To write a really good play is undoubtedly a much more difficult thing, and the achievement a much more glorious one, than to write a good romance; and yet the dramatist has some very great advantages over the romance writer. He is conventionally permitted to skip over all dull details, which the romance-writer is obliged to furnish. The prominent points alone are those with which he deals; the burden of the rest is cast upon nimble-footed imagination, who, supplies in a moment, from her own inexhaustible stores, all that is requisite to complete the tale, with much richer and more brilliant materials than pen or tongue can afford. If some reference to events going on at a distance from the scene be necessary in words, they may be as brief as the writer wills; and all that is needful to describe the approach of dangers, which have been long preparing, and the effect upon him to whom the tale is told, is comprised in two brief sentences:
Stanley--Richmond is on the seas.King Richard--There let him sink--and be the seas on him,White-livered runagate!
Stanley--Richmond is on the seas.
King Richard--There let him sink--and be the seas on him,
White-livered runagate!
This is quite enough; and although I have heard the admirable critics object to the conceit approaching to a pun, expressed in the second line, as unnatural, when placed in the mouth of a man agitated by violent passions, as in the case of Richard, yet that man must have been a very poor observer of human nature, who does not know that the expression of strong passion is full of conceits. It seems as if ordinary words and ordinary forms fail before the energies of passion, and that recourse is had to language often obscure, often. extravagant, sometimes ludicrous, and always full of conceits.
However that may be, it is needful for me to give somewhat more at length the course of events which Shakspeare summed up but briefly. I will be rapid too, and pretend, in this short chapter, to give but a sketch of events, which took several months in action.
Weary men sleep not always sound; and, in less than four hours after the earl of Richmond had laid his head upon his pillow at Angers, he again came forth from his chamber, and went down to that large public room, which in those days, and for many years after, was to be found in every inn, both in France and England. When he entered, the room was tenanted by only one person, for the dinner hour was passed; but that person advanced to meet him at once, with a low reverence. "Ha, Sir Christopher Urswick," said the earl; "right glad am I to see you. The passport you obtained for me from the court of France served me right well this morning at the city gates. By my faith, the pursuers were close upon my heels. But why did you not come yourself?"
"Because I should have been in prison at Nantes by this time, and could serve you better in France," replied Urswick. "There are many of your friends waiting for you, sir, with anxious expectation, at the court of Langeais; and Madame de Beaujeu, the regent of the kingdom, is prepared to receive you as your dignity requires."
"Then am I expected?" asked Richmond.
"Many things are foreseen, which we can hardly say are expected," answered Urswick; "but all knew that, within a month, you must be either in France or England."
Richmond paused in thought, and then asked: "How far is it hence to Langeais?"
"Barely twenty leagues, my lord," replied the other; "an easy ride of two short days."
"And what is now the state of France?" asked Richmond, fixing his keen inquiring eyes upon him.
"Still sadly troubled," replied Urswick. "The contest for the guard of the king's person and the rule of the kingdom still goes on. Orleans, Dunois, and the old constable, on the one side, pull hard against Madame de Beaujeu, her husband, and the rest of the court, on the other; and there is nothing but cabals, dissensions, and from time to time outbreaks; but the princess has more wit than the whole of France put together; and she will break through all their plots, and confound their intrigues. Still the state is very much troubled, and a new revolt is expected every day."
"Then we can pause, and rest at Angers," said Richmond, gravely. "If I have many friends at the court of France, I have been obliged to leave many at the court of Britanny. Their safety must be considered at once. I will write to the good duke, before I break bread. I pray you, in the mean time, seek me a trusty messenger. Let him be a Frenchman, for there might be danger to any other."
Prompt to execute his determinations, the earl at once addressed a letter to the duke of Britanny, explaining the causes of his flight, and pointing out to the weak but amiable prince the stain which his minister had brought upon his name, by engaging to give up a guest, who trusted his hospitality, to a bitter enemy.
He urged not, it is true, the punishment of Landais; but he entreated that his friends, the companions of his exile, might be permitted to join him in France.
This letter had all the effect he could have desired. Free permission to go or stay was granted to every Englishman at the Breton court; and the rage and shame of the duke, at the misuse of his power by Landais, joined with the vehement accusations brought against that upstart minister by the Breton nobles, induced the prince to give him up to justice, reserving to himself indeed the right to pardon him, if he should be condemned by a court of justice. The proceedings, however, were too speedy for the slow duke. Landais was condemned; and he was hung also, while the signature to his pardon was still wet.
Three days after his arrival at Angers, the earl of Richmond set out for Langeais, and early on the second day reached the gates of that fine old château, in the great saloon of which may still be seen the sculptured memorials of joys and ceremonies long past, which ushered in the reign of the active and enterprising Charles VIII. His reception was kind and cordial; but, as Urswick had informed him, trouble still reigned at the court of France; and some weeks elapsed before the earl could obtain anything like a promise of assistance from Madame de Beaujeu. Then, however, she engaged to furnish a small and insignificant force, to form merely the nucleus of an army to be raised in England. Two thousand men alone was all that France offered; but with this insufficient army Richmond determined to take the field, and named Rouen, where he had many friends, as the meeting-place of his troops. The assistance in money was not greater than the assistance in men; and the hard condition of leaving hostages for the payment of all sums advanced was inforced by the shrewd regent of France, whose whole object and expectation, apparently, was, by stirring up civil wars in England, to prevent Richard from pressing any of those claims which he had against the neighbouring sovereign.
She had to deal, indeed, with one perhaps as shrewd as herself; and, although Richmond could not refuse the demand, he took advantage of it to free himself of a person whose lightness and incapacity rendered him little serviceable as an ally, and whose sincerity and good faith were somewhat more than doubtful. Dorset was easily persuaded to avoid the perils of an enterprise, the result of which no one could foresee, by remaining as one of the hostages in Paris, with another gentleman whom the earl felt he could do very well without; and Richmond departed for Rouen, resolved to strike for life or death, a throne or a grave, with whatever means fortune might furnish.
