setting sun. Chartley instantly withdrew his arm; and repeating--"Fear not," he opened the door and went out of the hall.
A few words were then heard, spoken without; and a moment after he re-entered, followed by Sam the Piper, with his beloved instrument still tight under his arm. The good man's steps were not quite steady, and certainly it was not natural feebleness that caused their vacillation. Yet his eye was clear and bright; and his merry voice seemed not in the least thickened by any liquor he might have imbibed.
"Gad ye good night, lords and ladies, gad ye good night," he said, as he entered, making a low obeisance, and producing at the same time a lamentable squeak from his chanter. "Gad ye good night, tawny Moor. I did not think to see your beautiful black face again for many a day. Gad ye good night, fairest of ladies. To see you and his dark lordship here, one would think one's self upon the confines of the upper and the nether world, with angels on the one side and devils on the other."
"Meaning me for one, knave," said Chartley, giving him a good-humoured shake.
"Ah, mercy, mercy, noble sir," cried the piper in a pitiful tone. "Shake me not; for my legs are not made of iron to-night, and my stomach is as full as my bag when well blown up."
"But your stomach has something stronger than air in it, if I mistake not," said Chartley, laughing, "Come tell me, sirrah, how it happens that you, who would take no strong drink yesterday, are well nigh drunk tonight."
"There's no contradiction in that," replied the man, "though I take no liquor, liquor may overtake me; and if a man is overtaken in liquor, the fault's in the liquor, not in him."
"Still, if the fault's in the liquor, and the liquor in him, the fault is in him," answered Chartley; "for learned doctors say that the thing which contains another contains all that it contains."
"But, then," replied the piper, who, like many of his class, was exceedingly fond of chopping logic; "if the fault's in the liquor, and the liquor in him, he cannot be in fault, for the thing that contains cannot be in the thing contained. But marry, my good lord, the truth is, I made a promise to good sister Alice at the convent, not to get drunk at Tamworth fair, and gloriously I redeemed my word, and gloriously I got drunk afterwards."
While this dialogue had been proceeding, Iola stood by, marvelling greatly at all she heard; for it was a scene altogether new to her, and one of which, in her simplicity and ignorance of the world's ways, she could have formed no conception. In her ramblings hither and thither, which her good aunt had permitted pretty liberally, she might indeed have seen, now and then, a drunken man, for alas, drunkenness is a virtue of no particular age; but she had never met with the merry reckless wine-bibber--one of the peculiar character of the good piper--who has an excuse for his sins always ready, by which he does not impose upon himself.
After a few more words of the same kind, Chartley moved her chair for her back to the fire, seated himself as before on the stool by her side, and, while the Arab resumed his place, pointed to the opposite side, saying to the piper, "There, sit you down, and tell us what you've seen in the forest to-night."
"Good faith, I have seen nothing," answered Sam, "for the night's dark, and I have been somewhat dark too. After I had been to the abbey for the morning dole, to show good sister Alice that I had kept my word and was quite sober, I went away to the first tavern, and, with all the pence I had collected in the fair, bought myself a stoup of small wine, and a farthing's worth of sugar. Your lordship's groat helped me wonderfully. Then, not liking the thought of a forcible division of my property, I brought my wine up here, ensconced me in the doorway of the little tower, and went on sipping till I fell asleep. When I woke, it was black night; but there was still something left in my wine-pot, and I set to again to gain courage, and to keep out the cold. When I looked abroad, however, I soon saw that somebody had lighted a fire in the court; and I crept round and round on the walls, to see who it was, saying Paters and Aves all the time, and thinking it might be the devil had done it; for he, it is said, keeps up the best fire in his house of any man."
Lord Chartley gave a meaning and merry glance to Iola; and Iola smiled in return.
"At length, seeing no one there," continued the piper, "I ventured down into the court to warm myself, when suddenly your lordship came upon me, and took me prisoner. I suppose it was my mad pipes betrayed me, for, like a chattering wife, they are always talking where they should not, unless I am careful to blow all the wind out of the bag. However, I am never much afraid of robbers, plunderers, camp-followers, or anything, for nobody meddles with a piper. You cannot have more of a cat than her skin, nor of a piper than his pipes, and neither the one nor the other is of much use to those who do not know how to handle them."
Chartley mused for a minute or two, and then said in a low tone to his fair companion:
"Do you not think, dear lady, that we could make use of this merry ribald, to communicate our situation here to those who could give us intelligence--ay, and even help in case of need. It is very sweet," he continued, tenderly, "to sit here by your side, whiling away the livelong hours of night, with one so fair and gentle. But I must not forget your comfort in my own happiness. You have passed a weary and an anxious night, and the sooner I can restore you to your friends, to tranquillity and repose, the better. I must find some other moment," he added rapidly, "brighter and calmer, to say more of myself--I think that we may use this man, who will not be stopped by the soldiery, to bear tidings of where you are----"
"Oh yes," exclaimed Iola, "let him go as quickly as possible to the abbey. My aunt will be sadly anxious about me."
"I fear that would be dangerous," replied Chartley. "Rather let him go to the woodman, tell him where we are, request him to send us information and advice, and, if possible, to communicate to the abbess, that you are quite safe. That I think is the best course to pursue."
"Perhaps it is," answered Iola; and then in a lower tone, she added, "if you can quite trust to this man--he seems a libertine and a drunkard."
"You must not judge him too harshly," replied Chartley. "Most men, especially of his class, have their peculiar vices; but, though it may seem strange, from those vices you must not imply others of a different class and character. Nay, more, there are faults which are almost always accompanied by certain better qualities; and, from what I know of the world, I am inclined to think, that this man's good faith might be better trusted than that of many a sanctimonious friar or smooth-spoken propriety-loving trader."
"But is he fit?" asked Iola. "To me he seems hardly sober."
