On they went then; and, for fully twenty miles more, their horses bore them up well; but evident symptoms of failing strength began to manifest themselves about nine o'clock, and before ten it became clearly necessary to seek some fresh beasts. The houses were now, however, beginning to appear more frequently; the boy Pierre knew every place where a horse was likely to be obtained; and the four which were wanted were at last procured, some being found at one place, and some at another. It was none too soon, however; for while yet at the distance of some three miles from Angers, a large stag-hound with a silver collar bounded up to the side of the earl of Richmond, and almost sprang upon his horse.
"Ah, my poor Taker," said Richmond. "Thou hast unwittingly betrayed me, I fear.--Look back, look back," he added to his followers; "they must be near at hand now."
Nothing was to be seen, however; for the dog had outrun the pursuers; and, for a mile farther, they did not come in sight. Then, however, they were seen coming over a hill not very far off; and, from that spot, the journey became in fact a race. Those who followed had evidently hired fresh horses likewise; or rather, armed with the authority at the duke of Britanny, they had taken them wherever they found them; and they gained perceptibly upon the fugitives. Now they were lost sight of in a hollow, as the road rose up and down; now they came in sight again, and each time nearer than before. At length, however, a glimpse of the winding Mayenne was obtained, and then towers and steeples were seen over the trees.
"Angers, Angers!" cried the boy, with renewed hope.
On they dashed; and, when they reached the gates of the city, the horsemen of the duke of Britanny were not three hundred yards behind them.
There, however, both parties reined in their horses; and Richmond presented his letters of safe conduct to the guard at the gates. The pursuers did not venture to follow any farther, for they were already within the pale of France; and, wearied in frame, but relieved in mind, the earl rode on into the town.
As, now in security, Richmond cast off his clothes at the inn, and prepared to take some repose, his mind rested upon the events of the eight and forty hours just past; and his last thought, ere his eyes closed in sleep, was--"It is strange that I should owe my escape from imprisonment--ay, and from death, to a woodman in a distant part of England." He might have said, "and that England should owe him a king;" but all the coming time was dim to the eyes of the earl; and he only added--"I vow to the blessed Virgin Mary, if ever I should sit upon the throne of England, as some men think likely, I will find out that man and reward him."
There was a hand laid upon the latch of the door; for doors, even in great houses, had latches to them, dear reader, in that age of simple contrivances; and Constance asked, "Who is there?"
"Open, Constance, open," said the voice of Iola; and her cousin gave her instant admission, holding out her arms to her, and pressing her to her heart, as if she had thought that the companion of her youth was lost to her for ever.
"Have you been disturbed, Constance?" asked her cousin, kissing her cheek.
"Only by your girl, Susan, about a quarter of an hour ago," replied Constance. "I bade her come again in half an hour, and tell my maiden not to sit up for me."
"I have been long, dear cousin," said Iola, "and kept you waiting; but I could not help it; for there was much to say."
"And you have been far," said Constance, gazing at her with inquiring looks; "for your gown is wet with dew--and torn moreover!"
"And my feet too with the brambles," answered Iola, sitting down, and uncovering her fair delicate feet and ancles. "My path has been almost as rough and thorny as that of the world, Constance. See how they have scratched me."
"But what did he say? What advice have you obtained?" demanded Constance, looking with no very serious commiseration at the scratches which streaked the pure white skin of her cousin.
"You don't pity me," said Iola, laughing. "You are a cruel girl."
"If the wounds of the world are not more serious than these, you will not deserve much pity," answered Constance. "I am anxious about graver things, Iola; but you are so light."
"Well, well, I will tell you," answered Iola. "Let me but put on these slippers, and get a little breath; for my heart has been beating somewhat more than needful. What counsel has he given, do you ask? How do you know that it was a man at all?--Well, I will own. It was a man, but an old one, Constance; and now I will tell you what he said. He said that a marriage contracted between infants was not lawful. That it was a corrupt custom which could not be justified, for that a reasonable consent was needful to make a marriage valid, consequently, that I am not bound at all by acts to which I gave no consent--the acts of others, not my own. He says moreover that religion itself forbids me to promise what I cannot perform."
Constance gazed at her with wonder and surprise. The view thus suddenly presented to her was so strange, so new, so contrary to the received notions and opinions of the time, that, at first, all seemed mist and darkness to her.
"This is extraordinary indeed!" she exclaimed. "This is extraordinary indeed! Who can it be, Iola, who thus ventures to set at defiance not merely the opinions of the world at large, but that of lawyers and fathers of the church, who have always held such contracts binding?"
"He says that it is not so," answered Iola. "He gave me many instances in which such contracts, especially between princes and high nobles, have been set at nought, where the church has treated them as things of no value, and lawyers have passed them over with little reverence. But I could tell you more extraordinary things than this, Constance. Men are beginning in this world to look with keen and searching eyes into these received opinions which you talk of, and to ask if they are founded on justice and right, or on ignorance, superstition, and craft. Light is streaming in upon darkness; and there is a day rising, of which I see the dawn, though I may never see the noon."
"I can understand nothing of all this," said Constance. "Dearest Iola, I think your wits must have been shaken by all you have undergone. You speak so wildly and so strangely."
"Nay, nay," said Iola. "I am as calm as you are; and these ideas which I give you, under the promise you have made, never to reveal one word that I tell you, I have long held and shall ever continue to hold."
"I have never had any hint of them before. I have never seen any sign of them," replied Constance; "and yet we have been like sisters from our infancy."
"During the last year, Constance," asked Iola, in a grave and solemn tone, "have you ever seen me kneel down to worship picture of saint, or of virgin, relic, statue, or crucifix?"
Constance put her hand upon her forehead, and gazed at her cousin with a look of bewildered dismay. "I do not know that I have," she said, after a moment's thought; "but I have seen you tell your beads. I have known you confess and receive absolution."