A number of gallant English gentlemen surrounded the future king. But they were in almost all cases without followers, and but scantily provided with money. It was therefore not upon their unaided arms that Richmond could depend for a crown; and, as he rode into the fine old town of Rouen, a shade of despondency came over his countenance, never very bright and cheerful. But at the door of the house which had been prepared for him he was met by the boy Pierre la Brousse, who had been sent on to announce his coming, and now sprang forward to hold his stirrup.
"The good bishop is waiting within, my lord," said the boy eagerly, as Richmond dismounted. "He has news for you from England--" and then, giving a glance at the earl's face, he added--"Good news, my lord."
"You seem much in his confidence," said Richmond, coldly. "Does he tell you whether his news is good or bad?"
"His face does," replied the boy. "I watch men's faces."
Richmond smiled and walked on, guided by Pierre, to the room where Morton sat. For a moment the prelate did not seem to hear the opening door, but remained, with the light of the lamp well nigh absorbed by the black ceiling and the dark arras, poring over some papers on the table before him. The next instant, however, he raised his eyes as Richmond advanced, and, starting up, exclaimed--
"I beg your pardon, my lord the king, I did not hear you enter."
"The king?" said Richmond. "You forget, good father, I am as yet no king."
"But shall be so within a month," replied Morton, laying his hand on the papers, "if there be but one word true in ten of all that is written in these letters. But you are weary, you are thirsty. Let me order some refreshment, while supper is preparing."
"I am weary of disappointments, thirsty for hope," replied Richmond. "Give me your tidings, before I drink or rest. Now, boy, retire;" and he seated himself by the side of the chair which Morton had been occupying.
"This, my lord, from the gallant earl of Northumberland," said Morton, handing him one letter. "See what comfortable assurances he gives of the north."
Richmond read, and looked well satisfied, but said nothing; and then Morton handed him another, saying--
"This from Sir Walter Herbert."
"But poor comfort, that," observed Richmond. "He bids you be assured that, whatever appearances he may put on, he will stand neuter. This is cold, right reverend father."
"In some cases, neutrality is better than favour," replied Morton. "Herbert is Richard's right hand in Wales. If his right hand fail him, his left will serve him but little. Read this from Rice ap Thomas."
"Ay, this is more cheering," exclaimed Richmond, his face brightening. "A thousand men! Why 'tis half the force we bring hence. But think you, reverend friend, that he can keep his word?"
"That he has the will, doubt not," replied the bishop of Ely, "and his power must be shorn indeed, if he double not the number promised. Now mark, my noble prince, what is said by this good Captain Savage--a leader of no mean renown, and a man whose bare word will outweigh the oaths of other men. Listen, 'Wales waits for his coming, as those who watch for the dawn. She feels he is her son, and will give him the welcome of a parent.' Tudor will meet here many kinsmen, more friends than kinsmen, more soldiers than friends, more servants than all; for those will serve him with their hearts and their purses, their prayers and their means, who have not strength to draw a sword nor power to raise a force. Let him land nowhere but in Wales."
"And so say I," exclaimed Richmond; "my first footsteps upon British shore shall be in the land of my fathers. I will go forth to seek the crown, which is my right, from my own native home; and with such promises as these, such friendship as yours, so good a cause, so base an enemy, I will march on even with my little band, assured of victory, and shame the petty aid of miserly France, by winning gloriously, or leave my bones to pay the miserable debt, and let them go to England to fetch them back. Now, my good lord bishop, for our preparations; for I will not tarry longer by a day than I can help, on this ungenerous soil."
"Nay, my noble prince, take some refreshment," said Morton; "the proper hour for supper has long passed, and I doubt much that you tarried on the road for either food or rest."
"Ha! supper--I had forgot," said Richmond; "well, I suppose, man must eat. So we will sup, and call my brave companions in to aid us. Then will we discuss our after measures, hear all their counsel, and adopt--our own."
Gaps are sometimes pleasant things. With what interest the eye traces a gap in a deep wood; how it roams up the glade, marking a tree out-standing here, a clump of bushes there, the rounded swell of the turf, the little sinking dell! And now imagination revels in the void, filling up every breach in the line with a continuation of its own, seeing the fancied woodman's hut peeping out from behind this mass of foliage, peopling the coverts with dun deer, and raising up forms of lads and lasses to wander through the chequered shade.
I must have a break in the history of those upon whom the principal interest of the tale has been concentrated, and can only furnish a few brief lines, to guide the reader's imagination aright. We left them in the spring of the year, when skies were soft, though warm, when the shower mingled with the sunshine, when the leaf was in its green infancy upon the branch, and all nature was rejoicing as if filled with the sweet early hopes of youth. It was now summer, ardent summer; the sky was full of golden light, the woods afforded deep shade; the corn was turning yellow on the ground; and the cattle lay in the hot noonday, chewing the cud, under the shadows of the trees. The longed-for summer had come. It was fruition.
Lord Calverly had followed the advice he had received, and presented himself to the king to make what excuse he best could. He dared not indeed tell the whole truth, and merely said, that his niece, unwilling to fulfil the contract with Lord Fulmer, had fled he knew not whither. Richard, however, divined more than he acknowledged; but he dealt leniently with him. There was no fine, no confiscation, no actual imprisonment. He merely required that the old nobleman should remain constantly at the court till his niece reappeared, after having satisfied himself that Lord Chartley was not cognizant of her flight nor aware of her place of refuge.
Suspicion and policy were busy in the king's mind at that hour; for reports reached him, from his numerous spies in France and Britanny, which showed that storms were gathering on the horizon; and signs, not to be mistaken, told him of discontent and disaffection amongst the people of his own land, while phantoms of shadowy conspiracies flitted across the scene before his eyes, and left him in doubt and apprehension of every man. All those whom he most feared and least trusted he kept at the court under his own eye, believing that the terror of the axe would secure that obedience which he could not obtain from love and zeal.