"Oh fit enough," answered Chartley. "With daily tipplers a certain portion of good wine is needful to sharpen their senses. That gives them wit which takes away the wits of other men; and he is not likely to find more drink in the forest unless he apply to the pure stream.--Hark ye, good master piper. Tell me how much discretion is left in that noddle of yours?"
"Enough to prevent me running my head against a post, or leading another into a ditch," answered the piper. "Now, good my lord, did I not come down the stairs, from the little turret into the court-yard, with every stone step as frail and moveable as the rounds of ambition's ladder?"
"And thou art trustworthy, methinks," said Chartley, in a musing tone.
"Else have I drunk many a butt of good liquor to no purpose," replied the piper.
"How should that make thee trustworthy?" demanded the young lord.
"Because the liquor was sound and honest, my lord," replied the piper; "and as by this time it must have penetrated every part, I should be sound and honest too. Moreover, it was best half drunk in secret, so that secrecy's a part of my composition also."
"Well, I will trust thee," replied Chartley, "and if thou wilt win a gold angel, thou shalt have the means of doing so."
"I will not debate upon the question long," said Sam, starting up. "I am always ready to go upon a pilgrimage, and far readier to worship a gold angel than a painted saint. Let me see, six stoups, at one shilling and two pence the stoup, would be--soul of my body, there's drink for a week in a gold angel."
"There, there, cease your calculations," cried Chartley; "first win the angel, and then use it discreetly afterwards."
"So shall it be my better angel," said the piper, laughing, and winking his eye. "But how is the celestial coin to be obtained, my lord?"
"Listen, and you shall hear," replied the young nobleman; "and be serious now, for this is a matter of importance. Do you know Boyd, the head woodman of the abbey?"
"Do I know the great oak of Ashton?" exclaimed Sam. "Do I know the old tower of Tamworth? Do I know anything that men frequenting this neighbourhood see every day? Why, Boyd has given me both a beating and a breakfast, at times, has made my back groan under a cudgel and under a bacon. That last was a-good deed, for it saved my boy, who is now over the sea with the Marquis of Dorset, from starving, when he was hid away in Mount Sorel wood. Oh yes, we all know Boyd; the roughest tongue, the hardest hand, the clearest eye, and the kindest heart in the country."
"Well then," said Chartley, "I wish you to find him out, and to tell him for me, that I am here in the old castle, and have a lady with me whom he wots of. My name I suppose you have learned from the horse-boys, by your be-lording me so often; and he will divine who the lady is; if you tell him that she is with me, and safe, but that we dare not venture forth without further information, while these soldiers are watching the wood. Let him send word to the lady's friends that she is in security, but, above all, give us intelligence and help if he can."
"Soldiers watching the wood?" said the piper, in a tone of surprise.
"Ay, even so," answered Chartley. "Thou, hast been like one of the seven sleepers, my friend, and hast dozed, unconscious, while great events were going on around thee. Half the houses on the abbey green have been burned; and there are bands now upon all the great roads of the wood. Does that frighten thee?"
"Not a whit," cried the piper. "How should it frighten me? They could but slash the sow's stomach under my arm, or my own; and neither the one nor the other is worth the sharpening of a knife. They'll not harm me; for all your mud-splashing, sheep-stealing, wench-kissing, big-oathed, blaspheming horse troopers are fond of a minstrel; and I will strike up my pipes when I come near the high road, to let them know who I am. It may be a signal to old Boyd too, if he's wandering through the wood, as most likely he is; for, like a ghost, he goes about more by night than by day.--Burned half the houses on the abbey green! That's serious. By my pipes, some necks'll be twisted for it, I think."
"I trust there will," answered Chartley; "but now set out upon your errand, my good man, and when next you see me, my message being delivered, claim of me a gold angel; but if you say a word of it to any one else but Boyd himself, when next I see you, you shall have another sort of payment."
The piper laughed, and, giving the bag under his arm a squeeze, made his pipes squeak in a very ludicrous manner. Then quitting the hall, with a steadier step than that with which he had entered, he took his way down through the wood which had often been his home during many a warm summer night. Most of the paths were familiar to him; and trudging on, he entered one of the broader ways, which led directly to the high road that divided the forest into two unequal parts. After he had gone on for about half a mile, he heard voices speaking, and paused for an instant to consider. "I will be very drunk," he said to himself. "Drunkenness is often as good a cloak as hypocrisy. All men make their garments out of the skins of beasts, and the smoothest are not always the thickest. Here go I then;" and, assuming a reeling and unsteady step, he blew up the bag of his pipes, and soon, from the various stops, produced a gay wild air, which would have been pretty enough, but for the continued dull squeaking with which it was accompanied.
"Ha, who goes there?" cried a voice, a minute or two after, as he emerged upon the road; and two mounted men were immediately by his side.
"Sam the piper, Sam the piper," he answered, in drunken accents. "And who are you, jolly boys? What do you keep the king's highway for? Are you looking to see if any man has dropped his purse? If so, I cry shares; for by St. Dominic, there's nothing in mine. Now, marry, if a fat priest were to fall in your way, I would rather be his mule afterwards than before."
"Why so, knave?" asked one of the men.
"Marry, because he'd ride lighter, I've a notion," replied Sam.
"Ha, say'st thou so, knave?" cried one of the men, lifting up his hand to strike him; but the other interposed, saying--
"Nay, nay, 'tis Sam the piper. He has a fool's privilege, and means no harm. Besides the man is drunk."
"Come, tell me, knave," exclaimed the other, "whither thou hast been wandering in the wood?"