"I have told my beads, Constance," said her cousin; "and at every bead I have said a prayer; but it has been to God the Father, through Christ the Saviour, and I have ever prayed for direction in the right. I have confessed, because there can be no harm in confessing my sins to the ear of a priest as well as to the ear of God; and, if he has pretended to absolve me from sins which God alone can absolve, it is his fault and not mine. I have thought myself little benefitted thereby."
Constance started up, exclaiming, "I will go and pray for you, Iola. I will go and pray for you!"
"Stay yet a while, dear cousin; and then gladly will I ask your prayers," said Iola; "but let them, dear Constance, be addressed to God alone, and not to saints or martyrs. You will ask why. I will show you in a moment. God has himself forbidden it. Look here;" and she drew a small closely written book from her bosom. "This, Constance, is the word of God," she continued, "the book from which priests, and bishops, and popes, pretend to derive their religion. Look what are its injunctions here."
Timidly and stealthily, as if she were committing an act of very doubtful propriety, Constance looked over her cousin's shoulder to the page which Iola held open in the book, and read on with eager and attentive eyes.
"Does it say so?" she asked at length. "Does it say so? What can this mean, Iola? Why should they so deceive us?"
"That I cannot tell," answered Iola; "for no good purpose, doubtless; but that matters little. It is sufficient for me to know that they do deceive us; and, in a matter that concerns my soul's salvation, I will not be deceived. We spoke just before I went, Constance, of mental reservation. You own--you know, that it is neither more nor less than deceit. It is promising without performing, clothing a lie in the garb of truth. What does not follow from such duplicity! Will not they who cheat us, and make a profession of cheating, in one thing, cheat us in many?--Will they not cheat us in all? Often have I thought, before I saw this book, that it was strange man should have the power to forgive sins. We are told that our sins are against God and against man. If against man, the only one who has power to forgive them is the man whom we have offended; if against God, then God only has the power. But all sins are against God, for they are all a violation of his law, and therefore he only can remit them perfectly."
"But he may depute the power to his priests," said Constance.
"What, the Almighty, all-seeing God, depute his power to blind impotent mortals!" exclaimed Iola. "What, depute his power of pardoning me to a drunken, luxurious, sinful priest! You may say that such a man has not the power, and that absolution from him is of no avail. But if you do, dear cousin, you are a heretic; for we are told that it is of avail. But what must be their idea of the great Searcher of all hearts, who believe that he has need of such instruments, chooses them, or uses them. Such is not the picture of Him given in this book. Here, God is God; the Saviour, man and God; the Holy Spirit, the comforter and guide of man from God. There is no other intercessor between man and God but the one, who is man and God, no other guide but the Spirit, proceeding from both Father and Saviour, no other atonement but the death of Christ, no other sacrifice but his."
"I am bewildered," said Constance, bending her head down to her hands and covering her eyes in thought. The next moment, however, she looked up, asking, "Then why do the clergy forbid us to read this book, if it teaches so to know God?"
"Because it is that which condemns them," answered Iola; "they profess that the religion they teach is founded upon this book, and in this book I find the frequent command of God, to search the scriptures. The priests say, I must not search them. Then, either they are not from God, because they contradict him; or the book is not from God, because it contradicts them. Now in this book I find innumerable proofs that it is from God; and they themselves declare it to be so. They are self-condemned to any one who opens it; and therefore have they sealed it, lest men should read and know them for what they are."
"And yet," said Constance, "who was so eager as you to save the good bishop of Ely--who rejoiced so much at his escape?"
"I say not that there are no good men amongst them, dear Constance," replied her cousin; "for I believe that there are many; but all human beings have their weaknesses. I believe doctor Morton to be a good man; but of course he teaches nothing but the doctrines of the church to which he belongs--he dare teach nothing else; for who would venture to incur, not only the loss of every worldly good, but death itself--a burning and a terrible death--when perhaps he thinks he can do as much good, by following the ways of those who went before him, as by any other path?"
"But truth is beautiful," said Constance; "and would a good man teach falsehood, when the very book of his religion shows him that it is so?"
"Did he ever read that book? Did he ever study it?" asked Iola. "Did he ever examine its pages closely, seeking no gloss or comment of those who would pervert it, but merely asking the aid of the Holy Spirit? Many a man is unwilling to examine too closely, when all his earthly happiness depends upon his shutting his eyes. Many a man is too timid to stand by his own judgment, however right, when there are a multitude of decisions, however corrupt, against him."
"But perhaps," said Constance, "the book may be so obscure and difficult, that it cannot be understood without an interpretation."
"It is clear and simple as the unclouded sky," replied Iola; "as easy as the words which we address to babes. It was given to, and transmitted by, unlettered fishermen. It made all clear that was dark, and removed every cloud and every shadow. This book contains but one mystery, instead of the thousands which they teach us; and that mystery is explained, so that we cannot but believe even while we do not comprehend."
"But what does it teach, then?" asked Constance.
"It teaches that we are to worship God alone," answered Iola. "It teaches that to bow down before any creature, statue, or image, is to offend the Creator, and is idolatry against God. It teaches that there is no mediator, no intercessor but one, Christ, and that the office of saints and martyrs is to praise God, not to intercede for mortals. It teaches that the only atonement, the only sacrifice needful to expiate the sins of the whole world, was that of Christ; that it was complete, full, and sufficient, and that to look to any other for pardon, is to rob God of his glory. It teaches that man can be pardoned by God alone, and will be pardoned through faith in Christ. It teaches, moreover, that, if any man keeps the whole law of God, even to the smallest point, he has done no more than he is bound to do, and therefore that his good works have no power to save him from the original curse--how much loss to help or to save any other. It teaches too, dear cousin, that repentance is needful to every one--the deep, heartfelt, sincere repentance of the spirit; but that, to seek, by inflicting pains upon our body, to atone for the evils we have committed, is to rest upon a broken reed, to presume upon our own strength, and to deny the efficacy of God's mercy in Christ."