Lord Fulmer, indeed, remained in Dorsetshire, in command of a small body of forces; but he was kept in check, and his fidelity secured by the presence of a much larger power upon the verge of Somerset and Devon, commanded by one in whom Richard could confide. Never failing in dissimulation, the king noticed not in any way what he suspected or what he knew of the young lord's conduct; but every messenger which went to Dorsetshire carried commendations and hopes, and many an expression of regret that the Lady Iola St. Leger had not been found, so that his marriage must be necessarily delayed.
It might be supposed, that if Richard thought precautions so necessary in these instances, he would have exercised still greater vigilance in the case of Lord Chartley. Such, however, was not the case. The paradoxes of the human mind are part of history; but so common is it for the most jealous, watchful, and suspicious, in every rank and relation of life, to place the utmost confidence in those who are destined to frustrate all their plans and purposes, and disappoint all their expectations, that it is no marvel even so keen and untrusting a man as Richard should feel no apprehensions, with regard to either Chartley or Arden, though he was hateful to them both, and yet be suspicious of Lord Calverly and Fulmer, who might perchance disobey his orders, and refuse reverence to his authority in matters of small moment, where their own passions were concerned, but who never entertained a thought of abandoning the king's party, to which they had attached themselves from the first. Cunning often overreaches itself, often sees a distant object, and overlooks that lying at its feet. But there were many circumstances which rendered Richard careless in the case of Chartley. He looked upon him as a rash, heedless, light-spirited young man, too open and too frank, either to be sought by or to seek other conspirators. He had always been firmly attached to the house of York, had been brought up from his youth under its guardianship, had inherited, as it were, animosity to the house of Lancaster, had taken no part with the new nobility, as the relations of Edward's queen were called, and had, in his boyhood. treated with some haughty contumely one of the upstart favourites of the queen's brother, which caused him to be sent from court to travel in foreign lands. These things had not been forgotten by Richard; and he argued--"It is neither with Richmond nor with Dorset that this gay young lord would intrigue, if he intrigued at all; and, so long as this fair maid of St. Leger remains to be won, I have him sure. 'Tis well she hides herself; for were she at the court, or in her uncle's house, I might have to decide too soon. I doubt that moody discontented Fulmer; but of this light-spirited youth I am secure."
The month, during which Sir William Arden had agreed to hold his noble cousin in ward, passed away. Richard heard of them travelling here, travelling there, roaming from this village to that, hovering sometimes round Chidlow, sometimes round Atherston, lodging at Tamworth, at Leicester, at Hinckley; and he easily divined that Chartley was seeking eagerly for Iola. The multitude of affairs pressing upon his attention gave him but little time to think of minor things; and he suffered the period to lapse, without taking any farther precaution for the young lord's custody. It was recalled to his memory some days afterwards by Catesby; and the king mused over the suggestion for some moments; but at length he said in a somewhat doubtful tone--
"No. Let it be. But this girl must be heard of, Catesby. I must know where she is, lest this youth find out the hidden treasure, and snatch at it without our consent. There must be people who know her habits and her haunts. Let them be enquired after, and in the mean time write me a letter to Lord Chartley, requiring him to use every diligence to seek for the Lady Iola, and bring her to the court, when he shall be rewarded as his heart could desire. But mark you, Catesby, mark you. Put in 'If the lady's heart go with it.' These young fools, we must talk to them about hearts, or they will not believe. Methinks hearts wear out about thirty, Catesby. Is it not so?"
"Sometimes sooner; sire," answered Catesby, gravely. "But I will do your bidding; and methinks the person most likely to know where the lure lies hid is the lady Constance, her cousin. The old lord sent her back to the abbey of St. Clare; but I will despatch some one thither, skilled in ladies' interrogatories, who will soon extract from her all that she knows."
"So be it," said the king, and there the conversation dropped.
It was in the month of July, often a wet and rainy month, in this good climate of England; but the rain had exhausted itself, and sunshine had come back again, bright and clear. The world looked fresh and beautiful, as if a new spring had come; and light and pleasant air tempered the heat of the atmosphere; yet the door of the woodman was shut and bolted; and, in the middle of the summer, a large fire burned upon the hearth. With his leathern jerkin cast off, his powerful and sinewy arm bare, and a heavy hammer in his hand, he stood by the fire turning, from time to time, a piece of iron which lay amidst the ashes. Then, approaching a sort of moveable anvil, which stood in the midst of the floor, he adjusted upon it some plates of iron, fastened closely together by rivets, one of which however was wanting. Next, bringing the red hot iron from the fire, he passed it through the two holes where the lost rivet had been, and with heavy blows of the hammer fastened the whole together, while his large hound stood by and contemplated his proceedings with curious eyes. Then throwing down the iron plates by the side of some others very similar, he took up a bright corslet, grooved and inlaid with gold tracery, and gazed upon it with a thoughtful and a care-worn look. Through the hard iron, on the right side, was a hole, of the breadth of three fingers, and all round it the crimson cloth, which lined the corslet, was stained of a deeper hue.
"Ay, Ban," said the woodman, speaking to the dog, "those are the holes which let life out! How is it to be mended? Nay, I will let it be--why should I care? 'Twere a lucky lance that found twice the same entrance;" and he cast down the corslet on the floor.
The dog turned round towards the door, and growled; and the next instant some one raised the latch, and then knocked for admission. In haste, but yet with no agitation, the woodman lifted the various pieces of armour which cumbered the ground, removed them to the inner room, and locked the door. In the mean time the knock was repeated twice or thrice, and the dog bayed loud. The woodman drew the bolts, and threw back the door suddenly; but the only figure which presented itself, was that of Sam, the piper.
"Why, what have you been about, Master Boyd?" he said. "You were hammering so loud but now, I could not make you hear."
"Mending my tools," said Boyd, with a grim smile. "But what want you, Sam? Have you brought me any news?"
"Ay, plenty," answered the piper. "First, let me put down my bag, and give me a draught of beer, if it be but thin penny ale, for I am thirsty, and my mouth is full of dust."