"Nay, Heaven knows," answered the piper, "wherever wine and destiny led me. I have been asleep half the time; and since I woke, I have been walking about in the cool, to clear my complexion, and get the fumes of Tamworth fair out of my head; for I felt my knees weaker than they ought to be, and a solemn sort of haziness of the wits, just such as the preaching parson at Ashton must have after writing one of his sermons, and his congregation do have after hearing one."
The two soldiers laughed, and the fiercer of the two demanded--
"Did'st thou meet any man in the forest?
"Not till I met your reverences," replied the piper. "I do not know what any man should do here, unless it were to sleep off a tipsy fit, lose his way, or pick up a purse, though the last has grown a rarity since the wars came to an end. In former times men might gather purses like blackberries upon every bush. That was when I was a soldier. But that whorson poke with a pike I got at Barnet crippled my crupper joint for life, and made me walk unsteady, which causes the poor fools to say I am drunk, though all the world knows that I live like an anchorite, eat herbs and roots, when I can get no flesh, and drink pure water, when there's neither wine nor ale to be had. Give you good den, my masters--What's the time o'day?"
"Night, you drunken dolt," replied one of the men. "It's matins by this time, but are you sure that you have not seen a man in a friar's gown? If you lie to me, your ears won't be safe for the next month.
"A man in a friar's gown?" said the piper with a hiccup, "ay, to be sure I did."
"When? Where?" cried the soldiers eagerly.
"Why, in Tamworth, yesterday morning," answered the piper; and one of the men, giving him a smart blow with his fist, told him to go on his way, with no very commendatory valediction.
Playing his part admirably well, the piper reeled down the road, passing two other patroles, each of which stopped and interrogated him, as the other men had done; somewhat more briefly, however, when they found he had been stopped and questioned before. At length, sitting down by the road side, as if his legs refused to carry him farther, when two of his interrogators had just passed on, he waited till they had gone to a little distance, and then plunged into the wood. He soon forced his way on, to one of the lesser paths, but there he stopped to consider, saying to himself--"How shall I make Boyd hear, if he be roaming about? I'll go straight to his house; but this forest is for all the world like a rabbit burrow; and I may be popping out of one hole while he is popping into another, if I cannot contrive to send some messenger to his ears, that will run a few hundred yards on each side of me, at least. I must not try the pipes again, but I will make the belling of a deer. If he hears that at this season of the year, he will be sure to come up to see what's the matter."
Accordingly, by placing his fingers after a fashion of his own upon his lips, he contrived to produce a very accurate imitation of the peculiar call of the deer at certain periods of the year; he continued to emit these sounds from time to time, as he walked on, till at length he heard a rustle in the brushwood near.
"Now that's either a stag," he said to himself, "who, like a young gallant of nineteen, makes love at all times and seasons, and I shall have his horns in my stomach in a minute; or else it is Boyd or one of his men, and I have hit the mark. I must risk the horns, I fancy."
A moment after, a low voice said--
"Who goes there?"
"Sam the piper," answered our good friend, "looking for what he cannot find;" and the next moment, pushing through the shrubs, the tall and powerful form of the woodman stood before him.
"Ah, Sam," said Boyd, "what are you seeking, you drunken dog?"
"Seeking you, master Boyd," answered Sam in a very different tone from that in which he had addressed the soldiers. "I have news for you."
"Ay, and what may that be?" demanded Boyd, with the utmost indifference of manner; "some of the gossip of Tamworth I suppose. The bailiff has beat his wife, or the mercer's daughter has gone off with the smart apprentice; but I have other things to think of, master Sam, to-night. Have you heard that the rough bands from Coleshill have burnt the houses on the abbey green?"
"Yes, I've heard of it," answered Sam; "and there has been a great fire up at the old castle too."
The woodman started.
"At the old castle! What do you mean?" he exclaimed. "Who should burn the old castle?"
"I didn't say it had been burned," replied the piper. "I only said that there was a great fire there; and very comfortable it was too, considering the cold night and the good company."
"Speak out, man! What do you mean?" demanded the woodman sternly. "This is no time for fool's play."
"I think not," answered the piper; "and so the plain truth is, that I was ordered, by a certain young lord, to tell you, that a certain young lady is up there safe with him and his tawny Moor, and that they are afraid to stir out while the wood is watched by the soldiers, without farther information and advice; and they look to you to give both, and moreover to send intelligence to her friends, that she is quite safe. There, I have delivered my message, better than ever message was delivered before, for I have given it word for word, and you may make the best of it."
"Up there, with him alone throughout the night!" said the woodman, in a tone of no very great approbation. "Yet he may be trusted, I think--but still 'twere better not. What will the other feel, when he hears of it?--No matter. It cannot be helped. There is nothing else to be done."
"Oh yes, there is," answered the piper; "if you could take them up a stoup of wine, or a black jack of good strong beer, you would do more; for, if I judge rightly, they have nothing to keep up the spirits, or support the body; or amuse the time, unless it be making love, and that is cold work without meat or drink."
"Listen to this fool now!" said the woodman, "how he hits the nail aright--I will go up myself."
"They will not thank you if you come empty-handed," answered the piper; "and you had better take me with you, to show you the way; for the forest is changed since you last saw it, and there are living trees on the high road, which stop up the paths, and move to and fro."
"I understand thee, piper," answered the woodman. "Thou art a shrewd knave with thine enigmas. Come along with me then. I will try to make thee useful, for the first time in thy life."
"Not useful!" said the piper, as the woodman moved on, taking a branch of the path that led away to the right. "I am the most useful man in the whole hundred. What would weddings be without me, or baptisms either? How many quarrels do my sweet notes allay? How often do I make peace between man and wife, by drowning her shrill voice by my shriller notes, and outroaring him with my drone? Go to, you would never get on without me--Useful, quotha? But where are you going, now? This is not the way to the castle."