Constance listened with deep attention, till her cousin had done.
"I would fain read that book," she said, in a hesitating tone; "but the priests have always forbidden it."
"God says, 'read it!'" said Iola. "Who shall set up the words of man against the words of God?"
"Will you lend it to me, then?" asked Constance, timidly.
"Oh, joyfully," answered Iola; "but it must be upon one condition, dear Constance. I have bound you, by a promise, never to repeat anything I say to you. I must now have another promise, never to let any eye but your own see this little volume. When you read it, lock the door. When you have done, hide it where no one can find it. I need give you no motive, dear Constance," she added, throwing her arm round her neck, and gazing affectionately into her eyes; "but yet let me remind you, that my life is at stake, that the least imprudence, the least indiscretion would give me over to a death by fire; for they hold those who worship God as God himself has taught to be heretics. We are not called upon either to be teachers or martyrs. We may be permitted to hold on our own way, without offending others, so long as we worship not things of stick and stone; but, should it be discovered what my real thoughts are, that moment I should be dragged before those who would force me to declare them. I would never renounce my opinions or deny my belief; and the only fate before me would be death."
"God forbid!" said Constance earnestly. "God forbid I will be very careful, Iola--more careful than if my own life was at stake."
"I know you will, sweet sister," replied Iola, putting the book into her hands. "Read it, Constance, read it and judge for yourself. Try to cast from your mind everything you have heard on religion not contained in this book; and, if you do that, this book will as certainly lead you right as there is truth in Heaven."
Constance took it, and retired to her own chamber, where she sat down for a few moments' thought. Her first meditation, however, was not of the book, but of Iola.
Was this the same creature, she thought, whom she had known from infancy--sweet, gay, playful Iola? Was this she whose heart she used to think the lightest in the world, whose deepest meditations seemed to break off in a sportive jest? At first it seemed strange, almost impossible. But yet, when she called memory to her aid, and recollected many of the circumstances of the past, especially during the last two years, she saw that it might well be. She felt that her own graver and somewhat slower spirit might not reach those depths of thought into which Iola's seemed to plunge with bold and fearless courage. She remembered many a gay speech, many a half-reply which had appeared all sportiveness, but which, when examined and pondered, proved to be full of mind and matter.
"Yes," she said, at length. "I have loved her, but not esteemed her enough. I have known her well, but not the depths. She is all that I thought her; but she is more. Yet it was not she deceived me, but myself. She hid nothing; but my eye was too dim to penetrate even the light veil with which her happy nature covered her strong mind. It is strange, what an awe I feel in looking at this little volume!" and she gazed at it, as it lay upon her knee. "It must be that I have so often heard that we ought not to read it, that I have yielded my judgment to mere assertions. Yet I have heard the very men who bade me forbear call it the word of God. I will read it. That word must be a comfort and blessing. But I will pray first;" and kneeling down she began, "Oh, blessed Saint Clare--"
But then she suddenly stopped, and meditated for a moment, still kneeling. She seemed puzzled how to frame her appeal. At length, however, she bowed her head upon her hands, and repeated in English the Lord's prayer. She added nothing more, but, rising from her knees, unclasped the book, drew the lamp nearer, and began to read.
The clock struck four, and found her reading still.
One by one, the guests assembled in the hall of Chidlow castle, for the first meal of the day which, as the reader well knows, was in those days a very substantial affair. People in high station usually dined, as it was called, at a very early hour; for, in all the mutations of fashion, nothing has changed more than the dinner hour in Europe. The labouring classes indeed, of all countries, consulting health and convenience alone, have varied very little. It was then about the hour of ten, when two or three of the guests appeared in the hall. Then came the lord of the castle himself, with his sister, the abbess, on his arm. Sir William Arden and two or three other guests followed; then Lord Fulmer and some others, then Chartley, then Sir Edward Hungerford.
A great change had come over Lord Fulmer's aspect. He was calm, though very grave, courteous and attentive to all, though somewhat absent in his manner, and falling into frequent fits of thought. Even to Chartley, whose demeanour was perfectly unchanged, he showed himself polite, though cold, conversed with him once or twice across the table, and by no allusion whatsoever approaching the subject of their rencounter in the morning. The meal passed off cheerfully, with most of those present; and, after it was over, the party in general separated to prepare for the sports and occupations of the day.
"Now, gentlemen," said Lord Calverly; "all who are disciples of St. Hubert, prepare your horses; for, though the month of May is not come, I am determined we will force a buck before the day is over. My good sister, here, notwithstanding holy vows and pious meditations, loves well to see a falcon fly or a dog run; and she will accompany us on her mule. Take care that she does not outride us all; for the best barb in my stables, except at the full gallop, will hardly outrun that mule of hers."
These words were followed by much hurrying away from the room; and, in the moment of confusion, Lord Fulmer lightly touched Chartley's arm, saying in a low tone--
"My lord, before we set out, I have a word or two for your private ear, if I may crave audience."
"Assuredly!" replied Chartley. "You can take it, my lord, when you think fit."
"Then I will join you in your apartments, as soon as I am booted," answered Fulmer.
In somewhat less than five minutes, after Chartley had reached his own chamber, he was joined by Fulmer prepared for the chase. As usual, where men have a resolute inclination to cut each others' throats, all sorts of ceremonious courtesy took place between them; and, after Fulmer was seated, he leaned across the table, saying:
"I have come, my Lord Chartley, to speak to you both of the past and the future. As for the past, I have had time to think, not only of what occurred between us this morning, but of my own conduct towards you; and I do not scruple to avow that I feel I have been wrong."
"Then, think of it no more, my good lord," replied Chartley, holding out his hand to him frankly; but Lord Fulmer did not take it.
