



Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by
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Transcriber's Notes:
     1. Page scan source:
        https://books.google.com/books?id=PfdLAAAAcAAJ
        (the Bavarian State Library)
     2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].







THE WOODMAN;



A ROMANCE

OF

THE TIMES OF RICHARD III.





BY G. P. R. JAMES.



AUTHOR OF "DARNLEY," "THE SMUGGLER," "THE CONVICT," "MARGARET GRAHAM,"
"THE FORGERY," ETC.









PARIS,

A. AND W. GALIGNANI AND Co.,  BAUDRY'S EUROPEAN LIBRARY,

RUE VIVIENNE, No. 18.         QUAI MALAQUAIS, No. 3.


1849













THE WOODMAN;

A ROMANCE OF THE TIMES OF RICHARD III.

BY G. P. R. JAMES.




CHAPTER I.


Of all the hard-working people on the earth, there are none so
serviceable to her neighbours as the moon. She lights lovers and
thieves. She keeps watch-dogs waking. She is a constant resource to
poets and romance-writers. She helps the compounders of almanacks
amazingly. She has something to do with the weather, and the tides,
and the harvest; and in short she has a finger in every man's pie, and
probably more or less effect upon every man's brain. She is a charming
creature in all her variations. Her versatility is not the offspring
of caprice; and she is constant in the midst of every change.

I will have a moon, say what you will, my dear Prebend; and she shall
more or less rule every page of this book.

There was a sloping piece of ground looking to the south east, with a
very small narrow rivulet running at the bottom. On the opposite side
of the stream was another <DW72>, as like the former as possible, only
looking in the opposite direction. Titian, and Vandyke, and some other
painters, have pleased themselves with depicting, in one picture, the
same face in two or three positions; and these two <DW72>s looked
exactly like the two profiles of one countenance. Each had its little
clumps of trees scattered about. Each had here and there a hedgerow,
somewhat broken and dilapidated; and each too had towards its northern
extremity a low chalky bank, through which the stream seemed to have
forced itself, in those good old times when rivers first began to go
on pilgrimages towards the sea, and, like many other pilgrims that we
wot of made their way through all obstacles in a very unceremonious
manner.

Over these two <DW72>s about the hour of half past eleven, post
meridian, the moon was shining with a bright but fitful sort of
splendour; for ever and anon a light fleecy cloud, like a piece of
swansdown borne by the wind, would dim the brightness of her rays, and
cast a passing shadow on the scene below. Half an hour before, indeed,
the radiant face of night's sweet queen had been veiled by a blacker
curtain, which had gathered thick over the sky at the sun's decline;
but, as the moon rose high, those dark vapours became mottled with
wavy lines of white, and gradually her beams seemed to drink them up.

It may be asked if those two sloping meadows, with their clumps of
trees, and broken hedgerows, and the little stream flowing on between
them, was all that the moonlight showed? That would depend upon where
the eye of the observer was placed. Near the lower part of the valley,
formed by the inclination of the land, nothing else could be
perceived; but walk half way up towards the top, on either side, and
the scene was very much altered. Gradually rising, as the eye rose,
appeared, stretching out beyond the chalky banks to the north, through
which the rivulet came on, a large-grey indistinct mass stretching all
along from east to west, the rounded lines of which, together with
some misty gaps, taking a blueish white tint in the moonlight, showed
it to be some ancient forest, lying at the distance probably of two or
three miles from the spot first mentioned.

But there were other objects displayed by the moonlight; for as those
soft clouds, sweeping rapidly past, varied her light, and cast bright
gleams or grey shadows on the ground, every here and there, especially
on the south western <DW72>, a brilliant spot would sparkle forth,
flashing back the rays; and a nearer look showed naked swords, and
breast-plates, and casques, while every now and then, under the
increasing light, that which seemed a hillock took the form of a horse
or of a human being, lying quietly on the green turf, or cast
motionless down beneath a hedge or an old hawthorn tree.

Were they sleeping there in that dewy night? Ay, sleeping that sleep
which fears not the blast, nor the tempest nor the dew, which the
thunder cannot break, and from which no trumpet but one shall ever
rouse the sleeper.

From sunset till that hour, no living thing, unless it were fox or
wolf, had moved upon the scene. The battle was over, the pursuers
recalled, the wounded removed; the burial of the dead, if it was to be
cared for at all, postponed till another day; and all the fierce and
base passions which are called forth by civil contest had lain down to
sleep before the hour of which I speak. Even the human vulture, which
follows on the track of warring armies to feed upon the spoils of the
dead, had gorged itself upon that field, and left the rich arms and
housings to be carried away on the morning following.

The fiercer and the baser passions, I have said, now slept; but there
were tenderer affections which woke, and through that solemn and sad
scene, with no light but that of the moon, with no sound but that of
the sighing wind, some four or five persons were seen wandering about,
half an hour before midnight. Often, as they went, they bent down at
this spot or at that, and gazed at some object on the ground.
Sometimes one of them would kneel, and twice they turned over a dead
body which had fallen with the face downwards. For more than an hour
they went on, pausing at times to speak to each other, and then
resuming their examination--I know not whether to call it search; for
certainly they seemed to find nothing if they did search, although
they left hardly a square yard of the whole field unexplored.

It was nearly one o'clock on the following morning, when with slow
steps they took their way over the rise; and the next moment the sound
of horses' feet going at a quick pace broke the silence. That sound,
in the absence of every other noise, might be heard for nearly ten
minutes; and then all was stillness and solitude once more.




CHAPTER II.


Years had passed, long years, since the little scene took place which
I have described in the preceding chapter. The heads were grey which
were then proud of the glossy locks of youth. Middle life was
approaching old age; and children had become men.

It was evening. The sun had gone down some two hours before; and the
lights were lighted in a large comfortable well-furnished room. The
ceilings were vaulted. The doorways and the two windows were richly
decorated with innumerable mouldings; and the discoloured stone work
around them, the clustered pillars at the sides, the mullions which
divided the windows, and the broad pointed arches above, spoke that
style of architecture known as the early English. The tables, the
chairs, the cupboard at the side, were all of old oak, deep in colour
and rich in ornament. The floor was covered with rushes, over which,
in the centre, was spread a piece of tapestry; and the stone work of
the walls between the pillars was hidden by tapestry likewise, on one
side representing the siege of Troy, on the other the history of David
and Goliath, and on a third the loves of Mars and Venus, which, though
somewhat too luscious for our irritable imaginations, did not in those
days at all shock the chaste inhabitants of a nunnery. The fourth side
of the room was untapestried, for there spread the immense, wide, open
chimney, with a pile of blazing logs on the hearth, and, in the open
space above the arch, a very early painting of the Madonna and child,
with gilt glories around the heads of both, and the meek eyes of the
virgin fixed upon the somewhat profuse charms of the goddess of love
on the other side.

This is description enough. The reader can easily conceive the parlour
of an abbess towards the end of the fifteenth century, the
heterogeneous contents of which would be somewhat tedious to detail.

Let no one, however, form a false idea of the poor abbess of
Atherston, from the admission into her own private chamber of such
very ungodly personages as Mars and Venus. She had found them there
when she became abbess of the convent, and looked upon them and their
loves as upon any other piece of needlework. Nay, more, had it ever
occurred to her that there was anything improper in having them there,
she would probably have removed them, though to get a more decent
piece of tapestry might have cost her four or five marks. Not that she
was at all stiff, rigid, and severe, for she was the merriest little
abbess in the world; but she combined with great gaiety of heart an
infinite deal of innocence and simplicity, which were perfectly
compatible with some shrewdness and good sense. Shut up in a convent
at a very early period, exposed to none of the vicissitudes of life,
and untaught the corrupting lessons of the world, her cheerfulness had
been economised, her simplicity unimpaired, and her natural keenness
of intellect unblunted, though there might be here and there a spot of
rust upon the blade. It was without her own consent she had gone into
a convent, but neither with nor against her wishes. She had been quite
indifferent; and, never having had any means of judging of other
states of life, she was not discontented with her lot, and rather
pitied than otherwise those who were forced to dwell in a world of
which she knew nothing.

As piety however had nothing to do with her profession, and
mortification had never entered into her catalogue of duties, she saw
no sin and could conceive no evil in making herself as comfortable and
happy as she could. Her predecessor indeed had done a little more, and
had not altogether escaped scandal; but our abbess was of a very
different character, performed her ceremonial duties accurately,
abstained from everything that she knew or thought to be wrong, and
while exacting a fulfilment of all prescribed duties from her nuns,
endeavoured to make their seclusion pleasant, by unvarying gentleness,
kindness, and cheerfulness. If she had a fault, perhaps it was a too
great love for the good things of this life. She was exceedingly fond
of trout, and did not altogether dislike a moderate portion of Gascon
wine, especially when it was of a very superior quality. Venison she
could eat; and a well-fed partridge was not unacceptable--though
methinks she might have spared it from its great resemblance to
herself. All these things, and a great number of other dainties,
however, were plentifully supplied by the lands of the convent, which
were ample, and by the stream which flowed near at hand, or by the
large fish-ponds, three in number, which lay upon the common above.
Indeed so abundant was the provision for a fast day, that the abbess
and the nuns looked forward to it, as it came on in the week, with
great satisfaction, from its affording them excuse for eating more
fish than usual. Not that they fared ill on the other days of the
week; for, as far as forest and lea would go, they were well provided.

To a contented spirit all things are bright; and the good abbess could
have been satisfied with much less than she possessed; so I suppose
whatever little superabundance existed went to make the heart merry
and the tongue glib; and there she sat with her feet on a footstool,
sufficiently near the fire to be somewhat over warm, but yet hardly
near enough for that delicious tingling sensation, which the blaze of
good dry wood produces till we hardly know whether it is pleasant or
painful. In her hand there was a book--a real printed book, rare in
those days, and which might well be looked upon as a treasure. As she
read, she commented to two young girls who sat near with tall frames
before them, running the industrious needle in and out.

I have called them young girls, not alone to distinguish them from old
ones--though that might be necessary--but to show that they had barely
reached womanhood. The eldest was hardly nineteen; the other some
fourteen or fifteen months younger. Both were beautiful; and there was
a certain degree of likeness between them, though the face of the
elder had features more clearly, perhaps more beautifully, cut, and an
expression of greater thoughtfulness, perhaps greater vigour of
character. Yet the other was very beautiful too, with that sparkling
variety, that constant play of everchanging expression, which is so
charming. Its very youthfulness was delightful, for a gleam of
childhood lingered still in the look, especially when surprised or
pleased, although the lines of the face and the contour of the form
were womanly--perhaps more so than those of the other.

That they were none of the sisterhood was evident by the mere matter
of their dress, which also indicated that they had not a fixed
intention of ever entering it; for it was altogether worldly in form
and material, and though plain yet rich. Seated there, with a near
relation, their heads were unencumbered with the monstrous
head-dresses of the time, the proportions of which, not very long
before, were so immense as to require doorways to be widened and
lintels raised, in order to let a lady pass in conveniently. Each wore
a light veil, it is true, hanging from the mass of glossy hair behind
the head, and which could be thrown over the face when required; but
it was very different from the veil of the nun or even of the novice.

"Well, my dear children, I do declare," said the elder lady, "this new
invention of printing may be very clever, and I wot it is; but it is
mighty difficult to read when it is done. I could make out plain court
hand a great deal better when written by a good scribe, such as they
used to have at Winchester and Salisbury."

The younger girl looked up, answering with a gay laugh. "The poor
people never pretend to make you read it easily, dear aunt and mother.
All they say is that they can make more copies of a book in a day than
a scribe could make in a year, and that they can let you have for
three or four shillings what would cost you three or four crowns from
a scribe."

"Ay, that's the worst of it all, child," replied the old lady, shaking
her head. "Books will get into the hands of all sorts of common
people, and do a world of mischief, good lack. But it can't be helped,
my children. The world and the devil will have their way; and, even if
there were a law made against any one learning to read or write under
the rank of a lord at least, it would only make others the more eager
to do it. But I do think that this invention ought to be stopped; for
it will do a world of mischief, I am sure."

"I hope not," replied the other young lady; "for by no contrivance can
they ever make books so cheap, that the lower class can read them; and
I know I have often wished I had a book to read when I have had
nothing else to do. It's a great comfort sometimes, my dear aunt,
especially when one is heavy."

"Ay, that it is, child," said the abbess; "I know that right well. I
don't know what I should have done after the battle of Barnet, if it
had not been for poor old Chaucer. My grandfather remembered him very
well, at the court of John of Ghent; and he gave me the merry book,
when I was not much older than you are. Well-a-day, I must read it
again, when you two leave me; for my evenings will be dull enough
without you, children. I would ask sister Bridget to come in of a
night, in the winter, and do her embroidery beside me, only if she
staid for my little private supper, her face would certainly turn the
wine sour."

"But, perhaps we shall not go after all, dear mother," said the
younger lady. "Have you heard anything about it?"

"There now," cried the abbess, laughing, "she's just as wild to get
into the wicked world as a caged bird to break out into the open air."

"To be sure I am," exclaimed the light-hearted girl; "and oh, how I
will use my wings."

The abbess gazed at her with a look of tender, almost melancholy,
interest, and replied:

"There are limed twigs about them, my child. You forget that you are
married."

"No, not married," cried the other, with her face all glowing.
"Contracted, not married--I wish I was, for the thought frightens me,
and then the worst would be over."

"You don't know what you wish," replied the abbess, shaking her head.
"A thousand to one, you would very soon wish to be unmarried again;
but then it would be too late. It is a collar you can't shake off when
you have once put it on; and nobody can tell how much it may pinch one
till it has been tried. I thank my lucky stars that made it convenient
for your good grandfather to put me in here; for whenever I go out
quietly on my little mule, to see after the affairs of the farms, and
perchance to take a sidelong look at our good foresters coursing a
hare, I never can help pitying the two dogs coupled together, and
pulling at the two ends of a band they cannot break, and thanking my
good fortune for not tying me up in a leash with any one."

The two girls laughed gaily; for, to say truth, they had neither of
them any vocation for cloisteral life; but the youngest replied,
following her aunt's figure of speech, "I dare say the dogs are very
like two married people, my aunt and lady mother; but I dare say too,
if you were to ask either of them, whether he would rather go out into
the green fields tied to a companion, or remain shut up in a kennel,
he would hold out his neck for the couples."

"Why, you saucy child, do you call this a kennel?" asked the abbess,
shaking her finger at her good-humouredly. "What will young maids come
to next? But it is as well as it is; since thou art destined for the
world and its vanities, 'tis lucky thou hast a taste for them; and I
trust thy husband--as thou must have one--will not beat thee above
once a-week, and that on the Saturday, to make thee more devout on the
Sunday following. Is he a ferocious-looking man?"

"Lord love thee, my dear aunt," answered the young lady; "I have never
seen him since I was in swaddling clothes."

"And he was in a sorry- pinked doublet, with a gay cloak on
his shoulders, and a little bonnet on his head no bigger than the palm
of my hand," cried the other young lady. "He could not be ten years
old, and looked like some great man's little page. I remember it quite
well, for I had seen seven years; and I thought it a great shame that
my cousin Iola should have a husband given to her at five, and I none
at seven."

"Given to her!" said the abbess, laughing.

"Well," rejoined the young lady, "I looked upon it as a sort of
doll--a poppet."

"Not far wrong either, my dear," answered the abbess; "only you must
take care how you knock its nose against the floor, or you may find
out where the difference lies."

"Good lack, I have had dolls enough," answered the younger lady, "and
could well spare this other one. But what must be must be; so there is
no use to think of it.--Don't you believe, lady mother," she continued
after a pause, interrupted by a sigh, "that it would be better if they
let people choose husbands and wives for themselves?"

"Good gracious!" cried the abbess, "what is the child thinking of?
Pretty choosing there would be, I dare say. Why lords' daughters would
be taking rosy-cheeked franklins' sons; and barons' heirs would be
marrying milkmaids."

"I don't believe it," said the young lady. "Each would choose, I
think, as they had been brought up; and there would be more chance of
their loving when they did wed."

"Nonsense, nonsense, Iola," cried her aunt. "What do you know about
love--or I either for that matter? Love that comes after marriage is
most likely to last, for, I suppose, like all other sorts of plants,
it only lives a certain time and then dies away; so that if it begins
soon, it ends soon."

"I should like my love to be like one of the trees of the park," said
the young lady, looking down thoughtfully, "growing stronger and
stronger, as it gets older, and outliving myself."

"You must seek for it in fairyland then, my dear," said the abbess.
"You will not find it in this sinful world."

Just as she spoke, the great bell of the abbey, which hung not far
from the window of the abbess's parlour, rang deep and loud; and the
sound, unusual at that hour of the night, made the good old lady
start.

"Virgin mother!" she exclaimed--it was the only little interjection
she allowed herself. "Who can that be coming two hours after curfew?"
and running to the door, with more activity than her plumpness seemed
to promise, she exclaimed, "Sister Magdalen, sister Magdalen, do not
let them open the gate; let them speak through the barred wicket."

"It is only Boyd, the woodman, lady," replied a nun, who was at the
end of a short passage looking out into the court.

"What can he want at this hour?" said the abbess. "Could he not come
before sundown? Well, take him into the parlour by the little door. I
will come to him in a minute;" and returning into her own room again,
the good lady composed herself after her agitation, by a moment's rest
in her great chair; and, after expressing her surprise more than once,
that the woodman should visit the abbey so late, she bade her two
nieces follow her, and passed through a door, different to that by
which she had previously gone out, and walked with stately steps along
a short corridor leading to the public parlour of the abbey.

This was a large and handsome room, lined entirely with beautiful
carved oak, and divided into two, lengthwise, by a screen of open
iron-work painted blue and red, and richly gilt. Visitors on the one
side could see, converse, and even shake hands with those on the
other; but, like the gulf between Abraham and Dives, the iron bars
shut out all farther intercourse. A sconce was lighted on the side of
the nunnery; and when Iola and her cousin Constance followed their
aunt into the room, they beheld, on the other side of the grate, the
form of a tall powerful man, somewhat advanced in life, standing with
his arms crossed upon his broad chest, and looking, to say sooth,
somewhat gloomy. He might indeed, be a little surprised at being
forced to hold communication with the lady abbess through the grate of
the general parlour; for the good lady was by no means so strict in
her notions of conventual decorum, as to exclude him, or any other of
the servants and officers of the abbey, from her presence in the
courtyard or in her own private sitting-room; and perhaps the woodman
might think it did not much matter whether his visit was made by night
or by day.

"Well, John Boyd," said the abbess, "in fortune's name, what brings
you so late at night? Mary mother, I thought it was some of the roving
bands come to try and plunder the abbey again, as they did last
Martinmas twelvemonth; and we cannot expect such a blessed chance
every time, as that good Sir Martin Rideout should be at hand to help
our poor socmen. Had it not been for him, I wot, Peter our bailiff
would have made but a poor hand of defending us."

"And a poor hand he did make," replied the woodman, in a cynical tone;
"for he was nowhere to be found; and I had to pull him out of the
buttery, to head the tenants. But I hear no more of rovers, lady,
unless it be the men at Coleshill, and King Richard's posts, planted
all along the highways, with twenty miles between each two, to look
out for Harry of Richmond."

"Posts!" said the abbess; "posts planted on the highway! What mean you
by posts?"

"Why men on horseback, lady mother," answered the woodman; "with sharp
spurs and strong steeds to bear to Dickon, our king that is, news of
Harry, our king that may be, if he chance to land any where upon the
coast."

"Now Heaven assoil us!" cried the abbess; "what more war, more war?
Will men never be content without deforming God's image in their
fellow creatures, and burning and destroying even the fairest works of
their own hands?"

"I fear not," answered the woodman, twisting round the broad axe that
was hung in his leathern belt. "Great children and small are fond of
bonfires; and nature and the devil between them made man a beast of
prey. As to what brought me hither, madam, it, was to tell you that
the wooden bridge in the forest wants repairing sadly. It would hardly
bear up your mule, lady, with nothing but yourself and your hawk upon
its back; much less a war-horse with a rider armed at point. As for my
coming so late, I have been as far as Tamworth this morning, to sell
the bavins, and didn't get back till after dark. So marking the bridge
by the way, and thinking it would be better to begin on it early in
the morning, I made bold to come up at night for fear anyone, riding
along to church or market or otherwise, should find their way into the
river, and say the abbess ought to mend her ways;" and he laughed at
his own joke.

While he had been speaking, both the young ladies, though he was no
stranger to them, had been gazing at him with considerable attention.
He was, as I have said before, a tall and still very powerful man,
although he seemed to have passed the age of fifty years. His
shoulders were very broad, his arms long and muscular; but his body
was small in proportion to the limbs, and the head in proportion to
the height of the whole figure. His forehead was exceedingly broad and
high, however; the crown of his head quite bald, with large masses of
curling hair falling round his temples and on his neck. What his
complexion originally had been, could not be discovered; for the
whiteness of his hair and eye-brows and the sun-burnt weather-beaten
hue of his skin afforded no indication. His teeth, however, were still
good, his eyes large and bright, and the features fine, although the
wide forehead was seamed with deep furrows, giving, apart from the
rest of his appearance, a look of much greater age than that at which
he had really arrived.

His dress was the ordinary woodman's garb of the time, which is well
known to almost every one. There was the thick stiff leathern coat,
which no broken branch or rugged thorn could pierce, the breeches of
untanned hide, and the hoots of strong black leather, reaching above
the knee. Round his waist, over his coat, he wore a broad belt,
fastened by a brass buckle in front, and in it were stuck the
implements of his craft, namely, a broad axe, which required no
ordinary power of limb to wield, with the head uppermost, thrust under
his left arm like a sword; a large billhook, having a broad stout
piece of iron at the back, which might serve the purposes of a hammer;
and an ordinary woodman's knife, the blade of which was about eighteen
inches in length. His head was on ordinary occasions covered with a
round cloth cap; but this, in reverence of the presence of the lady
abbess, he held by the edge in his hand.

The expression of the good man's countenance, when not particularly
moved, was agreeable enough, though somewhat stern and sad; but when
he laughed, which was by no means unfrequent, although the sound was
loud and hearty, an extraordinary look of bitter mockery hung about
his lip and nostril, taking away all appearance of happiness from his
merriment.

"Well, well, you might mend the bridge without asking me," said the
abbess, in reply to his report. "It is a part of the head woodman's
duty, and the expenses would always be passed. So if you had nothing
more to say than that, you might have chosen another hour, goodman
Boyd."

"Crying your mercy, lady," said the woodman, "I would always rather
deal with you than with your bailiff. When I have orders from you, I
set him at nought. When I do anything of my own hand he is sure to
carp. However I had more to say. We have taken a score of mallards in
the great pond, and a pike of thirty pounds. There are two bitterns
too, three heronshaws, and a pheasant with a back like gold. I had
four dozen of pigeons killed too, out of the colombier in the north
wood; and--"

"Mother Mary, is the man mad?" exclaimed the abbess. "One would think
we were going to have the installation of an archbishop."

"And there are twenty young rabbits, as fat as badgers," continued the
woodman, taking no notice of her interruption. "If I might advise,
lady, you would order some capons to be killed to-night."

The good abbess stood as one quite bewildered, and then burst into a
fit of laughter, saying--

"The man is crazed, I think;" but her eldest niece pulled the sleeve
of her gown, whispering--

"He means something, depend upon it. Perhaps he does not like to speak
before me and Iola."

The abbess paused for an instant as if to consider this suggestion,
and then asked--

"Well, have you anything more to say, goodman?"

"Oh, yes, plenty more," answered the woodman; "when I find a meet
season."

"On my word you seem to have found a fish and fowl season," rejoined
the abbess, playing upon the word _meet_. We must recollect that she
had but little to amuse herself with in her solitude, and therefore
forgive her. She continued, however, in a graver tone: "Is it that you
wish to speak with me alone?"

"Yes, lady," answered the man. "Three pair of ears have generally got
three mouths belonging to them, and that is too many by two."

"Then I'll carry mine out of the way, goodman Boyd," said Iola, giving
him a gay nod, and moving towards the door; "I love not secrets of any
kind. Heaven shield me from having any of my own, for I should never
keep them."

The woodman looked after her with a smile, murmuring in a low voice as
if to himself--

"Yet I think she would keep other people's better than most." Then,
waiting till Constance had followed her cousin from the room, he
continued, speaking to the abbess: "you'll have visitors at the abbey,
lady, before this time to-morrow night."

"Marry, that is news, goodman," answered the abbess; "and for this
then you have made all this great preparation. It must be an earl, or
duke at least, if not king Richard himself--God save the mark that I
should give the name of king to one of his kindred. Methinks you might
have told me this without such secrecy. Who may these visitors be?"

"They are very simple gentlemen, my lady," answered the woodman,
"though well to do in the world. First and foremost, there is the
young Lord Chartley, a young nobleman with as many good points as a
horse-dealer's filly; a baron of the oldest race, a good man at arms.
He can read and write, and thanks God for it, makes verses when he is
in love--which is every day in the week with some one--and, to crown
all, is exceedingly rich as these hard times go."

"You seem to be of his privy chamber, goodman Boyd," said the abbess;
"you deliver him so punctually."

"I deliver him but as his own servants delivered him to me," answered
the woodman. "Tell me, was he not in the battle of Barnet, fighting
for the red rose?" inquired the abbess. "Ay, and sorely wounded there.
He shall be right welcome, if it were but for that."

"Nay, Lord Chartley fought at Barnet," said the woodman; "and if to
fight well and to suffer for the cause of Lancaster merit such high
honour, you might indeed receive him daintily, for he fought till he
was killed there, poor man; but this youth is his nephew, and has had
no occasion to fight in England either, for there have been no battles
since he was a boy. Lancaster he doubtless is in heart, though king
Edward put him into the guardianship of a Yorkist. However, with him
comes Sir Edward Hungerford, who, they tell me, is one of those gay
light-hearted gentlemen, who, born and bred in perilous and changing
times, get to think at last, by seeing all things fall to pieces round
them, that there is nothing real or solid in the world--no, not truth
itself. But let him pass; a little perjury and utter faithlessness, a
ready wit, a bold heart, a reckless love of mischief, a pair of
hanging sleeves that sweeps the ground as he walks along, a coat of
goldsmith's work, and a well-lined purse, have made many a fine
gentleman before him; and I'll warrant he is not worse than the
greater part of his neighbours. Then with these two, there is Sir
Charles Weinants, a right worshipful gentleman also."

"But tell me more of him," said the abbess. "What is he? I have heard
the name before with honourable mention, methinks--Who and what is
he?"

"A lickladle of the court, lady," answered the woodman, "one who rises
high by low ladders--who soars not up at once, either as the eagle or
the lark, but creeps into favour through holes and turnings. He is
marvellously discreet in all his doings, asserts nought boldly, but by
dull insinuation stings an enemy or serves a friend. Oh yes, he has
his friendships too--not much to be relied on, it is true, but still
often useful, so that even good men have need of his agency. All that
he does is done by under-currents, which bear things back to the shore
that seem floating out to sea. Quiet, and calm, and self-possessed, he
is ever ready for the occasion; and with a cheerful spirit, which one
would think the tenant of an upright heart, he wins his way silently,
and possesses great men's ears, who little know that their favour is
disposed of at another's will. He is an old man now; but I remember
him when I was a boy at St. Alban's. He was then in much grace with
the great Lord Clifford, who brought him to the notice of king Henry.
He has since lived, as much in favour, with Edwards and Richards and
Buckinghams, and is now a strong Yorkist. What he will die, Heaven and
time will show us."

"Goodlack, that there should be such things in the world!" exclaimed
the abbess; "but what brings all these people here? I know none of
them; and if they come but to visit the shrine, I have no need to
entertain them, nor you to make a mystery of their visit. I hate
mysteries, my good son, ever since I read about that word being
written on the forehead of the poor sinner of Babylon."

The woodman laughed irreverently, but answered, "I want to make no
mystery with you, lady. These men bring a great train with them; and
in their train there is a reverend friar, with frock, and cowl, and
sandaled feet; but methinks I have seen a mitre on his shaven crown,
though neither mitre nor cowl would save him from the axe, I wot, if
good king Richard got his hands upon him. What he comes for--why he
comes, I cannot tell you; for I only heard that their steps tended
hitherward, and the lackeys counted on drinking deep of the abbey ale.
But when that friar is beneath your roof, you will have a man beside
you, whose life is in much peril for stout adherence to the cause of
Lancaster."

"Then he shall have shelter and protection here," said the abbess
boldly. "This is sanctuary, and I will not believe that Richard
himself--bad and daring as he is--would venture to violate the
church's rights."

"Richard has two weapons, madam," answered the woodman, "and both
equally keen, his sword and his cunning; and take my word for it, what
he desires to do that he will do--ay, even to the violation of
sanctuary, though perhaps it may not be with his own hand or in his
own name. You have had one visit from a roving band who cared little
about holy church; and you may have another, made up of very different
men, with whom the king might deal tenderly if they did him good
service."

"Then we will call in the tenants," said the abbess, "and defend our
rights and privileges."

"The tenants might be outnumbered," said the woodman, shaking his
head. "There are many men straying about here, who would soon band
together at the thought of stripping the shrine of St. Clare;
especially if they had royal warranty for their necks' safety, and the
promise of farther reward, besides all their hands helped them to."

"Then what is to be done?" exclaimed the abbess, in some
consternation. "I cannot and I will not refuse refuge to a consecrated
bishop, and one who has suffered persecution for the sake of his
rightful race of kings."

"Nay, Heaven forbid," replied the woodman warmly; "but if you will
take a simple man's advice, lady, methinks I could show you a way to
save the bishop, and the abbey, and the ornaments of the shrine too."

"Speak, speak," exclaimed the abbess eagerly. "Your advice is always
shrewd, goodman Boyd. What way would you have me take?"

"Should you ever have in sanctuary," answered the woodman, "a man so
hated by the king that you may expect rash acts committed to seize
him, and you find yourself suddenly attacked by a band that you cannot
resist, send your sanctuary man to me by some one who knows all the
ways well, and I will provide for his safety where they will never
find him. Then, be you prepared for resistance, but resist not if you
can help it. Parley with the good folks, and say that you know well
they would not come for the mere plunder of a consecrated place, that
you are sure they have come seeking a man impeached of high treason
who lately visited the abbey. Assure them that you sent him away,
which you then may well do in all truth, and offer to give admission
to any three or four to search for him at their will. Methinks, if
they are privately set on by higher powers, they will not venture to
do anything violent, when they are certain that success will not
procure pardon for the act."

The abbess mused and seemed to hesitate; and, after a short pause, the
woodman added, "Take my advice, lady. I do not speak without
knowledge. Many a stray bit of news gets into the forest by one way or
another that is never uttered in the town. Now, a messenger stops to
talk with the woodman, and, overburdened with the secret, pours part
of it out, where he thinks it can never rise in judgment against him.
Then, a traveller asks his way, and gossips with his guide as he walks
along to put him in the right road. Every carter, who comes in for his
load of wood, brings some intelligence from the town. I am rightly
informed, lady, depend upon it."