"It has often been full of other things since day-break," said the woodman; "but thou shalt have the beer. Sit you down there, outside the door, and I will bring it you."
The piper sat down on the rude seat at the door; and, while the woodman departed "on hospitable thoughts intent," the hound came and laid its head upon the lap of the wandering musician. But Sam, as curious as any of his class, was seized with a strong desire to see what the woodman had been really doing, and was rising to look in. The moment he attempted to move, however, the dog, though he knew him well, began to growl, and thus kept him there, as if he had been placed on guard, till Boyd's return.
"Well, now for your tidings then," said Boyd, when the man had drunk.
"Which will you have first?" demanded the piper, "news from the court, the castle, or the field?"
"It matters not," said Boyd. "Shake them out of the bag, Sam, as they come."
"Well then, from the court," said Sam. "It should have the place of honour, though there is but little honour in it. Well, the king is mighty wroth to hear that the Earl of Richmond has put to sea with a fleet and army to invade England. He laughed, they say, when he was told thereof; and, when he laughs, 'tis sure that he is angry."
"But is Richmond on the sea?" asked the woodman. "I doubt it."
"Nay, I speak but what men tell me," answered Sam. "They say he is on the sea with a great power. Many men refuse to pay the benevolence too, and declare it is an exaction against the law. All this makes Richard angry; and he rages at trifles like a mad bear, when the dogs have got him by the muzzle."
"He'll need a bear-ward, soon," said Boyd; "and he may get one."
"Men say he is insane," continued Sam, "and that his brain has never been right since his son died at Middleham. However, the queen's funeral was as glorious as could be; and Richard wept a basin full, I am told. But yet men have cried more over a raw onion, and never felt it much at heart."
"Well, well, what is all this to me?" asked Boyd, impatiently. "The queen is dead and buried. God rest her soul! It had little rest here, since she married the murderer of her husband. The king might love her, or might not, may grieve for her, or not. What is all that to me? She was not my wife;" and, seating himself on the bench, he bent his eyes thoughtfully upon the ground.
"Well then, my court news is told," said Sam. "Now for my country gossip. Know you, good man Boyd, that the Lord Chartley, whom you and I had to do with a good many months ago, when they burned the houses on the abbey green, is back at Tamworth?"
"Ay, I know," replied Boyd. "He has been here thrice, hovering about like a fly round a lamp."
"He's a good youth," said the piper. "He promised me one gold angel, and he gave me two. He has a right loving remembrance of that night too; for I never see him but I get a silver remembrance thereof, so I am rich now, Master Boyd. Then, there's his good cousin, Sir William Arden. He hangs fondly about here too, and is, most days, at the grate of the convent."
"Ay, what does he there?" asked Boyd.
"Why, he talks to the Lady Constance by the hour," answered the piper; "and they all say it will be a match, although, if he be not well stricken in years, he has been well stricken in wars. He's a good man too, and bountiful of silver groats; but his hair is getting mottled with grey, so that he is not so good a man as the young lord, whose hair is all brown.
"'Oh, give to me the bonny brown hair,The teeth so white, and the skin so fair,The lightsome step, and the dainty air,Of my sweet Meg of the May.'"
"'Oh, give to me the bonny brown hair,The teeth so white, and the skin so fair,The lightsome step, and the dainty air,Of my sweet Meg of the May.'"
"No, no. I like Chartley best; and I shall make a fortune by him too, before I've done. 'Tis the first luck that ever befel me, and I shall open my cap to catch it."
"Then, will you let it all run out in drink?" said Boyd. "But, how may this luck come to you?"
"Why, he has promised me," said the piper, "to fill me a gill stoup with gold pieces, if I can find out for him where liggs the pretty lass who watched with him in the forest through one live-long night not long ago. The Lady Iola, they call her. I know not if you know such a one, woodman; but he has asked high and asked low, asked rich and asked poor, and employed all sorts of cunning men to know where the lady is, so that, in sheer despair, he has betaken himself to a piper--and the piper is the man for his money, for he has found her out."
The woodman started at his words; and, turning upon him with a stern brow, he said--
"And thou hast told him?"
The piper paused for a moment, and then laughed.
"No," he said, at length; "I have not told him yet. I thought that I would first speak with a certain person, who has sometimes odd thoughts of his own, and who, though a rough man at times, has often been kind to me, in days of trouble. When I meddle, I like to know what I am meddling with; and though I be a poor wretch, who rarely knows from one day to another where I shall get meat, or, what is more important still, where I shall get drink; yet, to say truth, I would rather lose a gill stoup full of gold pieces than make mischief which I cannot mend. I therefore determined to speak first of all with this person, who knows a good deal of the matter, and who, having hidden, can find. Am I not wise?"
"Thou art better than wise," said the woodman, laying his strong hand upon his shoulder. "Thou art good, as this world goes."
The woodman paused thoughtfully for a few moments, and then said--
"Not yet. You must not tell him yet. There is a task for her to perform, a scene for her to pass through, before there can be daylight. Said'st thou the earl of Richmond was on the sea?"
"'Tis so confidently reported," replied the other; "notices of great preparation at Harfleur, and of troops collecting at Rouen, have reached the court, and are noised about the city; and the rumour is, that the good earl has sailed, intending to land in Dorsetshire or Devon."
"Then he must fight or fail at once?" said the woodman; "and he must be advised. Yet, doubtless, the tale is false; and at all events, it is too late to stop him. Let me think. To-day is the twenty-eighth of July, is it not?"
"Ay," answered the piper; "'tis so by my calendar."
But the woodman seemed not to hear him, and went on in the same meditating tone, saying--
"It is a memorable day--ay, it is a memorable day. Once more in arms Hark you, my friend, will you be my messenger?"
"What, to the earl of Richmond?" cried Sam, with a start.
"Who said the earl of Richmond, fool?" asked Boyd, sternly. "No, to a lady."
"Ay, right willing," answered the piper; "if I judge who the lady is; for she was always kind and good to me."