"I have not yet done," he said. "I have owned that I was wrong, that I behaved uncourteously and rashly, both last night and to-day, under the influence of strongly moved passion, which has now passed away. I apologize for it, and pray you to accept my excuse. So much for the past; and now for the future, my lord. I trust I shall not forget myself again; but thus are we circumstanced. You have become acquainted with a lady contracted to me; you have had an opportunity of rendering her service; and I have no doubt did so in the kindest and most courteous manner. I mean not to say that you have done aught that is wrong, or that, knowing she was pledged to be my wife, you have striven to win her from me; but unwittingly, perhaps, you have learned to love her yourself, and deprived me of a share of her affections. Deny it not; for it is evident."
He paused for an instant, as if the words he spoke were very bitter to himself; and Chartley remained perfectly silent, with his eyes fixed upon a spot on the table, as if waiting to hear what this commencement would lead to.
"Now, my lord," continued Fulmer, with a sigh, "to my mind, two men cannot love one woman and both live. Such is the case with you and me. I grant that you have as much right to love her as I have. I am willing to look upon it as if we were merely two rivals for the same hand; but still I say, there is but one way of terminating that rivalry; for her faith is already plighted to me, and therefore the question cannot and must not be submitted to her decision."
"I understand your meaning, my good lord," said Chartley, seeing that he paused, "and think that your view is wrong--"
"Hear me out," said Fulmer, interrupting him. "I have yet a few words more to say. My views can never be changed. They are based upon my own nature. I cannot live, Lord Chartley, in doubt or jealousy. I cannot live unloved by her I love. I cast myself upon your generosity then, to yield me compensation for an injury, even unintentional, in such a manner as will in no degree compromise the fair name of her who is to be my wife or yours."
"Upon my life, my noble lord," replied Chartley, in his usual frank tone, "I do not think the right way for me to win her would be to cut your throat, nor for you to cut mine."
"Perhaps not," replied Lord Fulmer; "but so it must be; for it is the only way open to us."
"I think not," answered Chartley. "If I understand right, the Lady Iola is formally and fully contracted to you. I will not deny, Lord Fulmer, that this was painful news to me; but, I knew it was an ill without remedy; and I never even dreamed, from that moment, of seeking to win one thought of the lady, from her promised--her affianced husband. So help me, Heaven, I would never have seen her again willingly. I am not here of my own will, my lord. I am a prisoner, and would willingly remove myself to any other abode, to cause no pain or disquiet here. I do not believe, I never have believed, that there is any occasion for such disquiet. The Lady Iola may have won my regard; but I have no reason to suppose that I, in the slightest degree, have won hers. No words of affection have ever passed between us; no suit has been made on my part, no acknowledgment on hers. As you have taken a more frank and courteous tone than you assumed this morning, I will not now scruple to say how we first met, and explain to you all that can be explained, without dangerously affecting another. You doubtless know that I am here under the king's displeasure, for aiding my good and reverend friend, the bishop of Ely, to escape from the perils which menaced him. He travelled disguised in my train, till we arrived at the abbey of St. Clare of Atherston, where he had appointed a servant to meet him with intelligence of importance. I sat next the Lady Iola at supper, but parted with her there, and left the good bishop in the strangers' lodging. Having cause to suspect that some one had left my train--a servant of Sir Charles Weinants--for the purpose of giving intimation of the bishop's place of refuge to those who might apprehend him, I turned my horse in the forest, bidding my comrades ride on. Various events detained me in the forest during the whole night."
"But how came she in the forest too?" demanded Fulmer, gravely; for the frankness of Chartley's manner had produced some effect.
"I must pause one moment to consider," replied Chartley, "whether I can answer that question without a breach of faith to others.--Yes, I can. The Lady Iola it was who guided the bishop from the abbey, when it was surrounded and attacked by the king's soldiery; and, in so doing, her return was cut off."
"But how came that task to fall upon her?" again demanded Fulmer.
"That, my good lord, I can hardly tell you," answered Chartley; "for, to say the truth, and the mere truth, I do not rightly know. There is some secret communication between the abbey and the wood. Stay, I remember; I have heard the bishop say, that many years ago, he saved the life of the last Lord Calverly, petitioning for his pardon, and obtaining it, when he was taken in one of the battles of those times. This is most probably why the task was assigned to the lady, and why she undertook it."
Fulmer mused gloomily.
"Perhaps so," he said at length; "but yet, my lord, methinks some warmer words than mere courtesy must have been used, to induce the stay of so young and inexperienced a lady, alone in the forest, for a whole night, with a gay nobleman such as yourself."
"Warmerthings, if your lordship likes," cried Chartley, indignantly; "for, by the Lord that lives, the thing that kept her there was seeing the houses burning on the abbey green. That was warm enough. For shame, Lord Fulmer! Have you consorted with people who teach men to think there is no virtue in woman, no honour in man? But let me do the lady justice. She was not alone with me. My Arab servant was with us all the time--followed us close--sat with us in the old castle hall; and I do not think ten sentences were spoken which he did not hear. But, my good lord, since such is your humour, I will not baulk you. I have borne this long enough. Be it as you say. Wait but a few days, to let your conduct of last night pass from men's minds, and I will afford you cause of quarrel to your heart's content, in which this lady's name shall bear no share. Then we will void our differences in the eye of all the world, as soon as I am no longer a prisoner in ward. There is my hand on it."
Fulmer took it and grasped it tight, with a feeling of rancorous satisfaction, which he could hardly conceal.
"Then for the present we are friends, my good lord," he said; "and I will take care that nothing in my manner shall betray our secret, while waiting your good pleasure."
"As you will," answered Chartley. "Put on what seeming you may like. I wear no vizard. But hark, there are the horses in the court-yard; and here comes Sir William Arden, just in time to go with us."
"In order to do what?" asked Sir William Arden, looking from the one to the other, with an inquiring glance.
"To hunt," replied Chartley. "Are you not going?"
"Oh yes," answered the knight. "Though 'tis somewhat early in the year. Yet I suppose my good Lord Calverly's bucks are always fat, so let us to horse."