"It is not that; it is not that," said the abbess, somewhat peevishly.
"I was thinking whom I could send and how. If they surround the abbey
altogether, how could I get him out?"

"There is the underground way to the cell of St. Magdalen," said the
woodman. "To surround the abbey, they would have to bring their men in
amongst the houses of the hamlet, and the cell is far beyond that."

"True, but no one knows that way," said the abbess, "but you, and I,
and sister Bridget. I could trust her well enough, cross and
ill-tempered as she is; but then she has never stirred beyond the
abbey walls for these ten years, so that she knows not the way from
the cell to your cottage. I trust she knows the way to heaven better;"
and the abbess laughed.

"'Twere easy to instruct some one else in the way to the cell," said
the woodman. "The passage is plain enough when the stone door is
open."

"Ay, doubtless, doubtless," continued the abbess; "but you forget, my
good friend, that it is against our law to tell the secret way out to
any of the sisterhood, except the superior and the oldest nun. Mary
mother, I know not why the rule was made; but it has been so, ever
since bishop Godshaw's visitation in 1361."

"I suppose he found the young sisters fond of tripping in the green
wood with the fairies of nights," answered the woodman, with one of
his short laughs; "but however, you are not forbidden to tell those
who are not of the sisterhood; otherwise, lady, you would not have
told me."

"Nay, that does not follow," rejoined the abbess. "The head woodman
always knows, as the cell is under his charge and care, ever since the
poor hermit died. However, I do not recollect having vowed not to tell
the secret to any secular persons. The promise was only as to the
sisters--but whom could I send?

"Iola? Nay, nay, that cannot be," said the abbess. "She is not of a
station to go wandering about at night, guiding strangers through a
wild wood. She is my niece, and an earl's daughter."

"Higher folks than she have done as much," answered the woodman; "but
I did not think that the abbess of Atherston St. Clare would have
refused even her niece's help, to Morton, bishop of Ely."

"The bishop of Ely!" cried the abbess. "Refuse him help? No, no, Boyd.
If it were my daughter or my sister, if it cost me life, or limb, or
fortune, he should have help in time of need. I have not seen him now
these twelve years; but he shall find I do not forget--Say no more,
goodman, say no more. I will send my niece, and proud may she be of
the task."

"I thought it would be so, lady," answered the woodman; "but still one
word more. It were as well that you told the good lord bishop of his
danger, as soon as you can have private speech with him, and then take
the first hour after sundown to get him quietly away out of the abbey,
for to speak truth I much doubt the good faith of that Sir Charles
Weinants--I know not what he does with men of Lancaster--unless he
thinks, indeed, the tide is turning in favour of that house from which
it has ebbed away so long."

Although they had said all they really had to say, yet the abbess and
the woodman carried on their conversation during some ten minutes or
quarter of an hour more, before they parted; and then the excellent
lady retired to her own little comfortable room again, murmuring to
herself: "He is a wise man, that John Boyd--rude as a bear sometimes;
but he has got a wit! I think those woodmen are always shrewd. They
harbour amongst the green leaves, and look at all that goes on in the
world as mere spectators, till they learn to judge better of all the
games that are playing than those who take part therein. They can look
out, and see, and meddle as little as we do, while we are shut out
from sight, as well as from activity."




CHAPTER III.


Under some circumstances, and upon some conditions, there are few
things fairer on this earth than a walk through a wild forest by
moonlight. It must not be, however, one of those deep unbroken
primeval forests, which are found in many parts of the new world,
where the wilderness of trees rises up, like a black curtain, on every
side, shutting out the view, and almost excluding the light of day
from the face of the earth. But a forest in old England, at the period
of which I speak, was a very different thing. Tall trees there were,
and many, and in some places they were crowded close together; but in
others the busy woodman's axe, and the more silent but more incessant
strokes of time, had opened out wide tracts, where nothing was to be
seen but short brushwood, stunted oak, beech tree and ash, rising up
in place of the forest monarchs long passed away, like the pigmy
efforts of modern races appearing amidst the ruins of those gigantic
empires, which have left memorials that still defy the power of time.
Indeed, I never behold a wide extent of old forest land, covered with
shrubby wood, with here and there a half-decayed trunk rising grandly
above the rest, without imagination flying far away to those lands of
marvel, where the wonders of the world arose and perished--the land of
the Pharaohs, of the Assyrians, and of the Medes; ay, and of the
Romans too--those lands in which the power and genius of the only
mighty European empire displayed themselves more wonderfully than even
in the imperial city, the land of Bolbec and Palmyra. The Arab's hut,
built amongst the ruins of the temple of the sun, is a fit type of
modern man, contrasted with the races that have passed. True, the
Roman empire was destroyed by the very tribes from which we spring;
but it was merely the dead carcase of the Behemoth eaten up by ants.

Be all that as it may, an English forest scene is very beautiful by
moonlight, and especially when the air has been cleared by a light
frost, as was the case when the woodman took his way back towards his
cottage, after his visit to the abbey. The road was broad and
open--one of the highroads of the country, indeed--sandy enough, in
all conscience, and not so smooth as it might have been; but still it
served its purpose; and people in those days called it a good road.
Here, an old oak eighteen or twenty feet in girth, which might have
seen the noble ill-fated Harold, stretched its long limbs across the
turfy waste ground at its feet, and over the yellow track of the road
beaten by horses' feet. In other places the eye might wander far over
a wide scantily-covered track of ground, with here and there a tall
tree starting up and casting its broad shadow upon the white and
glistening expanse of bushes below. A vague sort of mysterious
uncertainty hung about the dells and dingles of the wood,
notwithstanding the brightness of the moonlight; and a faint blueish
mist prevented the eye from penetrating into the deeper valleys, and
searching their profundity. To the left, the ground sloped away with a
gentle descent. To the right, it rose somewhat more abruptly; and,
peeping over the leafless trees in the latter direction, appeared here
and there a square wall and tower, cutting sharp and defined upon the
rounded forms of the forest. Above all stretched out the wide deep
sky, with the moon nearly at the full, flooding the zenith with light,
while to, the north and west shone out many bright and twinkling
stars, not yet hidden by the beams of earth's bright satellite.

With a slow and a firm step, the woodman trudged upon his way, pausing
every now and then to gaze around him, more, apparently, as a matter
of habit than with any purpose; for he seemed full of busy thoughts;
and even when he stopped and let his eye roam around, it is probable
that his mind was on other things, once or twice, murmuring a few
words to himself, which had certainly no reference to the scene. "Ah,
Mary, Mary," he said, and then added: "Alas! Alas!"

There was something deeply melancholy in his tone. The words were
spoken low and softly; and a sigh followed them, the echo of memory to
the voice of joys passed.

Onward he walked again, the road somewhat narrowing as he proceeded,
till at length the tall trees, pressing forward on either side, shut
out the light of the moon, except where, here and there, the rays
stole through the leafless branches and chequered the frosty turf.

As he was passing through one of the darkest parts of the wood,
keeping a good deal to the left of the road, the sound of a horse's
feet was heard coming fast down from the top of the hill. Without
change of pace or look, however, the stout woodman walked on, seeming
to pay little attention to the measured beating of the ground by the
strong hoofs, as they came on at a quick trot. Nearer and nearer,
however, they approached, till at length they suddenly stopped, just
as the horse and rider were passing the man on foot, and a voice
exclaimed, "Who goes there?"

"A friend," replied the woodman. "You must have sharp eyes, whoever
you be."

"Sharp eyes and sharp ears too," replied the horseman. "Stand out, and
tell us who you are, creeping along there under the boughs."

"Creeping along!" answered the woodman, advancing into the more open
road and placing himself in front of the rider. "I will soon tell you
who I am, and show you who I am too, master, when I know who it is
that asks the question. Since it comes to that, I bid you stand and
tell me who you are who ride the wood so late. You are none of King
Richard's posts, or you would know me;" and, at the same time, he laid
his hand upon the man's bridle.

"You are a liar," replied the horseman, "for I am one of King
Richard's posts, coming from Scotland, with news of moment, and
letters from the princess countess of Arran. Let go my bridle then,
and say who and what you are, or, by the Lord, I'll drub you in such a
way as you have seldom been drubbed before."

"Ha! Say you so?" cried the woodman, still retaining his hold of the
bridle. "I must have more satisfactory knowledge of you, ere I let you
pass; and, as for drubbing me, methinks with a green willow and a yard
or two of rope, I'd give thee that which thou hast not tasted since
thou wert a boy."

"So, so," said the man, "thou art a robber, doubtless. These woods are
full of them, they say; but thou shalt find me a tougher morsel than
often falls within thy teeth. Take that for thy pains."

As he spoke, he suddenly drew his sword from the sheath, and aimed a
rapid and furious stroke at the woodman's head. His adversary,
however, was wary; and, springing on one side, he escaped the descent
of the blade. The other instantly spurred his horse forward; but,
before he could pass, the woodman had pulled his axe from his belt,
and, with a full sweep of his arm, struck a blow at the back of the
horseman's head, which cast him at once out of the saddle. It was the
back of the axe which he used, and not the sharp side; but the effect
seemed equally fatal, for the man neither moved nor spoke, and his
horse, freed from the pressure of the rein, dashed down the lane for
some way, then stopped, paused for a moment, and trotted quietly back
again.

In the meantime, the woodman approached the prostrate body of the
messenger, murmuring to himself, "Ah, caitiff, I know thee, though
thou hast forgotten me. Thou pitiful servant of treachery and
ingratitude, thou hireling serviceable knave, I would not have hurt
thee, even for thy master's sake, hadst thou not assailed me
first--Methinks he is dead," he continued, stirring the body with his
foot. "I hit thee harder than I thought; but it is well as it is. Thy
death could not come from a fitter hand than mine, were it not the
hangman's--I will see what thou hast about thee, however; for there
may be news of value indeed, if for once in thy life thou hast found a
tongue to speak truth with. But I will not believe it. The news was
too sure, the tale too sad to be false."

He stood a moment or two by the corpse, gazing upon it in silence, but
without the slightest sign of sorrow or remorse. Those were bloody and
barbarous times, it is true, when men slew each other in cold blood
after battles were over, when brother spared not brother, and the
companions of infancy and boyhood dyed their daggers in each other's
gore. Human life, as in all barbarous states of society, was held as
nought; and men hesitated as little to spill the blood of a fellow
creature as to spill their own. But yet it must surely always be a
terrible thing to take a life, to extinguish that light which we can
never reillume, to fix the fatal barrier which renders every foolish
and every dark act, every sin and every crime, irretrievable, to leave
no chance of penitence, no hope of repentance, and to send the erring
and burdened spirit into the presence of its God without one dark
record against it uncancelled. Heavy must be the offence indeed, and
deep the injury, which leaves no sorrow in the heart of the slayer.

None seemed to be felt by the woodman. He stood and gazed, as I have
said, for a moment; but it was--as he had gazed over the prospect
below--without a change of countenance; and then he stooped down and
with calm and patient investigation searched every part of the dead
man's apparel. He found, amongst other things, a purse well supplied
with gold, at least so its weight seemed to indicate; but that he put
back again at once. He found some papers too, and those he kept; but,
not satisfied with that, after some trouble he caught the horse,
examined the saddle, unloosed the girths, and between the saddle cloth
and the leather found a secret pocket from which he took more papers.
These too he kept, and put them in his wallet. Everything else, such
as trinkets, of which there were one or two, a pouncet-box, some large
curiously-shaped keys and other trifles, he carefully replaced where
he had found them. Then, taking up the dead man's hand, he raised it
and let it fall, as if to make sure that life was extinct; and then
once more he addressed the corpse, saying--

"Ay, thou art dead enough! I could find in my heart to spurn thee even
now--but no, no. It is but the clay. The demon is departed," and
picking up his axe, which he had laid down for a moment, he carefully
replaced the saddle on the horse's back, fastened up the girths, and
cast loose the rein. When this was done he resumed his walk,
proceeding with the same quiet steady pace with which he had been
wending his way towards his cottage, the moment before this adventure
befell him. All remained calm and still on the spot which he had left,
for somewhat more than an hour. The moon reached her highest point,
travelled a little to the westward, and poured her rays under the
branches of the trees where before it had been dark. The dead body
still lay upon the road. The horse remained cropping the forest grass
at the side, occasionally entangling its foot in the bridle, and once
plunging to get free so as to bring itself upon its knees. At the end
of the time I have mentioned, the woodman reappeared, coming down the
hill at the same quiet rate at which he had gone away. When he
approached the place he stopped and looked around; and then, stooping
down by the side of the dead man, he placed some of the papers in the
pocket, saying with a sort of bitter smile, which looked wild and
strange in the moonlight--

"Thy comings and goings are over; but others may carry these at least
to their destination. Oh, thou double-dealing fiend, thou hast died in
the midst of one of thy blackest deeds before it was consummated. The
messenger of the dove, thou wert but the agent of the hawk which was
watching for her as a prey, and would have betrayed her into all the
horrors of faithlessness and guilt. May God pardon thee, bad man
and--"

Again there was the sound of horses' feet coming; but this time it was
mingled with that of voices, talking with loud and somewhat boisterous
merriment.

"Some of the king's runners," said the woodman; and, with a slow step,
he retreated under the trees, and was soon lost to sight amidst the
thick brushwood. The next moment two men might be seen riding down the
hill and laughing as they came.

"'Twill be pleasant tidings to bear," said one to the other; "and my
counsel is, Jago, instead of giving them to the next post, as thy
fool's head would have it, that we turn away through the by-road to
the abbey, and carry our good news ourselves. Why, that Richmond has
put back again to France, is worth fifty broad pieces to each of us."

"But our orders were strict," answered the other; "and we have no
excuse.--But mercy have us! What is here? Some one either drunk or
dead upon the road. There stands his horse too, under that tree."

"Look to your weapon, Jago," replied his companion. "On my life, this
is that fellow Malcolm Bower, who passed us three hours ago, as proud
as a popinjay; and I'll wager a stoup of Canary, that he has met with
robbers in the wood and been murdered."

"Likely, likely," answered the other man, loosening his sword in the
sheath; "but if he have, king Richard will burn the forest down but
he'll find them; for this fellow is a great man with those he serves
now-a-days."

"Here, hold my horse," cried the other. "I'll get down and see;" and,
dismounting, he stooped over the body, and then proceeded to examine
it, commenting in broken sentences, thus--"Ay, it is he, sure enough.
Stay, he can't be murdered, I think, either, for here is his purse in
his pocket, and that well filled--and papers too, and a silver box of
comfits, on my life. Look ye here now, his horse must have thrown him
and broken his neck. No, upon my life, it's his head is broken. Here's
a place at the back of his skull as soft as a Norfolk dumpling. What
shall we do with him?"

A short consultation then ensued, as to how they should dispose of the
dead body, till at length it was agreed that the horse should be
caught, the corpse flung over it, and thus carried to the neighbouring
hamlet. This was effected without much trouble; and the whole scene
became wild, and silent, and solitary once more.




CHAPTER IV.


I must now introduce the reader to a scene then very common in
England, but which would now be sought for in vain--although, to some
of the habits of those times a large class of people have a strong
tendency to return. Round a little village green, having, as usual,
its pond--the merry-making place of ducks and geese--its two or three
clumps of large trees, and its two roads crossing each other in the
middle, were erected several buildings of very different look and
magnitude. Nearly three sides of the green were occupied by mere
hovels or huts, the walls of mud, the roofs rudely thatched, and the
windows of so small a size as to admit very little light into a
dwelling, which, during the working hours of each weary day, saw very
little of its laborious tenants. Amongst these were two larger houses,
built of stone, richly ornamented, though small in size, having glazed
windows, and displaying all the signs and tokens of the ecclesiastical
architecture of the day, though neither of them was a church or
chapel, but simply the dwelling-places of some secular priests, with a
small following of male choristers, who were not permitted to inhabit
any portion of the neighbouring abbey. Along the fourth side of the
green, where the ground rose considerably, extended an enormously high
wall, pierced in the centre with a fine old portal with two
battlemented turrets, one on either side. From the middle of the
green, so high was this wall and portal that nothing could be seen
beyond it. But, from the opposite side, the towers and pinnacles of
the abbey itself peeped up above the inclosure.

If one followed the course of the wall, to the left as one looked
towards the abbey, passing between it and the swine-herd's cottage,
one came to a smaller door--a sort of sally-port, we should have
called it, had the place been a fortress--from which a path wound
away, down into a valley, with a stream flowing through it; and then,
turning sharp to the right at the bottom, the little footway ascended
again towards a deep old wood, on the verge of which appeared a small
Gothic building with a stone cross in front. The distance from the
abbey to St. Magdalen's cell, as it was called, was not in reality
very great in a direct line; but the path wound so much, in order to
avoid a steep rise in the ground and a deep ravine through which in
rainy weather flowed a torrent of water, that its length could not be
less than three quarters of a mile.

The little door in the abbey wall, which I have mentioned, was strong
and well secured, with a loop-hole at each side for archers to shoot
through, in case of need. Over the door, too, was a semicircular
aperture, in which hung an enormously large bell, baptized in former
years, according to the ordinary custom, but which, whatever was the
name it received at its baptism, was known amongst the peasantry as
the "Baby of St. Clare." Now, whether St. Clare, whoever she was, had,
during the time of her mortal life, a baby or none, I cannot pretend
to say; but certain it is, that the good nuns were as angry at the
name which had been bestowed upon the bell, as if the attributing an
infant to their patroness had been a direct insult to each of them
individually.

This bell was used only upon special occasions, the ordinary access to
the abbey being through the great gates; but, if any danger menaced in
the night, if any of the peasantry were taken suddenly ill after
sunset, if any of the huts in the hamlet caught fire--which  was by no
means unusual--or any other business of importance occurred during the
hours of darkness, the good people of the neighbourhood applied to the
Baby of St. Clare, whose loud voice soon brought out one of the
inferior sisters to inquire what was the matter. Passing on from this
doorway, and leaving the path towards St. Magdalene's cell on the
left, one could circle round the whole extent of the walls, which
contained not less than five or six acres of ground. But no other
doorway was to be seen, till the great portal was again reached. The
walls themselves were of exceeding thickness, and had a walk all round
them on a sort of platform at the top. It would have required cannon
indeed to have effected a breach at any point; but, at the same time,
their great extent rendered them indefensible against the means of
escalade, by any force which the good sisters could call to their aid.

Within the great portal was a large open court, flanked on three sides
by habitable buildings. To the right, was what was called the
visitors' lodging, where a very considerable number of persons could
be accommodated, in small rooms very tolerably furnished according to
the mode of the day. There, too, a large dining-hall afforded space
for the entertainment to the many guests who from time to time partook
of the abbey's hospitality. The opposite side was devoted to offices
for the lay sisters and servants of the abbey; and the space in front
of the great gates was occupied by the chapel, into one part of which
the general public was admitted, while the other, separated by a
richly-wrought stone screen, was assigned to the nuns themselves. A
small stone passage closed by an iron gate ran between the offices and
the chapel, and extended, round the back of the former and along the
north-western wall to the little doorway which I have mentioned;
while, on the other hand, an open door and staircase led to the
parlour, which I have mentioned in a preceding chapter, as that in
which friends or relatives might converse with any of the recluses,
through the grate which divided the room into two. Behind the chapel
was another court, cloistered all round, and beyond that the main body
of the building.

All these arrangements would seem to show, and, indeed, such was the
intention, that the sisterhood were cut off from all immediate
communication with the male part of the race; but yet, in truth,
neither the order nor the abbey was a very strict one--so little so
that, twenty or thirty years before, the sisterhood had not altogether
escaped scandal. All occasion for gossiping tongues, however, had been
taken away by the conduct of the existing abbess, whose rule was firm
though mild; but, at the same time, she neither scrupled to indulge
her nuns in all innocent liberty, such as going out once or twice in
the year in parties of six or seven together, nor to use her own
powers of free action in receiving, even in the interior of the
building, during the day time, any of the officers of the abbey,
whether lay or clerical, with whom she might wish to speak, and in
going out mounted on her mule, and accompanied by several attendants,
to inspect the several estates of the foundation, or visit any of the
neighbouring towns. This just medium between extreme severity and
improper license secured her against all evil tongues; and the abbey
was in high repute at the time of which I speak.

About one o'clock, on the day after the woodman's visit, which I have
described, some twenty or thirty people were gathered together on the
green just before the great portal. But this was no well-dressed and
splendid assemblage, no meeting of the high, the rich, and the lordly.
It was a very motley band, in which rags and tatters greatly
predominated. The most aristocratic of the crowd was probably an
itinerant piper, who, with an odd-shaped cap on his head, somewhat
like the foot of an old stocking, but spreading out at the edges in
the fashion of a basin, had a good coarse brown cloth coat on his
back, and hosen on his legs, which, though not new, were not in holes.
He kept his bag tight under his arm, not venturing to regale the
devout ears of the nuns with the sounds of his merry minstrelsy; but
he promised himself and his fellows to cheer their hearts with a tune
after their daily dole had been distributed, to receive which was the
object of their coming.

They were not kept long waiting, indeed; for one of the elder sisters
soon appeared, followed by two stout serving women, dressed in grey
gowns, with white hoods and wimples, each carrying an enormous basket
filled with large hunches of bread and fragments of broken meat. The
contents of these panniers were distributed with great equity, and
savoured with a few words, sometimes of ghostly advice, sometimes of
reproach, and sometimes of consolation.

Thus it was, "There Hodge, take that, and do not grumble another time
as thou didst yesterday. A contented heart makes food wholesome; and
you, Margery Dobson, I do wonder that you do not think it shame to
live upon the abbey dole, with those good stout hands of yours."

"Ah, dear mother," replied the person she addressed, in a whining
tone; "that is always the way. Everything goes by seeming. I vow I am
dropsical all over; and then folks say it is all fat. I could no more
do a day's work like another, than I could take up the abbey tower and
carry it off."

The good sister shook her head, and went on to another, saying--

"Ah! Jackson, if you would but quit your vile drunken ways, you need
never come here for the dole. Two hours' work each day would furnish
you with as much food as you get here in a week. Ah, Janet Martin, my
poor thing," she continued, addressing a woman, who had contrived to
add some little scraps of black to the old gown which she wore, "there
were no need to give you any of the dole, for the lady abbess will
send down to you by and by; but here, as there is plenty for all
to-day, take this for yourself and the babes. I dare say they'll eat
it."

The woman made a melancholy gesture with her head, replying merely--

"They have not tasted a morsel since last night, sister Alice."

"Well, take heart, take heart," answered the nun in a kindly tone.
"You can't tell what may be coming. We are all very sorry for you and
for your poor children; and your good husband who is no more, rest his
soul, has our prayers night and morning."

"Blessings upon you, sister Alice, and upon the house," replied the
poor widow; and the nun turned to the itinerant musician.

"What, Sam the piper come back from Tamworth. I trust, brother, you
remembered all your promises, and did not get drunk at the fair."

"Never was drunk once," replied the piper boldly; but the next moment,
he turned his head partly over his shoulder, and winked shrewdly with
his eye, adding, "The ale was so thin that a butt of it would not have
tipsied a sucking lamb. So I have little credit; for my well-seasoned
staves would have drunk the whole beer in the town without rolling.
But nevertheless, I was moderate, very moderate, and drank with due
discretion--seeing that the liquor was only fit to season sow's meat.
Well, I wot, they got very little grains out of each barrel; and I
hope he that brewed it has had as bad a cholic as I have had ever
since."

"Well, get you each to the buttery, one by one as you are served; and
there you will get a horn of ale which won't give you the cholic,
though it won't make you drunk," said the good sister; and then,
beckoning to the piper, she enquired in an easy tone: "What news was
stirring at Tamworth, Sam Piper? There's always something stirring
there, I think."

"Bless your holy face," answered the piper; "there was little enough
this time. Only, just as the fair was over, some gay nobles came
in--looking for King Richard, I wot; and a gorgeous train they made of
it; but if it was the King they sought, they did not find him, for he
has gone on to Nottingham with his good Queen."

"But who were they? Who were they?" asked the nun, who was not without
her share of that curiosity so common among recluses. "And were they
so very splendid? How many had they in their following?"

"Why, first and foremost, lady," replied the piper, with a tone and
air of secrecy and importance, "there was the young earl of Chartley.
Marry, a gay and handsome gentleman as ever you set eyes on. I saw him
come up to the inn door, and speak to mine host; and every other word
was a jest, I'll warrant. What a wit he has, and how he did run on. It
was nothing but push and thrust, from beginning to end. Then, as for
his dress, it might have suited a prince, full of quaint conceits and
beautiful extravagance. Why his bonnet was cut all round in the
Burgundy fashion, for all the world like the battlements of a castle
made in cloth, and a great white feather lolling down till it touched
his left shoulder."

"Oh, vanity, vanity!" cried the nun. "How these young men do mock
Heaven with their vanities! But what more, good brother?"

"Why then there were the sleeves of his gown," continued the piper;
"what they were intended for I can't tell, unless to blow his nose
with; but they were so long and fell so heavy with the sables that
trimmed them, that I thought every minute the horse would set his feet
on them. But no such thing; and though somewhat dusty he seemed fresh
enough."

"Well, well," said the nun. "Come to the point, and tell us no more
about dress, for I care not for such vanities."

"Good faith, but there were some pieces of it would have made you
care," replied the piper. "However, I do not know what you mean by the
point."

"Who were the other people; for you said there were many?" demanded
the nun sharply.

"So there were, so there were," replied the wandering musician. "There
was Sir Edward Hungerford, a gay gallant of the court, not so handsome
as the other, but as grandly dressed; and then there was Sir Charles
Weinants, a very reverend and courtly gentleman, with comely grey
hair. There--talking of reverencies--there was a godly friar with a
grey gown and shaven crown."

"That speaks well for the young lords," observed the nun. "They cannot
be such idle little-thrifts as you make them out, if they travel
accompanied by a holy man."

"Nay, Heaven forbid that I should make them out idle little-thrifts,"
replied the piper. "I think them serious sober-minded gentlemen; for,
besides the friar, they had with them, I wot, a black slave, that is
to say not quite black, for I have seen blacker, but a tawny Moor,
with silver bracelets on his arms, and a turban on his head."

"How does that show them serious sober-minded gentlemen?" asked the
nun.

"Because I fancy they must have been to the Holy Land to fetch him,"
answered the piper; "but what is more to their credit than all else,
they love minstrels, for the young lord at their head gave me a York
groat, which is more than I had taken in all the fair."

"Minstrels!" cried the nun, with a toss of her head. "Marry! call'st
thou thyself a minstrel, piper?"

But before her companion could reply, three men rode into the little
circle, formed by the houses upon the green, and approached the great
portal of the abbey. One of these, by his dress and appearance, seemed
to be a principal servant in the house of some great man. Another was
an ordinary groom; but the third was altogether of a different
appearance, being a man of almost gigantic stature, dressed in
oriental costume, with which, his brown skin, strongly-marked
features, and large deep black eyes, were in perfect harmony. He wore
a crooked scimitar by his side, a short cane spear was in his hand,
and his seat in the saddle of the beautiful black horse he rode would
have distinguished him at once as the native of another land. He was
magnificently dressed, as was usually the case with the eastern
slaves, of which not a few were to be found in Europe, even at that
time; for although the epidemic madness of the crusades was over, yet
the malady from time to time attacked a number of individuals, and we
find that towards the end of the fifteenth century, between two and
three hundred thousand persons were assembled from different countries
in Rome, with the professed object of making war upon the infidels.
They were without leaders, undertook little, and executed less; but if
one of the noblemen or gentlemen, who set out upon those wild
enterprises, could bring home with him two or three Mahommedan slaves,
he thought he had performed a great feat, and judged himself worthy of
the name of a crusader.

The very approach of a follower of Mahound, however, was an
abomination to the good nun, who had never seen such a thing before;
and, taking a step back at the aspect of the Moor, she crossed herself
devoutly. "Sancta Clara, ora pro nobis," she uttered devoutly, and
seemed to derive both consolation and courage from the ejaculation;
for she maintained her ground, although the Moor rode close up to her
with his companions--nay, she even examined his garb with a critical
eye, and internally pronounced the yellow silk, of which his gabardine
was composed, the most beautiful she had ever seen in her life.

She was not subjected to the shock of any conversation with the
infidel however; for the person who addressed her was the good-looking
elderly man, dressed as one of the principal servants of a high
family. Dismounting from his horse with due decorum, he presented a
letter for the lady abbess, and requested that it might be conveyed to
her immediately, saying, that he would wait there for an answer.

The nun pressed him to enter the court and take some refreshment in
the visitors' lodging, looking askance at the Moor all the time, and
seeming to doubt whether she ought to include him in the invitation.
The steward, or whatever he might be, declined, however, stating that
he must return immediately when he had received an answer, as to
whether the lady abbess would extend her hospitality to his lord; and
the nun, usurping the function of the porteress, carried in the letter
herself. An answer was soon brought, by word of mouth, that the Lord
Chartley and his friends were right welcome; and the servants departed
on the road by which they came. Cooks and scullions were immediately
put in requisition, and all the good things which the woodman had sent
up were speedily being converted into delicate dishes for the table of
the guests.

Such a scene had not been displayed in the kitchen of the abbey since
the visitation of the bishop; but hour after hour passed by without
the arrival of the expected company, till the cooks began to fear that
the supper would be spoilt; and the beggars, who had lingered about
the gate, in the hope of alms, grew weary of waiting, and dropped off
one by one. It was not till the sun had set, and the whole sky was
grey, that a distant trumpet was heard, and the sacristan of the
chapel, from one of the highest towers, perceived a dark and
indistinct mass which might be men and horses coming up the <DW72> of
the hill.




CHAPTER V.


Much did the good nuns wonder, why and wherefore such splendid
preparations had been made by the abbess, for the reception of a young
nobleman and his companions, none of whom, as far as they knew, bore
any prominent part in the state. Had it been a bishop, a mitred abbot,
or even a dean, they could have understood such a magnificent
reception. A duke or a prince would have been worthy of it; but, "Who
was Lord Chartley? What claim had he upon the abbey?"

If they were surprised, however, at that which went on in the
kitchen--and they all found out sooner or later what was taking place
there--previous to the arrival of the guests; if they commented upon
the arrangements made for feasting the number of forty in the
strangers' hall, while the abbess herself with the old prioress, who
was as deaf as a post, proposed to entertain the principal visitors in
a room apart, how much more were they surprised when, on its being
announced that the train was approaching, the lady herself went out
into the court, with her two nieces, and her usual attendants upon
state occasions, and waited nearly opposite the principal door of the
chapel to receive her visitors in form. Much did they remark upon
these facts; and much did they whisper among themselves; but still the
abbess pursued her course, though, it must be confessed, it was with
some degree of perturbation, which was very evident, in a slight
degree of nervousness of manner, and in a variation of colour which
was not common with her.