"I am going to take thy sage advice," replied the woodman, "which on ordinary occasions is not worth a groat. But we may as well carry up some provisions; and for that purpose, as well as others, I must take my cottage by the way. But now hold thy peace, man, for I would have my thoughts clear."
Thus saying, he strode on before, the piper following, till they reached the broader road, which passed the cottage, and came in sight of the little green.
"Hist, hist," said the piper. "There is some one before the door. It may be one of the soldiers who set fire to the houses."
"Then I will cleave his skull with my axe," answered the woodman, lightly; "but, 'tis only David. Go on--get thee into the house. I want to speak, to him;" and striding forward, he approached the man, and spoke a few words to him, of which the piper could only distinguish a few, though he was all ears.
"By half-past five," said the woodman, "as many as you can, and well armed."
"At the old castle?" asked the man.
"Yes," answered the woodman, "under the gateway. The sky will be grey by that time. Quarrel not with the soldiers, if you can help it. Say you are but doing your needful service; but keep to it sturdily. Nay, now I think of it, 'twere better to gather in the wood upon the hill before the castle, especially if the soldiers follow you. There, begin hewing down the young trees which we marked for cutting out, and run up to the gate if you should hear my horn. Now away, and bring all you can; but mind you send Adam up on his pony at once to the abbey."
The man replied not, but ran away with a peculiarly quick but easy trot; and Boyd entered the hut, where he found the piper standing very near the door. He felt inclined to ask him why he had not gone in, feeling sure that he had lingered to listen; but there, just before him, stood the great deer-hound Ban, neither growling nor attempting to seize the intruder, but gazing at him with a very fierce and formidable expression of countenance, which might well daunt even a stout heart in the breast of an unarmed man. The moment the dog saw his master, however, he dropped his stiffened tail and raised ears; and the woodman said, "Now, Sam, come you with me, and we will load ourselves with food for the nonce. Here, sling this great bottle under your right arm, to balance your bag-pipes, and take this loaf upon your back. I will carry the rest; but I must leave my right hand free, in case of need, to use my weapon."
"But how am I to use my weapon, if you load me so?" asked the piper, making his instrument give a squeak.
"The less you use it the better," answered the woodman.
"I say the same of all weapons," rejoined Sam. "But never mind, put on the load, and let us go."
Their arrangements were soon complete, and with a rapid pace they gained once more the edge of the high roads and there paused under the trees, to watch the proceedings of the enemy. The same vigilant patrol was kept up; but the woodman marked it with a smile.
"They think the person they seek must have taken refuge there," he said in a whisper to his companion, "because he could not pass by the hamlet or the lower road, without falling in with them; but if they keep their parties so loose, I would pass a hundred men across, one by one. I will go first, and you follow. He waited till the next couple of soldiers had ridden slowly by, and then with a silent step crossed to the opposite side of the road, where he paused for his companion; but the poor piper had nearly brought himself into a dangerous situation, by a hankering for the great bottle which hung under his arm. In extracting, with his stout finger and thumb, the cork from the mouth, he produced a sound loud enough to make two of the soldiers stop, and then ride up to the spot; but his bagpipe once more saved him; for squeezing the bag hard, and running his fingers over the pipe, he produced a series of sounds only to be equalled by those of two cats in a gutter; and one of the soldiers exclaimed:
"It is only that drunken piper again. Cease your squalling, knave, or I'll break your pate."
The sound of the pipe instantly stopped; and the moment the two men had gone on, the piper passed the road and joined his companion. The rest of the way was speedily accomplished, and, a little before five, the woodman approached the gates of the old castle. There he paused, and, after a moment's thought, turned to his companion, saying:
"It would be a great advantage to us, my good friend, Sam, if we could get some information of the movements of these bands."
"I'll undertake it," said the piper, whom success had made bold. "You shall have tidings of any change in their dance. But you must give me something to wet my mouth first, Master Boyd."
"Well, well," answered the woodman, set the bottle to your lips, but only drink to the peg, do you hear? Stay, I'll hold my hand upon it, and stop you; for you must leave some for others, and not take too much yourself.
The piper took a deep draught, and was only stayed by his companion snatching the bottle from him. Then followed a consultation as to what was to be done in the many contingencies which might arise. It was agreed that, if the piper did not return within half an hour after day-break, the party in the castle should conclude he had been detained by the soldiery; that if he came back without being followed, and having remarked no movement of importance, he should play a low and quiet air upon his instrument; while, on the contrary, if the soldiers were at his heels, and danger menacing, he should come on with a quick loud march.
This being settled, he departed on his errand; and, passing over the frail remains of the bridge, the woodman entered the great court, where the embers of the fire were still gleaming in the ashes, like the eyes of a wild beast through a thicket. Approaching the door of the hall, he paused and listened, not knowing what might have occurred since the wandering musician had quitted the place. But all was silent; and, bending down his head a little, he looked forward into the interior of the hall through one of the rifts which had been made violently in the door at the former siege. The party were nearly in the same position as when the piper had left them, the Arab crouching upon the ground near the fire, which he seemed lately to have supplied with wood, and his dark face resting on his darker hand. Chartley was seated on the footstool, with his feet stretched towards the fire, and his left side leaning against the arm of the chair. In the chair was Iola as before, but her eyes were closed. Her hand rested upon Chartley's arm; and her head drooped upon his shoulder, while her balmy breath fanned his cheek, as she slept, tired out by emotions and fatigues.