Descending the stairs of the tower, they speedily reached the court-yard, and found all prepared for their expedition. The abbess was already on her mule, Sir Edward Hungerford in the saddle, looking down the length of his leg and thigh, in evident admiration of his own fair proportions, Lord Calverly by the side of his horse, and huntsmen and grooms, a goodly train.
Iola and Constance stood together to witness the departure of the party, having declined to join the hunt; and Sir William Arden paused for a moment or two, by the side of the latter, while the rest mounted their horses.
The morning was fine, the scent lay well upon the dewy ground; a fat solitary buck had been marked down in a covert, about two miles off; and he was soon found, and the dogs put upon his steps. He took straight across the chase, towards some other woods, at the distance of four or five miles; and it was a beautiful sight to see the noble beast darting along across the open country, with the dogs in full cry behind him, and the troop of gay lords and ladies following. Chartley gave way to all the spirit of the hunter, and galloped on, sometimes talking to Lord Calverly, or Sir William Arden, and sometimes to Lord Fulmer. To the latter his manner was courteous and easy; nor did the slightest embarrassment appear in it, although he caught the eyes of his elder friend fixed upon him, with a suspicious expression, whenever any conversation took place between him and his rival. When the buck was slain, however, and the morning's sport over, Sir William Arden took the first opportunity of riding up to his young friend's side, and saying, in a low tone, "I hope, my lord, you are not going to play the fool."
"Not more than usual, Arden," replied Chartley. "Have I shown by any signs that the disease is aggravated?"
"Not that I perceive," answered Sir William Arden; "but, just as I was coming away, that dear little girl said something to me, I could not very well understand, about quarrels between you and that young lord there."
"Oh no," replied Chartley. "I will not quarrel with him; quarrels we have had none since an early hour this morning. A few civil words only have passed since; and of them more anon. But who comes here, spurring so sharp to meet us? He seems to have a tabard on."
"Nay, how should I know?" demanded Sir William Arden, almost sharply; "if it be a herald, I trust he does not come to defy Lord Calverly in the king's name."
Almost as he spoke, a splendidly dressed pursuivant rode up, and demanded aloud which was the Lord Fulmer.
"I am he!" replied the young nobleman, spurring forward his horse. "What want you with me, Master Pursuivant?"
"Merely to bear you his majesty's commands," said the pursuivant, "to join him at York, where he now lies, without any delay. Not finding your lordship at the castle, I rode on to seek you, as the king's commands were urgent; and I must return with you."
Lord Fulmer's countenance fell. "Am I to understand then that I go as a prisoner?" he demanded.
"Not in the least, my lord," answered the officer. "I believe it is in order to consult you upon some affairs, that the king sent for your lordship; but he ordered me strictly to find you out, wherever you might be, and to return in your lordship's train to York."
"Well then, for York, if it needs must be so," said Lord Fulmer, with an expression of much discontent upon his face. "I could have wished the command had come at some other time. Perhaps, I had better ride on before," he continued, turning to Lord Calverly, "in order to prepare my people for this unexpected journey."
"Perhaps so, my dear lord," replied the old peer. "We should always in this world take time and fortune by the forelock, otherwise we shall never catch them, if they get on in front. I know the king intends to honour you to the utmost," he added, in a low tone; "so away at once, and show your zeal and promptness. There is nothing pleases a king so much as to see diligence in obeying his commands."
"I would fain speak with you for some moments before I go, my noble lord," said Fulmer in the same low voice; but the old nobleman made a sign of impatience, saying aloud, "No time for that, no time for that. You will be back in a day or two at the farthest."
"Then I must write," answered the young man, in a whisper; but, raising his tone, he added, "Farewell, all gentlemen and ladies who are likely to be gone before my return. My Lord Chartley, I will not bid you adieu, as doubtless I shall find you here for some days to come."
"By my faith, I fear so," answered Chartley, laughing. "His grace the king, when he has got his grasp upon a man's neck, is not famous for slackening it, as long as there is any head above; but I wait his good pleasure in all humility, trusting that you will bring me good tidings, and use your best eloquence to work my liberation."
"I will, upon my honour," answered Fulmer, earnestly; and then, turning his horse, he rode away.
There is nothing which should teach man virtue, if not religion, more than the study of history; not by showing that the result of evil action is punishment to the ill-doer, for such is frequently not the case, in this world at least, unless we take into account the moral suffering which the consciousness of wickedness must produce: but by showing in the strongest possible light the vanity of human wishes, the futility of human efforts, when directed in any other course than that which leads to imperishable happiness hereafter. We often see the man who lies, and cheats, and grinds the poor, and deceives the unwary, and wrongs the confiding, obtain the pitiful yellow dust which has caused so much misery on earth. We see the grander knave who plots, and fights, and overcomes, and triumphs, who desolates fertile lands, and sheds the blood of thousands, obtain power, that phantom which has led statesmen, priests, and kings, through oceans of fraud, falsehood, and gore. We see them all passing away like a vain shadow, snatched from the midst of trickery or strife, of disappointment or success, of prosperity or adversity, before the cup of joy is tasted, before effort has been crowned by fruition. A few lines of history, a brief record of censure or panegyric; then the page is turned, and all is over. The mighty and the good things last; and the spirits of those who wrought them are gone on high.
Richard walked in the gallery of the castle at York, his arms crossed upon his chest, his eyes bent down upon the ground, his brain busy, rejoining the broken threads of policy; as great a man perhaps as a bad man can ever be. He was mighty as a soldier, mighty as a politician, almost sublime in the vast wide-stretching reach of his subtlety. Through life he had played a game almost against all odds; and he had won every stake. He had seen those who stood between him and the light swept away; he had contrived to remove obstacle after obstacle; he had crushed or aided to crush all the enemies of his house; he had imposed the silence of death, or the chains of exile, upon all personal opponents; and he had often succeeded in the still more perilous strife with the passions and the feelings of his own heart; for, because he was ambitious, and all things gave place to ambition, we have no right to conclude that his heart was without feelings even of a gentle and a kindly nature. Ambition was the idol, and to it the heart sacrificed its children.