"Let not your wit run before your knowledge," said the woodman, "or it will leave truth behind. I send you to a lady, whom you have seen, but with whom you never spoke--"
He suddenly broke off, and seemed to let his mind ramble to other things.
"If Richmond has spread the sail," he said, "he may have touched land ere now. But Richard is unprepared. He has no force in the field, no muster called, that I can hear of. There must be an error, and there may yet be time enough. Do you remember a lady who, with a train of maidens and grooms, passed through the forest several weeks ago?"
"Ay, right well," answered the piper. "She offered at the shrine of St. Clare, looked through all the church, examined the monuments, and read the books where strangers' names are written; and, moreover, she gave bountiful alms, of which I had my share. Then she went to Atherston, thence to Tamworth, and to many another place besides. She was at the court too."
"And is now gone to Tewksbury," said the woodman. "It is to her I intend to send you."
"'Tis a far journey, good man Boyd," replied the piper; "and princesses are too high for me. They say she was a princess. You had better send some one more quick of limbs than I am, and softer of speech."
"I can spare none," replied the woodman; "and 'tis because thou art not fitted to draw a sword or charge a pike that I send thee. As for speed, thou shalt have means to make four legs supply a cure for thine own lameness. Canst thou ride a horse?"
"Draw a sword or charge a pike!" exclaimed Sam. "Art thou going to make war, woodman?"
"May not the abbey need defence in these troublous times?" demanded Boyd. "Know you not, that I am bailiff now, as well as head woodman? Canst thou ride a horse, I say?"
"That can I," answered the man. "In my young days I rode the wildest. Would I had wild or tame to bear me now, for I hobble painfully."
"Well, then, thou shalt have one," said Boyd; "and, when thy journey is done, keep him for thy pains. But mark me, thou shalt promise, on thy soul and conscience, to drink nought but water till thou hast delivered my message----"
"'Tis a hard oath," said the piper. "I took one like it once before; and I was forced for a fortnight after to double the pint stoup, to make up for lost time. Well, well, I will take it."
"That is not all," answered Boyd. "Thou shalt promise me, moreover, to utter no word regarding whom the message comes from, neither to mention my name, describe my person, nor tell my abode; but simply to seek that lady, and tell her that the fate of the person for whom she has so long enquired may still be heard of, and that you can lead her to one who can give her all the tidings she desires."
"And bring her hither?" demanded Sam.
"No," answered the woodman. "First, let me be assured, if you really know where the Lady Iola is. Tell me how you discovered her, and where. Do not hesitate; for it must be told."
"Nay, I hesitate not," answered the piper, "for thou wert there too; so I can little harm her. One night, as I was passing through the wood which lies between Atherston and Alanstoke--you know the wood right well, not the first coppice, but the bigger wood beyond--I heard a sound of singing. There were many voices; and, as I love music, I crept up, when in the little glade, beside the stream that runs into the Tamworth water, I saw some thirty people, men and women too, singing right sweetly. I know not well what songs they were--assuredly not the canticles of the church--but yet they seemed pure and holy; for ever and anon they praised God's name, and gave him honour and glory. They prayed too, but in the English tongue; and I could not help thinking it were better if all men did the same in the land. Sure I am, if they did so, they would know better what they say than when they pray in Latin; and, though people, no doubt, would call the meeting Lollardy, I liked it well. Then, when they parted company, I saw the Lady Iola, for she was one, walk away between two men. One was about your height, good man Boyd. The other, I knew by his long white beard--the good old franklin, Elias Ames. There was a lad followed, to see that no one watched, I fancy; and he seemed to me wondrous like the son of the gardener at the abbey. But I tricked his vigilance, and followed round by the other path, till I saw the Lady Iola and the good old franklin go into his pretty wooden house, with the woodbine over the door, while the others went their way. Next morning, soon after day-break too, I saw the lady peep forth from the window, through the honeysuckles, looking, to my mind, far sweeter than they."
"Well, then," said the woodman, after meditating for a moment, "go to the lady I have mentioned; tell her what I have said, but not who said it; and lead her to that house with as few followers as may be. There she will hear more."
"But how shall I get admittance to her?" demanded Sam. "Why, those knaves, those grooms of hers, will look me all over from head to foot, and then drive me from the door. How should a poor piper get speech of a princess?"
"You shall have the means," answered Boyd. "Wait here for a minute;" and, retiring once more into his cottage, he was a short time absent. When he returned, he bore a piece of written paper in hand, and gave it to his messenger, saying. "There, take that to Sir William Stanley's bailiff at Atherston. He will help to send you on the way."
"A horse----believe him," said the piper, reading. "Does that mean he is to believe a horse?"
"No," replied the woodman, gravely, "to believe you, and give you a horse. I knew not that you could read. Now look here," he continued, giving the man a large gold cross, of what is called the Greek form, set with five sardonix stones, and attached to two very beautifully wrought chains, terminating in the heads of serpents. It seemed of very ancient workmanship, but was so splendid as greatly to excite the admiration of the poor piper.
"There, cease gazing!" said the woodman; "but take that cross, and put it up carefully, where it will be seen by no one, lest you should be robbed and murdered for its sake. When you meet with the lady's train--you will find her either in Tewksbury or some of the neighbouring villages--ask to speak with her chief woman. Tell her to take the cross to her mistress, and ask if she will purchase it. There is money for your journey too. Methinks she will soon see you, when she looks upon that cross."
"But what if she do not?" asked Sam. "What then?"
"Return," replied the woodman, apparently greatly moved; and, without further words, he was re-entering his cottage, when the piper called after him aloud, saying:
"Hark ye, hark ye, yet a minute, Master Boyd. There are two words to the bargain, remember. If I undertake your errand, you must not spoil mine."
"Thine, man!" exclaimed the woodman, turning upon him sharply. "What is thine?"
"If I understood you rightly," said Sam, with a tone of deference, "you said, or meant to say, that the secret of this dear lady's abode was not to be told to the young lord as yet, but that it might be told by and by. Now, I must be the teller; for I made the discovery."