In the course of this work I have mentioned several roads, the direction of each of which will be very easily understood by those who have an acquaintance with the locality, even in the present day. For those who have not, however, I must add a few words of explanation. One road, passing over the abbey green and between the houses on the western side, descended the slope, on the top of which the buildings stood, and then, running through the lower part of the wood, ascended the higher hill, cutting straight across the heart of the forest. At the bottom of the slope, however, just under the abbey, and at the distance of, perhaps, a quarter of a mile, this road was entered by another, which, coming through the lower ground from the hamlet at Coleshill, and joining the valley and the stream at the distance of about a mile from that place, followed all the meanders which the little river chose to take, till it reached the spot I have mentioned. At the point where the two roads met, Sir John Godscroft, after distributing his men around the wood, fixed his temporary head quarters, and took the measures which he thought necessary for obtaining information. Two messengers were also sent off in haste in different directions; and every peasant who could be brought in was strictly interrogated, as well as the bailiff of the abbey, who was subjected to more than one cross examination. The information of the bailiff was peculiarly valuable, not so much because it was eagerly and minutely given, both from motives of revenge and apprehension, as because it afforded the most perfect and detailed account of every part of the abbey, as far as it was known to the coward himself. From it, Sir John Godscroft satisfied himself completely, first, that no part of the abbey where a man could be concealed had escaped search, and, secondly, that the fugitive must have taken refuge in that portion of the forest lying to the right of the road as you ascended the hill. With this conviction he established a line of patrols all round the wood, too close, as he thought, for any man to pass unnoticed, and then wrapping himself in his cloak, with a saddle for his pillow, he gave himself up to sleep. Twice he woke during the night, and, mounting his horse, rode at a rapid pace round the whole of that part of the wood which he was watching so eagerly, and ever, as he went, he encouraged the men on duty, by reminding them that a reward of a thousand marks was promised for the capture of the bishop of Ely.
"Be vigilant till morning," he said, "and then we will search the wood. In a few hundred acres like this, it is impossible he can escape."
He once more stretched himself on the ground, when it wanted about an hour to dawn, and had slept for somewhat more than half an hour, when he was roused by the return of one of his messengers.
"Up into the saddle, Sir John, up into the saddle!" said the man; "Sir William Catesby is at my heels with full five hundred spears. He rose and mounted at once, as soon as he got your message; and his men say that he has a warrant under the king's own hand for the arrest of the bishop and several others."
Godscroft looked somewhat grim at this intelligence, imagining, perhaps that the reward he anticipated was likely to be snatched from his grasp by another. What he might have done in these circumstances, had there been time for deliberate thought and action, I cannot tell; but before he could well shake off the effects of sleep, the head of Catesby's troop came down from the green; and the crafty and dissimulating minister of Richard sprang to the ground by his side.
Catesby took Sir John Godscroft by the hand, and divining, perhaps, what might be the impression produced by his coming, said in a loud frank tone, "Sir John, you and your brave companions have done the king good service, which will not be easily forgotten. Think not that I come either to share or take away your reward, but simply as a loyal subject and a good soldier, to do my duty to my prince and my country, without any recompense whatever. We must have this traitor before noon to-morrow."
"That shall we, beyond doubt, Sir William," replied the other, while a good number of the soldiers stood round and listened. "With the force which you have brought, one body can surround the wood while the other searches."
"I must detach a considerable troop," replied Catesby, "to pursue the party of Lord Chartley to Hinckley; for I have authority to attach every one who has contributed in any degree to the escape of this proclaimed traitor, the bishop of Ely."
"Then I have a notion you must attach the abbess of St. Clare," said Godscroft, "for she has certainly sheltered him and favoured his evasion, since the young lord left him there."
"How many men has Chartley with him?" demanded Catesby, not appearing to notice the suggestion regarding the abbess.
"Well nigh upon fifty," answered Godscroft, and then added, returning to the point: "Had you not better secure the abbey first?"
"No, no," answered Catesby; "we must not violate sanctuary, nor touch the privileges of the church;" and, taking Godscroft's arm, he said in a low voice, "What is the meaning of those houses I see burned upon the green? I hope your men have not done it."
"Good faith but they have," answered the other; "altogether contrary to my orders though; and I have hanged several of them for their pains."
"Better keep this from the king's ears," said Catesby, musing. "However, we must have the bishop, Sir John, and this young Lord Chartley too, who has been clearly privy to Morton's visit to England, which makes it a case of misprision of treason, for which disease the axe is the only remedy I know."
After uttering these bitter words in a somewhat jocose tone, he returned to the head of his troop, and gave some orders, which immediately caused a party of forty-eight or fifty men to ride on, with all speed, upon the same road which had been taken the night before by Chartley and his companions. The rest of Catesby's dispositions were soon made; for, in order not to disappoint Sir John Godscroft and his companions of their prey, he reserved to the regular soldiers the simple task of guarding the wood, while it was searched by Godscroft's band. Nothing, however, could be done till day-break, beyond a few preliminary arrangements; and the rest of the time was spent by the two leaders in walking up and down, and conversing over the events in which they took an interest.
"If we had but known an hour or two before," said Sir John Godscroft, "we should have caught the bishop in the abbey. We lost no time by the way, nor in setting out either; for we were not five minutes out of the saddle after Sir Charles's messenger arrived. 'Tis marvellous he did not send before; for his man tells me he was more than a whole day in the bishop's company, and knew him from the first."
"He could not help it," answered Catesby. "He wrote at once to the king and to myself; but it was agreed on all hands that it would be better for Weinants to follow him till he was lodged somewhere for the night; for, if we had attempted to take him in Tamworth yesterday morning--not having known soon enough to seize him in his bed--he would have escaped to a certainty, in the confusion of the fair. Then to catch him on the road would have been difficult, for Chartley's party is large; and a very little resistance on their part would have given him time to fly. No, no, Weinants is wonderfully shrewd and discreet; and he calculated to a nicety, that this traitor prelate would either stop here upon some pretence, while the rest rode on to Hinckley, or go on with them to Hinckley, where he could be taken without trouble.--Is not the sky turning somewhat greyer, think you?"
"Methinks it is," replied the other.