She was not kept in the court long before the first horseman rode
through the portal; and, without waiting for grooms or horse-boys to
come up, the young Lord Chartley himself sprang to the ground, and
advancing with an easy and graceful air, bonnet in hand, paid his
respects to the superior of the convent. Nay, more, with a gay light
sort of gallantry, fitted perhaps rather for the court than the
cloister, he pressed his lips upon the hand of the abbess, and looked
very much as if he would willingly have made them acquainted with the
cheeks of the two beautiful girls by whom she was accompanied.

"A thousand thanks, dear lady," he said, "for your kindly welcome. Let
me crave pardon for having detained you so long; but some business
stopped us by the way. Let me present to you my friends, Sir Charles
Weinants, a wise and sage negotiator, deep in the secret mysteries of
courts, and most discreet in all his doings--trust him with no
secrets, lady," he added, laughing; "for though he may not betray
them, he will use them as his high policy may dictate. Then here is
Sir Edward Hungerford, the pink of all perfection and the winner of
all hearts, the web of whose courtesy is the most superfine, and who
is very dangerous to all ladies not under vows. Then here again is my
friend, Sir William Arden, whose character you must not take from
himself, whose looks are rougher than his intentions, and his words
harder than his heart."

"And his heart harder than your head, my good lord," said the
gentleman of whom he last spoke, who had just dismounted from his
horse. "Marry! my lady abbess, I only wonder how you let such a
rattle-pated young lordling within your gates. I would not, if I were
you; and were he to ride twenty miles further before he got his supper
it would do him good."

"Not so, I think," said Sir Edward Hungerford. "I never knew any good
come to a man by riding without his supper, especially when he left
bright eyes and beautiful faces behind him;" and, after fixing his
look for a moment upon the abbess herself, he glanced meaningly to the
faces of her two companions.

"Peace, peace, my children," said the elder lady. "I must not let you
forget where you are, and what ears hear you. This is no court, or
hall, or place of light amusement. Cease your fine speeches then, and
remember this is the abbey of Atherston St. Clare."

"Ay, he would soon make it a ribald's den," said Sir William Arden,
bluffly; "but you have forgot the priest, my lord. You should make all
reverend people acquainted with each other."

"True, true!" cried Lord Chartley. "This my dear lady, is a very
reverend friend of mine, called Father William, who has lived long in
foreign lands. Let me recommend him to your especial care and
kindness; for he has but feeble health, and will partake of your
hospitality for the night, while we, I grieve to say, are forced to
ride forward by the moonlight."

He laid strong emphasis on some of his words; and the abbess raised
her eyes to the face of the friar, who was gazing at her with a calm
and steady look. A glance however seemed enough, for she instantly
turned her eyes away again, welcoming the priest in vague and general
terms. She then proceeded to explain to Lord Chartley and his
companions, that, as they had come so late, they must put off their
meal till after compline, which would be in half an hour. The service
in the chapel, she said, at which she invited them all to attend,
would occupy about ten minutes, and in the mean time she gave them
over to the lay officers of the abbey, who would attend to their
comfort and convenience. After compline, she added, she would receive
the gentlemen who had been introduced to her, to sup in the small
parlour, while the rest of the party would be entertained in the hall.

Having given this explanation, she was about to retire; but Lord
Chartley, following her a few steps, said something in a low voice, to
which she replied:--

"Certainly, my son. You will find me at the grate in five minutes.
That passage to the left will lead you."

"There now," exclaimed Sir Edward Hungerford, who had remarked his
companion's proceedings. "Chartley is asking her if she can spare him
one of those two fair girls to solace his moonlight ride to Leicester.
'Tis thus he always forestalls the market. Upon my life he should give
us poor knights a fair chance."

"You would spoil the fairest chance on earth, with your foppery," said
Sir William Arden, a strong-built dark-complexioned man of about
forty. "The bargain is soon struck at all events, for here he comes;"
and the young nobleman, having rejoined the rest, followed some of the
servants of the abbey to the rooms allotted to them, where ewers and
towels were prepared to wash before the evening meal.

A very few minutes afterwards, the young Lord Chartley crossed the
court, and ascended to the grate across the parlour. There was nobody
there; and he looked to the great bell, hesitating whether he should
ring it or not. Before he decided, however, a light appeared on the
other side; and the abbess presented herself, preceded by a nun
bearing a taper, who departed as soon as she had set down the light.
Lord Chartley was not a man to hesitate or stumble at any step he was
inclined to take; but, for an instant, he did hesitate on the present
occasion; and, as the abbess hesitated too, the conversation seemed
not likely to begin very soon.

The silence indeed continued so long, that at length the young lord
began to feel there was something ridiculous in it; and, bursting into
a gay laugh, he said, "Pardon my merriment, lady, for I cannot help
feeling that it is very absurd to stand thinking of what I shall say,
like a school-boy, though the subject I wish to speak upon is a
serious one. I almost hoped that you would have helped me, for I could
not but think that there was a glance of recognition in your eyes,
when I introduced to you one of my companions below."

"Nay, my son," replied the abbess; "it was for you to speak. I could
not tell that you yourself had cognizance of what you were doing."

"Then you did remember him?" exclaimed Lord Chartley. "That is all
well! One part of the difficulty is over, and the greatest. You know
that his liberty, if not his life, is in peril, if he is discovered.
Yet it is needful that he should remain in this neighbourhood for some
days, if possible; and he has directed me to ask if you will give him
protection, and, should need be, concealment, on account of
friendships long ago."

"Tell him, my lord, I would do so at peril of my life," replied the
abbess; "but, at the same time, it is right he should know to what
security he trusts. The walls of the abbey are strong and solid; but,
alas, we have not men enough within call, to defend them in case of
need; and I have been warned that King Richard's people are hunting
for him shrewdly. Should they track him here, they may use force which
I cannot resist."

"Then, dear lady, you will be free from all blame, if you are
compelled to give him up," replied Lord Chartley. "Force cannot be
resisted without force; and no one can be censured for yielding to
necessity, just as a very brave dog may well turn tail at a lion."

"Nay, my good lord, not quite so," replied the abbess. "We poor women
know that wit will often baffle strength; and I think I can provide
for his safety, even should the gates be forced and the abbey
searched. There is a way out, which no one knows nor can discover but
myself and two others. By it I can convey him into the heart of the
wood, where it would take an army, or a pack of hounds, to find him. I
can provide guidance and assistance for him, and I trust that we can
set his persecutors at nought, though there may be some peril and some
anxiety. Pray tell him all this, that he may consider and choose what
he will do."

"Good faith, he has no choice," answered Lord Chartley, "but this, or
to go forward to Leicester, into the very lion's mouth. He is brave
enough in a good cause, as you would see, if you knew amidst what
perils he travels even now."

"Ay, my lord, of that I would fain inquire," replied the nun. "'Tis
needful to be cautious--very cautious--in times and circumstances like
these; and not even to you would I have said aught of my remembrance,
had you not spoken first. Now, tell me, do your companions know aught
of who it is that journeys with them?"

"Not one of them," replied the young lord, "unless it be the subtle
Sir Charles Weinants; and he affects to see nothing. I have some
doubts of him indeed; and if it be as I think, he and the bishop have
been playing a game against each other during our whole journey for
somewhat mighty stakes. If you can but give our friend security for
three days he has won the game."

"God grant it," cried the abbess; "and, with the help of the Blessed
Virgin, I hope we shall succeed; but I much fear, my noble son, that
what we are this day doing may call down upon us the wrath of Richard
of Gloucester."

"I trust not, I trust not, dear lady," replied the young lord. "Were I
and my companions and all our train to stay, it might indeed create
suspicion; but no one will or can know that we leave the good priest
here to-night, so that, if any doubts have arisen, pursuit will follow
us in the first place, rather than turn towards the abbey. This is in
truth the reason why I ride on to-night. I would rather lure enmity
away from you, believe me, than bring it upon you. But, I trust there
is no danger. Everything seemed calm and peaceful, when we left
Tamworth--no men at arms about, no appearance of doubt or suspicion."

"I do not know, my son. I do not know," replied the abbess. "I had
warning of your coming last night. I had warning, too, that danger
might follow."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Lord Chartley, with a look of much surprise. "This
is strange news. May I ask who was your informant?"

"One whom I can trust well," answered the abbess, "though he be a man
of humble station; none other than our chief woodman, John Boyd. By
one means or another, he learns all that takes place in the country
round; and he gave me notice, not only that you were on the way
hither, but that you had one with you to whom I should be called upon
to give refuge, and for whose safety I must provide. It is to this
very man's care and guidance, in case of need, that I must trust the
bishop."

"Hush!" cried Lord Chartley, looking round. "Let us mention no names.
I am called rash and careless, light and over-gay, but, where a
friend's safety is at stake, I must be more thoughtful than I would be
for myself. Pardon me for my asking if you are very sure of this good
man."

The abbess gave him every assurance in her power, bringing forward all
those strong motives for trusting the woodman, which were quite
conclusive in her eyes, as they would indeed have been in the eyes of
most other ladies, but which did not seem to satisfy her young but
more experienced companion. He asked where the woodman lived, and
mused; then enquired how long he had been in the service of the abbey;
and was still putting questions when the bell for compline rang, and
the abbess was forced to retire.

On descending to the court, Lord Chartley found Sir Charles Weinants
and the priest, walking up and down before the chapel, not conversing
together indeed, for the latter seemed somewhat silent and gloomy.
With him the young nobleman much desired to speak; but he thought that
it might be dangerous to connect his conference with the abbess in any
degree with the priest, even by addressing him immediately afterwards;
and therefore, turning at once to Sir Charles Weinants, he exclaimed:
"Now, Weinants, let us into the chapel. It is quite dark; and I am
somewhat eager for our supper, to fortify us against our evening's
ride."

The priest said not a word, but followed the other two as they
advanced towards the place of worship, from which the light of tapers
and the sweet tones of the chant were beginning to pour forth.

"I am hungry too," replied Weinants, "and agree with you, my good
lord, that a good supper is a very necessary preparation for a long
ride. I hope they will sing quick, for by my faith, even from Tamworth
here, I find, has been a good medicine for a slow digestion. You need
not look round for the others. They are all in waiting eagerly for
this grace before meat--except indeed your infidel, who was lolling in
the stable with his arms round his horse's neck. I should not wonder
if the beast were a princess in disguise, changed into that shape by
some friendly magician, in order that she might share his captivity."

"The most probable thing in the world," replied Chartley, "but
undoubtedly, were I in his place, I should prefer my lady mistress
with less hair upon her face; but come, let us cease our jokes; for
here we are; and you will perhaps scandalize our reverend friend
here."

Thus saying, they entered the chapel and placed themselves by one of
the pillars while the service proceeded.

If the ceremonial observances of the Romish church are many, the
services have at all events the advantage of being brief; and, on this
occasion, the visitors of the abbey were detained for even a shorter
space of time than the abbess had mentioned. As soon as the last notes
of the chant were over, the abbess and her nuns retired from their
latticed gallery; and then, for the first time, she notified to her
nieces that she expected them to assist her in entertaining her
guests.

"Oh, my dear aunt, pray excuse me," exclaimed Iola, while Constance
submitted quite quietly. "I would rather a thousandfold sup alone in
the penitential cell, than with all these men. They have frightened
me out of my wits once to-night already, especially that gay
gossamer-looking youth, whom the young lord called Hungerford."

"I must have it so, Iola," replied her aunt. "I have my reasons for
it, so no nonsense, child. As for men," she continued, resuming a
gayer tone, "you will soon find, when more accustomed to them, they
are not such furious wild beasts as they seem. With them, as with
bulls and dogs, they are only dangerous to those who are frightened at
them. Treat them boldly and repel them sharply, and they soon come
fawning and crouching at your feet. Man is a very contemptible animal,
my dear child, if you did but know all. However, you shall sit beside
the priest--between him and the young lord, so you will escape the
other, who is but one of the empty courtiers of the day, such as I
recollect them in my youth--a sort of thing that a woman of spirit
could squeeze to death as she would a wasp in a hawking-glove. I dare
say Constance does not fear him."

"I would rather not sit near him," replied the other quietly. "His
perfumes make me sick. I would rather not live next door neighbour to
a civet cat. Let me entertain the bluff old gentleman, aunt. His rough
speeches are much more pleasant to my ear than all the other's soft
sayings."

"Don't call him old to his face, Constance," replied her aunt, "or his
sayings will be rough enough, depend upon it. Why I do not think he is
forty, child; and no man ever thinks himself old till he has told up
to seventy, and then he begins to fancy he is growing aged, and had
better begin to lead a new life."

The two girls laughed gaily; and in a few minutes they were seated, as
had been arranged, at the plentiful table which had been prepared for
their aunt's distinguished guests. I will not pause upon the feast.
The reader is well aware of the abundant provision which had been made
by the worthy woodman, and would be but little edified to hear of the
strange ways in which the various dishes were dressed, or the odd
sauces with which they were savoured.

The meal, as was usual in those days, lasted a long while; and the
conversation was somewhat more gay and lively than one would be
inclined to imagine was common within the walls of a convent. At
first, indeed, it was somewhat stiff and restrained; but there was a
gay, careless, happy spirit in the bosom of the young nobleman, who
sat beside the abbess, which soon banished the restraint of fresh
acquaintance, and made every one feel as if they had known him for
years. This was less difficult to effect with the elder lady than with
Iola who sat on his other hand; but even she could not resist the
current long; and a certain degree of timidity, the natural fruit of
retirement from the world, gave way under the influence of his
cheerful tone, till she caught herself laughing and talking gaily with
him, and suffering unconsciously all the fresh thoughts of a bright
pure heart to well forth like the waters of a spring. She paused and
blushed deeply, when first she suddenly discovered that such was the
case; and, bending down his head, for the conversation at the moment
was general and loud, he said, with a kind and graceful smile, but in
a low tone--

"Nay, nay, close not the casket! The jewels are well worthy of being
seen."

"I know not what you mean, my lord;" she said, blushing more deeply
than before.

"I mean," he answered, "that, judging by your look and sudden pause, I
think you have just found out that the door of the heart and the mind
has been partly opened to the eye of a stranger,--though it is but by
a chink,--and I would fain have you not close it against him, with the
key of cold formality. In a word, let us go on as if you had not made
the discovery, and do not draw back into yourself, as if you were
afraid of letting your real nature come abroad lest it should take
cold."

Whether she would or not, a smile came upon her lip; and, after a
minute's pause, she answered frankly--

"Well, I will not. It is but for a little time that it can take the
air."

At that moment the general conversation seemed to drop; and Lord
Chartley saw the eye of the abbess turned towards him.

"It is excellent good," he said aloud, "made into a pie; but, I hate
pasties of all kinds, if it be but for hiding under a thick crust the
good things they contain. Nevertheless, it is excellent good."

"What?" asked the abbess.

"A squirrel," replied Lord Chartley. "Oh, there is nothing like your
gay clambering nutcracker, who scrambles about from branch to branch,
drinking the dew of heaven, leaping through the free air, and feeding
on the topmost fruits, of which he must ever crack the shell to get at
the kernel. He is excellent in a pasty, I assure you. Is he not,
Hungerford?"

"Exceeding good," answered the knight, from the other side of the
table; "but a young pea-fowl is better."

In this sort of conversation passed the time; and Iola, to say sooth,
was amused and pleased. She did not, however, forget to show kind
attention to the friar on her right; and he, on his part, seemed
pleased and interested by her manner towards him. He spoke little,
indeed; but all that he did say was powerful and pointed. Iola,
however, could not but remark that he eat hardly anything, while the
others seemed to enjoy the dainties prepared for them highly; and she
pressed him kindly to take more food.

"I am much fatigued, my daughter," he said aloud, "and do not feel
well to-night. The less, therefore, I take perhaps the better."

Lord Charley instantly caught at the words--

"Nay, good father," he said, "were it not better for you to take a
little repose in your chamber, before we ride? I have marked all the
evening that you seemed ill."

"Perhaps it were as well," answered the friar, rising; "but let me not
abridge your enjoyment. I will find my way to my lodging and lie down
for a while;" and, thus saying, he quitted the room.

The slightest possible smile curled the lip of Sir Charles Weinants.
It passed away instantly; but it had been remarked; and, being the
most discreet man in the world, he felt that the smile was an
indiscretion, and, to cover it, asked in a gay but ordinary tone--

"Why, what is the matter with the friar? You have knocked him up, my
excellent lord, with your quick travelling. The poor man, I should
think, is not accustomed to the back of a hard-trotting horse; and we
rode those last ten miles in less than an hour."

"He seems, indeed, a good deal tired," replied Chartley; "but I think
it was yesterday's journey, rather than to-day's, that so much
fatigued him. We rode full forty miles before we met with you, and
five or six afterwards. You know, I never think, Weinants, or I should
have had more compassion."

Here the conversation dropped; and, after sitting at table for about
half an hour longer, the whole party rose, and Lord Chartley bade a
graceful adieu to the abbess, saying--

"I trust that my poor friend, father William, is by this time well
enough to proceed."

"Can you not leave him here, my son?" said the abbess. "He shall be
well tended, and gladly entertained."

"Oh, no, no;" replied the young nobleman. "I dare say he is well
enough now; and I am bound to my own paternal castle, dear lady, and
about to establish for the first time therein a regular household. I
must take him with me; therefore, if it be possible, for an almoner is
the first great requisite. Farewell then, with many grateful thanks
for your hospitality. I will not forget the subjects on which we
spoke; and they shall have immediate attention."




CHAPTER VI.


The trumpet sounded on the green beyond the walls; and by torch and
lantern light the young lord and his companions mounted in the court
before the chapel, and rode forth to join their attendants, after
bestowing some rich gifts upon the abbey. Though the sky was not
unclouded, for there were large masses of heavy vapour rolling
across the southern part of the horizon, and the night was much warmer
than that which had preceded, auguring rain to the minds of the
weather-wise, yet the moon was bright and clear, displaying every
object upon the little green as clearly almost as if it had been day.
Though not very fond of deeds of darkness, young Lord Chartley perhaps
might have wished the beams of the fair planet not quite so bright. At
all events, he seemed in a great hurry to proceed upon his journey,
without any very strict inspection of his band; for he exclaimed at
once--

"Now, Arden; now, Weinants; let us on at a quick canter. We shall
sleep well tonight."

But the eye of Sir Charles Weinants scanned the party by the moonlight
more accurately than that of his companion; and he demanded aloud--

"Why, where is the friar?"

"He is too unwell to ride on to-night. He will follow to-morrow," said
Lord Chartley, in a careless tone; and, striking his horse with the
spur, he proceeded, but not before he had remarked Sir Charles
Weinants make a very particular sign to one of his own attendants. The
knight raised his finger to his lips, pointed with his thumb to the
abbey, and then held up two fingers of the same hand. No sooner was
this done than he shook his rein, and followed his companion,
apparently unconscious that he had been observed.

For a minute or two the young lord seemed uneasy, riding on in
silence, and frequently giving a sharp glance round to those who came
behind; but he soon recovered his equanimity, I might say
cheerfulness, for he laughed and talked gaily with those around him,
especially when they came to that part of the road where, passing
through the forest, it ascended a hill so steep that the pace of the
horses was necessarily slackened. Sir Charles Weinants, for his part,
joined in, with his quiet gentlemanly cheerfulness, and seemed
perfectly free and unembarrassed.

The subject of their conversation, it is true, was not a very merry
one; for they soon began to speak of the discovery of a dead man lying
on that very road, the night before--killed, as was supposed, by a
fall from his horse--an account of which they had received at the
abbey, where the corpse was still lying. Light-hearted superficial
man, however, rarely suffers any event which happens to his neighbours
to produce any very deep or permanent impression on himself; and it is
wonderful how merry that party of gentlemen made themselves with the
fate of the dead man.

"See what it is to go too fast, Weinants," said Lord Chartley.
"Doubtless this fellow was riding a hired horse, and thought he might
ride him, up hill and down dale, as hard as he liked; and so the poor
beast threw him to get rid of an unpleasant burden."

"Served him quite right, I dare say," said bluff Sir William Arden.

"Why, how can you know, Arden?" demanded Sir Edward Hungerford, who
was riding his own beast in the most delicate and approved manner of
the times. "He might be as virtuous as an anchorite for aught you
know."

"The best man that ever lived," answered Arden, "deserves every hour
to break his neck, and worse too; and there never yet was a king's
courier, which they say this was, who is not worthy of the pillory
from the moment he puts the livery on his back. A set of vermin. I
wish I had but the purifying of the court. You would see very few
ears, or noses either, walking about the purlieus of the palace; and
as for couriers, I'd set them upon horseback, and have relays of men
behind them, to flog them on from station to station, for two or three
thousand miles, till they dropped off dead from fatigue and
starvation--I would indeed. They should neither have meat, nor drink,
nor sleep, nor rest, till they expired."

Lord Chartley laughed, for he knew his friend well; and Sir Charles
Weinants enquired--

"Why, what do the poor wretches do, to merit such high indignation,
Arden?"

"Do!" exclaimed the other. "What do they not do? Are they not the
petty tyrants of every inn and every village? Do they not think
themselves justified by the beastly livery they wear, to rob every
host and every farmer, to pay for nothing that they take, to drink ale
and wine gratis, to kiss the daughter, seduce the wife, and ride the
horses to death, because they are on a king's service, forsooth--out
upon the whole race of them. We have not a punishment within the whole
scope of our criminal law that is not too good for them."

"Hush, hush, Arden," cried Lord Chartley, laughing again; "if you do
not mind, Weinants will tell the king; and it will be brought in high
treason."

"How so, how so?" demanded Sir William Arden, with a start; for the
very name of high treason was a serious affair in those days, when the
axe was seldom long polished before it was dimmed again with human
blood.

"Why, do you not know the old proverb, 'like master like man?'" asked
Chartley; "so that if you abuse the king's couriers you abuse the king
himself. It seems to me constructive treason at all events. What say
you, Hungerford?"

"Very shocking indeed," said the gentleman whom he addressed, yawning
heartily; "but I hate all couriers too. They are very unsavoury
fellows, give you their billets with hot hands, and bring a hideous
smell of horse flesh and boot leather into the chamber with them. I
always order those who come to me to be kept an hour in a chill
ante-room, to cool and air themselves."

From the characters of all who surrounded him, Lord Chartley seemed to
draw no little amusement; but still, it would appear, his eye was
watchful, and his ear too; for, when they had ridden about a couple
of miles through the wood, and were in a shady place, where the beams
of the moon did not penetrate, he suddenly reined in his horse,
exclaiming--

"Some one has left the company--Hark! Who is that riding away?"

"Faith, I know not," said Sir Charles Weinants.

"I hear nobody," replied Hungerford.

"There go a horse's feet, nevertheless," cried Sir William Arden.

"Gentlemen all, have you sent any one back?" demanded the young baron,
in a stern tone.

A general negative was the reply; and Chartley exclaimed--

"Then, by the Lord, I will find him. Ride on, gentlemen, ride on. I
will overtake you soon."

"Let me come with you, my good lord," said Sir William Arden.

"No, no, I will find him, and deal with him alone," replied the young
lord; and, turning his head to add--"You can wait for me at Hinckley
if you will," he spurred on sharply, on the road which led back
towards the abbey. The party whom he left remained gathered together
for a moment, in surprise at the rapidity and the strangeness of his
movements.

"In the name of fortune," cried Sir Edward Hungerford, "why does he
not take somebody with him?"

"Every one knows his own business best," said Arden gruffly.

"Hush! hush!" said Sir Charles Weinants. "Let us hear which way he
takes."

Now at the distance of perhaps two hundred yards behind them, the road
through the wood divided into two; that on the left, by which they had
come, leading direct to the abbey and its little hamlet; that on the
right pursuing a somewhat circuitous course towards the small town of
Atherston. The footfalls of Lord Chartley's horse, as he urged him
furiously on, could be clearly heard as soon as Sir Charles Weinants
had done speaking; and a moment after they seemed to take a direction
to the right. The party still paused and listened, however, till it
became clear by the sounds that the young nobleman had gone upon the
road to Atherston.

Then Sir Charles Weinants drew a deep breath, and said, in an easy
tone: "Well, let us ride on. We can wait for him at Hinckley.
Doubtless, he is safe enough."

Sir William Arden seemed to hesitate; and Lord Chartley's steward said
in a doubtful tone: "I think we ought to wait for my lord."

"You heard what he said himself," replied Sir Charles Weinants. "Our
business is to go slowly on, and wait for him at Hinckley, if he does
not overtake us by the way."

So was it in the end determined, and the party proceeded at a foot
pace in the direction which they had before been taking. Mile after
mile they rode on without being overtaken by their companion, every
now and then pausing for a minute or two, to listen for his horse's
feet, and then resuming their progress, till at length they arrived at
Hinckley. They entered the inn yard, just at the moment that the
carriers from Ashby de la Zouche to Northampton usually presented
themselves with their packhorses; and they instantly had out landlord
and ostlers, and all the retinue of the inn, with lanterns in
abundance.

"Stay!" said Sir William Arden, as the attendants were hurrying to
dismount, and lead their lords' horses to the stables. "Please Heaven,
we will see who it is that is wanting."

"No need of that," exclaimed Sir Charles Weinants. "We shall learn
soon enough, no doubt."

But the good knight, who was a steady campaigner, and one of the best
soldiers of his day, adhered tenaciously to his purpose, ordered the
gates of the inn-yard to be closed, and the doors of the house and of
the stables to be shut and locked. He next insisted that the servants
should draw up in separate bodies, the attendants of each master in a
distinct line, and then made the ostlers carry their lanterns along
the face of each.

"One of your men is wanting, Sir Charles Weinants," he said at length.
"It must have been he who rode away, and left his company in the
forest."

"More fool, or more knave he," replied Sir Charles Weinants, coolly.
"He shall be punished for his pains by losing his wages. But, if I am
not mistaken, there is another wanting too. Where is Lord Chartley's
Moor? I have not seen him for some time, and do not perceive him now."

"He staid behind in the wood, Sir Charles," replied one of the
servants, "to look after the noble lord. He said--let go who would, he
would stay there."

"Perhaps my man staid for the same purpose?" said Sir Charles
Weinants.

"No, sir," answered another of the servants, attached to Sir William
Arden. "He left us some minutes before Lord Chartley, while we were
still riding on through the forest."

"Well, gentlemen, I shall remain here till my friend comes," said
Arden, in a marked tone; "for I do not altogether like this affair."

"And I shall stay, because I have had riding enough for one day; and
the inn looks comfortable," said Sir Edward Hungerford.

"I shall ride on, as soon as my horses have been fed and watered,"
rejoined Sir Charles Weinants, in a cold resolute tone; "because I
have business of importance which calls me to Leicester."

His determination did not seem very pleasant to Sir William Arden, who
looked at him steadily for a moment, from under his bent brows, and
then walked once or twice up and down the court, without ordering the
doors of the stables to be opened.

Weinants, however, took that task upon himself. His horses received
their food and devoured it eagerly; and then, just as the carriers
were arriving, Sir Charles Weinants rode out of the court yard,
bidding his companions adieu in the most perfectly civil and courteous
terms.

Sir William Arden suffered him to depart, but most unwillingly it must
be confessed, and, when he was gone, turned to Sir Edward Hungerford,
saying: "I should like to skin him alive, the cold-blooded double
dealer. It is very strange, what can have become of Lord Chartley."

"Strange!" said Sir Edward Hungerford, in a tone of affected surprise;
"why, he has gone to say a few more words to that pretty girl at the
abbey, to be sure. I should not wonder to see him arrive in half an
hour, with the dear little thing on a pillion behind him."

"Pshaw!" said Arden. "You are a fool;" and he turned into the inn.




CHAPTER VII.


It was a dark night; and the appearance of the cottage or hut was, in
the inside at least, gloomy enough. The large wooden boards, which
shut out wind and storm, covered the apertures that served for
windows; and neither lamp nor taper, nor even a common resin candle,
gave light within. Yet it was only a sort of half darkness that
reigned in the first chamber, as one entered from the forest; for a
large fire was burning on the hearth, and a log weighing some
hundredweight had just been put on. The dry unlopped shoots, and
withered leaves which still hung around the trunk of the decayed tree,
had caught fire first, and the flame they produced went flashing round
the walls with a sort of fitful glare, displaying all that they
contained.

The room was a large one, larger indeed than many, in buildings with
far greater pretensions; for the chief woodman had upon particular
occasions to assemble a great number of his foresters under that roof.
Whole deer were often brought in to be broken and flayed, as the terms
were, and prepared for cooking, before they were sent down to the more
delicate hands of the abbey. Besides, the woodman's house was usually
in those days a place of general hospitality; and, indeed, the good
ladies of the abbey always passed right willingly the charges which he
sometimes had to make for the entertainment of strangers and wayfarers
on their lands.

As compared with a poor man's cottage of the present day, that of the
woodman was a large but very wretched abode; but as compared with the
huts of the ordinary peasantry of the time, it was a splendid mansion.
The walls were formed of large beams of wood, crossing and supporting
each other in various strange directions, forming a sort of pattern or
figure inside and out, not unpleasant to look upon. The interstices
were filled up with mud, mingled with small gravel stones and thick
loam; and the floor was of mud, well battened down and hardened,
though, in spite of all care, it presented various inequalities to the
foot. Ceiling, as may well be supposed, the chamber had none. Large,
heavy, roughly hewn rafters appeared above, with the inside of the
thatch visible between the beams. A partition wall, with a rude door
in it, crossed the building at about one third of its length, but this
wall was raised no higher than those which formed the enclosure, that
is to say, about seven or at most eight feet; and thus, though the
lower part of the building was divided into several chambers, a clear
passage for air, or sound, or rats, or mice, existed immediately under
the roof, from one end of the building to the other. The most solid or
massive piece of architecture in the whole structure was the chimney,
with its enormously wide hearth and projecting wings. These were all
built of hewn stone, the same as that of which the abbey was composed;
and before the cottage was raised around it--for the chimney was built
first--the mass must have looked like an obelisk in the midst of the
forest.