"I understand thee," said the woodman. "Fear not, thou shalt have the gill measure of gold pieces, which is what thou carest about; and no one shall take it from thee. Now, quick upon thy way; for time presses, and events are hurrying forward which admit of no delay."
Midsummer days dawn early; and, even in that class of life where it is not customary to pass the greater part of night in study or amusement, it rarely happens that the rising sun finds many ready to rise with him. The hour at which the labours of the abbey garden begun, in summer time, was five o'clock. But long ere that hour had arrived, on an early day of August, the door of one of the cottages on the abbey green was opened, and a stout good-looking young man came forth, taking great care to make his exit without noise. He looked around him too, in the grey twilight; for the air was still thickened with the shades of night. But every window had up its shutters of rude boarding; and he passed along upon his way without fear. His step was light, his countenance frank and good-humoured; and, though his clothes were very coarse, they were good and clean, betokening a labourer of the better class. He had soon crossed the green, passed between the houses which had been left standing at the time of the fire, and those which were in course of reconstruction; and then, following the road down the hill, he reached the bank of the stream, along which the troops had marched when coming to search for doctor Morton. He did not, however, pursue the road towards Coleshill; but, turning sharp away to the left, along a path through some meadows watered by a small rivulet, he kept, between himself and the abbey, a row of tall osiers, which screened the path from the hamlet. At the distance of about half a mile was a coppice of some four or five hundred acres; and from beyond that might be seen, with an interval of two or three undulating fields, a much more extensive wood, though it did not deserve the name of a forest. Towards the edge of the latter the young man bent his steps, following still the little path, which seemed rarely beaten by the busy tread of men's feet; for the green blades of grass, though somewhat pressed down and crushed, by no means suffered the soil to appear.
Indeed, it was a wild and solitary scene, with just sufficient cultivation visible to render the loneliness more sensible. The young man, however, seemed to know all the paths right well; for though they sometimes branched to the one hand, and sometimes to the other, and sometimes could hardly be traced amongst the grass, yet he walked on steadily, without any doubt or hesitation, and at length entered the wood, near a spot where stood a tall red post.
He had nearly a mile farther to go, after this point was reached; and his course led him through many a wild glade and bowery avenue, till at length he came to a spot highly cultivated, which seemed to have been reclaimed from the wood. Immediately in front of him, and at the other side of this patch of cultivated ground, was a neat wooden house, of one story in height, but with glass windows, and even two chimneys; great rarities in those days. The whole front was covered with wild honeysuckle, rich in its unceasing blossoms; and every window, as well as the door, looked like a pleasant bower. Approaching with a light step, through a number of rose bushes, which were planted in front of the house, the young man knocked hard at the door with his knuckles; and in a moment after it was opened, and he went in.
He did not see or remark, however, that he had been followed on his track. When he first came forth from the house upon the green, there had been protruded, beyond the angle of a new building on the opposite side, a face very nearly black in hue, and surmounted by a turban. It was instantly withdrawn; but when the young man hurried down towards the stream, a figure, clad almost altogether in white, glided from behind the new houses; and bending almost to the ground, in a position which it would be difficult for European limbs to assume, the swarthy watcher marked with a keen and flashing eye the course the youth took, and, the moment he disappeared behind the osiers, darted down with the speed of lightning, leaped a low enclosure, went straight through the little rivulet, though it was more than knee-deep, and followed it along its course, keeping the opposite bank to that which was pursued by the person he was watching. When he had come within about ten yards of the end of the row of osiers, he paused, and, bending his head, listened attentively. A footfall met his ear. It was upon soft green turf; but yet he heard it; and he remained perfectly still and motionless for a minute or two, then waded through the rivulet once more, and creeping gently in amongst the willows, gazed eagerly up the side of the hill. The young man's figure was there before him, at about fifty yards distance; and from that sheltered spot the other watched him nearly to the edge of the wood. As soon as he disappeared, his pursuer crept softly out, and, bending low, hurried up to the slope where the figure had been lost to his eyes.
There was a gentle dip in the ground at that point; but when the Arab lifted his head, and gazed around, nothing was to be seen but the green branches of the wood, about a couple of hundred yards in advance, and three small paths, separating a few feet from where he stood, and then leading amongst the trees at points considerably distant from each other. Instantly, however, the Arab knelt down upon the ground, and seemed to examine the grass upon the path, with a keen and searching eye, and on his hands and knees advanced slowly to where the point of separation came. There he paused, scrutinized that to the right, and that to the left, and then that in the middle, following it on, in the same position, for several yards. Then, starting on his feet, he bounded forward along it like a deer, and entered the wood. There the ground was sandy; and though the little paths were many and intricate, a long line of foot prints guided him on aright till he reached the little cultivated farm, just at the very moment the young man was entering the house.
Drawing back at once, the Arab concealed himself amongst the tangled bushes, and slowly and quietly made an aperture, by pulling off the leaves, so as to have the door of the building full in his sight. Then kneeling down, with his arms crossed upon his chest, he kept his eyes, motionless and hardly winking, upon the front of the house, for well nigh twenty minutes. At the end of that time, the door opened, and the young man came forth again, with what seemed a written paper in his hand; and, behind him, the watcher saw a fair and well-remembered face. The door was shut immediately again; and Ibn Ayoub bent himself down, till he was completely covered by the bushes. A moment or two after, the son of the abbey gardener passed by the place of the Arab's concealment, and as soon as there had been time for him to make some progress on his homeward way, Ibn Ayoub rose and followed slowly.
Some four or five hours later in the day, Chartley sat in the small chamber of an inn, with his head resting upon his hand, and his eyes bent gloomily down. It was not a usual mood with him; but disappointment after disappointment will sink the lightest heart. A man feels a feather no weight, but yet he may be smothered with many.