"Well then, let us to our work," said Catesby. "You must dismount your men, and let two or three enter at the mouth of every path, pursuing it through its whole track, till they meet somewhere in the centre of the wood. Have you any one who knows the forest well?"
"But few," replied the other. "However, I have remarked, when riding by on the other road, the towers of an old castle rising up, about the middle of this part which we have surrounded. They can all direct their steps thither--"
"Ay, and search the castle too," said Catesby. "He must have some one to guide him, depend upon it. The ruin will be a good place for refuge."
"If we find him not at the first essay," responded the other, "we can afterwards take the wood in separate portions, and beat through every thicket, as we should for a stag."
"Away then, away!" answered Catesby. "It will be well day before we have commenced."
The opening of the door of the hall startled Iola from her slumber; and when she found where her head had been resting, a bright warm blush spread over her fair face. Though the lamp was by this time glimmering low, the form and face of the woodman were instantly recognized by all the party in the hall; and an expression of gladness came over all their faces. He was instantly assailed by many questions which he could not answer; but he told all he knew; and one piece of information was at all events satisfactory to both Chartley and Iola, namely, that the bishop had escaped. "There," he continued, setting down the food and wine which he carried, "there is something to refresh you, young people, though good sooth, lady, I thought you were by this time safe within the walls of the abbey, and would rather it had been so."
"And so would I," answered Iola, though, perhaps, her heart was at that moment a little doubtful; "but it could not be, Boyd, for the door in the cell was closed when I went back--I fancy the bishop had let it slip from his hand--and I could not return to the abbey without passing through the midst of the armed men. Then as I was hurrying towards your cottage for shelter and protection, I met with this noble Lord, who told me the soldiers were upon the road----"
"And proved a pleasanter protector than an old woodman, I doubt not," replied Boyd, with a cynical smile.
Iola's face reddened again; but she replied frankly: "a noble, a kind, and a generous one certainly, to whom I shall ever feel indebted."
"One does not choose in a thunderstorm, my good friend," said Chartley, in his usual gay tone, "whether one will take refuge in a palace or a hermitage. The nearest place at hand is the best; and this fair lady, I doubt not, cared not much whether it was a lord or a woodman that came to her aid, so that she got help at need. But now let us think of what is to be done. Morning will soon be here, and some course of action must be determined."
"What course do you propose?" asked Boyd.
"Nay, I know not," answered Chartley. "The only thing I can think of is to take the lady by the hand, and walk straight through these men back to the abbey with her. They cannot prove me to be a bishop, nor her either, I suppose."
The woodman mused, and then, pointing to the provisions, he said, "Eat and drink, eat and drink; you can do that and think too--They cannot prove either of you to be the bishop. I wish you were anything so good; but they can, perhaps, prove that you have, both of you, helped the bishop; and they can make treason out of that, I doubt not, after the proclamation. 'Tis an awkward case," he continued; "but if you wait awhile, the piper will bring us intelligence. The best spies in the world are pipers, horse-doctors, and mendicant friars. Perhaps the tidings he brings may save you the trouble of decision."
"That is always something gained," replied Chartley; "for decision is sometimes the hardest work we have to do; but yet I think any plan may be the best after all; for they can prove but little against me, and nothing against this sweet lady. They can but suppose that I am conducting her back to the abbey from some visit or expedition, with which they have nought to do."
"Ha!" exclaimed the woodman, sternly; "thou would'st not risk her name and fair fame, young lord? Some visit! What, in this garb, without coif, or veil, or mantle--on foot, with no attendants? No, no. If she were to be met and questioned, she must e'en tell the truth, for to suffer prison, or to lose life itself, were such a thing probable, were but light to a taint upon her name."
"And who would dare utter such an insinuation in my presence?" exclaimed Chartley, his eye flashing at the thought. "By Heaven, if any man did, I would cram it down his throat with my sword."
"So hot!" said the woodman, with a laugh. "If they did not utter it in your presence, they might utter it behind your back, which were as bad. They might say--and how could you deny it?--that this lady had been out of the abbey with you, roaming about no one knew whither, without motive, without cause, without excuse. No, no! That will not do. Lord Chartley cannot fight or frighten two hundred men; and they will have a reason for all this, depend upon it. If not, they'll make one. 'Tis most unlucky that I knew not of these events before, or I would have found means to send to the abbey, and have the door from the cell opened; but it is now too late, I fear, and, at all events, we must wait for further intelligence. But fear not, lady, fear not. We will find resources, which are many here, though not quite so plentiful as the acorns on the trees."
"I am not afraid," answered Iola. "The king, I do not think, would kill me for guiding the bishop into the wood."
"But he might prevent your marrying the man of your heart," answered the woodman, with one of his grim smiles.
Iola's colour rose a little; but she replied boldly: "I have no man of my heart, Boyd; and therefore he could not do that either."
Chartley's eye had turned rapidly to Iola's face, as the woodman spoke, with an anxious and inquiring look; but her frank reply seemed to relieve him, and he said, gaily: "Nevertheless, we must not risk anything where there is risk to you, dear lady. Methinks you are one who would find even gesses of silk or gold cord difficult to wear; and we must give Richard no excuse for putting them on, if we can help it."
"Women are born to wear gesses of some kind or another, noble lord," replied Iola; "and unhappy is the woman who cannot, content herself with them; but I trust you will consult your own safety without heeding mine."
"Not I, in faith!" answered Chartley, in a determined tone. "I will see you back to the abbey, and safe in the hands of your friends, come what will--that is to say, if I have power to do so. They may take my life or my liberty, but no man has power to make me break my word, or fail in my devoir."
"Well, well," said the woodman; "let us think of these things no more. Come, take some bread, good friend," he continued, speaking to the Arab. "There is salt in it, and you can e'en taste the bottle too, I dare say, for you cannot tell what are the contents."