Although we have greatly abandoned that sort of building at present,
and doubtless our houses are more warm and air-tight than those of
that day; yet the plan of these large wooden frame-works, with the
beams shown on the inside and the out, was not without its
convenience. Thus nails and hooks, and shelves and cupboards, were
easily fixed in, or against the walls, without any danger of knocking
down the plaster, or injuring the painting. Indeed, I do not know what
the woodman would have done without this convenience, for the whole
walls, on three sides at least, were studded with hooks and pegs, from
which were suspended all sorts of implements belonging to his craft,
and a variety of other goods and chattels. There were axes, knives,
saws, bills, wedges, mallets, hammers, picks; long bows, cross bows,
sheaves of arrows, bags of quarrels, boar-spears, nets, and two or
three pronged forks, some serrated at the edges like Neptune's
trident, and evidently intended to bring up unwilling eels out of
their native mud. Then again there were various garments, such as a
woodman might be supposed to use, leathern coats, large boots, a cloth
jerkin, apparently for days of ceremony, gloves made of the thickest
parts of a buck's hide, and a cap almost shaped like a morion, of
double-jacked leather, which would have required a sharp sword and
strong arm to cut it through. But, besides this defensive piece of
clothing, which was probably intended rather for the forest than the
field, was the ordinary steel cap, back and breastplate of a feudal
archer of the period; for each woodman was bound to serve the abbey in
arms for a certain period, in case of need.

Hanging from the beams above, was a very comfortable store of winter
provision, several fat sides of bacon, half a side of a fallow deer
salted and dried, and several strings of large sausages smoked in the
most approved manner. Bunches of dried herbs too were there, and a
salt fish or two, to eke out the lentil soup and eggs upon a fast day.

Within the wings of the large chimney, on a coarse wooden settle, and
with his foot resting upon the end of one of the iron dogs or
andirons, sat the woodman himself. His arms were crossed upon his
chest. His back rested against the wall of the chimney; and his eyes
were fixed upon the blazing fire, as if one of those musing fits had
seized him, in which eye and fancy are at work, seeing castles, and
towers, and landscapes, and faces in the mouldering embers, while the
mind, abstracted from the outward scene, is busy in the quiet secrecy
of the heart with things of more deep and personal interest. By his
side sat a large wolf dog, of a kind not often seen in England, in
form like a gigantic greyhound, covered with shaggy slate-
hair, thickly grizzled with grey, especially about the head and paws.

His long gaunt jaws rested on the woodman's knee; and sometimes he
turned his contemplative eyes upon the fire, seeming to watch it, and
muse upon its nature; and sometimes he raised them with a sleepy but
affectionate look to his master's face, as if he would fain have
spoken to him and asked him, "What shall we do next?"

Not a look did the poor hound get for some time, however, for his
master had other things to think of; but at last the good man laid his
hand upon the shaggy head, and said "Honest and true, and the only
one!"

He then resumed his musing again, till at length the dog rose up, and,
with slow and stately steps, advanced to the door, and putting down
his nose, seemed to snuff the air from without. The woodman lifted up
his head and listened; but the only sounds which were audible were
those produced by the footfalls of a horse at a distance; and, turning
round to the fire again with a well-pleased look, the woodman
murmured, "Good. He is coming this way."

He did not budge from his settle, however, nor seem to pay much
attention, till the rapid footfalls of the horse seemed to cease
altogether, or turn, in a different direction. Then he looked up and
said, "That is strange. He cannot have missed his way after having
twice found it before."

He listened attentively; but still there was no sound audible to his
ear; and it was the dog who first discovered that a stranger was
approaching. A low growl and then a fierce sharp bark were the
intimations which he gave, as soon as his ear caught the sound of a
step, and his master immediately called him to him, saying, "Hither,
Ban, hither. Down to foot--down, sir;" and the obedient hound
immediately stretched himself out at length beside the fire.

The woodman, in the mean time, gave an attentive ear, and at length
distinguished the steps of a man approaching, mixed occasionally with
the slow fall of horses' hoofs upon turfy ground, where the iron shoe
from time to time struck against a pebble, but otherwise made no
noise. Nevertheless he sat still till the noise, after becoming louder
and louder, stopped suddenly, as if the traveller had paused upon a
small green which stretched out before the door, comparatively open
and free from trees for the space of about three quarters of an acre,
although here and there a solitary beech rose out of the turf,
overshadowing the greater part of the space. No brushwood was there,
however, and the small forest road traversed the green on its way
towards the distant town, spreading out into a wide sort of sandy
track, nearly opposite to the woodman's house.

As soon as the sound of footsteps ceased, the first inhabitant of the
cottage strode across, and threw open the door, demanding, "Who goes
there?"

The answer was as usual--"a friend;" but, before he gave him admission
or credence, the woodman was inclined to demand further explanations,
saying, "Every man in this day professes himself a friend, and is
often an enemy. Say, what friend, and whence?"

The visitor, however, without reply, proceeded to fasten his horse to
a large iron hook, which projected from one of the beams of the
cottage, and then advanced straight towards the woodman, who still
stood in his doorway. The man eyed him as he came near, and then,
seeming better satisfied, retired a step or two to give him entrance.
The traveller came forward with a bold free step, and without ceremony
walked into the cottage, and took a seat by the fire.

"Now let us talk a little, my friend," he said, turning to the
woodman; "but first shut the door."

The other did as he was bid, and then, turning round, gazed at the
stranger from head to foot with a slight smile. After his
contemplation was finished, he pulled his own settle to a little
distance and seated himself, saying, "Well?" while the large hound,
after snuffing quietly at the stranger's boots, laid his head upon his
knee and looked up in his face.

"You are a hospitable man, I doubt not," said the visitor, "and will
give me shelter for an hour or two, I trust. I have ridden hard, as
you may see."

"But not far or long since supper time," rejoined the woodman: "but
what want you with me, my lord?"

"You seem to know me," said Lord Chartley, "and indeed are a very
knowing person, if I may believe all.--Are you alone here?"

"Yes, we are man to man," answered the woodman with a laugh.

"Is there no one at the back of that door?" demanded Lord Chartley.

"Nothing more substantial than the wind," replied the other. "Of that
there is sometimes too much."

"Pray how do you know me?" demanded Lord Chartley.

"I never said I know you," answered the woodman. "Are not your silks
and satins, your gilt spurs, the jewel in your bonnet, to say nothing
of the golden St. Barnabas, and your twisted sword hilt, enough to
mark you out as a lord? But Lord, Lord, what do I care for a lord?
However, I do know you, and I will tell you how far it is marvellous.
I was in Tamworth yesterday, and saw a man wonderfully gaily dressed,
upon a horse which must have cost full three hundred angels, with some
forty or fifty followers, all gaily dressed too; so I asked one of the
cunning men of the place, who the gay man on the fine horse was, and
he answered, it was the young Lord Chartley. Was not that surprising?"

"Not very," replied Lord Chartley laughing; "but what came after was
more marvellous; how this cunning man should have known that the young
Lord Chartley would sup at the abbey of Atherston St. Clare tonight."

"It was," answered the woodman, in the same sort of ironical tone,
"especially as the Lord Chartley mentioned his purpose gaily to Sir
Edward Hungerford, and Sir Edward Hungerford told it to Sir Charles
Weinants, and Sir Charles Weinants to his servant Dick Hagger, who, as
in duty bound, told it to Boyd the woodman, and asked if there were
really any pretty girls to be seen at the abbey, or whether it was a
mere gibe of the good lord's."

"The good lord was a great fool for his pains," said Lord Chartley,
thoughtfully; "and yet not so much so either, for it was needful to
give a prying ass some reason for going."

"Take care, my good lord," replied the woodman, nodding his head
sententiously, "Take care that you don't find the prying ass a vicious
ass too. Those donkies kick very hard sometimes, and there is no
knowing when they will begin."

"Oh, this is a soft fool," replied the nobleman. "I fear him not.
There are others I fear more."

"And none too much," replied the woodman, "though this man you fear
too little."

Lord Chartley sat and mused for several moments without reply. Then,
raising his head suddenly, he looked full in the woodman's face,
saying, "Come, come, my friend, we must speak more clearly. If what
the abbess told me be true, you should know that we are upon no
jesting matters."

"Good faith, I jest not, my lord," said the woodman. "I speak in as
sober seriousness as ever I can use in this merry world, where
everything is so light that nothing deserves a heavy thought. Why,
here the time was, and I remember it well, when taking a man's life
without battle or trial was held to be murder by grave old gentlemen
with white beards. Now heads fall down like chesnuts about the yellow
autumn time of the year, and no one heeds it any more than if they
were pumpkins. Then again I recollect the time when a man confided in
his wife and she did not betray him, and might lend his purse to his
friend without having his throat cut as payment of the debt. Learned
clerks, in those days, sang songs and not lewd ballads; and even a
courtier would tell truth--sometimes. It is long ago indeed; but now,
when life, and faith, and truth cannot be counted upon for lasting
more than five minutes beyond the little present moment in which we
stand, how can any man be very serious upon any subject? There is
nothing left in the world that is worth two thoughts."

"Methinks there is," answered Lord Chartley; "but you touch upon the
things which brought me here. If faith and truth be as short-lived as
you would have it, master woodman, how would you, that either the
abbess or I, or a person to whom I will at present give no name,
should trust you in a matter where his life, ay, and more than his
life, is perilled?"

"Faith, only as a dire necessity," answered the woodman, in an
indifferent tone, "and because there is none other whom you can trust.
The abbess will trust me, perhaps, because she knows me; you, because
it is too late to think of any other means; and your nameless person,
because he cannot help it."

"I know not that it is too late," replied Lord Chartley. "You have not
got the tally board so completely in your hand, my friend, as to run
up the score without looking at the other side. But, in a word, I have
made a good excuse to leave my friends and servants, in order to see
whether I could obtain some warrant for trusting you, in a matter of
such deep importance as that which may perhaps be soon cast upon you."

"The best of all warrants for a man's good faith, my lord," answered
the woodman, "is the certainty that he can gain nothing by breaking
it. Now to speak plainly, I knew yesterday that good old Father
Morton, bishop of Ely, was housed at Tamworth under the gown of a
friar. To-night I know that he is lodged in the abbey. Had it so
pleased me either yesterday or to-day, I could have brought over as
many of King Richard's bands from Coleshill as would have soon
conveyed his right reverence to the tower, and if reward is to be got,
could have got it. Therefore, it is not a bit more likely that I
should betray him, were he now standing under this roof, than
yesterday in Tamworth, or to-day at Atherston St. Clare."

"There is some truth in what you say," answered Lord Chartley; "and I
believe the best plan is to let a good dog beat the ground his own
way. Yet I would fain know how you were informed that such a person
was with me."

"What has that to do with the matter?" answered the woodman. "Take it
all for granted. You see I am informed. What matters how?"

"Because it is somewhat suspicious," answered Lord Chartley at once,
"that you should gain intelligence having no reference to your calling
or station, while others both shrewd and watchful have gained none."

"I have no intelligence," replied the woodman. "Everything is simple
enough when we look at it close. I saw the bishop dismount, knew him,
and understood the whole business in a minute. He was kind to some
whom I loved in years long past; and I do not forget faces--that is
all. But now, my good lord, you have somewhat squeezed me with
examinations. Let me ask you a question or two, of quite as much
moment. On what excuse did you leave your friends and servants?"

"Good faith, you know so much," replied Lord Chartley, "that methinks
you might know that also. However, as I must trust you in more weighty
matters, I may as well tell that too. I have some doubts of one of our
party, who joined us just on the other side of Tamworth, and has
adhered closely to us ever since."

"Like a wet boot to a swelled ancle, I will answer for it," said the
woodman, "if you mean the knave Weinants."

"I mean no other," answered Lord Chartley; "but however to my tale;"
and he proceeded to relate all that had occurred that night in the
wood. "I did not follow the man, I pretended to follow," he continued,
"because I knew that was in vain. He had got too far away from me;
and, moreover, had I caught him, what could I have done? I have no
power over Sir Charles Weinant's servants, and he had but to name his
lord, and plead his orders, and my authority was at an end; but as the
good lady abbess was very confident she could, by your help, insure
our friend's safety, even should the abbey be searched, I came hither
to make myself more sure, by talking with you myself."

While the young nobleman had been speaking, the woodman had risen up,
with a somewhat eager and anxious eye, but continued gazing upon him,
without interrupting him, till he had done.

"This must be looked to," he said, at length; "there is no time to be
lost. Are you sure these excellent friends of yours have gone on?"

"So I besought them," answered the other.

"Besought them!" said the woodman. "We must have better security than
beseechings;" and, taking a horn that was hanging against the wall, he
went to the door and blew two notes, twice repeated.

"We shall soon have some tidings," he said, returning into the hut. "I
have got my deer-keepers watching in different places; for our rogues
here are fond of venison, as well as their neighbours, and care not
much whether it be in or out of season."

"So then you are head keeper, as well as head woodman?" said Lord
Chartley.

"Ay, my lord," answered the other. "We have no fine degrees and
distinctions here. We mix all trades together, woodman, verderers,
keepers, rangers. 'Tis not like a royal forest, nor an earl's park,
where no man ventures out of his own walk. This Sir Charles Weinants,"
he continued, in a musing tone; "so he joined you on the other side of
Tamworth. 'Tis strange he did not betray you earlier."

"He seemed not to know there was anything to betray," replied the
young lord; "looked innocent and unconscious, and talked of points and
doublets, and the qualities of Spanish leather, women, and perfumes,
with Sir Edward Hungerford; or of horses, and suits of armour, cannon,
and such like things, with Arden; or with me of sheep, poetry, and
policy, the fit furnishing of an old hall, or a great feast for
Christmas Day."

"He knew his men belike," said the woodman, with a cynical smile.

"Perhaps he did," replied the young lord, somewhat sternly, "and might
be sure that, if he betrayed my friend in my company, I would cut his
throat without waiting for royal permission, though he had all the
kings in Christendom for his patrons."

"That might have a share in his discretion, it is true," answered the
woodman; "but we must not have him hear our counsels now, and must
make sure that he and his, as well as your own people, have ridden
on."

"How can we learn that?" demanded Chartley.

"We shall hear anon," answered the woodman; and in a minute or two
after the door opened, and a man in a forester's garb put in a round
head covered with curly hair, demanding--

"What would you, master Boyd?"

"How goes all above?" demanded the woodman.

"All well," answered the forester.

"Upon the road," said Boyd; "upon the Hinckley road?"

"The company from the abbey just passed, all but three," replied the
man. "One rode away first, and took the Coleshill road, so Tim Harris
says. The other followed five minutes after, and came hither."

"Who was the third?" asked Lord Chartley eagerly.

The man did not answer for a moment, but looked to the woodman, who
nodded his head, and then the other replied--

"'Twas the tawny Moor. He is up the road there, within sight of the
door."

"Let him rest, let him rest," said the woodman. "Can you trust him, my
good lord?"

"Better than I could trust a king, a minister, or a lover," replied
Chartley. "If ever there was true faith, out of a big dog, it lies
under that brown skin."

"To Coleshill?" said the woodman, musing and turning round the horn in
his hand, as if he were examining it curiously. "Ten miles by the
nearest way. We shall hear more soon, but not for three hours, I wot.
Go along Dick, and get two or three more upon the Coleshill road,
about half a mile or so from the abbey. Set one up in a tree; and if
he sees a band of men coming down, let him sound three notes upon his
horn, over and over, till he is answered. You, yourself, as soon as
you hear the sound, run down to the abbey, and make St. Clare's baby
call out aloud. Tell the portress to let the lady abbess know there
are enemies coming near, and that she had better take counsel
immediately. Then draw altogether here, as many men as you can get,
for we may have work to do. Away with you! And now, my good lord," he
continued, as the man shut the door, "I must have my supper, and if
you like to share it, you shall have woodman's fare."

"I have supped already," replied Lord Chartley; "and methinks you eat
late for a forester. They are always ready enough for their meals."

"I am ready enough for mine," replied the woodman, "seeing that no
morsel has passed my lips this day. I never touch food, of any kind,
till midnight is near at hand. I am like a hunting dog, which, to do
its work well, should have but one meal a-day."

"Your habits are somewhat strange, for a man of your condition," said
Lord Chartley, "and your language also."

"Oh," said the woodman, "as for my language, I have seen courts, and
am courtly. Why, I was for several years a lackey to a great man; but
my preferment was spoiled by the jealousy of other lackeys, so, to
save myself from worse, I ran away and betook myself to the woods and
wilds; but I can be as delicate and mincing as a serving maid should
need be, and as full of courtesies as a queen's ape. I am like every
widow of sixty, and like every parson in rusty black without a parish;
I have had my sorrows and seen my best days, which makes me at times
melancholic; but I haven't forgot my gentility, when it suits my turn,
nor the choice words which one perfunctorily gathers up in courts."

All this was said in a bitter and sneering manner, as if he made a
mockery of the very acquirements he boasted of; and Lord Chartley
replied: "By my faith, I believe your last trade is honester than your
first, my good friend. However, get your supper, and tell me in the
mean while, in plain English, what you think all this will come to."

The woodman took down a large bowl from a shelf on the one side of the
room, and poured a part of the milk that it contained into an iron
pot. This he suspended over the fire, by a hook which hung dangling
over the blaze, and when the milk began to boil, scattered a handful
of oatmeal in it, stirring it round at the same time, till it was of a
tolerable thick consistency. Upon this mess, when he had removed it
from the fire and placed it on the table, he poured the rest of the
milk cold. But it must not be supposed that all this time he had
refrained from speaking. On the contrary, in brief and broken
sentences, he replied to the young nobleman's question, saying, "What
will become of it? Why, simply Richard's bands will be down about the
abbey in an hour or two, and will search every corner of it--or set it
on fire, perchance, or any thing else that they please to do."

"They will hardly dare, I think," said Lord Chartley. "This abbey, I
am told, has the privilege of sanctuary, and if King Richard has a
quality on earth, on which he can justly pride himself, it is his
strictness in repressing the lawless violence which has risen up in
times of long and fierce contention."

"Ay, lawless violence in other men," said the woodman; "but crimes
committed in our own cause become gentle failings in the eyes of
tyrants. The man who punishes a robber or assassin, rewards a murder
committed on the king's behalf. Was princely Buckingham the other day
judged by the laws or sentenced by his peers? No, no. The king's word
was warrant enough for his death, and would be for the sacking of the
abbey. There is but one respect which could save it. This king would
fain be thought religious; and he has respected sanctuary before
now--where it served the purposes of a prison as well as a refuge; but
he is cunning as well as resolute; and he will find means to hide his
share in the deed he profits by. Look you here now, my good lord;
suppose some band of mere plunderers attacks the abbey, as was done
not very long ago; then an obnoxious bishop may fall into the king's
hands, without his avowing the deed."

"But his officers would be recognised," replied Lord Chartley.

"True, if the deed were committed by regular troops under noble
leaders," said the woodman; "but these bands at Coleshill are mere
mercenaries, gathered together in haste when the report first ran that
the earl of Richmond was coming over hither. Since then, the king
knows not what to do with them; and there they lie, living at free
quarters upon the people. These are men, easily disavowed. But it will
be as I have said; of that be you assured. If the bishop is now within
the abbey, it will go hard but they will seek him there. Then, if the
abbess is wise and follows counsel, she will send him forth to me, and
I will provide for his safety."

"But where? But how?" demanded Lord Chartley. "This forest is not of
such extent that you could shelter him from any keen pursuit."

The woodman looked at him with a smile, and then replied: "We do not
trust all its secrets to every one. They are more intricate than you
imagine. There are a thousand places where he might be hid, not to
mention the old castle on the hill. It was a stronghold of the family
of the Morleys, taken and sacked in the civil wars, under the fourth
Harry, and the lands given over to the abbey. There is many a chamber
and many a hall there, which would puzzle the keenest-scented talbot
of all the king's pack, to nose out a fugitive therein. You might
almost as well hunt a rat through the cript of an old church as seek
for any one hiding there. That is one place; but there are a dozen
others; and whither I will take him must be decided at the time.
However, rest you sure that, once out of the abbey walls, and in my
charge, he is safe."

"We must trust so," replied the young nobleman; "and your goodwill and
intentions, I doubt not; but fate is out of any man's keeping, my good
friend, and indeed we are all in hers. However, we must do as we can,
and leave the rest to God's good will, who shapes all things as seems
fit unto him, and often overrules our wishes and designs for excellent
purposes that we cannot foresee. While you take your supper--a
somewhat poor one for a strong man--I will go out and tell my good
Arab, Ibn Ayoub, that I am safe and well. Otherwise, having marked me
hither, he will stay watching near, till I or the sun come forth."

"Well bethought," answered the woodman. "'Tis strange how faithful
these heathens sometimes are. Bring him in hither, and let him stable
his horse and yours in the shed behind the cottage. He will find the
way there, round to the left."




CHAPTER VIII.


Let us now return within the abbey walls for a while, and see what was
passing there. The departure of the guests had left behind, at least
with some of the fair inmates, that sensation of vacant dulness, which
usually succeeds a period of unusual gaiety, especially with those
whose ordinary course of life is tranquil if not tedious.

Iola felt that the convent would seem much more cheerless than before;
and, as she stood with her cousin Constance in the little private
parlour of her aunt, conversing for a few minutes, before they retired
to rest, upon the events of the day, her light heart could not help
pouring forth its sensations, innocent and natural as they were, to
her somewhat graver and more thoughtful cousin.

"Good lack, dear Constance," she said, "I wish they would not show us
such bright scenes and give us such gay moments, if they are both to
be snatched away again the next minute. How heavy will the next week
be, till we have forgotten all these gay feathers, and silks, and
satins, and gold embroidery, and gentle speeches, and pleasant wit."

"Nay, I hope, Iola, that you did not have too many gentle speeches,"
replied her cousin, with a quiet smile; "for I saw somebody's head
bent low, and caught the sound of words whispered rather than spoken,
and perceived a little pink ear turned up to catch them all."

"Oh, my man was the most charming ever seen," answered Iola; "just
fitted for my companion in a long ride through the forest, as
thoughtless, as careless, as merry as myself; who will forget me as
soon as I shall forget him, and no harm done to either. What was your
man like, Constance? He seemed as gruff as a large church bell, and as
stern as the statue of Moses breaking the tables."

"He was well enough for a man," answered Constance. "He might have
been younger, and he might have been gentler in words; for his hair
was grizzled grey, and he abused everybody roundly, from the king on
his throne to the horseboy who saddled his beast. He was a gentleman
notwithstanding, and courteous to me; and I have a strong fancy, dear
Iola, that his heart is not as hard as his words, for I have read in
some old book that hard sayings often go with soft doings."

"Ha, ha, say you so, Constance dear?" replied Iola; "then methinks you
have been prying a little closely into the bosom of this Sir William
Arden. Well, you are free, and can love where you list. I am like a
poor popinjay tied to a stake, where every boy archer may bend his bow
at me, and I do nothing but sit still and endure. I often wonder what
this Lord Fulmer is like, my husband that is to be, God wot. I hope he
is not a sour man with a black beard, and that he does not squint, and
has not a high shoulder like the king, and has both his eyes of one
colour; for I hate a wall-eyed horse, and it would be worse in a
husband--unless one of them was blind, which would indeed be a
comfort, as one could be sure of getting on the blind side of him."

"How your little tongue runs," said her cousin. "It is like a lapdog
fresh let out into the fields, galloping hither and thither for pure
idleness."

"Well, I will be merry whatever happens," answered Iola gaily. "'Tis
the best way of meeting fate, Constance. You may be as grave and
demure as a cat before the fire, or as sad and solemn as the ivy on an
old tower. I will be as light as the lark upon the wing, and as
cheerful as a bough of Christmas holly, garlanding a boar's head on a
high festival; and she sang with a clear sweet voice, every note of
which was full of gladness, some scraps of an old ballad very common
in those days.


          "Nay, ivy, nay,
            It shall not be, I wis;
          Let holly have the mastery,
            As the custom is.

          "Holly stands in the hall
            Fair to behold;
          Ivy stands without the door
            Shivering with cold.
                      Nay, ivy, nay, etc.

          "Holly and his merry men
            They dance and play;
          Ivy and her maidens
            Weep a well a day.
                      Nay, ivy, nay, etc.

          "Holly hath berries
            As red as any rose;
          The forester and hunter
            Keep them for the does.
                      Nay, ivy, nay, etc.

          "Ivy hath berries
            As black as any sloe;
          There comes the owl,
            With his long whoop of woe.
                      Nay, ivy, nay, etc."


In the meanwhile, the abbess herself had not been without occupation,
for although the night was waning fast, the usual hour of rest long
past, and the nuns in general retired to their cells, yet before she
went to her own snug little room, the worthy lady saw, one after the
other, several of the officers of the abbey in the great parlour. In
dealing with these various personages, the worthy lady,
notwithstanding her little knowledge of the world, showed a good deal
of skill and diplomatic shrewdness. Her situation indeed was somewhat
delicate; for she had to prepare against events, which she could not
clearly explain to those with whom she spoke, and to give orders which
would naturally excite surprise, without such explanation. She had
prepared her story however beforehand; and she proceeded in a
different manner with each of the different officers, as her knowledge
of their several characters pointed out to her the most judicious
course. To the porter of the great hall, a stout old man, who had been
a soldier and had seen service, she said boldly, and at once; "Leave
the lodging in charge of your boy, Giles, and go down directly through
the hamlet, to all the tenants and socmen within a mile. Tell them
there is danger abroad, and that they must be ready, with their arms,
to come up the instant they hear the great bell ring. Bid them send
out some lads to the vassals who live farther off, with the same news.
Then come back hither, for we shall want you."

The man departed without a word, his answer being merely a low
inclination of the head. The bailiff, who by right should have
presented himself before the porter, but who had been impeded by the
appropriation of sundry good things left from the supper table,
appeared amongst the last. To him the abbess put on a very different
countenance.

"Well, master bailiff," she said, with a light and cheerful smile,
"have you heard anything of the bands at Coleshill?"

"Sad work, lady, sad work," replied the bailiff, casting his eyes up
to heaven. "Why I understand that, last night, some of them stole
Joseph Saxton's best cow, and cut it up before his face, hardly taking
the hide off."

"That shows they were very hungry," said the abbess, laughing.

"Ay, lady," rejoined the bailiff, "these are not jesting matters, I
can tell you. Why, I should not wonder if they drove some of the abbey
lands before long; and we have not cattle to spare that I know of.
There is no knowing what such hell-kites may do."

"That's very true," answered the abbess; "and so, my son, I think it
will be better for you to sleep in the lodge for two or three nights;
for we might want you on an occasion."

"Oh, there is no fear of their coming as far as this," answered the
bailiff, who had no fondness for putting his head into any dangerous
position.

"Nevertheless, I desire you to remain," answered the abbess; "'tis
well to have somebody to take counsel with in time of need."

"Why, there is the friar, lady mother," replied the bailiff, still
reluctant, "the friar, whom these young lords who were here left
behind in the stranger's lodging. He would give you counsel and
assistance."

"Ay, ghostly counsel and spiritual assistance," replied the abbess;
"but that is not what I want just now, good friend; so you will stop
as I said, and remember that I shall expect a bolder face this time,
if anything should happen, than when the rovers were here before. Men
fancied you were afraid.--However, send the friar to me now, if he be
well enough to come. I will see what counsel I can get from him."

"Well enough!" cried the bailiff. "He is well enough, I
warrant--nothing the matter with him. Why, he was walking up and down
in the great court before the chapel, with his hood thrown back, and
his bald crown glistening in the moonlight, like a coot in a water
meadow."

Part of this speech was spoken aloud, part of it muttered to himself
as he was quitting the room in a very sullen mood. He did not dare to
disobey the orders he had received, for the good abbess was not one to
suffer her commands to be slighted; and yet women never, or very
rarely, gain the same respect with inferiors that men obtain; and the
bailiff ventured to grumble with her, though he would have bowed down
and obeyed in silence, had his orders come from one of the sterner
sex.

However that might be, hardly three minutes elapsed before the friar
entered the parlour, and carefully closed the door behind him. His
conference with the abbess was long, continuing nearly an hour, and
the last words spoken were, "Remember rightly, reverend father, the
moment the bell sounds, betake yourself to the chapel, and stand near
the high altar. You can see your way; for there is always a lamp
burning in the chapel of St. Clare. Lock the great door after you; and
I will come to you from our own gallery."

The bishop bowed his head and departed; and the abbess, weary with the
fatigue and excitement of the day, gladly sought repose. All the
convent was quiet around, and the nuns long gone to rest. Even the
lady's two nieces had some time before closed their eyes in the sweet
and happy slumber of youth.

Sleep soon visited the pillow of the abbess also; for she never
remembered having sat up so late, except once, when King Edward, the
libidinous predecessor of the reigning monarch, had visited the abbey
during one of his progresses.

Still and deep was her rest; she knew nothing of the passing hours;
she heard not the clock strike, though the tower on which it stood was
exactly opposite to her cell. She heard not even the baby of St.
Clare, when, a little before two o'clock, it was rung sharply and
repeatedly. A few minutes after, however, there was a knock at the
room door; but, no answer being given, a lay sister entered with a
lamp in her hand, and roused her superior somewhat suddenly.

"Pardon, lady mother, pardon," she said; "but I am forced to wake you,
for here is Dick the under forester come up to tell you, from Boyd,
the head woodman, that enemies are coming, and that you had better
take counsel upon it immediately. There is no time to be lost, he
says, for they are already past the Redbridge turn, not a mile and a
half off, and, alack and a well-a-day, we are all unprepared!"

"Not so little prepared as you think, sister Grace," replied the
abbess, rising at once, and hurrying on her gown. "You run to the
porter, and tell him to toll the great bell with all his might,
opening the gate to the men of the hamlet and the tenants, but keeping
fast ward against the rovers. Then away with you, as soon as you have
delivered that message, up to the belfry tower. The moon must be still
up--"

"She's down, she's down," cried the nun, in great alarm.

"Then light the beacon," cried the abbess. "That will give light
enough to see when they come near. As soon as you perceive men
marching in a band, like regular soldiers, ring the little bell to
give the porter notice; and, after watching what they do for a minute
or two, come and tell me. Be steady; be careful; and do not let fright
scare away your wits."

The nun hurried to obey; and in a minute after, the loud and sonorous
alarm bell of the abbey was heard, shaking the air far and wide over
the forest, with its dull and sullen boom.

Having delivered her message to the porter, the poor nun, with her
lamp in her hand, hurried up the numberless steps of the beacon tower,
trembling in every limb, notwithstanding the courageous tone of her
superior. Upon the thick stone roof at the top she found an immense
pile of <DW19>s, ready laid, and mingled with pitch, and, lying at
some distance, a heap of fresh wood, to be cast on as occasion
required, with a large jar of oil and an iron ladle, to increase the
flame as it rose up.