As he thus walked, a man in a black robe, with a velvet cap upon his head, which he doffed as soon as he saw the king, entered the gallery. His step roused Richard from his reverie; and, looking up, he exclaimed:
"Ha! How is the queen?"
"No better, I grieve to say, your grace," replied the physician.
"And when no better--worse," replied Richard, thoughtfully, "because a day nearer the grave. These days, these days, they are but the fevered pulses of the great malady, which, in the end, slays us all.--No better?--What is her complaint?"
"'Tis a pining wasting sickness, sire," replied the physician, "proceeding from the spirits more than the blood. It has consumed her ever since the death of the prince was announced to her so rashly, which may have occasioned a curdling of the juices, and rendered them no longer fit to support life. I grieve to say, the case is one of serious danger, if her grace cannot be persuaded to take more nourishment, and to cast off this black melancholy."
"How long may it last?" asked Richard, gravely.
"Not very long," replied the physician; "I trust art may do something to correct and alleviate; but cure nothing can, unless the lady use her own powers to overcome this despondency and gloom."
"Well!" said Richard; and, at the same time, he bowed his head as an indication that the physician might depart.
"It is strange," he thought, as soon as he was alone again. "Not long since, I should have heard such tidings with a sigh. Ann is dying, that is clear. How beautiful I remember her--how sweetly beautiful! Yet weak, very weak. The white and red roses might have adorned her cheek; but she should not have entwined them in her marriage bed. I loved her--yes, I loved her well--I love her still, though her weakness frets me. Yet England must have heirs. The crown must not become a football at my death, to be kicked from John de la Pole to Harry of Richmond. At my death! When will that be, I wonder? Ay, who can say? There hangs the cloud. No eye can penetrate it. Turn which way we will, fate's thick dark curtain is around us, and no hand can raise it up; but we must go on till we touch it. 'Tis well, perchance. Yet did one but know when that hour of death is to come, how many things might we not do, how many things might we leave undone. Laborious plans, vast enterprises, schemes that require long long years to perfect, might all be laid aside, and our energies fixed upon the period that is ours. We work in the dark, and half our work is vain. Well, well, time will show; and our labours must not be imperfect, because we know not the result. Yes, with this ever-ready fate yawning before me, nought must be delayed. Ann is dying, that is clear. Had it not been so, perhaps it might have been necessary to put her from me. Rome is an indulgent mother; and the sacrifice of a few dozen lollards, together with some small share of gold, would have found favour for a divorce. But she is dying, and that at least is spared. My brother's daughter must be her successor. I will move at Rome for the dispensation at once. And the lady too? But no fear of her. She is ready and coming enough. She will have children surely, or she will belie her father and mother. Heaven, what a progeny of them, while I had but one son! Who goes there without?"
"'Tis I, sire," replied Sir Richard Ratcliffe; appearing at the door.
"Ah, Ratcliffe, come hither," said the king. "The queen is very ill, Ratcliffe--dying, her physicians tell me."
"Your Grace must bear Heaven's will patiently," replied the courtier.
"I will so," answered Richard; "but we must foresee events, Ratcliffe. The queen is dying. Men will say that I poisoned her; think you not so, Ratcliffe?"
"It matters little what men say, sire," answered the other, "since we well know that half they say is false."
"More than half," answered Richard. "Let a man look devout, and do some seemly acts of charity, till he has made a name for the trumpet of the multitude, and he may be luxurious, treacherous, false, avaricious, if he pleases, he shall still have a multitude to speak his praises to the sky. But let another, for some great object, do a doubtful deed, though justified perhaps by the end in view, the whole world will be upon his track, baying like hounds till they have run him down. Every accident that favours him, every event, the mere fruit of chance, that he takes advantage of, will be attributed to design and to his act. No man will die, whom he could wish removed, but what mankind will say, he poisoned him; no enemy will fall by the sword of justice, but it will be a murder; no truth will be told favouring him, but a falsehood will be found in it, and his best acts and highest purposes will be made mean by the mean multitude. Well, it matters not. We must keep on our course. While I hold the truncheon I will rule; and these turbulent nobles shall find that, slander me as they will, they have a master still. Oh, if Heaven but grant me life, I will so break their power, and sap their influence, that the common drudges of the cities, the traders who toil and moil after their dirty lucre, shall stamp upon the coronets of peers, and leave them but the name of the power which they have so long misused. But I must secure my house upon the throne. The queen is dying, Ratcliffe--I must have heirs, man, heirs."
Ratcliffe smiled meaningly, but replied not; for to mistake his purposes, while seeming to divine them, was somewhat dangerous with Richard.
The king remained in thought for a moment or two, and then enquired, in an altered tone--
"Who is in the castle?"
Ratcliffe looked at him in some surprise; for his question was not as definite as usual, and Richard went on to say--
"I heard that the princess Mary, of Scotland, had arrived last night. I sent too for Lord Fulmer. I will not have that marriage go forward till I am sure; and, if they dare to disobey me, let them beware."
"He is not yet arrived, sire," answered Ratcliffe; "but there has been hardly time. The princess, however, came last night. She went first to London by sea, it seems, and has since followed your grace hither. She has just returned to her apartments from visiting the queen."
"Ha! Has she been there?" said Richard. "That had been better not; but I will go and see her. Let some one go forward to say I wait upon her highness. We must have this marriage concluded speedily, betwixt the Duke of Rothsay and my niece Anne. Then, Harry of Richmond, thou hast lost a hand; and a Scotch hand is hard, as we have found sometimes. Go, good Ratcliffe, go to her yourself."