He then leaned his head upon his hand, as he lay stretched out by the fire, and seemed to fall asleep, while Iola and Chartley conversed in low tones. But, though his eyes were closed, it was not with slumber; and at length, after an hour or somewhat more had passed, he and the Arab both started up at once, the woodman exclaiming: "Hark! there is our messenger! Come forth with me, my lord, and meet him. Your trusty infidel can stay and protect the lady."
Chartley followed at once, and the woodman strode rapidly across the court, but suddenly stopped, under the old arch of the gateway; and, laying his hand upon Lord Chartley's arm, he said, in a low serious tone: "Are you aware, my lord, that the Lady Iola St. Leger is contracted in marriage to Arnold Lord Fulmer?"
Chartley stood and gazed at him in silence, with his brow contracted and his lip quivering. He could not or he would not reply, and the woodman went on saying: "I am sorry, you did not know this. It should have been told you before."
"It should, indeed," replied Chartley; and then, after a pause, he added: "But it matters not, she is not to blame. More than once I have seen something hanging on her lips as if seeking utterance but afraid to venture forth. If I had told her what was growing upon my heart, she would have spoken."
"Most likely," answered the woodman; "for hers is a heart very soon seen through. 'Tis like a clear well, where one can trace all the pebbles in the bottom--their shape, their colour, and if anything obscures them, it is but a light ripple from a passing wind."
"And yet she said but now that she had so love," replied Chartley, moodily.
"And that is true also," answered the woodman; "contracted in infancy, how can she love a man she does not even recollect?"
"Well, 'tis no matter," answered Chartley; "the vision of happiness will pass away, and it is something to have served, protected, comforted her. Hark, the man is drawing near with a low and solemn dirge, as if we were all to be slain and buried ere noon. There is the dawn too, coming in the east, if I mistake not. Let us go on, and stop the piper's melancholy squeaking."
"'Tis but a sign he is not followed," replied the woodman, detaining him. "Let us stay here, we might miss him in some of the turnings; I will whistle, however, to show him that we hear, and then perhaps he will stop."
But the inveterate piper droned on, till he was within sight of the gates, and Chartley and the woodman went down to meet him.
"What news, what news?" they both demanded, eagerly.
"Bad tidings," answered the piper, shaking his head. "First, my lord, you owe me a gold angel."
"There are two," answered Chartley, sharply. "Now for the rest."
"Why then, it is but this," answered Sam. "The rogue, Catesby, has come down with five hundred horse. He has sent on fifty to arrest your lordship at Hinckley, before you are out of bed in the morning. The rest he keeps here to surround the wood, while good Sir John Godscroft searches every nook and corner of it and the old castle and all, to find the bishop and any one who may have aided in his escape from the abbey. They will not leave any stone unturned, depend upon it; and they swear by their beards, God bless them, that every one who has had any hand in it is a foul traitor, worthy of gibbet and post."
"Then are we in a strait indeed," exclaimed Chartley; "for with four hundred and fifty men to watch the wood, and two hundred to search it, there is but little chance of escape. I care not for myself, woodman, if you can but save the lady without scaith or ill construction."
"On my life 'tis that that puzzles me most," answered Boyd; "there may be help at hand, for I have provided some. Your own people, too, will be back soon, for I have sent for them; but we have no force to cope with such a number."
"Nay," answered Chartley; "give me but ten men, and I will break through their line, at least so as to lodge the lady in the abbey. Then as for my own fate, fall what may, I little care."
"Ten men you can have," answered the woodman; "but tell me first, my good lord, what you intend to do?"
"Make at once for the nearest door of the abbey," replied Chartley. "Their line must be thin around the wood, and on that side, perhaps, the thinnest. Grant that we fall in with some of Catesby's men, as most like we shall, we can make head against them for a time, and insure the lady's reaching the gates of the abbey."
"It were better," said Boyd, after thinking for a moment, "that while one part keep the king's men engaged, two or three of the others carry the lady quickly across the dell to the little gate. We have no other chance that I see; but remember, my good lord, that you will be overpowered and taken to a certainty."
"What matters it?" exclaimed Chartley. "Even were one to act on mere calculation, 'tis better to lose one than to lose two. Here we should be both taken together, there we insure her escape. Let us waste no more time in talking. How can we get the men?"
The woodman threw his eye over the edge of the hill on which they were standing, and replied, "You can have them at once." Then putting his horn to his lips, he blew a low and peculiar note; and, in a moment after, several men were seen running up from amongst the trees and bushes which covered the descent. "We must lose no time," said the woodman, "but forward with all speed, or we shall have the search begun and be cut off. You bring the lady forth while I speak to the men."
Chartley turned to go; but, pausing suddenly, he said: "Remember, my good friend, it is on you that I rely to bear the lady safe to the abbey, while I engage the troopers. Think not on my safety for one moment; but take some whom you can trust, and away with her at once. I would fain have seen her safe myself, but it must not be. The dream is at an end."
The woodman gazed at him with a well-pleased smile, which made his stern countenance look bright and sweet; and Chartley, without waiting for further words, hurried away into the ruin.
"There goes a nobleman indeed," said the woodman; and then, striding forward, he met the men who were advancing upon the hill.
"How many men have you got, David?" he continued, addressing the first man who came up.
"There are twelve of us," replied the man. "Three are wanting. I suppose they have stopped them. Most of us slipped through unseen; and the rest got through in different places, on telling their calling."