Fortunately, the night was as calm as sleep, and not a breath of wind
crossed the heavens; otherwise the lamp would assuredly have been
blown out in the poor sister's trepidation and confusion. As it was,
she had nearly let it fall into the midst of the pile, in the first
attempt to light the beacon; but the next moment the thin dry twigs,
which were placed beneath, caught the fire, crackled, nearly went out
again; and then, with a quantity of dull smoke, the fire rushed up,
licking the thicker wood above. The pitch ignited; the whole pile
caught; and a tall column of flame, some sixteen or seventeen feet
high, rose into the air, and cast a red and ominous light over the
whole country round. The buildings on the little green became
distinctly visible in a moment, the houses of the priests and
choristers, the cottages of the peasants and the labourers; and
running her eye along the valley beyond, in the direction of
Coleshill, the lay sister saw, coming through the low ground, just
under the verge of the wood, a dark mass, apparently of men on
horseback, at the distance of less than half a mile. At the same time,
however, she beheld a sight which gave her better hope. Not only from
the cottages on the green were men issuing forth and hurrying to the
great portal of the abbey, but, along the three roads which she could
espy, she beheld eighteen or twenty figures, some on foot, but some on
horseback, running or galloping at full speed. They were all separate
and detached from each other; but the flame of the beacon flashed upon
steel caps and corslets, and spear heads; and she easily judged that
the tenants and vassals, warned beforehand and alarmed by the sound of
the great bell, were hastening to do the military service they owed.

When she looked again in the direction of the mass she had seen on the
Coleshill road, she perceived that the head of the troop had halted;
and she judged rightly that, surprised by the sudden lighting of the
beacon and tolling of the bell, the leaders were pausing to consult.

For a moment, a hope crossed her mind that they would be frightened at
the state of preparation which they found, and desist; but the next
instant the troop began to move on again; and remembering the orders
which she had received, she rang a lesser bell which hung near the
beacon, still keeping her eyes fixed upon the party advancing up the
valley.

Steadily and cautiously they came on; were lost for a minute or two
behind the houses the hamlet; then reappeared upon the little green;
and, dividing into three troops, the one remained planted before the
great gates, while the others, gliding between the cottages and the
walls of the abbey, filed off to the right and left, with the evident
purpose of surrounding the whole building, and guarding every outlet.
The poor nun, however, fancied, on the contrary, that they were gone
to seek some favourable point of attack; and murmuring to herself,
"The Blessed Virgin have mercy upon us, and all the saints protect us!
There will never be men enough to protect all the walls," she hurried
down to make her report to her superior; but the abbess was not to be
found.




CHAPTER IX.


In a small cell, of size and proportion exactly similar to those of
the nuns, though somewhat differently arranged and decorated, lay a
very beautiful girl sound asleep. A light coif of network confined, or
strove to confine, the rich glossy curling hair; but still a long
ringlet struggled away from those bonds, and fell over a neck as white
as ivory. The eyes, the bright, beautiful, speaking eyes, the soul's
interpreters, were closed, with the long sweeping black eyelashes
resting on the cheek; but still the beautiful and delicate line of the
features, in their quiet loveliness, offered as fair a picture as ever
met mortal sight. Stretched beyond the bedclothes too, was the
delicate hand and rounded arm, with the loop, which fastened the
night-dress round the wrist, undone, and the white sleeve pushed back
nearly to the elbow. One might have sworn it was the hand and arm of
some marvellous statue, had it not been for the rosy tips of the
delicate fingers, and one small blue vein through which the flood of
young and happy life was rushing.

The dull and heavy tolling of the great bell woke her not, though the
sound evidently reached her ear, and had some indistinct effect upon
her mind, for the full rosy lips of her small mouth parted, showing
the pearly teeth beneath; and some murmuring sounds were heard, of
which the only word distinguishable was "matins."

The next instant, however, her slumber was broken, for the abbess
stood beside her with a lamp in her hand, and shook her shoulder,
saying "Iola, Iola!"

The fair girl started up and gazed in her aunt's face bewildered; and
then she heard the sullen tolling of the great bell, and various other
sounds which told her that some unusual events were taking place.

"Quick, Iola," cried the abbess, "rise and dress yourself. I have a
task for you to perform in haste, my child.--There, no care for your
toilette. Leave your hair in the net. Lose not a moment; for this is a
matter of life and death."

"What it is, my dear lady mother?" asked Iola, trying to gather her
senses together.

"It is to convey one, whom his persecutors have followed even hither,
to a place of safety," replied the abbess. "Listen, my child, and
reply not. The friar you saw this night is a high and holy man,
unjustly persecuted by an usurping king. That he has taken refuge here
has been discovered. The abbey is menaced by a power we cannot resist.
It would be searched, the sanctuary violated, and the good man torn
from the altar, to imprisonment, or perhaps death, had I not the means
of conveying him beyond the walls--ay, and beyond the reach of danger.
You must be his guide, Iola, for I must not reveal the secret to any
of the sisters; and if Constance is to take the veil, as has been
proposed, she must not know it either."

"Constance will not take the veil, dear aunt," replied Iola quietly;
"but I am quite ready to do whatever you will, and to help to the
utmost of my power. But cannot the good man find the way himself if he
be told, for I am as ignorant of it as he is?"

"He could find his way through the passage," replied the abbess,
"easily enough, but not through the wood when he issues forth."

"Oh, I can guide him there, as well as Boyd's great hound Ban,"
answered the gay girl, "but where am I to take him, dear aunt?"

"First to the cell of St. Magdalen," answered the elder lady, "and
thence by the wood walks to Boyd's cottage. If you push the door that
closes the end of the passage strongly, you will find that it opens
one of the panels at the back of the shrine. Mind you leave it ajar,
however, till you come back; for, once closed, you will not be able to
open it from that side. Then keep down the wood-road to the east, and
most likely you will meet Boyd; for he will be watching. If not, go
straight on to his house, and then return at once. I will let you into
the chapel as soon as the men are gone.--Now, child, are you ready?"

"One moment, dear aunt, one moment," answered Iola. "Where is my
hood?--I cannot clasp this gorget."

"Let me try," cried the abbess; but her trembling hands would not
perform the work; and at last Iola succeeded herself.

"There is your hood, child," cried her aunt. "Now come--come quick. We
shall have them at the gates before you are gone."

Hurrying along as fast as possible, she led her fair niece through
several of the long vaulted passages of the abbey, and thence, by her
own private entrance, into the chapel. The door leading to the nuns'
gallery was locked; but one of the keys at the abbess's girdle soon
opened it; and, advancing to the grated screen, she looked down into
the choir before she ventured to descend.

All was still and quiet. The glimmering light from the shrine of St.
Clare afforded a view up and down the church, and no human form was to
be seen. Neither was any sound heard, except the swinging of the great
bell, as it continued to pour forth its loud vibrating call for
assistance over the whole country round. Through the richly ornamented
windows, however, came flitting gleams of many- light, as
lanterns and torches were carried across the court, between the chapel
and the portal; and once or twice the sounds of voices were heard; but
the abbess distinguished the tongue of the porter, speaking with the
peasants as they hurried in.

"I cannot see him," whispered the abbess, after looking down for a
moment or two into the body of the church. "There can be surely no
mistake."

Iola took a step forward, and put her face to the grate. "He may be
behind that pillar," she said. "Yes, don't you see, dear aunt? The
light from the shrine casts the shadow of something like a man upon
the pavement?"

"Let us go down, let us go down," answered the abbess. "If he be not
there, nobody else is, so we need not be afraid;" and, opening the
door, leading to the lower part of the chapel, she descended the
spiral staircase which was concealed in one of the large columns that
supported both the roof of the building, and the gallery in which they
had been standing. The light foot of Iola made little sound upon the
pavement of the nave, as they proceeded towards the high altar; but
the less elastic tread of the abbess in her flat-soled sandal soon
called from behind the pillar a figure in a friar's gown and cowl.

In a calm and not ungraceful attitude, the old man waited for their
coming; and when the light of the abbess's lamp shone upon his face,
it displayed no signs of fear or agitation. "I have locked the door,
sister," he said, "as you desired me; but I almost feared I had made
some mistake, when I found you did not come; for I have been here from
the moment the bell began to toll."

"I had to wake my niece to guide you, reverend and dear lord," replied
the abbess; "but now let us hasten; for no time is to be lost. I am
terrified for your safety. To stay were ruin, and there is even peril
in flight."

"There was as much in the flight from Brecknock," answered the bishop
calmly; "but I am ready, my sister; lead the way.--And so you are to
be my guide, my fair child?" he continued, as they followed the
abbess. "Are you not frightened?"

"No, father," answered Iola quietly. "God will, I trust, protect me;
and I think there is more danger here than in the forest."

By this time they had passed round the great altar, and through a door
in the screen, which separated the choir from the lady chapel behind.
Immediately facing them was a large sort of flat pilaster, covered
half way up, as was all that part of the building, with old oak
panelling, in many places ornamented with rude sculptures. By a very
simple contrivance the panelling, with which the pilaster was covered,
was made to revolve upon hinges, concealed in the angle, where it
joined the wall. The abbess found some difficulty indeed, amongst all
the heads of dragons, and monkeys, and cherubim, and devils, with
which the woodwork was richly but grotesquely ornamented, to discover
that which served as a sort of handle. When she had found it, however,
the whole of the lower part of the panelling moved back easily enough,
and a door was seen behind on the face of the pilaster. It was low and
narrow, suffering only one person to pass at once, and that with a
bowed head. It was locked also at the moment; but the abbess took the
key from her girdle, and the bishop opened the door easily with his
own hands.

"And now, father, God speed you on your way," cried the abbess, "for I
must go no further. There is the beacon bell ringing, which shows that
these knaves are in sight. Here, take the lamp with you, Iola. The
passage is long and dark."

"Heaven's benison be upon you, sister," said the bishop, "and may God
protect you from all evil consequences of your Christian charity
towards me. Well have you repaid the little kindness I once showed
your brother in times long past, and leave me a debt of gratitude
besides."

"Nay, nay, I beseech you be quick, dear lord," said the lady; and,
passing through the doorway, the prelate and his fair guide found
themselves in a small vaulted chamber, with the end of a long dark
passage open before them. As soon as they had entered, the door was
closed, and they could hear the screen of panelling which covered it
roll back into its place. Iola led the way on through the passage
before them; and the bishop, after gazing round the vaulted room for
an instant, followed with a slower step and in silence. At the end of
some fifteen or sixteen yards, a small descending flight of stairs
presented itself; and Iola ran lightly down, holding the lamp at the
bottom, till the bishop descended. He gazed on her beautiful face and
figure with a fatherly smile, as, lifting the lamp above her head, she
stood with the light falling on her fair forehead and graceful limbs.

"And so thy name is Iola, my fair daughter," said the bishop, when he
reached her side; "and thou art the niece of our good sister the
abbess. Which of her brothers is thy father?"

"She has but one still living, my lord," replied Iola. "My father is
no more."

"Then you must be the daughter of Richard St. Leger Lord Calverly,"
said the bishop; "I knew him well."

"The same, my lord," replied Iola; "and methinks I have heard that
your lordship once saved his life. If I understood my aunt's words
rightly but now, and you are the Lord Bishop of Ely, I have heard my
uncle, the present Lord Calverly, say that the bishop of Ely had saved
his brother's life, what time the red rose was broken from the stalk."

"I was not the Bishop of Ely then, daughter, but merely Robert
Morton," replied the prelate; "one of King Edward's privy council, but
one who took no share in policy or party strife, and only strove to
mitigate the bloody rigour of a civil war, by touching men's hearts
with mercy, when the moment served. The time will come, perhaps, when
men will marvel that I, who faithfully once served King Henry, should
serve, when he was dead, as faithfully his great opponent; but I had
pondered well the course before me, and feel my conscience clear. I
asked myself how I might do most good to men of every faction and to
my country; and I can boldly say, my child, that I have saved more
subjects for the crown of England--good honest men too, misled by
party zeal--by interposing to stay the lifted hand of vengeance, than
were slain by any of the mighty nobles who took part with either side
in these horrible wars. I never changed my faction, daughter, for I
never had one. And now the hatred of the reigning king has pursued me,
because he knew right well that I would raise my voice against the
wrong he did his brother's children."

To a mind well versed in the world's affairs, the fact of the good
bishop entering into such apologetical explanations, at such a moment,
and with such a companion, would have been sufficient to show that he
did not feel quite sure his conduct was without reproach; for we
always put our armour where we know we are weak. But Iola was too
young and simple to suspect or to doubt; and she only looked upon him
as the good and kind prelate, who, in times of intestine strife, had
interposed to save her father's life. Joyful then at the task imposed
upon her, she walked onward by his side; and the conversation, thus
begun, proceeded in a somewhat lighter tone. The bishop asked her of
her state, her future, her hopes, her wishes, and seemed to forget his
own perilous situation in speaking and thinking of her. He was indeed
a very fearless man, not with the rash, bold, enterprising courage of
some, but with that calm tranquil abiding of results which can never
exist without high hope and confidence in God. He had his faults, as
all men have; but still he had many virtues, and, in an age when few
were religious, felt the truths of Christianity, and knew religion to
consist in something more than forms.

Once their conversation was interrupted by the sound of horses' feet,
beating the ground immediately above them; and Iola started and looked
up with an expression of fear.

"They will not break through, my child," said the prelate, with a
smile, lifting his eyes to the solid masonry above. "That arch is
thick and strong, depend upon it; but I suppose, by those sounds, we
are already beyond the abbey walls?"

"I do not know," answered Iola, "for I have never been here before;
but the lady abbess tells me, this passage will lead us out into St.
Magdalen's cell, and thence I know the way well.

"How far is it?" asked the bishop.

"Oh, a long way," answered the fair girl, by his side, "nearly a
mile."

She thought only of its distance by the ordinary path, which, as I
have before said, took various turnings to avoid the ravine and the
rivulet; but the passage that they were now pursuing, sunk by the
steps which they had descended to a level below all such obstacles,
abridged the distance by nearly one half. It is true that the bottom
of the bed of the rivulet itself was somewhat lower than the top of
the arched vault; but nevertheless the latter had been carried
straight on and cemented, so as to be impervious to the water, while
broken rocks and stones had been piled up above, concealing the
masonry, and forming a little cascade in the stream. Thus, when they
reached that spot, the rush and murmur of the waterfall was heard,
and, turning her bright eyes to the prelate's face, Iola said:

"We must be passing under the river, I think."

"It is not unlikely, daughter," replied the bishop. "In other lands,
which you most likely have never seen, I have beheld vast structures
for carrying rivers from hill to hill, raised on high arches,
underneath which the busy world of men passed to and fro, while the
stream flowed overhead."

"I have heard of such things," replied Iola; "and oh, how I long to
see those lands and to dream of all that mighty men have done in
former days. How strange it is that such arts have not come down to
us. Here we see nothing between the huge castle with its frowning
towers, or the lordly church with its spires and pinnacles, and the
wood cottage of the peasant, or the humble abode of the franklin."

"The bishop smiled at her.

"You have been but little in cities, my child," he said; "but your
observation is just. It is strange that the arts of other ages have
not descended to us; for one would suppose, if anything on earth could
be permanent, it would be that knowledge and that skill which tend to
the elevation, the protection, and the comfort of the human race,
especially when the wonders they have performed, and the monuments
they have raised, are still before our eyes, although in ruins. But
birth, life, death, and corruption are the fate of nations, as well as
of men, of systems as well as creatures, of the offsprings of the
human mind as well as of the inheritors of the corporeal frame. As in
the successions of the human race, however, we see the numbers of the
population still increasing, notwithstanding periods of devastation
and destruction; as those who are born and die give birth to more than
their own decease subtracts, so probably the loss of the arts, the
sciences, even the energies which one nation or one epocha has
produced, is succeeded by the production of arts, sciences, energies,
more numerous, if not more vigorous, in the nation or epocha which
follows. But these have again their childhood, their maturity, their
decay; and society with us, my daughter, is perhaps still in its
infancy--I believe indeed it is."

Iola gazed at him surprised, and somewhat bewildered, for he had led
her mind beyond its depth; and the good prelate read the expression
aright, and replied to it--

"You are surprised at such reasonings," he said, "because you are not
accustomed to them; but I believe those people above would be more
surprised, if they knew that, at the very moment they are seeking me
to destroy me, I am walking along calmly beneath their feet, talking
philosophy with a fair young creature like yourself."

He spoke with a smile, and then cast down his eyes in a musing mood,
but, still that high intelligent smile remained upon his lips, as if
he found some amusement in watching the working of his own mind,
amidst the strange circumstances with which fate surrounded him.

The moment after, the passage began to ascend, not exactly by steps,
though the broad flat stones with which it was paved rose a little,
one above the edge of the other, rendering the path somewhat rough and
difficult. This lasted not long, however, and the bishop, raising his
eyes, observed--

"There seems a door before us. Have you got the key?"

"It will open, on being pressed hard," replied Iola; "but I cannot
think we have reached the cell yet. The way has seemed so short."

So it proved however; and approaching the door, she attempted to push
it open, but it resisted her efforts. The bishop however aided; the
door moved back; and, holding it open, he desired Iola to pass through
into the cell which was now before them. It was a low vaulted Gothic
chamber, opening on the side of the hill, by an arch with an iron
grate, and having on one side a shrine and little altar. The bishop
followed his fair guide into this small chapel; but Iola herself had
forgotten her aunt's injunction regarding the door. The bishop let it
slip from his hand, as he passed through; and it closed at once,
leaving no trace of its existence in the old woodwork of the walls.
Had Iola recollected the difficulty she might have in returning, she
would certainly have been alarmed; and the sudden close of the door
would probably have brought her aunt's warning to her remembrance, had
not a sight been presented to her, immediately on entering the chapel,
which at once occupied all her attention. Through the low archway
which I mentioned appeared the walls and towers of the abbey, lighted
up by the flame of the beacon, and by a blaze, red and smoky as if
proceeding from torches both in the great courtyard between the chapel
and the portal, and on the little green before the great gates. The
green itself, was partly hidden by the priest's house and the
cottages; but under the walls, to the north and west of the building,
were seen several groups of men on horseback; and the sounds of loud
voices speaking, and of men calling to one another, were borne to the
ear distinctly, for the great bell by this time had ceased to toll,
and there was no other sound to interrupt the murmur of the voices
from the abbey.

By a natural impulse, Iola clasped her fair hands together, and
uttered a low exclamation of fear; but the bishop gazed calmly forth
for a moment, and then said--

"We had better hasten on our way, my child. Extinguish the lamp--Here,
set it down here. We must not show ourselves more than we we can help,
lest any eye should be turned this way."

"We must pass through the grate," said Iola, recalled to herself by
the prelate's words; "for there is no other way out; but if we run
quickly round to the back of the building, no one will see us."

"Let us go one at a time," said the bishop. "It is well to take every
precaution, though I do not think the light is sufficiently strong to
show us to those on the opposite side of the valley."

"Turn sharp to the right," said Iola, opening the iron grate, for the
prelate to pass through; and, as soon as he was gone, she followed and
rejoined him at the back of the building. "Now this way, this way,"
she continued hastily, anxious to lead him away from dangers, the
imminence of which seemed now for the first time to strike her; and
guiding him along one of the forest paths, she hurried on with a quick
step, saying with one of her gay short laughs:

"They would not easily find us here. I could lead them through such a
labyrinth that they would not know which way to turn to get out."

"You seem to know the forest well, daughter," said the bishop, in a
good-humoured tone. "I fear me you have been fonder of rambling in the
woods than conning dry lessons in the abbey of St. Clare."

He spoke in a gay and kindly manner, which conveyed no reproof; but
Iola blushed a little while she answered--

"Surely! My dear aunt has not been very severe with me; and every day,
when the sun was bright and the skies blue, I have gone out--sometimes
with my girl Alice, sometimes alone, sometimes on foot, sometimes on a
mule, sometimes to bear a message to woodman or tenant, sometimes for
pure idleness. And yet not pure idleness either, my lord; for I do not
know why, but amidst these old trees and upon the top of the hill,
where I catch a view of all the woods and fields and rivers below,
bright and beautiful and soft, it seems as if my heart rose up to
Heaven more lightly than under the vault of the chapel and amongst its
tall columns of stone. Then sometimes I sit beneath a spreading oak,
and look at its giant limbs, and compare them with the wild anemone
that grows at its foot, and lose myself in musing over the everlasting
variety that I see. But hark! those voices are very loud. They cannot
be coming nearer, surely."

"You are brave at a distance, daughter," said the bishop calmly; "but
be not alarmed. They are only raised a little higher."

"Oh, no," she answered; "I am no coward; and you would see, if they
did come near, I should not lose my wits."

Almost as she spoke, a voice exclaimed, in a one not very loud--

"Who goes there?" and Iola started, and laid her hand on the bishop's
arm, as if to keep him back.

"It is Boyd the woodman's voice, I think," she said in a whisper.
"Slip in behind that great tree, and I will go on and see."

"Who goes there?" repeated the voice again raised higher; and Iola,
taking a step or two forward, demanded--

"Who is it that asks?"

"Is that you, Lady Iola?" said the voice, as soon as the woman's tone
was distinguished.

"Yes," answered Iola. "Is it Boyd who speaks?"

"The same," answered the woodman. "Have you brought him? Where is he?
Is he safe?"

"He is here, he is here," answered Iola. "Father, this is Boyd the
woodman, in whom you can fully trust."

"Ah, lady, lady," murmured the woodman, coming forward, "where is the
man in whom you can fully trust?"

Advancing towards him, Iola and the prelate found that he had been
standing in a small open space at the angle of two roads, both of
which led more or less directly to St. Magdalen's cell. The light on
the spot was faint, but the woodman's tall and powerful figure was not
to be mistaken; and, having resigned her charge to him, Iola turned to
the prelate, saying,

"Now I will go back as fast as possible, father."

"Stay a moment, my child," replied the bishop. "May the Almighty bless
and protect you, and guide you in safety unto all peace;" and he laid
his hand tenderly on her head.

"Do not go in rashly, lady," said the woodman, "but stay in the little
vaulted chamber at the end of the passage, till you hear matins sung
in the chapel. The place will not be free of these rovers till then.
If you hear not matins or prime, you may suppose that they still keep
possession. In that case, you had better come away to me, dear
lady--you know that I will take care of you."

"Oh, I know that well, Boyd," replied Iola. "Good night, good
night--see to this reverend father's safety before all things."

"Ay, that will take two good hours at least," said the woodman, "or I
would go back with you myself, dear lady; but I think you are safe
enough alone."

"I have no fear," answered Iola; and she tripped lightly away,
retreading the path back towards the cell.

That path led along the rising ground just at the verge of the forest,
where the trees were thin and the undergrowth scanty, so that the
sounds from the abbey continued to reach the fair girl's ears as she
pursued it. She thought she heard the sound of horses' feet somewhat
nearer, also, as if coming from the road that led up through the
forest. At the same time it seemed to her that a redder glare, and a
broader light spread over the sky, reflected thence upon the little
footway which she trod. "They must have piled more wood upon the
beacon," she thought; but yet she felt some degree of alarm.

Hurrying on, she at length reached the spot where the path passed at
the back of the cell, and turning quickly round the little building,
the abbey, with the slight rise on which it stood, was once more
before her sight. What was her terror and surprise at that moment,
when she saw the beacon light extinguished, but a still wider and more
fearful glare rising up from the little green, the houses surrounding
which were all in flames. Several of the wooden cottages were already
down, the still burning beams and rafters lying in piles upon the
ground, like huge bonfires casting up a cloud of sparks into the
flickering fiery air above; and across the glare might now be seen a
number of dark figures moving about upon the green, some on horseback,
some on foot. From the house of the priests and choristers was rising
up a tall spire of flame, sometimes clear and bright, sometimes
obscured by a cloud of smoke and sparks; but the abbey itself was
still unfired, and stood out dark and solemn in the midst of the
blaze, with the light gleaming here and there upon the walls and
pinnacles.

The first sight startled and horrified her; but she did not pause to
gaze at it, till she had entered the chapel and closed the iron gate,
as if for protection; but then she stood and watched the flames for a
moment or two, and at length asked herself what she should do.

"I will go back," she answered, after a moment's thought. "I will not
be absent from my poor aunt's side at such a moment;" and she turned
to seek the door into the passage. Then, for the first time, she
perceived that it was closed, and recollected the warning of the
abbess to leave it ajar. She now felt really terrified; and that need
of protection and help, that want of something to lean upon and to
trust in, which most women experience in the hour of danger, made
itself terribly felt.

"What will become of me? Where shall I go? What shall I do?" she
murmured anxiously; and then, again and again, cast a timid glance at
the burning buildings on the opposite side of the dell. "I will go to
Boyd's house," she said at length. "I can find protection there."

But suddenly she remembered what he had said, in regard to the time he
should be occupied in providing for the safety of the bishop; but her
determination was at length expressed--"I shall be more safe there
than here at all events. I will go;" and, without further hesitation,
she crept back into the path again.

Iola now knew for the first time in life, perhaps, what it is to fear,
and how the imagination is excited by apprehension. The sight of the
burning buildings had shaken her nerves. She crept along as stealthily
as if she feared that every tree was an enemy. She thought she heard
sounds too, near at hand as she went on, and then tried to persuade
herself that it was but the waving of the trees in the wind. Then she
felt sure that somebody must be near; she quickened her pace to reach
a path which turned suddenly to the right; but at the very entrance,
when she reached it, there was standing a figure, the form of which
she could not distinctly see; but it seemed tall and thin, and
garmented all in white, according to the popular idea of a phantom.
She recoiled in terror, and would have fled back again; but there
directly in her way was another figure; and a voice exclaimed, as she
was turning once more to fly--

"Lady, lady, whither away? Stay yet a moment--stay, it is a friend."

She thought she knew the tones; but, as the stranger approached, she
receded, asking--

"Who is it? Who is it?"

"It is Lord Chartley," he said. "Stay, stay! You are running upon
danger."

The last words were needless; for, before they were fully uttered,
Iola had not only stopped but sprung forward to meet him.




CHAPTER X.


Human fate, or rather the fate of the whole human race, is but as a
web of cloth fixed in the frame of circumstances, with an unseen hand
continually throwing the shuttle. The threads may be infinite, and
some far apart from others; some in the centre, some at the selvage,
but all tied and bound together by filaments that run across and
across, and never ceasing till the piece is finished. When will that
be? Heaven only knows. Certainly not till the end of the world.

We must now, by the reader's permission, leave the thread of Iola, and
take up that of the abbess where we last left it.

As soon as she had closed the door and pushed to the panelling which
concealed it, the abbess reascended to the nun's gallery in the
chapel, and thence proceeded into the great body of the building. She
found, as may be supposed, the utmost confusion and alarm prevailing;
for by this time the noise of the great bell, and of the various
sounds that were rising up around the walls, had roused all the nuns
from their pallets, and, with consternation in their countenances,
they were hurrying hither and thither, seeking something, and not
knowing very well what they sought. Although a good deal alarmed
herself, and unable to foresee what might be the end of all that was
taking place, the abbess, whose heart was naturally merry, could
almost have laughed at the grotesque accidents which fear produced;
but, having more mind and character than the whole convent put
together, she at once proceeded to restore order.

"Go at once to the chapel," she said to every nun she saw; "gather all
the sisterhood there, and see that none be omitted. I will join you
soon."

This order had to be repeated frequently; for at every step she met
some one, and several required it to be reiterated two or three times,
before terror would suffer them to comprehend it.

At length, passing round the end of the chapel, the abbess entered the
great court, and found to her joy and satisfaction a much greater body
of men drawn up for her defence than she expected; for the woodman had
not been idle during the morning, and many more of the peasantry had
been warned to listen for the sound of the bell than the voice of the
porter could summon. Four of the inferior foresters also had somehow
found their way into the building, dressed in leathern coats and iron
caps, and each carried on his shoulder a sort of weapon, which none
within the walls had ever seen before. This was a sort of small
cannon, fastened upon a rudely constructed stock, and fitted to carry
a ball of the weight of two or three ounces. There was no lock, nor
any contrivance even for applying fire to the touch-hole by one
movement; but round the arm of the bearer was twined a coil of match,
which one of the men was as at that moment lighting at the porter's
lantern.[1]


---------------

[Footnote 1: The first mention that I find of the real arquibuse, or
match lock, is in an account of the household of the Duke of Burgundy
in 1474; but small cannons, called in France coulverines á la main,
were used long before. They are represented in the old miniatures, as
resting on the shoulder of one soldier, while another takes the aim
from behind, and the first applies the match at the word of command.]

---------------


"What is that? What is that?" cried the abbess; "it looks like a
little falconet."

"It is a hand-gun, lady," said the forester. "Some of our people
brought them from Burgundy; and Boyd sent in these four. When it is
time to use them, we hoist them over our shoulders; and, while the men
behind take aim, we fire."

The abbess mused, for the invention was quite new to her; and,
strangely clumsy as it was, it seemed to her a wonderful discovery in
the art of war. She even grew very valiant on the strength of it, and
called aloud for the bailiff, to consult with him upon the means of
defence. The bailiff could not be found, however; and the porter
informed her, with a grin, that he had gone to the buttery, thinking
that there must be the principal point of attack.

"Bring him hither directly," said the abbess; "bring him by the ears,
if he will not otherwise come. In the mean time how many men have we
here?"

"Three and thirty, my lady," replied the old porter, while one or two
ran away to bring the bailiff; "three and thirty, besides the gun-men.
I think we can make good the place till morning; and then we shall
have the whole country up to help us. But if you would take my advice,
you would lock that bailiff up in a cell. He cools men's hearts with
his cowardice. I wish he were half as brave as you, my lady."

"Well then you must command, porter," said the abbess. "Let some of
the men take their bows and cross-bows up to the top of the portal,
while others keep watch upon the walls all round, that they may not
raise ladders without our knowing it. Let the four men with the
hand-cannons draw up across the chapel door for the present. They can
there very well fire upon the gates, if the enemy should break them
down."

The porter was venturing to remonstrate, pointing out that the gun-men
would be better on the walls, when the unfortunate bailiff was dragged
into the abbess's presence, with a face so pale and eyes so haggard,
that his very look convicted him. He smelt strongly of wine too, so
that it was clear he had been seeking to gain courage from other
sources than his own heart.

"Coward!" cried the abbess, as soon as she saw him, "are you not
ashamed to see women set you an example in defending the rights of the
church, while you are slinking away from your duty? Take him hence,"
she continued, as he attempted to stutter forth some vain excuses.
"Take him hence at once, and lock him up in the first cell on the
left hand. Away with him, for fear his cowardice should become
infectious!--Hark! They are upon the green. There is a trumpet. I will
go up to the window above the gates, and speak with them. Let not the
men shoot till I give the word."

Two or three of the people round besought her to forbear, especially
the priest and the principal chorister; but the abbess not only
persisted in her resolution, but besought them to accompany her, in a
tone which did not admit of refusal; and, walking on with an air of
more dignity than one would have supposed her little plump figure
could display, she ascended the stairs in the left hand tower of the
portal, and presented herself at the grated window just above the
gates. The part of the green nearest to the abbey was now covered with
armed men, principally on horseback, though some had dismounted and
were approaching the gates. A group of six or seven, who were
apparently leaders, were seen at a little distance on the left, and
one of them was at that moment raising his voice to an armed peasant
who had appeared upon the walls. The abbess, however, cut short this
oratory in the commencement, by demanding, in that shrill high key
which makes itself heard so much farther than even a louder voice at a
lower note: "What want ye here, my masters? How come you here in arms
before the abbey of St. Clare? Bid those men keep back from the gates!
Else I will instantly bid the soldiers shoot and the cannon fire."