"There is Arden," he thought, as he heard the sound of horses' feet below; "and he is happy. All consenting, all rejoicing, to think that a fair penniless girl has won the heart of one of the richest and noblest men in England; while I--as careless to the full of money or state as he, am made wretched because this sweet Iola is an heiress. Curse on this wealth! Would there were none of it; we should all be happier then. But am I envious? That is not right. Well, well, I cannot help it. He must not see it, however. Well, Arden, what news? You have of course seen Constance. Has she had any tidings?"
"Yes, as before," said Arden; "a few words found on her table. 'Tell him I am well, and safe,' so ran the writing; 'bid him be of good heart. I will keep my word, and send if there be danger.' That was all, but it was in her own writing. Methinks, Chartley, it were as well to give up this pertinacious search. If you discover her, may it not draw other eyes too upon her place of refuge? The king, depend upon it, has us closely watched."
"I do not think it," answered Chartley; "and, besides, how can I feel easy, not knowing in what direction she may need my aid, When she does need it? One mistake might ruin all our hopes. Oh, could I but discover her, Arden, my tongue would soon find words to win her to instant flight, as the only means of safety--as the only means of insuring that she is not forced into this loathed marriage, and I am not driven to cut Fulmer's throat or my own. Ha, Ibn Ayoub, where hast thou been all day?"
"On my lord's business," said the Arab, and was silent again, seating himself quietly on the floor in the corner of the room; a custom which he had whenever he wished to talk with his master privately. On these occasions, nothing would induce him to speak openly; for, though a slave, Ibn Ayoub had a will of his own end exercised it; and Chartley well knew that it was in vain to bid him give his tidings, or ask his question in Arden's presence. The good knight, however, soon retired to his own chamber; and Chartley, fixing his eyes upon the Arab, who remained perfectly silent, demanded what he had been doing.
"Seeking that which is lost," replied the slave, rising and standing before his master.
"And hast thou found it?" asked Chartley, with his heart beating; for there was an air of grave importance about the man, from which he, who had known him well for some three or four years, argued a consciousness of success.
"I have, my lord," replied Ibn Ayoub. "Thou once didst pour balm into my wounds, and hold cool water to my thirsty lips. I can now do the same for thee. She whom thou hast lost is found. I heard thee inquiring how it could be, that the lady sent letters to the other lady. From what I had seen, at the castle of the old man, I guessed the secret messenger, tracked him, and saw the lady's face. Now, thou can'st go thither when thou wilt?"
"Did she see thee, Ibn Ayoub?" demanded Chartley, adding, in the same breath, "What did she say?"
"She saw me not," replied the Arab. "I was hidden from her sight."
Farther explanations ensued; but, as so often happens with every man in the course of life, the first step thus taken in advance brought its doubts and difficulties with it. But Chartley was impetuous, and he felt it impossible to refrain. As to telling him the name of the place where Iola had found refuge, or describing it, so that he himself could judge exactly where it was, that the Arab could not do; but he offered to guide his lord thither, whenever he pleased, averring truly that he had noted every step of the way so well he could make no mistake.
"How far?" demanded Chartley.
"One hour, with fleet horses," answered the man.
"Well, then, to-morrow at daybreak, we will set out," replied his master. "Say nought to any one, but have our horses prepared, and we will away with the first ray of dawn."
This course was followed; and, while Arden was still quietly sleeping in his bed, Chartley and the Arab were on their way towards the house of the old franklin, Elias Ames. With the certainty of a dog tracking a deer, Ibn Ayoub led his master along every step of the way which the gardener's son had pursued on the preceding day, except in as much as he circled round the foot of the little rise on which the abbey stood, and reached the end of the row of osiers by crossing the meadows. The whole journey occupied as near as possible an hour; and at the end of that time Chartley had the franklin's house, and the cultivated land around it, before him.
"There," said Ibn Ayoub, pointing with his hand. "She dwells there."
"Well then," said Chartley, springing to the ground, "lead the horses in amongst the trees, where they cannot be seen. I will give the signal when I come out. She may be angry," he thought; "but women little know, I believe, the eager impatience which a man who loves truly feels to see again the lady of his heart, after a long absence."
Thus saying, he walked along the path, and approached the house. The windows were all closed with their wooden shutters; and he circled it all round, without finding means of entrance.
"It may alarm her, if I rouse the house suddenly," he thought; and, retreating to the edge of the wood again, he remained watching for about half an hour longer. Then the old man himself and a stout woman servant came forth from the door, and took down the boards from the windows; and when that was done, the good franklin walked away down a little dell to the right, as if to superintend his own affairs for the day. Chartley waited till he was gone; and by that time the woman had re-entered the house; but he heard, or fancied he heard, the tones of a sweet well-known voice speaking to her as she went in. He then crossed the space between, hesitated for a moment as to whether he should knock at the door or not, but at length laid his hand upon the latch, and opened it without farther ceremony.
The passages in the house formed a cross, dividing it into four equal parts. Before him, all was vacant; and he could see clear through, by a door at the back, into a little orchard behind; but he heard a woman's voice speaking on the left, and now he was sure that she was answered in the tones of Iola. Walking on then, he turned up the passage on that side, and saw the woman servant coming forth from the door of a room. She closed the door suddenly behind her, when she beheld a man in the passage, and demanded sharply what he wanted.
"I wish to speak with the lady in that room," replied Chartley. "When she knows who it is, she will see me, I am sure."
"Nonsense, nonsense, young man," replied the woman. "There is no lady there. That is a store room."
"Then your stores speak, my good woman," answered Chartley; "for I heard a voice which I know right well talking to you."
"Go away, go away," replied the woman, who, in the dark passage where Chartley stood, could not see his dress, or judge of his station. "Go away, or I will call in the men to make you."
"All the men in the neighbourhood would not make me," answered Chartley aloud. "At least, not till I see that lady. Tell her it is Lord Chartley. If she bids me go, I will."
The words had scarcely passed his lips, when the door through which the woman had just passed was thrown open, light suddenly streamed into the passage, and Iola herself ran out, exclaiming: "Chartley, is that you? Nay, nay, you are rash indeed. You should not have come."