Ratcliffe immediately retired; and, after meditating for a few minutes longer, Richard followed him. He found two servants waiting at the door of the room to which he directed his steps, together with his attached though somewhat unscrupulous friend and counsellor, Ratcliffe, who had delivered his message and retired from the presence of the princess. The door was immediately thrown open, one of the servants saying, in a loud voice, "The king;" and Richard entered with a calm, quiet, graceful step, as unlike the man which the perverted statements of his enemies have taught us to imagine him as possible.
Seated at the farther end of the room, with two or three young women standing round her, was a lady apparently of some six or seven and thirty years of age--perhaps older, but she seemed no more--whose beauty could hardly be said to have been touched by the hand of time. The expression of her face was mild and melancholy; but yet there was something high and commanding in it too. Her dress was very plain, without ornament of any kind; and the colour was sombre, though not exactly that of mourning. She rose when the king entered, and took a step forward in front of her attendants, while Richard hastened on at a quicker pace, and taking her hand courteously, pressed his lips upon it; after which he led her back to her chair. The ladies around hurried to bring forward a seat for the king of England; but he remained standing by the side of the princess, for a moment or two, inquiring after her health and her journey. She answered briefly, but with courtesy, saying, that she had preferred to travel by sea, rather than cross the border, on both sides of which were turbulent and lawless men.
"I have come, my lord the king," she continued, "with full powers to negociate and conclude the terms of the treaty already proposed between your grace and my beloved brother, for the marriage of my nephew and your niece. You may think it strange that he should choose a woman for an ambassador; but, as you know, I begged the office; and as you kindly seconded my views, by the hint contained in your letter, he was content to trust me."
"I could do no less than give the hint, as knight and gentleman, when I knew your wishes," replied Richard; "but, to say truth, dear lady, I almost feared to yield to them. It is nothing new to see princesses ruling states and guiding negociations; and, from all my own experience, I should say, that strong must be the head and resolute the heart which can resist their eloquence, their beauty, and their gentleness. I always therefore fear to meet a lady as a diplomatist; but I could not refuse when you laid on me your commands."
"Yet I fear," said Mary, "that those commands, as you term them, were somehow made known to my brother or his ministers; for I find that several messengers were sent to England before I departed myself; and, the day before I set out, an old servant of mine, John Radnor, whom I always fancied faithful, and whom your grace knew right well, left me, with letters or messages, I am told, for England, which were kept secret from me, and I have never seen him more."
"Nor have I," said Richard, gravely; "but when we are alone we will talk farther."
"These are faithful friends," said the princess, looking round to the young ladies who were with her; but, marking a slight smile which curled Richard's lip, she added: "If your grace has matters of secrecy, they shall go. Leave us, girls."
The king and the princess remained perfectly silent till the room was cleared; but then Richard said:
"We, in high stations, dear lady, never know who are really faithful friends, till we have tried them long and in many ways. You said but now, that you fancied this John Radnor was your faithful servant. Now this surprises me not," he added, in a tone of gallantry, not unmingled with sarcasm, "for I always looked upon him as mine; and he, who is my faithful servant, must be yours."
The princess gazed at him for a moment with a look of surprise; but she then bent her eyes down, saying, "I think I understand your highness. Was he a spy?"
"Nay, that is a harsh term," answered Richard. "He was not exactly a spy. Peasants and franklins, when there is a great man in the neighbourhood, will bring him presents or offerings of no great worth, on the sweet certainty of receiving something in return more valuable than that they bring. Thus did John Radnor with intelligence. When he learned aught that was likely to be well paid, he brought it to him who was likely to pay him best. But let us speak of him no more; for his tale-telling mouth is closed in the dull earth. He was killed by accident, on that very journey of which you speak; but his letters were brought on by some posts of mine, who followed close behind him. All the packets that you have sent me, within the last year, have reached me safely, I believe--those which Radnor brought, delicately fingered indeed, and those which came by other hands, either intact, or resealed with greater skill. I have executed your commands to the letter, however, without attending to the recommendations of others, which sometimes accompanied them. But I grieve to say I have had no success. Many are the inquiries I have made; but not a vestige, not a trace is to be found."
The princess cast down her eyes, and crushed a bright tear drop between their jetty fringes. "Nevertheless," she answered, after a moment's silence, "I will pursue the search myself, though not doubting either your grace's kindness or your diligence. It is hardly possible that his companions in arms should not mark the place where so distinguished a man lies, even by a stone."
"He was indeed," said Richard, "the flower of courtesy and the pride of knighthood. I remember the good earl well, just before he went to Denmark, to bring home your brother's bride; and seldom have I seen one so worthy to live in long remembrance, or to be mourned by the widowed heart with such enduring grief as your noble husband, the earl of Arran. Did I know where he lies, I myself would erect a monument to his memory, although he took part with the enemies of my house."
While he had been pronouncing this panegyric upon her dead husband, the eyes of the princess, countess of Arran, had overflowed with tears; but she answered when he ceased, saying--
"That were indeed generous; and I beseech you show to me equal generosity in assisting me to pursue my search."
"To the utmost of my power will I aid you," replied Richard, "although I am sure it must be in vain. Let me, however, ask what leads you to believe that he still lives?"
"Nay, I believe not," replied the princess. "It is something less than belief--a doubt, a clinging hope. Perchance, had I seen his dead corpse, I might have felt somewhat of the same. I might have fancied that there was warmth about the heart, and tried to bring back life into its seat, though life was quite extinct. Such is woman's love, my lord. But you may ask what has nourished even this faint hope, when twelve long years have passed, and when I received authentic news of his death in the last skirmish of the war. That man, John Radnor, swore that he saw him dead upon the field. The others who were with him, in some sort, corroborated the same story; but they were not quite so sure. My brother, all his court, affected to believe that it was true--to have no doubt thereof. But yet, if they were so thoroughly convinced, why, when they wanted me to wed another, did they press so eagerly for a divorce at the court of Rome--a divorce from a dead man! They must, at least, have doubted. Thus they taught me to doubt; and, ere I yield even to my king's authority, I must see and inquire for myself. All I ask is, let me find him living, or find where they buried him. His arms, his look, must have shown, whoever found the body, that he was no ordinary man, to be buried with the common herd on the spot where he fell."