"Cannons!" cried one of the leaders with a laugh. "By my fay, the
place seems a fortress instead of an abbey."

"You will find it so to your cost, uncivil churl, if you attempt to
plunder here," cried the abbess. "Bid them keep back, I say, or bide
the consequence!"

"Halt, there, keep back!" cried the leader who had before spoken; and
pushing his own horse under the window where the abbess stood, he
looked up, saying, "They were but going to ring the bell. Are you the
lady abbess?"

"What need of six men to ring the bell?" exclaimed the abbess. "If you
need so many hands to do small work, you will require more than you
have brought here to get the gates open. I am the lady abbess, and I
bid you go hence and leave me and my children at peace, upon pain of
anathema, and the greater and the lesser excommunication. I know not
whether ye be the same who came to plunder us some time ago; but, if
ye be, ye will find us better prepared now than we were then, though
it cost you dear, even at that time."

"Listen, listen, good lady," said the horseman; "for, if you do not
hear, you cannot understand, and a woman's tongue is sometimes worse
than a cannon."

"You will find the thunder of the church worse still," cried the lady.

"Of that we are not afraid," answered the other; "for we come not to
plunder, or commit any act of violence, unless we are driven to it."

"Pardieu, this is all chattering and nonsense," cried another man, who
had ridden up from behind. "Break open the gates, Sir John. If you do
not, I will; for they will convey the man away, and by Heaven, if they
do, I will burn the place about their ears!"

"Peace, peace!" cried the other. "They cannot convey him away. Our men
are all round the walls. Listen to me for a moment, lady. We have
certain information that a man took refuge here last night, disguised
as a friar. Him we must have forth; and if you will bring him out and
give him up, we will ride away quietly and leave you. If not, we must
find our way in and take him. We should be sorry to hurt any of your
people, or to do any damage; but, when a place is forced, you know,
soldiers are under no command, and the consequence be upon your own
head. We must have him out."

"Do you not know that this is sanctuary," cried the abbess, "and, even
if he had committed parricide or treason, any man would be safe within
these walls."

"Ay, but he has not committed any offence which makes sanctuary
available," replied the other. "This is a deserter from his right
standard, and we will have him forth, sanctuary or no sanctuary."

"There is no such man within the walls of St. Clare," replied the
abbess. "I only stand up for the privileges of the place, because they
are its privileges; but at the same time, I tell you that there is no
sanctuary man here, of any kind or description whatever."

"Hell and damnation!" exclaimed the more vehement of the leaders.
"Will you pretend to tell me that a man did not come here this very
evening, habited as a friar, who never went forth again with those who
brought him? On upon the gates there. This is all jugglery!"

"Hold yet a moment, ere it comes to strife," exclaimed the abbess; and
the other leader also exclaimed:

"Hold, hold there! What would you say, lady? for we cannot be dallied
with."

"I say," replied the abbess, "that the damnation you evoke will some
day fall upon your own heads, if you pursue this course. Moreover, I
tell you, that there is no such man here, nor any man at all, but the
tenants and officers of the abbey. A friar certainly did come here
this evening, with a goodly company of guests. He did not depart with
them; but he went away afterwards, and is no longer here--hear me out!
To save bloodshed, I will give you the means of satisfying yourselves,
protesting, at the same time, against the act you commit, and clearly
reserving my right to punish you for it, at an after time, when you
shall not plead my permission as an excuse."

"We will look to that," cried one of the others boldly. "Open your
gates. We shall not want excuses for anything we do."

"Nay!" answered the abbess. "I open not my gates to all your lewd
band. Any six may enter, if they will, and search every corner of the
abbey, from one end to the other. You will then soon see, that I have
means of defence if I choose to exert them. If you accept the terms,
bid all the rest of the men retire to the other side of the green. If
not, I will tell the cross-bow men and cannoniers to fire."

"We must have ten with us, otherwise we shall never get through the
search," said the leader, who had first spoken.

"Well, ten be it then," said the abbess. "We shall only have more in
our hands to hang, if those without attempt to play us any treachery."

"You are merry, lady," said the leader. "Is it so agreed?"

"Yes!" replied the abbess; "bid your men back, quite to the other
side. Then let ten advance, and I will come down and order them to be
admitted."

She waited till she had seen the retreat of the band, to the far part
of the green; and then descending, she gave her orders with great
clearness and rapidity, directing such arrangements to be made as
would display her little force to the greatest advantage, and ordering
her porter as the commander-in-chief, to send two or three stout men
with each party of the searchers, keeping a wary eye at the same time
upon the band without, to insure they did not approach nearer to the
gates.

She then retired into the chapel, where she found the nuns all
gathered round the great altar, like a swarm of bees. Having quieted
and re-assured them, as well as she could, she betook herself to the
window, which gave light to the gallery appropriated to the
sisterhood, and, opening the lattice, looked out into the court. By
this time, the ten men to whom she had promised admittance were
entering, one by one, through the wicket; and she flattered herself
that their faces, seen by the light of the torches, showed some
surprise at the numbers collected for the defence of the place. The
first part of the building, however, which they chose to search, was
the chapel, and hurrying down, she met them at the great altar in the
midst of her nuns. No incivility was committed; for the men without,
with their loaded hand-guns, and some fifteen or sixteen others, with
steel cross-bows in their hands, had imposed a salutary reverence upon
the intruders. The chapel, however, was searched in every part; and
when this was done, the soldiers gone, and the door once more locked,
the abbess again resumed her station at the window, with a heart
which, notwithstanding her bold exterior, beat somewhat anxiously for
the departure of the band.

She saw the buildings on either side of the court examined thoroughly;
and then, dividing into three parties, the searchers proceeded on
their way, disappearing from her sight. She listened for their voices
as they went, and could trace them part of the way round the great
quadrangle; but then all was silent again, and she judged that they
had gone to the most remote parts of the building--perhaps even to the
gardens--to sweep it all the way up, in order to prevent the
possibility of a fugitive escaping.

All was silent for a few minutes, except the low murmurs of the
abbey-men speaking in the court below; but then came some sounds which
startled and alarmed the abbess; for, after a crash, as of a door
forced open, she could distinctly hear a shout of "Here he is, here he
is! We've got him."

A loud murmuring of many tongues succeeded; and in a state of
trembling anxiety, she waited for the result, till, to her great
relief and even amusement, she beheld the whole party of ten
re-appear, dragging along her cowardly bailiff in the midst of them,
while several of the retainers of the abbey followed with a look of
malicious fun upon their faces.

"Upon my life! upon my soul! by all the blessed saints, I tell you
true," cried the unhappy bailiff. "Here, Giles, porter, tell them who
I am, man--He can tell you--he can tell you."

"Faith, you are mistaken there, if you call me porter," said the man
he addressed. "I know nothing about you. You are mistaken in me, good
sir. I am the bailiff of the abbey."

"There, there," said one of the leaders of the soldiery. "It is all in
vain, my good lord, so come along--there, take him out."

The abbess could not refrain from laughing, although she felt a strong
inclination to interfere, and claim the poor bailiff as the especial
property of the convent. Before she could make up her mind, however,
the man was past the gates; but still, while one party of the
searchers remained in the court, another turned back and pursued the
examination, till not a hole or corner of the abbey was left
unexplored.

In the meanwhile, however, a great deal of loud cursing and swearing
was heard from the green; words of command were given, orders shouted
forth; and at length, the porter hurriedly closed the wicket,
exclaiming--

"Up to the walls! Bend your cross-bows! What are they about now?--You
gunners, stand here below!--You pass not, sir, you pass not, till we
know what all this is," he continued, addressing the leader who had
first spoken to the abbess, and who, with three companions, now
hurried into the court from the more secluded part of the building.

"I know not what it is any more than you do, my good man," replied the
other; "but if you let me out, I will soon see."

"They are coming forward towards the gates, sir!" exclaimed the
porter. "Shoot at them if they come too close, my men!--You are a
knight, sir, it seems; and we will keep you as a hostage for the
safety of the abbey."

"Nay, I cannot be answerable for that unless you let me forth,"
replied the other; "but if you do, I pledge my knightly word, as a
gentleman and a Christian, that all the troops shall be drawn off, and
the abbey left unmolested."

He spoke eagerly and hastily, evidently under some alarm  but the old
porter was not satisfied, and he replied--

"Here, put it down and your name to it. Here are pen and ink, and the
visitor's book in the lodge." The officer hurried in, and did as was
required at once; for the four unpleasant-looking hand culverins were
pointed at him and his companions, and a lighted match in each man's
hand ready to discharge them. "There it is," he said, when he had
written, "Now let me pass."

The porter looked over the writing. Whether he could read or not, I
cannot tell; but when he had satisfied himself as far as he was able,
he cautiously opened the wicket, and let the intruders pass out one by
one.

The commander led the way, hurrying on with a quick step; and he
certainly did not arrive as soon as he could have wished.

"What is the matter?" he exclaimed; "what is the matter?"

"Mort Dieu!" cried the second in command, "we have been cheated, Sir
John. This man is not the bishop after all. Here is one of our own
people who knows him, and says he is really the bailiff."

"I am indeed," cried the miserable coward; "and if you would have let
me, I would have told you all long ago."

"He Says, the friar was there not an hour ago," vociferated the second
in command, "and that they must have got him out, either into these
houses, or into the wood, as we were coming up the valley."

"Search the houses," said the commander; "and send a troop up the road
to the wood."

"It is done, it is done," cried the other. "The men are furious; for
they will lose all share of the reward. By Satan and all his imps," he
added, "I believe they have set fire to the houses."

"This will come to a serious reckoning," said the commander gravely.
"Try and stop the fire there. Call off the men;" and, as promptly as
might be, he did all that was possible to remedy the evil that had
been done. As every one who has had the command of rude men must know,
however, there are times when they become perfectly ungovernable. Such
was the case at present. They were an irregular and ruthless body who
now surrounded the abbey; and without attending to the orders they
received, to the remonstrances or even to the threats of their
commander, they set fire to every building on the right hand side of
the green. Nor would the others have escaped the same fate, nor the
abbey itself have been left unassailed, had not the officer, as a last
resource, commanded the trumpets to sound, and ordered all who could
be gathered together to march up the road, for the purpose of
searching the forest.

The stragglers followed, as soon as they found that the principal part
of the troop had left them; and the whole force, except three or four,
who remained to complete the pillage of the priest's house, marched
slowly up, till a halt was sounded under the first trees of the wood.

There, however, the officer in command selected some twenty men from
his band, and rode back to the abbey green. The rest of the men halted
where they stood, inquiring of each other what could be the meaning of
this proceeding.

He gave no explanation even when he returned; but the next morning, at
daybreak, three bodies were found hanging by the neck from poles stuck
into the thatch of one of the unconsumed cottages.




CHAPTER XI.


"Oh, I am very glad!" exclaimed Iola, in a tone so confiding, so
joyful, that it made Chartley's heart thrill.

There is certainly something in trust and confidence that is
wonderfully winning. Even with man--fierce, bloody, all-devouring
man--it is hardly possible to resist sacred confidence. The birds, the
beasts which trust us, and show their trust by cheerful familiarity,
we spare and cherish. The robin hops upon the window sill, and we feed
it with the crumbs from our table; and--to go from the least to the
greatest--we are told, that if we too trust in God, He will feed us,
as we feed the bird.

Yes, there is something very winning in confidence; and Lord Chartley,
though he could not see the fair face of Iola distinctly, thought her
more beautiful at that moment than when she had been sitting by his
side at the abbey.

"Dear lady," he said, taking her hand and speaking in a low voice, "it
rejoices me that you are glad; and right glad am I too, believe me, to
find you, though I did not rightly expect it. I have seen our friend
the woodman but now, and him whom you wot of. They are safely across
the road; but I could not be satisfied, when I heard that you had gone
back alone, without following you, to assure myself of your safety.
Why did you--"

"But who is that--who is that up there?" demanded Iola, pointing with
her left hand, in the direction of the spot where she had seen another
figure standing, but not withdrawing her right from that of the young
nobleman, and, on the contrary, creeping closer to him.

"Fear not," replied Chartley; "it is only my good slave. I stationed
him there, to warn you there was danger on that path, while I crept
through the trees, to see you safely to the cell. Why did you turn
back? Are you afraid to go through the passage alone?"

"No, no," she answered; "but, alas, the door is closed, and cannot be
opened from this side."

"Unfortunate indeed!" exclaimed Lord Chartley. "What is to be done
now?--Where are you to pass the night?"

"Oh," replied Iola, in a frank cheerful tone, "I fear not now when you
are with me. I will go at once to the good woodman's cottage, if you
will but kindly take care of me till I reach it. I shall be quite safe
there."

"It would be indeed a pleasant task," replied her young companion;
"but it is impossible, either for you or me, dear lady, to reach the
cottage without danger, to which you must not be exposed. There is
already one troop of these men upon the road; and, if I judge rightly
by the trumpet I heard just now, others will soon follow. It would
seem that they have discovered our good friend's escape, and are
pursuing him hither. Besides, the woodman will not be at his dwelling
for several hours. I saw him across the road, just before the head of
the troop came up the hill; and then, after watching for a moment, and
perceiving that they sent parties forward, as if to patrol, I came on
hither, fearful for you."

"You are very kind," said Iola, in a low and sweet but sad tone. "What
I am to do now, I know not. I must pass the night in the wood, I
fancy, like the poor children that they tell of. Would that I had
brought warmer garments; for in truth it is not warm; and, what
between fear and cold, I am shaking already.--What will become of me,
I wonder?"

"Nay, the cold shall be soon remedied," answered the young nobleman.
"This furred surcoat could not serve a fairer purpose or a fairer
maid, though in truth it might hold two such slight fairy forms as
this.--Nay, I insist upon it," he continued, as he wrapped the warm
garment round her: "and as for fear, dear lady, tremble not for that.
I will defend you with my life, and will not part with you, till I see
you safely back within the walls of the abbey, or at least under your
good aunt's protection. Besides, I have strong help at need, in the
strength of my good Arab's arm. Woe be to the rover who meets the edge
of his scimitar. Nevertheless, we must find out some place of refuge
for the night, if it be but a bower of green boughs, where you can
sleep while I guard you as your sentinel."

"It were better to seek some more secure hiding-place," answered Iola,
"where these people will not find us. There is what they call Prince
Edward's cave, I know not why; but that is on the other side of the
road."

"The woodman spoke of an old castle on the hill," said the young
nobleman. "I saw the keep too, towering up from below; but now I
cannot tell which way it lies."

"Oh, I can find the way," cried Iola gladly. "I know every path
thither, and almost every stone in the building. It lies on this side
of the hill too, though it is more than a mile off."

"Then let us thither if you can find the way," replied Chartley.
"Should we be pursued, we can play at hide and seek there, or, at the
worst, make good some tower or staircase till help comes. Were I sure
that there is any officer or man of repute with these bands, I should
not fear for you, but so fair a flower must not be trusted in the rude
hands of lawless soldiery."

Iola did not, or would not, notice the last words. Indeed, it is rare,
when a phrase contains several parts, that more than one is attended
to by any individual. She fixed at once upon what he had said
regarding the old castle, and answered, "Oh, we can play at hide and
seek with them there, for a year, if we can but reach it safely; and I
think I can lead you thither by a path they will never dream of; for
still, while approaching, it seems to be turning away from the object
at which it aims."

"Somewhat like woman's wit, dear lady," answered Lord Chartley,
laughing, "which I must say often takes the prettiest ways imaginable
to its ends, in gay meanderings round and round. But come. There is no
fear of their attempting to search the wood, this night at least,
though they may try to watch all the outlets. We shall pass safe
enough, if we enter upon no high roads."

"No, no," answered Iola, with a little spice of vengeance. "They shall
be all crooked, narrow, and obscure, like man's policy. Here, we must
turn up here, and take up your Moor by the way."

"Lean upon my arm then," said Chartley, drawing hers through his own.
"You will need some support on this long journey."

"It will be like the journey of life," she answered, "where sometimes
we must tread the narrow path singly and unsupported; sometimes
guiding and helping each other."

Thus saying, she walked on with him, leaning lightly on his arm, but
musing as she went. Chartley spoke a few words to Ibn Ayoub, bidding
him follow a few steps behind, and keep a watchful ear for any sounds
of pursuit; and thus he and his fair companion proceeded for about
five minutes in silence, till at length Iola broke from her fit of
musing, saying abruptly, "Heaven help me! What would my poor aunt
think if she knew that I was wandering here alone with you, my lord?"

Lord Chartley thought he perceived in those words a certain portion of
doubt and fear, which he could not but own was natural, but yet he was
very anxious to remove. "I trust she would be glad," he replied, "that
you had met with one, by a strange accident, in whom you and she can
fully trust, to guard and defend you against all wrong. I think you
know that such a one is by your side."

"Oh that I do," she answered, looking up towards his face, though she
could not see it. "Do not suppose I have any fears of you, my lord;
for I feel as if I had known you many a year; and, though they say we
should judge no man rashly, yet I am right sure you would neither
wrong me nor see me wronged, for any good the world could give. My
aunt, however, might be more suspicious; for she has strange notions
of the world, and I trust not true ones."

Chartley was silent for a moment or two, and then laughed gaily.

"It were easy," he replied at length, "to say as I was just going to
say--Trust me, and doubt all other men; but I had better say nothing
of the kind, however, for I can neither tell you rightly why you
should suspect others, nor give you a good reason why you should trust
me. Happy is it, in my case, that you have no choice. Trust me you
must, sweet girl, whether you will or not; but believe me," he added,
thinking he felt a certain tendency to withdraw her arm from his,
"believe me, that trust is not misplaced, and never will be. So now I
will make no more professions. There is another blast of the trumpet;
but it is farther off than before."

"It comes down the hill," answered Iola. "They have got farther on
than we have; but yet we shall beat them, I trust; for the many are
ever outwitted by the few, I hear, though, good sooth, I know nothing
of life, and but repeat such sage sayings as an old nurse's songs,
without being sure if they be to the right tune or not.--Oh, prudery,"
she continued gaily, "what would the dear nuns, and sister Bridget
especially, say, if they could hear me thus chattering with a young
lord, in a dark wood, when there is so much sad and sober earnest
going on near?--You too, perhaps, think it strange; but I have had so
little practice in concealing what I think, that my foolishness ever
rushes to my lips before my slow wit can start forth to stop it."

"Nay, I think no such thing," replied Lord Chartley, "for, by my
faith, the case is much the same with me. Besides, did we not make a
bargain at supper time, that the casket was not to be closed, but all
the jewels of the heart were to be left unveiled?"

"True," she answered. "It was a rash promise; but like all promises, I
suppose, it must be kept; and indeed, had it not been made, I am
afraid the course would have been the same; for the key of that casket
which you talk of is seldom to be found when needed; and the lock is
somewhat rusty, from being left always open.--Think not, however, I
would act or speak thus to all men; for had you, as did the only young
man I ever saw twice before yourself, talked of my beautiful eyes or
my charming fingers--or even, like the friend who was with you, had
you thrown out a pretty neat-turned compliment upon bright and
beautiful looks, to be picked up by any one who thought it worth the
stooping for, I should have been as grave and silent as a deaf
canoness, or have run away from you as fast as my feet could carry me;
but you spoke of better things, though gaily, and seemed to me to know
what is due, from knight and gentleman, to a woman and a lady, and
therefore, my good lord, I trust you as a friend, and speak to you as
a brother."

Whatever were the feelings of Lord Chartley--whether he felt inclined
to remain in the cool relationship of friend and brother, or whether
there were not growing upon him sensations towards his fair companion
of a somewhat warmer nature, he was well aware that fraternal regard
is one of the very best and most serviceable trenches for attacking
the citadel of a woman's heart, and consequently he thanked Iola
gracefully for her trust, and did nothing in the world to scare the
timidity of early confidence. Perhaps his was a character to win it
more quickly than that of most men; gay, cheerful, brave, apparently
thoughtless, but in reality considerate and reflective, light-hearted
from strong corporeal health, fair fortunes, and self-reliance, as
well as from a hopeful and sanguine heart, one seemed at once to see
clear and distinct from the act to the motive, from the words to the
emotions in which they originated. There was none of that misty
clouded policy, none of that obscure and twilight art, which is sure
to create suspicion and place the minds of others on their guard; but
all was frank, open, free; and though people might judge him to be
more rash than he really was, and heedless of consequences when he was
in reality quite the reverse, no one ever for a moment suspected half
the deep feeling that was in his heart, or the cool though rapid
reflection which went on in his mind.

We are inclined to imagine that when a man acts quickly and decidedly,
even in cases where there is no need of haste, that he acts
imprudently and without due consideration. We say--"he might have
taken time for thought."

But thought is a very different thing in the minds of different men.
With one, it is the cart-horse which plods slowly along with its heavy
load from one point of the road to another. With others, it is the
race-horse, darting like an arrow shot from a bow to the object in
view. The distance and the path are the same, but only they are
travelled more rapidly in the one instance than in the other.
Undoubtedly the race-horse was the illustration of Chartley's mind. It
would have foamed and fretted to be restrained to the slow progress
which many another man preferred; and when forced to proceed tardily,
in order to keep the same pace as others, like the same horse, it
would curvet and passage, showing its impatience by a thousand wild
gambols.

Short specimens of conversations are enough upon all ordinary
occasions; and therefore I will only say, that the young nobleman and
his fair companion, followed by the Arab, at the distance of eight or
ten yards, threaded their way through the wood paths, lightly and
easily, talking as they went. It may seem strange that they so soon
lost the sense of apprehension, and could converse on other things,
while dangers were round about; but it was a part of the characters of
both, to be little and but transiently impressible by any thing like
fear. Hope was ever predominant in the heart of each, and hope is
certainly a great element of courage. Danger was thought of only while
it was actually present; and imagination was fonder of plucking
flowers than looking out for thorns. True, they stopped and listened
from time to time, to make themselves sure that no enemies were near.
True, that when Iola had to lead the way through one of those narrow
paths, where two could not go abreast, she sometimes looked back to
assure herself that Chartley was near her; but when they were
together, they generally conversed gaily, and often even laughed,
although Iola felt some apprehensions for her good aunt and her
cousin, which could not be altogether removed, even by Chartley's
assurances that the burning of the houses upon the green was the
strongest proof of Richard's bands not having got into the abbey.

"Besides," he said, "I am quite sure that the commanders of these men,
as long as they have the troops under their own eye, would not suffer
them to commit any violence in a religious house; for the king himself
is devout, as we all know, and though he might wink at a violation of
sanctuary, for his own purpose, he would punish severely any
unnecessary injury done in effecting it."

These arguments certainly were consolatory to Iola, and left the fears
which still lingered, only as passing shades, coming across her mind
for a moment, and soon disappearing, like those cast by light clouds
floating over the sun in a summer's day.

Onward they walked then, amidst the branches of the wood, and along
the paths out in the thick underwood, still covered by the brown
leaves of the preceding year. The thaw which had prevailed since the
night before had penetrated even into the depths of the wood; and the
grass was covered with unfrozen drops which rendered it almost as
white as under the hoar frost. This was peculiarly the case upon what
may be called the first step of the hill; but the path soon began to
ascend, at first winding gently about upon the upland <DW72>, and then,
spreading out to a greater width, ran along under some high cliffy
banks, somewhat too steep to surmount in a direct line. Here, from
time to time, a beautiful view of the abbey, with the lower grounds
surrounding it, might have been obtained, had there been daylight; and
even in the darkness of the night, aided by a faint light from the
smoking ruins of the cottages on the green, the eye could distinguish
the sombre masses of the old pile, rising above all the surrounding
objects.

"You see the abbey is safe," said Chartley, in a low tone; "and the
fires are going out. I hear no sound.--Perhaps these troops are
withdrawn."

"We could soon see," said Iola, "if we turned to the westward, for
there is a little point, which commands a view of the road."

Perhaps Chartley did not very much wish to see; for, to say the truth,
he had no great inclination to part with his fair companion so soon.
He had made up his mind, by this time, to the not unpleasant task of
passing the rest of the night with her in the old castle. There was a
spirit of adventure in it--a touch of that romance which is agreeable
to almost every young man's mind. Nevertheless, he thought it more
proper to follow the suggestion, although the result might be to
convey her back to the abbey, and send him onward on his way to
Hinckley. They turned then in the direction she indicated, and, at the
distance of about a hundred and fifty yards, came to a spot where a
small stream welled from the high bank, and the waters were gathered,
before they crossed the road, into a small clear pool; a beautiful
object and beautifully situated. The rugged cliff from which the
spring flowed, like a parent looking into a child's eyes, bent over
the fountain, and caught the image of itself. The stars were mirrored
in it; and a light birch that grew beside it bent its head down to
drink.

"I will sit here," said Iola, "upon this stone, where I have often sat
before, if you will run up the bank by that little path, which will
lead you to a spot where a greater part of the road can be seen. Stop
where the path stops; and do not be long, for I shall be frightened. I
do not know whether you can see anything upon the road in this dark
night; but the sand is light of colour, so as to show anything dark
moving upon it, I think."

"I will leave the Arab with you," said Chartley. "You can trust him
fully. Stay with the lady, Ibn Ayoub," he continued, "and guard her as
you would the prophet's tomb."

The man folded his arms upon his breast, and remained precisely in the
same attitude, at the distance of three or four paces, while his lord
ran lightly up the path; and Iola, seating herself by the fountain,
gazed down upon the limpid water, from which a dim shadowy form looked
up at her again. What were her thoughts then? Perhaps, she too
contemplated the result of all obstacles to her return to the abbey
being removed, the consequent parting with her young and kind
companion, and the probability of her never meeting with him again. It
was not without a feeling of regret. She almost wished that she had
not proposed to Chartley to see whether the troops were still there or
not; and then she was angry with herself for entertaining such
feelings. Then she meditated upon the passing the night with him in
the ruins; and certainly she did not regard such a thing in the same
way that he did. She felt a little alarmed, of she knew not what, a
hesitation, a doubt. It would feel very strange, she thought--almost
wrong. While there had seemed no other choice, such feelings had never
presented themselves, but now they were strong. It would be very
pleasant, she could not deny, to have his society for some time
longer--with friends and companions about them; but alone, in a remote
place, with the world's eye afar--that eye which acts as a bond but a
safeguard, a restraint but a justification--the matter was very
different. Yet--strange human nature!--when, a moment after, she heard
a blast of a trumpet coming from the road, and a loud voice shouting
forth some orders, it was a relief to her. Perhaps she feared the
parting with Chartley so soon, even more than passing of a night with
him in the old castle. Dear girl, she could not help it. It was no
fault of hers. Nature taught her to cling to that which had protected
her. Nature taught her to love that which came upon her hitherto dull
existence like the first gleam of summer's returning sunshine into the
wintry sky.

A moment after, Chartley's step was heard returning; and, running down
the bank, he said:

"They are upon the road still, and moreover, preparing to surround the
wood by patrols, probably with the intention of searching it
thoroughly to-morrow. Let us on, sweet Iola, and seek our place of
refuge, for we have no choice left; and they may perchance push some
of their parties along these broader paths to-night. I should not like
to come into collision with them, if I can help it. Here, let me stay
your steps;" and once more he drew her arm through his.

"I had hoped," answered Iola--little hypocrite--"that they were all
gone, and that you might be spared farther trouble on my account
to-night."

"Trouble!" said Chartley; and he laughed. "I know not what you feel,
dear lady; but I cannot, for my life, think all this night's adventure
so very disastrous. I grieve, of course, that you should be alarmed or
pained in any way; but yet a few hours of such sweet society, the
power of protecting, assisting, supporting you, the linking of
feelings, and sympathies, and associations with yours, even for so
short a space, has something very pleasant in it. Whatever may be our
fate hereafter, Lady Iola, we shall both remember this night, as one
of those high points of time, which raise their heads out of the ocean
of the past, and glitter afar in the light of memory."

"I must tell him about myself and my fate," thought Iola; but Chartley
pursued the subject no farther; and turning back upon their steps,
they renewed their ascent towards the castle, winding along amongst
the trees, which were there farther apart and less encumbered by
underwood.

How rapidly the wild encroaches upon the cultivated, when the hand of
man is once withdrawn. In former years--not very long before,
certainly not a century--the detached elevation in the wood, on which
the castle stood, had been covered with smooth clean-shaven green
turf, without tree or shrub, which could cover an approaching enemy
from the shafts of the garrison. It had its road winding round it from
the principal gate, and passing, till it approached the edge of the
neighbouring forest, within bow shot of some loop-hole or battlement,
at every turn. Now the trees had grown over the whole mount, as thick
and close as anywhere in the wood--over road and all; and nothing but
a pathway remained, where bands of retainers had formerly ridden up
and down on horseback. The self-sown oaks, indeed, were small and
thin; but there were some enormous ash trees, and large fine elms and
beeches, which no one would have supposed of so late a growth. A great
number of birches--"the ladies of the wood,"--mingled their slight
silvery stems with the sturdier and more lordly forest trees, and the
winged seeds of the ash, wafted to the walls, had planted themselves
here and there, wherever a fallen stone had left a vacant space in the
mortar, and had shot up into feathery shrubs, fringing the ancient
battlements and cresting the tall tower. Thus, in the early summer
time, when leaves are green, the castle at a distance could hardly be
distinguished from the forest.

Up the small path I have mentioned, Iola and Chartley took their way,
and at length stood under the old arch of the barbican. One of the
towers which had flanked it had fallen down, and, filling up the
fosse, afforded a firmer path than the drawbridge, which, partly
broken down, I know not whether by age or war, offered but an insecure
footing. One of the long beams indeed, and two or three of the planks,
still hung by the heavy chain used formerly to raise the bridge; but
Iola hesitated, although she had often crossed before, fearing, in the
darkness, to lose her footing on the bridge, or to stumble amongst the
stones, if she chose the path over the fallen tower. Chartley
instantly divined her doubt, and going on part of the way over the
drawbridge, held out his hand, saying: "Let me steady your steps. It
is quite firm."

Iola followed at once; and the Arab came after; but when they reached
the great gate, the lady again paused, saying, "It is so dark, I fear
we shall never find our way about the building, without the risk of
some accident, for many of the steps are broken down, and fragments of
the walls encumber the doorways, although some of the rooms in the
keep are almost as if they had been just inhabited. I wonder how long
it is to daybreak."

"I have not heard the bell for lauds," replied Chartley, "and
therefore, probably, three or four hours may elapse before we see the
face of day. Perhaps, however, we can contrive to light a fire
somewhere in the court, for the high trees and walls would screen it
from the eyes of the men upon the road."