"But, now I have come, you will not bid me go," said Chartley, taking her hand, and kissing it. He put some restraint upon himself to keep his lips from hers.
"I cannot bid you go at once," answered Iola, bending her eyes down, with the colour rising in her cheek; "but you must go soon, and not return again, unless I send."
"This is hard," answered Chartley; "but still, I shall not feel it so much now I know where you are, and can hover round the neighbourhood, like a dove over its nest, watching the treasure of its love."
"Nay, Chartley, you are no dove," answered Iola, with a smile. "Open that other door, Catherine, and watch well from the windows that no one approaches. Come in hither, Chartley," she continued, as the woman opened the door of a room opposite to that from which she had come. "Here is my little hall. No grand reception room, yet sweet and pleasant."
A floor of dried and hard beaten clay, a low roof with all the rafters shown, walls covered with mere whitewash, an unpolished oaken table, and seats of wood, did not make the room seem less bright and sweet to Chartley when Iola was there. She herself was dressed as a mere cottage girl, and doubtless, when the mantle and hood, then worn in the middle and lower ranks of life, were added, an unobserving eye might hardly have recognized her; but she did not look less lovely to the eyes of him who sat beside her.
They were sweet, sweet moments which those two passed together; and, perchance, it were hardly fair to tell all that they said and did. Iola owned that it was sweet to see him once again, after so long a separation and so much anxiety and care; but yet she told him earnestly that he must not come again.
"A few days now," she said, "must determine everything. There are rumours busy in the land, Chartley, and which reach even my ears, that there will be a fresh struggle for the throne. Let us not call the eyes of the watchful king upon us, nor by any rash act run the risk of falling into his power. I am told that he has spies in every direction--even here; and I feel by no means sure that he has not discovered more than we could wish. But one thing is certain, that, if we wait till he finds himself assailed upon the throne, the hurry and confusion which must prevail will give us opportunities which we do not now possess. Then, Chartley, I will redeem my plighted word to you, and, whenever I know the moment, will let you hear, and stake the happiness of my life upon your faith and truth. But, even then, I must make some conditions."
Chartley mused; and Iola thought it was the word "conditions" which surprised and made him thoughtful; but it was not so.
"These reasonings on the passing events must have been prompted to her," he thought. "They are not those of Iola herself."
She went on, however, under the impression I have stated, and that in a gayer tone, because she thought the stipulations she was going to make were not likely to be refused.
"My conditions are very hard ones," she said, "and may well plunge you in a reverie, noble lord. They are that, when I am your wife, I may be never asked, why I go not to confession--"
She looked up in his face with a smile, and added:
"The truth is, I have so many and such heinous sins, that I fear to confess to the priest, lest I should not be able, or willing, to perform the penance."
Chartley laughed, saying: "You shall confess them all to me, dear one; and I shall only thank Heaven that the secrets of your heart are told to none but your husband and your God."
"Oh, you are a heretic, Chartley!" cried Iola, with a gay and meaning look in his face. "So men would think you, at least, if they heard such words. Perhaps I may think differently. Moreover, you shall not call me to account if I neglect some other ceremonial parts of what we are taught to believe religious duties."
Now she looked somewhat timidly at him, as if she did not know how far she could venture to go; and Chartley's face had certainly become graver than she had ever seen it. He pressed her hand tenderly between his own, however, and said, "Dear Iola, I will covenant generally with you, in no degree to meddle with such things. Your words may surprise me and take me unaware; but this I promise, that I will interfere in nought which concerns your religious belief; for I think I understand you, though how all this has come about I cannot, and do not, divine. One thing, however, my Iola, may be decided upon between us at once. If you are searching for truth, let me search with you. Let our minds be bent together to the same great object; but, at the same time, for our own sakes, and each for the sake of the other, let us be careful in all these matters; for I have already arrived at this conclusion, that those who rule in every spiritual matter would shut out light from us, and bar the way with the faggot, and the cord, and the sword, against all who do seek for truth."
A look of bright, almost angelic, joy had come upon Iola's countenance as he spoke; and she answered in a low but solemn tone:
"I have found it, Chartley--that truth which you mention."
"Where?" asked Chartley, eagerly.
"I will show you," she replied, "when, with my husband by my side, I can pour out to him, pledged and plighted to me for ever, all the thoughts of a heart which shall never be opened to any other mortal being. Your words, Chartley, have been to me a blessing and an assurance. Oh, God, I thank thee. My last fear and doubt are removed! Now let us talk of other things; for you must go indeed. Tell me where you will fix your abode for the next few days. Then I shall not need to watch you; for I have been obliged to place spies upon you, in order to know where to find you in case of need."
"I will fix my quarters at Atherston," answered Chartley. "But are you a little queen, that you have spies at will, and messengers over all the land, with castle gates flying open before you, and means of travelling invisible to human eyes. How was it, in Heaven's name, you escaped from Chidlow castle; for I have heard nothing more than the mere assurance which you sent Constance the day after, that you were in safety."
"I must not tell you all," answered Iola, gravely, "at least, not yet, Chartley; but this much I may say, though it will sound very strange to your ears, that there are many, very many--ay, thousands upon thousands--of people in this land, all linked together by ties the most sacred, who have been forced, by long and bitter persecutions, to establish means of communicating with each other, and of aiding and assisting each other in time of need. They are to be found in the courts of princes, in the mart, the church, and the camp; but they are known only to each other, and not always even that. They are innocent of all offence, peaceable, blameless; yet, if they be discovered, death is the punishment for the mere thoughts of the mind. I tell you they are many, Chartley. They are increasing daily, in silence and in secret; but the time will come, and that ere long, when their voice will be heard, aloud and strong; and no man shall dare to bid it cease. To them I owe much help. But now indeed we must part."
The parting lasted well nigh as long as the interview; and, though it had its pain, yet Chartley went with a happier heart, and with hope and expectation once more burning as bright as ever.