Richard shook his head, saying, "Alas, lady, you know not what a field of battle is. The blows and bloody wounds, the trampling of the flying multitude, the horses' hoofs, will often deface every feature, and leave the dead body no resemblance to the living man; and, as for arms, there is always hovering round a field of battle a foul flock of human vultures, ready to despoil the dead, the moment that the tide of contest ebbs away."
"But this was a mere skirmish," replied the lady.
"I know, I know," said Richard. "He was hurrying across the country with a few score Lancastrian spears, to join Margaret at Tewksbury, when he was encountered by Sir Walter Gray, with a superior force. But think you, had he been alive, no tidings would have reached you from himself, no message, no letter?"
"That he should have sent none would indeed be strange," replied the lady; "but you know not, my lord, how I have been watched and guarded. I know that some of my letters from Denmark were actually stopped; and, till within the last two years, I have been almost a prisoner. Nay, more, I find they spread a report that I was married to the earl of Hamilton, amongst many other strokes of policy to bend me to their wishes. All these things have made me doubt. 'Tis true, I cannot fully give way to hope; but yet I perceive clearly they themselves do not feel sure Arran is dead."
"Well, lady, my best assistance you shall have," answered Richard. "All sheriffs of counties, and their officers, shall be commanded to give you aid--ay, and to prosecute the search themselves; and to monasteries and abbeys you will need no commendation."
"Thanks, gracious prince," replied the lady; and Richard, with an air of real kindness, answered:
"No thanks are merited, where the pleasure received is far more than that given. Would I could aid you farther!"
And then, changing the conversation, he added: "You have been to see my poor unhappy queen, I find. She is sadly ill, poor Anne; and the physicians give but very little hope."
"She looks ill indeed," replied the princess; "yet, I trust that care and skilful tending may restore her."
Richard shook his head, and fell into a fit of thought, or seemed to do so.
"Her heart has received a wound that will never heal," he answered, at length, with a sigh. "Man's nature resists these things; but woman's yields. Always a delicate flower, this last storm has crushed her. Our beautiful boy, our Edward, our only one, to be snatched from us in this sudden and fearful way! It was enough, surely it was enough, to break a heart so tender as hers. Alas, lady, I must not indulge in hope. But this conversation unmans me," he continued. "I am not fit now to discuss matters of urgent business. To-night, lady, to-night we will talk of the marriage of your nephew with my niece. At present, I can think of nothing but my dead boy, and my dying wife. Farewell, then, farewell for the present. Alas, poor lady! It has fallen hard upon her;" and, turning sharply away, he quitted the room, muttering words to himself, as if solely occupied with the fate of his wife, and the loss of his son.
The moment he had closed the door, however, he took the arm of Ratcliffe, who was still in waiting, and led him along the corridor, speaking to him in a low voice.
"We must conclude this matter speedily," he said--"the marriage, Ratcliffe. I mean the marriage. I will have you go yourself."
"I am ready this moment, sire," answered Ratcliffe. "But tell me where I am to go, and my foot shall be in the stirrup within half an hour."
"Where?" exclaimed Richard, in a tone of surprise, "why, to the sanctuary at Westminster, to be sure. I must have you deal with our good sister, Elizabeth of Woodville, the queen dowager, and persuade her to give her girls into my safe custody."
"That were difficult, very difficult, my lord," replied Ratcliffe.
"Not a whit," said Richard. "Be liberal of promises; say that I will wed her daughters to the noblest in the realm. Tell her, my own child being dead, my brother's children become objects of love and care, instead of fear. Assign them liberal pensions--ay, and give the same unto the queen their mother. Tell her, her kinsmen shall be well treated and restored to their estates and honours, and contrive to whisper in the ear of my fair niece Elizabeth, that, were Richard free, as he soon may be, he would set her on the throne of England. Dost thou understand me, Ratcliffe?"
"Ay, gracious lord, right well," replied Ratcliffe. "I have never wanted zeal; and, if zeal can do aught, within ten days the princesses shall be in your grace's hand."
"Zeal! Thou hast more than zeal, Ratcliffe," exclaimed Richard. "Zeal is the gallant horse that bears us on full speed. Wit is the hand that guides him. Why look'st thou thoughtful, man?"
"I was but thinking, sire," answered Ratcliffe, "that it were well to send off messengers to the pope. To wed your niece, you must have a dispensation. Rome has no pity for love's impatience, little consideration for exigencies of state. 'Twere well to have matters begun and carried on at once, with that slow court, or we shall have objections, and at first refusals."
"Refusals!" said Richard, with a bitter smile. "There are still lollards in England, Ratcliffe; and by St. Paul, if he delay or hesitate, his triple crown may lose its brightest gem. We are a devout son of the church, my friend; but still we must be tender to our subjects. See the bishop of London, when you are there, and bid him cease all flame and faggot denunciations. Tell him that reasons of state require us to be tolerant at least for the time, and insinuate that we intend to pass an act for the relief of men's consciences."
"He will send the news to Rome, sire," said Ratcliffe, with some hesitation.
"Let him," answered Richard, with a meaning smile; "'tis what I would have! I would provide something to give up, lest Rome's demands should be too unreasonable. A little fear, too, is salutary. So see him, see him, and put the matter as I have said, strongly enough to create alarm, not strongly enough to give offence. But the queen and her daughter must be first dealt with. Let me have her forth from sanctuary, and my wife no longer in the way between us; and I will pass over papal dispensations, and laugh at Roman thunders. You have your directions, away."
Thus saying, he turned to the door of his cabinet, round which several persons were waiting.
"Lord Fulmer has arrived, your grace, and is waiting below in the green chamber," said one of the attendants.
"Bring him hither," answered Richard; "and mark me, if any news come from the coast, give the messengers instant admission;" and he entered the cabinet.