"Let us find our way into the great court first," said Iola. "There is
plenty of dry wood about the place, if we could but find a light."

"That will be soon obtained," answered Lord Chartley, "and, perhaps,
something that may serve the purpose of a torch or candle also;" and,
speaking a few words to the Arab, which Iola did not understand, he
led the way forward, stretching out his hands, like a blind man, to
make sure of the path he trod; for, if the night was dark without, the
darkness was doubly deep under the shadow of the arch. After passing
through the gateway, the great court seemed light enough by
comparison. In the centre rose the large keep or donjon tower,
frowning heavily over the scene below; and forth from the side of the
keep came a pile of very ancient buildings, now silent and desolate
like the rest.

Chartley and Iola are now alone; for the Arab had left them. But yet
she did not and she would not fear, for she had great confidence in
her companion, and woman's confidence is of a very capacious measure.
Nor did he wrong it--shame upon him who does--but, guiding her quietly
to the flight of steps leading into the keep, he made her sit down
upon the dilapidated stairs, and stood beside her, talking about
subjects which could awake no emotion, or a very slight one, and,
informing her that he had sent the slave to seek for materials to
light a fire. None of those events, however, occurred, which
continually happen to people cast upon a desert island. There were
none of those appliances or means at hand, with which wandering
sailors are usually supplied accidentally. No bituminous pine was
found to fulfil the office of a torch; and at length after the Arab's
return, the only resource of the fugitives was to light a fire, after
the most ancient and approved fashion, by a flint and steel. This,
however, was accomplished with less difficulty than might have been
expected, the young lord's dagger supplying the steel, and flints
being numerous in the neighbourhood. The old brown leaves, and the
young but well-dried shoots, soon caught the flame; and in a few
minutes the joyous light was spreading round the old court yard, and
raising Iola's spirits by the very look.

"Ah, now we can rest here in comfort," said, the young lady gazing
around her; "but the light is not yet sufficient to see the inside of
the hall."

"But still you cannot sleep here, sweet Iola," answered her companion.
"I and the slave will go in and light a fire in the hall, if you will
tend this in the meanwhile."

"Nay," she answered, "I want not to sleep;" and she detained him
gently by the arm. "Let us sit down here. See here is a stone bench
bowered in the ivy. We can pass the night in telling tales; and first
you shall inform me how you came hither on foot in the forest, when I
thought you had gone away for Leicester."

Lord Chartley easily satisfied her on that point; and seated on the
stone bench by her side, as near as possible, gazing from time to time
on her bright countenance, by the gleams of the firelight, he related
to her all that had occurred to him since he had left the abbey.

"As to my being on foot," he said, "your good friend the woodman
judged it best that I and my Arab should leave our horses at his hut,
for fear of attracting attention. All I hope is, that they will not be
found there by these good gentlemen, who are watching the wood; for it
might be dangerous if they were recognised as my property."

"There is a great risk indeed," said Iola anxiously. "What will you do
if such should be the case?"

"As best I can," answered Chartley. "I never premeditate, dear lady;
for I always remark that those who go lightly and carelessly through
the world go the farthest. The circumstances of the moment determine
my conduct; and as I have no ties to bind me but those of honour and
truth, no ambitious schemes to be frustrated or executed, no deeds
done that I am ashamed of, so I have never any great store of fears
for the future, nor much need of forming plans at any time for after
action."

"Happy are those," answered Iola, with a sigh, "who, as you say, have
no ties to bind them."

Her reply was a natural one, springing at once from what was passing
in her own heart. Something had whispered that it would be better to
tell her companion, that her own fate was linked to another, that she
had been contracted in fact in infancy, by her relations, to a person
of whom she knew nothing. The thought of informing him of her fate,
however, led her to think of that fate itself; and thence came the
sigh and the answer that she made. But as soon as it was uttered, she
felt that it rendered more difficult, nay impossible, the task of
telling the circumstances as she had meditated. The words she had just
spoken, the sigh she had just breathed, expressed too clearly the
regret that she really felt; but to explain to him the source of that
regret, to show him the nature of the tie that oppressed her, would,
she thought, be unwomanly and indecent.

Her words, however, had not been unmarked; and Chartley, reading them
wrongly, pressed her gaily for explanation.

"Nay," he said, "you have no ties to regret. Your good aunt, the
abbess, told me herself, that you are not destined for the life of the
convent. If you do take the veil, it must be from some fancied
resolution of your own heart, against which it is the duty of every
knight and gentleman to war. Fie, fie! Let those who have tasted the
world and found it bitter; let those to whom it has pleased Heaven to
deny beauty, and grace, and mind, and kindly feeling; let those who
have sorrows to mourn, or evil acts to repent, seek the shades of the
convent; but do not bury there charms of person, and mind, and heart,
such as yours, intended by Heaven to be the blessing and the hope and
the comfort of another. I must not, I will not have it."

He spoke so eagerly, so warmly, and his eyes looked so bright, that
Iola felt glad the Arab was standing near piling fresh wood upon the
fire. She knew not how to answer; but at length she said, "I am not
destined for a convent; but there may be other ties as binding as the
vow to the veil."

"You are not married," exclaimed Chartley, starting; and then he
added, with a laugh--a gladsome laugh, "No, no. You told me yourself
that you had only seen one other young man twice in life besides
myself."

"No, not married--" answered Iola, casting down her eyes, and speaking
in a low and sad tone. But her farther reply was interrupted; for the
Arab suddenly lifted his finger with a warning gesture, and said in a
low voice:

"Steps come."

"Let us into the old hall," said Chartley, rising, and taking a
burning brand from the fire. "This will give us some light at least.
Ibn Ayoub, stay you in the archway till I return. I will come
directly; but let no one pass."

The Arab drew a long sharp pointed knife from his girdle, saying; "I
will take care;" and the young lord and Iola hurried, through the
gateway of the keep, into the interior of the building.




CHAPTER XII.


In a small, but rich and beautiful, Gothic chamber, splendidly
decorated, and splendidly furnished, sat a gentleman, in the very
prime of life, at a table covered with manifold papers. His dress was
gorgeous; but the eye rested hardly for a moment on the splendour of
his apparel, for there was something in his countenance which at once
fixed all attention upon itself. The features were delicate and
beautiful, the eyes dark, keen, and expressive. The lips were somewhat
thin, and apparently habitually compressed, though when they parted
they showed a row of teeth as white as snow. The long dark brown hair
was of silky fineness and gloss, bending in graceful waves about a
brow broad, high, and majestic, which would have been perfect in form,
had not habit or nature stamped a wrinkled frown upon it, while some
long lines, the traces of deep thought, furrowed the wide expanse
which age had not yet had time to touch. He was in the prime of life,
the early prime, for he had not yet seen three and thirty years, and
not a particle of bodily or mental energy had been lost; but yet his
form did not give any promise of great strength, for he was somewhat
below the middle height, and the limbs seemed small and delicate. One
shoulder was rather higher than the other, but not so much so as to be
a striking deformity; and the left arm seemed somewhat smaller than
its fellow. No means had been taken to conceal these defects; and yet
he might have passed anywhere for an exceedingly good-looking man, had
it not been for a certain expression of fierce and fiery passion which
occasionally came into his countenance, blending strangely with the
look of sarcastic acuteness which it usually bore. It was upon his
face at that moment, as he read a letter before him; but it passed
away speedily, and it was with a bitter smile he said--speaking to
himself, for there was no one else in the room--

"Not know? He must be made to know! We will pluck the heart of this
treason out;" and he wrote a few words hastily on the back of the
letter which he had been reading.

Then, however, he paused, laid his finger on his temple, and thought
deeply for a minute or two. "No," he said at length, "no! It must be
passed over. If they catch him in the abbey, the lad's fault shall be
passed over. He has served the purposes of a decoy--done good service
without knowing it; and we will not kill the bird that lures the game
to us, though it little thinks that it betrays its fellows--perhaps
imagines it is serving them, not us. I have heard there was friendship
between the bishop and his father; and we must alienate no friends
just now.--Friends!" he continued, with a bitter sneer. "What are
friends? I know but one, whom men can ever count upon; and he dwells
here;" and at the same time he laid his hand significantly on his own
broad forehead.

He then took the pen again, and struck out the words he had written on
the paper, pushed it aside, raised another, and, after glancing over
it, clapped his hands, exclaiming--

"Without, there!"

A servant instantly appeared; and the king, for it was Richard
himself, demanded--

"Did you not tell me that this man, John Radnor, had been killed by a
fail from his horse?"

"Yes, sire," answered the servant, "so the posts say, who brought your
grace the news that the earls of Richmond's fleet had been dispersed.
He was found dead upon the road, but with his purse and papers all
secure, so that they could not be thieves who slew him."

"I trust there are few such left in the land," said Richard. "I have
done something already to crush the lawless spirit engendered in this
country by long turbulence and domestic strife; and I will trample out
the last spark ere I have done. By Christ, the name of thief shall be
unknown in the land if I live long enough.--I grieve for this man," he
continued, musing. "He was a serviceable knave, and one to whose
dexterity we could trust instructions somewhat difficult to write, and
yet not make him an ambassador.--Send Sir John Thoresby to me," he
continued, "and as soon as Sir Charles Weinants comes, give him
admission."

With a low reverence, the man withdrew; and the king busied himself
with the papers again, till the door opened and a gentleman in black
entered the room.

"Let those be answered, Sir John," said the king, pushing some letters
to him, "and take order that lodging and entertainment be prepared at
York for the Princess Countess of Arran. Send off too, by a private
hand, which can be trusted, a letter to the king her brother, greeting
him well from us, and telling him that the secret note, sent with the
letters of the countess, has been received. Bid him set his mind at
ease, for that the matter is very sure, and that, search as she will,
search will be fruitless, so that she can come safely.--Have you seen
the queen?"

"I passed her but now, your grace, in the hall," replied the
gentleman; "and she enquired if there were any news from Middleham.
She seemed much alarmed on account of the prince's illness."

"Oh, it is nothing, it is nothing," answered the king. "It will soon
pass. Children are well and ill in a day. The next post will bring us
news that he is better; but women are full of fears. Yet it is strange
we have not heard to-day. I will go and see her, while you write
here;" and, with a slow pace and thoughtful air, he quitted the room.

At the end of a short corridor, Richard opened a door, which gave him
admission to a large old hall, in one part of which were seated
several young ladies of high family, working busily at embroidery
frames. At one of the tall arched windows, gazing out on the prospect
below, with a look of restless anxiety on her face, stood the fair and
unfortunate daughter of the earl of Warwick, his youngest and his best
beloved, whom, with the prophetic spirit of parental affection, he had
endeavoured in vain to hide from the pursuit of him who never set his
eyes upon an object without sooner or later attaining it. She was
richly dressed, according to the mode of those times; and her slight
figure and her fair face still retained many traces of that delicate
and feminine beauty which had once so highly distinguished them.

The instant she heard her husband's step, she turned quickly round
with a timid and inquiring glance; but Richard was in one of his
milder moods. The subject of his thought and hers was one of common
affection; and he advanced tenderly towards her, and took her in his
arms, saying--

"I have heard nothing, Ann; but cast these fears from your mind. I
trust that this is nothing but one of those sicknesses of childhood
which come and pass away like spring showers."

The tears came into the queen's eyes, rising from very mingled
emotions. Her apprehension for her child, her husband's tenderness,
the feeling perhaps of her own failing health, the recollections of
early years, all moved her heart; and yet she feared that her emotions
might rouse an impatient spirit in Richard's breast.

It was not so, however; and, pressing her somewhat closer to him, he
said--

"Well, well, wipe away your tears, love. If we hear not better tidings
to-day, thou shalt go to Middleham, and I will go with thee."

"Thanks, my gracious lord, thanks," replied the queen. "Perhaps it is
but a weak woman's fears for her only one, that so sink my spirit; but
I feel to-day a sort of awe, as if of approaching fate."

"You give way, you give way," said Richard with a slight touch of
impatience. "However, there is good news abroad. This rash exiled earl
of Richmond, whom you have heard of, doubtless, has seen his Breton
ships--which the good doating duke now bitterly regrets he lent
him--dispersed and broken by a heavy tempest; and he himself has slunk
back to St. Maloes; but I have already limed some twigs for this light
bird, which will yet stick to his feet; and he may find conveyance
into England more speedy, though not so prosperous as that which he
has been contriving for himself.--How now, Lovel? You look perilous
grim, as if you and your cognizance had changed countenances."

"I grieve to be the bearer of bad tidings, gracious sire," replied
Lord Lovel, to whom these words were addressed, and who had entered
the room the moment before. "I did not know that either of your graces
were here, and was hastening to your closet."

"But the news, the news," cried Richard, eagerly. "Heavy tidings grow
doubly weighty by long carrying. Out with them, man. Is there a new
insurrection in the west?--Has Richmond landed?--Speak, speak at
once!"

"I had better have your grace's private ear for a few minutes,"
replied Lord Lovel, in a low and very sad tone, at the same time
giving a glance towards the queen. Her eyes were fixed upon his face,
and she caught the expression at once.

"My boy," she exclaimed. "He is worse. He is hopeless--I see it
there--I see it there;" and she pointed with her hand to his face.

Richard gazed at him in profound deathlike silence, with his brow
knitted over his fine keen eyes, and the thin pale lip quivering
fearfully. It was a terrible thing to see the traces of such deep and
unwonted emotion on that powerful and commanding countenance; and
Lovel felt almost afraid to proceed. Richard tried to speak, but, for
the first time in life, his voice found no utterance; and all he could
do was to make a vehement sign for his favourite to go on.

"Alas, sire," said Level, in a tone of unfeigned anguish, "your worst
fears are, I grieve to say--"

"No, no," cried Richard, in a broken voice, grasping his arm as if he
would have sunk the fingers into the flesh. "No, no, not the
worst--not the worst!--He is very ill, you would say--the physicians
have no hope--but we will find more, wiser, skilfuller! There are
simples of great power--there are--there are--no, not dead, not
dead--no, not dead, not dead!--Oh, Jesu!" and he fell headlong to the
ground.

The unhappy queen stood with her hands clasped together, her eyes bent
upon the floor, not a trace of colour in her cheeks or lips. She moved
not, she spoke not, she wept not, she uttered no cry, but remained
standing like a statue where the words had reached her ears with all
the terrible anguish of the moment concentrated in her heart.

In the meantime, the embroidery frames were cast away. Her ladies
gathered round her, and drew her gently to her chair of state, in
which they placed her unresisting; but there she remained, precisely
as they had seated her, with her eyes still bent down, and her lips
still motionless. At the same time, Lovel raised the king, and called
loudly for assistance. Attendants hurried in, and amongst them the
messenger from Middleham, who had brought the tidings of the young
prince's death, and had been left at the door by Lord Lovel, when he
undertook to communicate the sad intelligence. But it was long ere
Richard could be brought to himself; and then he sat where they had
placed him, rubbing his brow with his hand, and muttering broken
sentences to himself. At length he looked up, and gazed with a curious
wild expression of countenance--still shrewd, still cunning, but
hardly sane; and then he laughed aloud, and, rising from his chair,
exclaimed:

"Why, this is well. Why, this is mighty well! We'll march ten thousand
men on York, to-morrow, and then to Middleham.--We'll have cannon too,
ay, cannon too, lest the usurper should refuse to give up the boy.
Why, he is the son of a king, a prince--a prince, I tell you, Lovel,
the dog--Ha, ha, ha! That was a merry distich--

     'The cat, the rat, and Lovel, the dog,
     Rule all England under the hog.'

But we paid the poet handsomely. Kings should be always bountiful to
poets. Good Sir John Collingburn, he little thought that he should be
hanged for the cat, drawn for the rat, and quartered for Lovel the
dog--Ha, ha, ha! It is very good."

At that moment, the queen's lips moved; and, raising her eyes towards
heaven, she began to sing a sweet and plaintive air, in a very musical
voice:


     "The castle stood on a hill side,
       Hey ho, hey ho,
     And there came frost in the summer tide,
       Hey ho, the wind and the snow.

     "A boy looked from the casement there,
       Hey ho, hey ho,
     And his face was like an angel's fair;
       Hey ho, how the violets grow.

     "The snow, it fell on his golden hair,
       Hey ho, hey ho,
     And the wind has blighted the flower so fair,
       Hey ho, the flower's laid low."


"I think I'll go to bed, ladies. It is growing dark; but this night
gear is somewhat stiff and cold, and I think it is dabbled with
blood--Blood, blood, blood! Yes it is blood!" and she uttered a loud
scream. [2]


---------------

[Footnote 2: For an account of the terrible effect--approaching to
madness--of the death of Edward, Prince of Wales, upon Richard III.
and his queen, see the history of Croyland Abbey.]

---------------


In the midst of this distressing scene Lord Lovel stood like one
bewildered; and he noted not that, while the king was speaking,
another person, none of the ordinary attendants had entered the room.
Now, however, Sir Charles Weinants pulled him by the sleeve, saying,
in a low voice: "I ought to speak with the king immediately; but he
seems in no fit state, my lord. What is all this?"

"Hush, hush," said Lovel, in a whisper. "Go into the closet. I will
come and speak with you, for I have full instructions. The king is
indisposed, with the sad news from Middleham. He will soon be better.
I will join you in a minute. Your business will bear no delay."

Thus saying, he turned to the king again; and Sir Charles Weinants,
with a slow and quiet step, crossed the hall, and, proceeding through
the short corridor I have mentioned, reached the king's closet. He
there found Sir John Thoresby, writing diligently; and the latter
merely raised his head for an instant, gave a brief nod, and resumed
his occupation. Sir Charles Weinants, ever discreet, walked to the
window, and looked out; for, as I have before said, there were
manifold papers and letters on the table, and he knew that it was
dangerous even to let the eye pause upon any of Richard's secrets. He
waited there with persevering patience, saying not a word to Sir John
Thoresby, and never turning round his head, till Lovel entered the
room, at the end of about ten minutes, and boldly dismissed the
secretary for a few moments.

"Now, Sir Charles," said the king's favourite. "His grace, thank
Heaven, is somewhat better, and will soon be well. We have persuaded
him to let blood; for his spirits are too much oppressed. This is a
severe blow, the death of the young prince, and will make many changes
in the realm. You received the king's letter?"

"In safety, my good lord," replied Sir Charles, "but not the letter
which was to have followed, informing me whether the Duke of Bretagne
would receive me on this errand or not."

"How is that?" exclaimed Lord Lovel. "We sent it to York, thinking to
find you there;" and he laid his hand upon his brow and thought.
"Ratcliff, in his last letter, received but this morning, assured me
that he had sent it on to you at Tamworth, by a trusty messenger, who
was passing from Scotland to the king. Now it should have reached you
some days ago, for Ratcliff thought we were at Coventry, and his
letter to me has gone round."

"It never reached me, my lord," replied Sir Charles Weinants, "and yet
I made known my name and quality wherever I came, and bade my servants
watch well, in order that no news from the court might miss me."

"It must be inquired into," replied Level; "but in the mean time you
must hasten your departure; for I have seen the reply from Bretagne,
and you will be received with all favour. Monsieur Landais is fully
gained; and all that is required is some one to confirm the king's
promises, and give an earnest of his goodwill towards the duke. You
must set out this very night. I trust by that time his grace will be
well enough to see you himself and give you his last instructions; for
his is not a mind to bend long, even under the burden cast upon it."

These words seemed intended to conclude the conversation; but Sir
Charles Weinants still stayed and mused. At length he looked up in
Lovel's face with a smile, saying, "I always love to be successful in
my negotiations; and methinks this young vapouring earl may take
fright when he hears of my coming. Were it not better to go with the
most perfect secrecy?"

"Nay, that would be hardly possible," answered Lovel; "but we have
been thoughtful. You must go in some sort as a fugitive. A report has
already been spread that you are suspected by the king. Measures will
be taken to strengthen the belief; and, while you bear full powers as
his envoy, and the money for Landais, you must quit the court suddenly
by dark; and with a small train affect to seek refuge in Britanny. The
news of your disgrace has gone before; but good Monsieur Landais is
made aware of the truth, and prepared to receive you."

Sir Charles Weinants was not altogether well pleased with the
arrangement; but he was discreet--very discreet; and he did not think
fit to make any objection. However, he knew there could be no harm in
establishing a claim where none previously existed; for he was well
aware that great men are ever ready enough to deny a claim, whether it
exists or not. He therefore said quietly, "The king's will, of course,
I submit to without a murmur, my good lord; but it is a very
unpleasant sort of reputation for an ambassador to appear with, that
of a fugitive and a traitor; and I trust that his grace will, remember
that I take upon myself such a character solely in obedience to his
commands."

"You shalt not be forgotten, Sir Charles," replied Lovel,
entertaining, but not uttering, precisely the same sentiment which was
afterwards boldly propounded by a vast-minded but little-spirited man
namely, that "to submit to indignities is the way to rise to
dignities."

"The king never neglects," he said, "those who place themselves in
painful situations for his service. And now, Sir Charles, prepare,
prepare--but quietly; never forgetting that your preparations are to
be those of a fugitive. The ambassador is to come after, you know.
When you have Harry of Richmond firm in your grasp, the splendour of
your train shall efface the memory of its scantiness now. Hark! There
is the king's voice, and his step coming hither. Do not wait or take
any notice. I dare say the barber is here to bleed him."[3]


---------------

[Footnote 3: Richard's attempt to obtain possession of the person of
Richmond by bribing Landais, the duke of Britanny's minister, is too
well known to need particular notice.]

---------------


The next instant Richard entered the closet, and Sir Charles Weinants
passed him, bowing low and reverently. But the king took no farther
notice of him than merely by giving a slow and inquiring glance, from
under his bent brows, at the face of his envoy; and then seating
himself in a chair, he suffered one of two persons who followed him
into the room to withdraw his arm from his doublet, the
barber-surgeon, who was close behind, directing the valet particularly
to give him the left arm, as that was nearest to the heart. The
servant then held a silver basin, while the operator made his
preparations and opened a vein. During all this time Richard uttered
not a word, but sat with his brows contracted, and his dark thoughtful
eyes fixed upon vacancy, till the sombre red bleed began to flow forth
from the vein; and then he turned his look upon the stream, and seemed
to watch it curiously. At length, he lifted his right hand to his
head, saying, "I am better--open the window. Give me air;" and the
servant instantly hurried to obey his commands. The barber suffered
the blood still to flow on, for a little while, and then bound up the
king's arm.

"I am better," said Richard. "I am better;" and, stretching forth his
hands, he added, in an imperative tone. "Leave me--all leave me! I am
better--I would be alone."

The whole party hastened to obey, and, as soon as they were gone,
Richard, the iron-spirited relentless Richard, placed his hands before
his eyes, and wept. It is a terrible sight to see a man weep at any
time. What must it have been to see tears forced from such a heart as
Richard's!




CHAPTER XIII.


Let us take up the history of the woodman, after he and the bishop of
Ely had quitted Lord Chartley. They crossed rapidly over the road,
hearing the sound of horses advancing, and of men speaking, as they
did so. Neither uttered a word; and the prelate was hastily directing
his steps towards a spot where, by the dim light, he saw what seemed a
continuation of the path he had just quitted, but the woodman seized
his arm, and drew him on a little way up the road to a place where the
bushes seemed so thick as to afford no passage through them. Putting
aside the branches, however, with his sturdy arm, Boyd dragged rather
than led Morton forward; and, for some way, the good bishop fancied
that they should never find a path again, so thick and difficult
seemed the copse. It extended not fifty yards, however; and, though
somewhat scratched by the brambles, which clung round his feet and
legs at every step, Morton, at length, found himself emerging into an
open part of the wood, where the ground was covered with thick fern,
out of which, every here and there, rose an old hawthorn or the bushy
shoots of an oak or beech felled long ago.

"'Tis a rough road," said the woodman, in a low voice, as he relaxed
his hold of the prelate's arm.

"So are all the ways of life, my son," answered the bishop.

"And the roughest often the safest," answered Boyd. "I know it by
experience. Smooth paths end in precipices."

At that instant something started up before them out of the fern, and
a quick rush was heard through the neighbouring brushwood. The bishop
started, and drew a little back, but Boyd said with a laugh,--

"'Tis but a doe, my lord. If she find her way amongst the soldiers,
there will be more chases than one to-night. Fear not, however. I
will answer for your safety, though not for hers."

"I do not fear," answered the prelate. "Indeed, I am little given to
fear; but, as you doubtless well know, my son, the mind has not always
that command over the body which can prevent the mere animal impulse
from starting at dangers, which calm consideration could meet
unshrinking."

"True," replied the woodman. "So long as life is happy it may be so;
but with the loss of all that makes existence valuable, the body
itself loses its sensibility to all signs of danger. Hope, dread,
anxiety, and the struggle with the ills of life, make us vibrate as it
were to the touch of all external things; but when hope and fear are
dead, when there is neither care nor thought of existence, 'tis
wonderful how this blind horse of the body, ridden by that plodding
wayfarer, the mind, learns to jog on, without starting at anything
that glistens on the way.--But come on, my good lord, for I must take
you first to my cottage, and then send you forward some miles upon
your journey."

Thus saying, he walked forward; and the good bishop followed through
the more open space, musing as he went; for, to say the truth, he was
pulled different ways by different inclinations. Self-preservation,
was, of course, one great object, and that led him to desire immediate
escape; but yet there was another object, which he had much at heart,
and which would have bound him to remain. Nor was he a man who would
suffer the consideration of personal safety alone to make him abandon
what he considered a duty; but, as yet, he knew not fully what were
the risks, and what the probabilities; and, as the only means of
obtaining information, he, at length, after some consideration,
determined to have recourse to the woodman. Boyd was striding on,
however; and it cost the prelate two or three quick steps to overtake
him, so as to be able to speak in that low tone which he judged
necessary in the existing circumstances.

"You think you can insure my safety," he said.

"Beyond a doubt," replied the woodman, laconically.

"But only, I suppose, by instant flight," said the prelate.

"By flight before daylight," replied Boyd.

"But if I tell you," continued the bishop, "that it is absolutely
necessary, for a great purpose I have in view, that I should remain in
this immediate neighbourhood for some few days, do you think it
possible for me to lie concealed here, till I receive the intelligence
I am seeking? Remember, I do not heed a little risk, so that my object
be attained."

"That is brave," answered Boyd; "but yet 'tis difficult to weigh
nicely in the balance, for another man, the estimation of his own
life. If I knew what you sought, I could judge better. However, I will
say this: the risk were very great to stay, but yet such as any one of
courage would encounter for a great and noble object."

"Then I will stay," replied the bishop, firmly. "My object is a great
and, I believe, a just and holy one, and life must not be weighed in
the balance against it."

"Would that I knew what it is," said the woodman, "for methinks I
might show you that more may be gained by going than by staying. Of
that, however, anon. Let me see if I can divine your object."

The bishop shook his head, saying--

"That is not possible. You are keen and shrewd, I see; but this you
could not discover by any means, without information from others."

"I may have more information than you fancy," answered Boyd; "but at
all events you must tell me fairly if I am right. You were once
esteemed and promoted by Harry the Sixth. The house of Lancaster gave
your first patrons."

The bishop winced a little--

"True," he said, "true!"

"The house of Lancaster fell," continued the woodman; "and, after the
king's death, you continued in office under the opposite faction--I do
not blame you, for the cause seemed hopeless."

"Nay, but hear me," said the bishop, in a louder tone than he had
hitherto used. "You speak somewhat authoritatively; and I must
explain."

"I speak plain truth," replied the woodman. "At this hour of the
night, and under these grey boughs, we are upon a par. Elsewhere, it
is, Morton, Lord Bishop of Ely, and Boyd the woodman. But I have said,
I blame you not. What need of explanations?"

"Yes, there is need," answered the bishop. "I had my motive for doing
as I have done, and that motive sufficient for my own conscience. As
you say, the cause of Lancaster had fallen, and hopelessly fallen. All
efforts in its favour could but produce more bloodshed, and protract a
desolating civil strife. By yielding to the conqueror, by giving him
the counsel of a christian man, not unversed in affairs of state, I
did believe--I do believe, that I could, and did, do more good than if
I had withdrawn from the counsels of the ruler of the country, and
joined with those who sought to throw him from his seat. I never
advised in those affairs where York and Lancaster opposed each other.
It was part of my compact with him, that I should take no share in
acts or councils against a family I once had served. Yet in my humble
way I could do good, in moderating the fury of men's passions, and the
rancour of party strife."

"You plead, my lord, to an indictment I have never laid," replied the
woodman. "I blame you not. I never thought of blaming you. But hear me
on! You became attached to a prince who favoured you greatly--a man of
many high qualities, and also of many great vices; brave, courteous,
graceful, and good-humoured; lewd, idle, insincere, and cruel; a
consummate general, a short-seeing statesman, a bad king, a heartless
kinsman, a man of pleasant converse, and a devoted friend. You loved
him well; you loved his children better, and would not consent to
their murder."

"Nay, nay, not their murder," cried the bishop; "no one ever ventured
to speak of their death. Even now, we know not that they are really
dead; but I believe it. If you had said, I would not be consenting to
their deprivation of their rights, you had been justified."

"'Tis the same thing," answered the woodman; "deposed princes live not
long, where they have many friends in the realm they lose. However,
committed to the Tower, and then to the custody of Buckingham, you
found means to make of your jailor your friend, choosing dexterously a
moment of disappointment to turn him to your purposes. I speak now
only from hearsay; but, I am told, you two together framed a scheme
for choosing a new king from the race you first served, and uniting
him to the heiress of your second lord. It was a glorious and
well-devised plan, worthy of a great statesman--ay, and of a christian
prelate; for thereby you might hope to end for ever a strife which has
desolated England for half a century--but rash Buckingham lost all at
the first attempt. The scheme still lives however, I am told, though
one of the great schemers is no more. The other walks here beside me,
returned in secret to his native land, after a brief exile, and the
question is, for what? Money, perhaps, or arms, or friends, I may be
told. Yet he would linger still for some intelligence, even when his
life is staked! Has he heard of machinations going on in Britanny, for
the overthrow of all his plans, by the betrayal of him on whom their
success depends? Has he heard of secret negotiations between the
usurper and a feeble duke or his mercenary minister? Does he wish to
obtain the certainty of such things? and is he willing to stake his
life upon the chance of discovering the truth?"

He paused as if for an answer; and the bishop, who had been buried in
deep thought--considering less the questions put and the tale told,
for all that was speedily digested, than the character of his
companion--replied at once--

"You are an extraordinary man, sir, and must speak from something more
sure than a mere guess."