A short consultation then ensued, which, brief as it was, had hardly ceased when Chartley again came forth, bringing Iola with him. Her face was pale, and she was evidently agitated and alarmed; but she did not suffer fear or hesitation to embarrass in any degree the proceedings of the others. Holding tight by Chartley's arm, with the woodman and one of his men close behind them, and preceded and followed by the rest, divided into two bodies, she was led on, through one of the narrowest paths, down to the bottom of the little rise on which the castle stood. They then crossed a somewhat wider road, running by the bank and fountain I have mentioned before, and then plunged again into the thicker part of the wood. Hardly had they done so however, when the sound of a horn was heard upon the right; and, turning back his head towards the woodman, Chartley said in a low voice, "The hunt has begun."
"Wary, wary," said the woodman. "Keep a sharp ear there in front, and halt in time."
With a somewhat slower step they walked on for a couple of hundred yards further; and then the two men at the head of their little column suddenly stopped, one of them holding up his hand as a signal to those behind. The sun had not actually risen; but yet the grey morning light had spread over the whole sky; and, though the path was somewhat dark and gloomy from the thick copse on either side and the manifold naked branches of the trees overhead, yet, the motions of each of the little party could be seen by the rest. All stopped at once; and a dead silence succeeded amongst themselves, through which, the moment after, the sound of voices and footsteps could be heard, at the distance of a few paces from them. The woodman laid his finger on his lips and listened; but there was a smile upon his face which gave courage to Iola, although the sounds seemed to be approaching fast. So distinctly were they heard indeed, the moment after, that it seemed as if a space of not more than five or six yards was left between the fugitives and the searchers; and Iola clung closer to Chartley's arm, and looked up in his face, as if asking what would come next. He did not venture to offer any consolation, but by a look; and still the steps and the voices came nearer.
"'Tis as thick as a hay stack," one man was heard to say to another, apparently close by.
"And we are set to find a needle in the pottle of hay," replied his companion. "Why he may lurk here without our finding him all day."
"But if we find him we shall get a good reward," replied the first.
"Do not reckon upon that, or you will cheat yourself," said his companion, in a scoffing tone. "At the best, the reward is but a thousand marks. Then Sir John takes two tenths, and the captain one tenth, and the other head men two tenths more amongst them, so that there are but five hundred marks left for two hundred men, even if Catesby and his people were out of the way, and, depend upon it, they'll share, so there wont be ten shillings a man."
"What a head you have for reckoning," said the other; "but go on. I wonder where, in hell's name, we are going. Can you see the castle?"
"Not I," answered the other; "but we must follow this path to the end any way. There goes the horn that is to lead us."
And they seemed to proceed upon their way.
"Now, forward," said the woodman, in a low voice; and moving rapidly on, they came to a large holly bush which concealed the mouth of the little foot track they were following from the very path which the soldiers had taken. Cutting straight across it, they entered a somewhat thinner and more open part of the wood, from which the castle was occasionally visible, so that any one above could have seen them without much difficulty; but it extended not far; and the danger was soon past.
"I know where wo are now," said Iola, in a whisper. "We are close to the cell."
"Hush!" said the woodman. "Hush!" But the unfortunate piper, who was in the rear, stumbled over the root of a tree, and his pipes emitted a melancholy groan.
The woodman turned, and shook his fist at him; and the whole party halted to listen. No sound was heard however; and turning away to the right, by a gentle descent, they approached the spot where the forest stretched furthest into the valley.
"I will go forward and look out for a moment," said the woodman at length, speaking to Chartley in a low voice. "As ill luck would have it, I had the brushwood on the verge cut down last autumn, to prevent rascals lurking about there, little thinking I should need it myself;" and creeping on from bush to bush and tree to tree, he at length got a view along the whole side of the wood fronting the slope on which the abbey stood. It was no pleasant sight that he beheld; for, at a distance of not more than a hundred and fifty yards apart, were stationed horsemen, watching every point of the wood. With his right shoulder resting against a tree, and secured on the left by a thick holly, he remained for about a minute, carefully examining the proceedings of the soldiery. They moved not from the spots at which they had been placed; and the path which he had been hitherto following, wandering in and out amongst the trees upon the slope, passed at some little distance between two banks, till it reached the bottom of the descent, not a hundred and fifty yards from the little postern gate in the abbey wall, over which hung the bell profanely called the Baby of St. Clare.
Boyd saw at once, from the distance at which the men were stationed, that there was a great chance of the whole party reaching the entrance of the lane between the two banks, before more than two of the soldiers could come up with them; and that if this were effected, Iola at least was safe.
After finishing his contemplation quietly, the woodman returned to his party in the same manner as he had left them, taking perhaps even greater precautions, and stooping almost to his knees, lest his great height should carry his head above the bushes. When he reached the others he commanded, rather than explained, saying--
"Now, all upon the path as fast as possible. Robin lead the way to the passage between the banks. Then follow me, wherever I go, and guard me from attack; let all the rest halt at the mouth of the lane, and keep it with a strong hand against pursuers. Now on! Quick, quick!"
The whole party rushed forward, except the piper, (who remained under cover of the wood,) much in the same order as that in which they had hitherto proceeded. Iola was hurried on in the midst, with her heart beating and her head confused, yet gazing round from time to time, and catching with a quick and hurried glance the scene which immediately followed. She beheld the horsemen watching the forest; but, till she had nearly reached the edge of the woodland, the party, which bore her along amongst them, did not seem to attract any attention. Then, however, the two soldiers on each side put spurs to their horses, with a loud shout; and she felt herself instantly caught up in the arms of the woodman, carried along with extraordinary swiftness down the descent, and into the hollow between the two banks.
Iola gazed back over her bearer's shoulder; and the last sight she saw was the party of foresters occupying the mouth of the lane, while three or four armed horsemen were galloping upon them; and Chartley, with his drawn sword in his hand and the Arab beside him, stood a little in advance of his companions, as if to meet the soldiers at their first onset. They were close upon him; and, with a painful shudder, she closed her eyes. When she opened them, the bank hid the scene from her view; and the next moment she heard the bell of the abbey ring sharply.