"Assuredly," replied the woodman, "I speak from calculation. He who,
in the calm retirement of a lowly station, removed afar from his
fellow men, has still a fair view of the deeds they do, can often, by
seeing things hidden from the eyes of those who are near the scene of
action, judge of the motives and the result, which the one part of
those engaged do not know, and the other do not perceive. I once stood
upon a high hill, while a battle raged at my feet, and could I have
directed, with the prospect of the whole before me, I could have made
either army win the field; for I saw what neither saw, and understood
what neither understood. Thus is it with a man who stands afar from
the troublous strife of human life, with his eye above the passions,
the prejudices, and the vanities which more or less interrupt each
man's vision on the wide plain of the world where the combat is going
on. But yet you have not answered my question. Have I divined rightly
or not?"

The bishop paused for another instant, and then replied--

"Why should I not speak? My life is in your hand. I can trust no
greater thing than I have trusted. You are right. I have heard of
these machinations; and I have laid my plans for frustrating them, or
at least discovering them. My faithful servant, companion, and friend,
who has accompanied me in all my wanderings, has gone on with Sir
Charles Weinants even now; for that is the man who has been entrusted
with many a secret negotiation between England and Britanny. He, my
servant, will return in disguise to seek me at the abbey; and, if I
should go before he arrives, I carry no definite information with me."

"You must go before he arrives," replied the woodman, "or 'tis likely
you will not go at all; but you shall not go bootless.--Now let us be
silent and cautious, for we are coming near more dangerous ground."

The hint was not lost upon the bishop, who, though bold and resolute,
as I have shown, did not think it necessary to sport with life as a
thing of no value. While this conversation had been taking place, they
had traversed that more open space of forest ground, which has been
mentioned, and were approaching a thicker copse, where sturdy
underwood filled all the spaces between the larger trees. It seemed to
the bishop, in the dimness of the night, that there would be no
possibility of penetrating the vast mass of tangled thicket which rose
sweeping up the side of the hill before his eyes; but still the
woodman bent his step straight towards it, till at length he paused at
a spot where there seemed no possible entrance.

"We are now coming near one of the wider roads of the wood," he said,
in a whisper; "and the little path by which I will lead you runs
within a hundred yards of it, for more than a mile. We must therefore
keep silent, and even let our footfalls be light."

"If we have to force our way through all this brushwood," answered the
bishop in the same tone, "the noise will instantly betray the way we
take."

"Fear not," replied Boyd, "only follow me close and steadily. Leaders
make bad followers, I know; but it must be so just now."

Thus saying, he pushed aside some of the young ash trees, and held
them back with his strong arm, while the bishop came after. Three
steps were sufficient to bring them, through the thick screen, to the
end of a small path, not above three feet in width, but perfectly
clear and open. It was drawn in a line as straight as a bowstring, and
had probably been formed for the purposes of the chase; for arrow or
bolt sent along it could not fail to hit any object of large size,
such as a stag or fallow deer, at any point within shot. The bishop,
it is true, could not see all this, for the boughs were thick
overhead, though cleared away at the sides; and he followed slowly and
cautiously upon the woodman's steps, setting down his feet with that
sort of timid doubt which every one feels more or less when plunged in
utter darkness.

Steadily and quietly the woodman walked on, seeming to see his way as
well in the deep night as he could have done in the full day; and at
length, after having proceeded, for what seemed to his companion much
more than one mile, he again stopped, where the path abruptly
terminated in another thicket. As no sign would have been effectual to
convey his meaning, in the profound darkness which reigned around, the
woodman was fain to whisper to his companion, to remain for a moment
where he stood, while an examination was made to ascertain whether the
great road was clear. He then forced his way forward through the
boughs; and a moment after the bishop heard the whining of a dog,
followed by the voice of the woodman, saying, "Down, Ban, down. Seek,
boy, seek. Is there a strange foot?"

A short interval elapsed; and then was heard the sound of a low growl,
very close to the spot where the prelate himself was stationed.

"Nay, that is a friend," said the woodman, in a low tone. "Come in,
Ban! To heel, good dog."

The sound of the stout and stalwart form of his companion, pushing its
way once more through the brushwood, was then heard; and Boyd again
stood by the good prelate's side.

"All is safe," he said; "and now you must force your way forward, at
the risk of tearing your gown. But never mind that, for you must not
travel in this attire;" and he led the way on.

After a struggle of some difficulty with the brambles and thin shoots
of the ash which formed the copse, the bishop found himself in the
midst of a small open space, with the road running across it, and the
woodman's cottage on the other side. The door was open; and a faint
glare, as from a half-extinguished fire, came forth into the air,
showing the tall sinewy form of the woodman, and the gaunt outline of
his gigantic hound. The cottage soon received the whole party; and,
closing and barring the door, Boyd pointed to the threshold, saying to
the dog, "Down, Ban! Watch!" and immediately the obedient animal laid
himself across the door way, and remained with his head raised, his
ears erect, and his muzzle turned towards the entrance, as if
listening for the sound of approaching footsteps.

"Now, reverend father and good lord," said Boyd, "we must not daily.
You must throw away that gown, and put on this common waggoner's
frock. You must cover the tonsure with this peasant's bonnet, and take
part in driving a load of wood a stage on the way to Litchfield. You
will be met with by those who will see you safely to the coast;
and you will have one with you who will in reality perform the
office--unworthy of your profession and name--which you must seem to
fulfil only for the sake of security. I will bring you the garments in
a moment; but first," he continued, "let me place in your hands this
letter, which you must conceal with the greatest care, and contrive to
convey it to the earl of Richmond. How it fell into my hands matters
not; but, if you run your eye over it, you will see that it contains
all the information for which you were inclined to wait.--Stay, I will
give you a light;" and, stirring the fire into a blaze, he lighted a
lamp at the flame.

"Ha, from Landais, himself," exclaimed the bishop, as he read the
letter, "with a promise to arrest the earl and all his companions, as
soon as Richard's ambassador has arrived, and the money is paid!--The
money is paid! What may that mean?"

"Can you not divine, good father?" asked the woodman. "In this good
world of ours, there is a price for everything. We are all merchants,
traders with what we make, or with what we possess. One man sells his
barony, another his honour, another his conscience, another his soul.
One acquires for himself power and sells the use of it, another gains
a reputation and trades on that, as others do on learning or on skill.
There is a difference of prices too; and the coin in which men require
payment is various. A kingly crown is the price which some demand; a
high office the price of others. The crosier or the triple crown is
one man's price; the smile of a fair lady is another's; the sordid
soul requires mere money; and this Landais, this Breton peasant, risen
to be the minister and ruler of his imbecile prince, sells the duke's
honour and his own for hard gold, Ha, ha, ha! He is quite right; for,
of all the things which go to purchase such commodities, gold is the
only solid permanent possession. What is honour, fame, power, or even
woman's smile, but the empty, transitory, visionary deceit of an hour.
Gold, gold, my lord bishop, untarnishable, persisting, ever-valuable
gold is the only proper payment, when honesty, honour, feeling, and
character are to be sold--Upon my life, I think so!--But there is the
letter. Let the duke have it; show him the toils that are around him;
and bid him break through before they close upon him."

"This is important, indeed," said the bishop, who had been reading the
letter attentively; "and it shall be in the hands of the earl as soon
as it be possible to deliver it. One question, however, let me ask
you. Who, shall I tell the earl, has procured and sent to him this
most valuable information? for I do not affect to believe that you are
that which you seem to be."

"Nothing is what it seems to be," replied the woodman; "no, nothing in
this world. It is a place of unreal things; but yet you might have
satisfied yourself at the abbey, that Boyd the woodman is a faithful
servant of the good abbess and nuns of St. Clare, and has been so long
enough for them to have great confidence in him. However," he
continued, in a somewhat changed tone, "tell the earl of Richmond, you
have had it from a man who may ask his reward hereafter; for we are
all mercenary. That reward shall neither be in gold, nor estates, nor
honours, nor titles; but, when the struggle before him is
accomplished, and he is successful, as he will be, then perchance Boyd
the woodman may ask a boon; and it shall be but one.--Now I bring you
your disguise;" and, passing through the door in the back of the room,
he disappeared for a moment or two, and then returned, loaded with
various pieces of apparel. The bishop smiled as he put them on; and
the transformation was certainly most complete, as the frock of the
carter was substituted for that of the monk, and the peasant's bonnet
took the place of the cowl.

"We must get rid of your sandals, my lord," said the woodman; "and
that is the most difficult part of the matter; for my foot is well
nigh twice as large as yours, so that my boots will fit but ill."

"We will manage it," answered the bishop, "for I will thrust my feet
in, sandals and all, and that will fill them up."

The woodman laughed; but the plan seemed a good one, and was adopted.

"Here is a little Venice mirror," said the woodman. "Now look at
yourself, my good lord. I will not ask, if your best friend would know
you, for dear friends always forget; but would your bitterest enemy
recognise you, though hatred has so long a memory?"

"I do not think he would," answered the bishop, smiling at his own
appearance; "but yet I fear, if we should be met in the wood by any of
these people, and detained, they may discover me by the tonsure."

"We will not be met," answered Boyd. "Now, follow me; but first stick
this axe into your girdle, which may serve, both as an ensign of your
new trade, and a means of defence."

The woodman then led his companion through the door in the back of the
room into another large chamber behind. Thence, after locking the
door, he took his way through a shed, half filled with piles of
firewood; and then, proceeding through an orchard, surrounded on three
sides by the forest, he entered a little garden of pot-herbs, at the
farther end of which was a fence of rough-hewn oak.

On approaching the paling, the bishop found himself standing on the
edge of a very steep bank, at the bottom of which he could catch the
glistening of a stream; and, after a warning to take good heed to his
footing, the woodman led him down a flight of steep steps, cut in the
bank, to a small path, which ran along by the side of the water. The
dell, which the stream had apparently channelled for itself, and which
was flanked by woody banks, varying from twenty to forty feet in
height, extended for nearly a mile through the wood, and at length
issued forth from the forest screen, at the edge of a rich and
well-cultivated tract of country.

At this spot there was a bridge, over which ran one of the roads from
the abbey; but the little path, which the woodman and his companion
were following, passed under the bridge by the side of the river; and
Boyd continued to pursue it for two or three hundred yards farther. He
then ascended the bank, which had by this time become low and sloping,
and took his way across a field to the right, so as to join the road
at some distance from the bridge. A few yards in advance was seen a
lantern, and a wood-cart with its team of horses, and two men standing
by its side. To one of these the woodman spoke for a few moments in a
low voice; and then, turning to the other, he said, "You understand
your orders, David. Here is the man who is to go with you--Now, my
lord," he continued, in a whisper; "you had better get up on the front
of the waggon. I must here leave you; for I have the security of some
others to provide for."

"I trust my fair guide from the abbey has met with no peril on her
return," said the bishop in a whisper. "It would be bitter to me
indeed if any evil befel her in consequence of her charity towards
me."

"I trust not," said the woodman; "but yet I now find she could not
return to the abbey, and has taken refuge elsewhere. There were eyes
watching her she knew not of, and help at hand in case she needed it.
But I must go and provide for all this; for a fair girl like that
ought not to be trusted too long with a gay young lord. He seems a
good youth, 'tis true, though wild and rash enough."

"Oh, he may be fully trusted," replied the prelate. "I will be his
sponsor, for he was brought up under my own eye, and I know every turn
of his mind. His rashness is but manner, and his light gaiety but the
sparkling of a spirit which has no dark thought or memory to make it
gloomy. If he is with her, she is safe enough; for he would neither
wrong her nor see her wronged."

"Nevertheless, I must see to the safety of both," replied the woodman;
"so now farewell, and peace attend you--Stay, let me help you up."

Thus saying, he aided the bishop to mount upon the front of the cart;
and at a crack of the waggoner's whip the team moved slowly on.




CHAPTER XIV.


The lighted brand which Chartley carried in his hand hardly remained
unextinguished till he and Iola had passed through the deep gateway
into the large hall; but there they found much more light than they
had expected, for the fire in the courtyard threw a broad glare over
the two large windows, and served, in some degree, to illuminate the
interior. It was one of those vast old halls, of which but few are now
remaining, though at that time no great baronial residence was without
one of them. Some indeed were of greater extent than the one I now
speak of; but few, if any, had a bolder sweep of arch than was
displayed by the vaulted roof which now covered the young nobleman and
his companion. Time had spared it; and ruin had not as yet laid any
hand upon it, so that the eye could roam through the framework of
richly carved oaken beams above, without detecting any flaw in the
slating which overspread the whole. No columns or obstructions of any
kind interrupted the sight from one end to the other; and, by the
flickering of the fire-light, Chartley could perceive two doors
opening out of the opposite end of the hall, one upon the right hand
and another upon the left. To the door upon the right, two or three
stone steps led up from the pavement; and he inquired at once,
remembering that Iola had boasted a thorough knowledge of the
building, if she could tell him whither that entrance led.

"To the great square tower," she replied, "by a staircase in the
little turret that you might see at the side of the keep. It is very
narrow, but quite good and perfect still."

"If the door be still there and sound," replied Chartley, "it will be
as good a place of refuge as any; for the mouth of a narrow staircase
is no bad spot for defence."

"I think the door is there," replied Iola; "but we can soon see."

"Thanks to the fire without, we can, sweet Iola," replied Chartley,
walking forward by her side; but, as he did so, his foot struck
against something lying on the pavement, which he sent rattling to the
other side of the hall. "Why, what is here?" he exclaimed, stooping
down. "Some one has been lighting a fire here, not very long ago. And
on my life here is a lamp too, seemingly not very long extinguished;
at all events, there is oil in it."

"Oh yes, it is long ago," answered Iola, "as long ago as Christmas. I
remember all about it now. The nuns come up here every year, on the
morrow of Christmas, for there is still a mass kept up once a-year in
the chapel; and, the last time, sister Bridget left her lamp behind
her, which she brought to light the tapers on the altar. It may now
serve us in good stead; and I do not see why we should not light a
fire here too; for they do so every Christmas day, and heat a flagon
of Malvoisie, for the priest who says the mass."

"Would to Heaven we had a flagon of Malvoisie to heat," replied Lord
Chartley, laughing. "I know few things better, on a cold night or in a
doubtful hour. Strange, sweet Iola, that so spiritual a thing as hope
should go up and down, burn more faintly or more brightly, for the
want or the possession of a few drops of grape juice."

"It may be so with men," answered Iola; "but I do not think it is so
with women. Hope with me never burns brighter than in a fine clear
summer morning, when I hear the birds sing. There seems, in the sweet
sounds and in the sweet sights, a world of promises from a voice that
never lies."

"Oh yes, but Malvoisie is good too," answered Chartley gaily,
"especially when summer mornings are not here, when no sweet bird
gives music, unless it be the hooting owl; and even Iola's eyes do not
afford light enough to show one this great thick door, the hinges of
which seem somewhat rusty."

As he thus spoke, with his foot upon the second step, he swung the
heavy door backwards and forwards, with a grating sound, which seemed,
to make the old hall shake.

"Come," he continued, "I will go light sister Bridget's lamp at the
fire, and see what good Ibn Ayoub is about. His watch has been
undisturbed, or we should have had his Arabic gutturals finding their
way into the hall, and echoing round and round as harshly as this
rusty hinge. You shall stay near the other door, till I return; but
mind, if there should be anything like a fray, you run up here and
shut yourself in. I am bound by knightly courtesy to take you back to
the abbey safe and sound; and so if I am killed you must take the task
upon yourself, in justice to my reputation."

"Killed! Oh do not talk of such a thing!" exclaimed Iola. "I beseech
you, my noble lord, think not of risking life in such a case."

"To protect and serve you," answered Chartley, "I would risk more than
life, sweet girl, if I had any thing more than life to lose. A man's
life is worth very little in these days; for there is so little
certainty of its continuing from one hour to another, that, good
faith, I am fain to shake my head every morning when I rise, to see
that it is upon my shoulders. Buckingham and Hastings, Vaughan, Grey,
and others, besides some hundreds more, would have done better to have
died in the field, or in defence of some fair lady, than to have
waited for the headsman's axe. I trust, whenever my hour comes, that
it will find me sword in hand. It is the only way I ever could make up
my mind to look upon death complacently. I suppose I am a sad coward,
for the thought of a sick bed, and feverish pillow, and lamentable
friends, and the grave doctor with a potion in his hand, frightens me
immensely. Nor is the axe much better for it usually has its dull
antecedents of trial, condemnation, gaping fools, and blocks and
scaffolds; whereas, on the battle field, or in the lists, lance to
lance, for a lady's honour, with stroke for stroke, and clanging
trumpets, and charging horse, and shouts of victory, the spirit
springs forth triumphant through the wounds of the flesh, and soars
away to glory, with the light of renown upon its wings."

Iola sighed, she knew not why; but still the enthusiasm touched her,
and she felt a thrill run through her veins at his high words, which
made her almost fearful of the sensations which were creeping over her
heart.

"You do not make me brave," she said; "and therefore I will come with
you under the arch, for I shall feel frightened if I lose sight of
you."

"Oh, I will willingly live ever in your eyes," answered Chartley; "and
he who reaches you must first pass over my corpse."

Iola started; for it is not to be supposed that, in that age, she, or
any one, was without superstition; and she read a sort of double sense
in his words, which seemed to her almost to have the force of
prophecy. She followed him closely, however, and only paused when she
again got sight of the courtyard, with the Arab still standing quietly
by the fire, upon which he had piled some more wood.

"Has no one come?" demanded Chartley. "Have you heard the steps
again?"

"I have heard the steps," answered the Arab; "but no one has come.
They seem to wander round and round the court; but the eye sees not
the walker. 'Tis most likely an Afrit, watching this old castle. There
may be treasures buried here."

"There is a treasure hidden here," replied the young nobleman,
speaking to himself but thinking of Iola. "As to Afrits, they never
cross the sea. However, good Ibn Ayoub, as we have not men enough in
the garrison to man all the walls or guard all the gates, we will
withdraw into the great hall, light our fire there, and close the
door, though we cannot drop the portcullis. Bring as much of the
embers in as you can contrive to carry, without burning your garments,
and a quantity of wood, of which there seems a great store there in
the corner."

"'Tis an old gate broken to pieces," said the Arab. "'Twill soon burn,
for it is as dry as camel's dung."

Chartley waited and listened, while his slave performed the task he
had set him about; and then returning to Iola, after he had lighted
the lamp, he said--

"I can hear no sound. It was good Ibn Ayoub's fancy, I suppose, though
his ears are as sharp as those of a page in a fairy tale. He traced me
through the forest to-night, by the sound of my horse's feet, as
surely as a hound traces the deer by the scent.--Nay, cheer up, sweet
Iola, or we shall both grow sad and fanciful in this old pile. What
though we have no Malvoisie, there is better wine than ever flowed
from the grape, or was imprisoned in a bottle--the wine of the heart,
dear lady, of the heart unconscious of evil, the bright gay spirit,
the cheerful contentment with the event of the hour, the fearless
trust of the morrow. 'Tis but a little time weaken be together. Let us
make the moments pleasant as they fly; for to me they will fly all too
soon. Come, let us look round the hall, and see what it contains;" and
he held the lamp high up above his head, gazing round, but unable to
see the whole of the vast extent of the chamber.

"Oh, there is nothing here," answered Iola. "It has been stripped of
every thing, long, long ago. But there are some things in the chambers
above, which the plunderers did not think it worth while to bring
down, I suppose--settles and stools, and a huge bed, which they say
was made in the room where it stands, and cannot pass the door."

"Come, we will go and see them," cried Chartley. "Sitting on these
cold stones is not made for those delicate limbs; and perchance we may
find something which we can bring down. But first let the Arab light
the fire here; and then we will try and close the great door."

No great difficulty occurred in either process; for the Arab
contrived, on two broad pieces of wood, to bring in a sufficient
quantity of embers speedily to kindle a large fire on the wide hearth
of the old hall, and the ponderous door, though it had one or two
large holes in it, and groaned most desperately at being forced to
turn upon its hinges--a process which it probably had not undergone
for more than half a century--nevertheless swung to easily enough, and
the heavy bolt was forced into the deep hole made for its reception in
the stone-work.

When the young lord turned round, after aiding the Arab in this work,
the aspect that the hall presented was cheerful enough. The pile of
wood on the hearth had caught fire at once; and, mingled with the
smoke which was rushing up the wide chimney, were thick columns of
many  flame, which cast a warm and flickering glow over the
ancient stone walls and upon the painted glass of the windows, where
knights, and priests, and angels, and apostles, were grouped in
somewhat strange confusion. In the bright blaze of the fire, on the
opposite side of the hearth, stood the fair form of Iola, wrapped
indeed in the earl's surcoat, which veiled, without altogether
concealing, the beautiful outline of the figure. The long sable-lined
sleeves, trailing upon the ground, seemed to form a sort of train
behind her as she stood, while the beautiful neck and shoulders rose
from the furred collar, lightly fastened over her chest, and the fair
and speaking countenance, turned towards those who were closing the
door, was now shown in bright light, now cast into shadowy
indistinctness as the flame rose and fell.

Chartley gazed at her, and thought it was the fairest sight he had
ever seen; and sensations rose up in his breast, which he took no
pains to master. He was young, free, trustful, full of happy
confidence in the future, and he said to himself--"Why not? Roam the
world over, can I find anything more lovely than she _is_, more
gentle, more sweet, more full of noble feelings and bright thoughts,
than she _seems_. In marriage one always cuts one's fate upon a die,
the fall of which is uncertain,--Why not?--But not now, not now," he
continued, the spirit of gentlemanly courtesy coming to guide him
instantly; "I must wait till she is free from danger, and then seek
her when she is safe and in the midst of her friends again. I must not
agitate or alarm her now."

Though the resolution was a strong one, as well as a good one, it was
difficult to keep the feelings which were busy at his heart from
influencing his manner in some degree. Nor, to say truth, did he keep
them in such subjection. He would have liked very much to make her sit
beside him, and, with his arm cast around her, pillow her beautiful
head upon his bosom, while she took the repose so needful to her. He
would have liked to stand before that open hearth, with her hand
clasped in his, and their eyes fixed upon the faces and landscapes in
the fire, talking of love and dreaming of happy days. He did none of
these things; but yet there was a softness and a tenderness in his
manner and his tone, every now and then, which went thrilling through
Iola's young fresh heart, and creating dreads for herself and for him,
which might have shaken her terribly, had it not been for the gay and
sparkling spirit which broke forth in his conversation from time to
time, and carried away all heavier thoughts upon its wings.

"Now come," he said, taking up the lamp after he had paused by her
side for a moment, "let us go up to these chambers above, and see if
we can find some seat or another, that we can bring down. You have
been walking and standing a long long while; and those beautiful
little feet will be sadly tired, unless we can discover some means of
resting them. I would rather walk a hundred miles than stand an hour.
I have always thought that a bird's life must be a sad wearisome one,
except when it is on the wing, to stand all day on a bare bough with
those thin shanks of its, and nothing to do but trim its feathers."

"And sing its songs," said Iola, following him. "It must have its
consolation there."

Chartley went first, lighting her by the way; and the stairs, narrow
and worn with many feet, soon afforded a fair excuse for taking her
hand to lead her up. When once it was in his, it was not easy to part
with it; and, as he held it neither very loosely nor very tightly,
there seemed no plea for withdrawing it, so that it remained where it
was, even after they had reached the top of the stairs, and had
entered a low-roofed stone corridor, and a large old-fashioned vaulted
chamber, which had probably been the state bedroom of the former
possessors of the castle. There, still, remained the great bedstead
which Iola had mentioned, probably of the reign of Edward III., formed
of dark black wood, apparently ebony, richly carved and inlaid with
ivory upon the lower cornices. The rich hangings, with which it had
been at one time adorned, had all been torn down and carried off with
the bedding; but the framework was so artificially joined, that no
means of removing it were apparent, without breaking it all to pieces;
and it is probable that the rude soldiers, who had sacked the castle,
were not disposed to burden themselves with any heavy booty. Marks on
the floor showed where three truckle beds had stood, but not one now
remained; and the only seat to be seen was a large chair, of the same
materials as the bed, with a footstool, from which the embroidery that
once covered it had been ripped.

"These will do," cried Chartley. "The chair must have come up, and so
it can go down the stairs. Then we will set it by the fire; and it
shall be your throne, queen of the May, while I sit on the footstool
at your feet, and Ibn Ayoub crouches, as is his wont, upon the dry
hearth. But you must be my lamp-bearer, or I shall never get them
down;" and; giving the light to Iola, he raised the chair in his
strong arms. "It is as heavy as iron," he said, "but it shall come
down, if it were made of adamant."

As he spoke, an extraordinary sort of sound, like a low groan, echoed
through the room, so clear and distinct, that there could be no doubt
their ears deceived them not. Iola started, and well, nigh dropped the
lamp, while Chartley set down the chair, and laid his hand upon his
sword.

"It is some door, moving on its rusty hinges," he said, after
listening for a moment. "The wind is blowing it backwards and
forwards;" and taking up the chair again, he bore it into the
corridor, while Iola went before with the light, gazing timidly
around.

Nothing occurred to disturb them however; and at length, though not
without difficulty, Chartley got the cumbrous seat down the narrow
stairs. The Arab was now standing in the midst of the hall, gazing
towards the door, with his naked scimitar in his hand.

"What is the matter, son of Ayoub?" asked Chartley. "What have you
heard?"

"Feet, and a groan," answered the Arab, with his dark eyes glaring in
the fire light.

"Pooh, 'tis some rusty hinge," said Chartley, "and the feet of rats or
martins, driven to take shelter here by this long continued wintry
weather.--Seat yourself here, sweet Iola. Put your feet to the fire,
and dream of pleasant things, while I go up again and bring the
stool."

Thus saying, he took the lamp from her hand, and re-ascended. He was
not long absent; but Iola listened anxiously for his returning step.
She felt safe while he was near her, but fearful the moment he was
away.

Chartley was soon at her side again, and placing the stool close to
her feet, he seated himself thereon, and, leaning upon the arm of her
chair, gazed up into her face with a gay smile.

"Now this is comfortable," he said. "We may pass the remaining hours
of night cheerfully enough here; and if you doze, sweet Iola, your
little head will but fall upon Chartley's shoulder, where it may rest
as securely, though not so softly, as on your own pillow in the abbey.
There, seat yourself there, Ibn Ayoub, in the nook of the chimney, or
your southern blood will be frozen in this cold northern night. Think
no more of groans and footfalls. These are all tricks of the
imagination--It is wonderful," he continued, turning to Iola, "what
wild fancies superstition will beget, ay, and sad as well as
wonderful, when one thinks of the horrible cruelties which reasonable
men will commit upon the strength of stories that a child should be
whipped for believing. When I was in Flanders a few years ago, a poor
woman was burned alive, in the public market place; and what do you
think was the crime of which she was accused?"

"Nay, I know not," answered Iola; "but, it should be a terrible crime
indeed to draw down so terrible a punishment."

"The tale is simply this," replied Chartley. "There was a poor woman
in one of the towns of Flanders, who gained her bread by the work of
her needle. One of those who employed her was the wife of the bailiff
of the black monks of that town; but when her work was done, the
bailiff and his wife refused to pay the wages promised, and, being
poor and distressed for money, she was naturally importunate.
Obtaining no redress, she applied to the curate of the village, where
she was born; for advice and assistance. It happened, however, that
the good man had been entangled in a lawsuit with the bailiff of the
monks, and whatever was the advice he gave to the poor woman, their
conference resulted in evil to both. The woman sent her daughter to
demand a part of that which was due, if she could not obtain the
whole; and the poor girl arriving, while the bailiff and his family
were at dinner, stood beside the table for some time, petitioning for
payment in vain. Several days after, one of the family was taken ill
and died. The disease, it would seem, was infectious; and before its
ravages ceased, the bailiff and two others were dead. The rest of the
family took it into their heads to accuse the poor woman, her
daughter, and the curate, of having bewitched them; and fools and
knaves enough were found to relate, and to believe, that the curate
had baptized a toad, and had administered to it the blessed sacrament,
at the instigation of the poor needlewoman. The toad, cut in four
pieces, was said to have been thrown under the table, where the
bailiff dined, by the woman's daughter; and upon this fabricated
charge, the unhappy creature was cast into prison, put to the torture,
and afterwards burned to ashes."

Iola shuddered.

"It is very horrible," she said, "and one can hardly believe that such
cruelty can exist in the breasts of human creatures."

"Or such folly either," answered Chartley, "as to suppose that the
quarters of a baptized toad could bewitch to the death three innocent
people. If there be charms and periapts, they must be produced by
other means than that."

"But do you doubt there are such things?" asked Iola. "We read of them
continually."

"Ah, fair Iola," answered Chartley, "we read and hear of many a thing
which, tried by the strong tests of reason and religion, vanish away
like empty dreams. If we but ask ourselves, thinking for one moment of
the goodness and majesty of the Almighty, is it probable, is it
possible, that God can suffer such things, there will be found an
answer in our own hearts, which will banish all such imaginations."

Iola mused; and Chartley, laughing at the grave subject he had
introduced, was proceeding to change it for some lighter topic, when
the Arab suddenly rose up from the spot where he had seated himself,
and lifted up his finger as a warning to listen.

"I hear something move," he said, "and not far off. Hark! You will
hear."

Even as he spoke, a strange kind of whining sound, and then a dull
groaning, came upon the air; and Chartley, starting up, exclaimed--

"This is indeed very strange."

The sounds had ceased almost instantly; but a sort of long-drawn sigh
seemed to follow, and then a heavy rattling fall, as if a part of the
wall had rolled down.

"Whatever that is," exclaimed Chartley, "it is in the court-yard. I
will go out and see."

"Nay, nay, I beseech you," cried Iola, clinging to his arm, "do not,
dear lord, do not rush into needless danger. Let us go up to the rooms
above, and look forth from the windows there, as these are too high."

"Stay, I can reach them by the chair," said Chartley; and, placing the
heavy seat underneath the window, the sill of which was a few inches
above his eyes, he mounted upon it and looked out in silence, while
Iola crept to his side, and raised her eyes towards his face. After
gazing for a few moments, Chartley held out his hand to her,
saying--"Come up hither beside me, sweet Iola, and see what is here.
Be not afraid. There is no danger."

Iola gave him her hand, and, setting her light foot on the seat beside
him, rose till her eyes just came above the window sill.

Her first impulse, had she not repressed it, when she obtained a view
through the dim small pane into the ruinous court, would have been to
utter a cry of terror and surprise; for certainly such were the
sensations which she felt. The fire which she and her companion had
left nearly extinguished had been relighted and piled up with fresh
wood, which was sending forth a volume of flame, higher than a man's
head; but the object which most struck the fair girl, as she gazed
forth, was a dark black-looking figure, sitting between the window and
the fire, crouched up in the position often assumed by an ape, and
seemingly holding its hands, to warm them at the blaze. The attire, as
far as it could be seen, which was very indistinctly, for the back
being turned towards them was in deep shadow, appeared to be quaint
and strange; and, rising straight up, though somewhat on the left side
of the head, appeared a long thin object like a horn. Chartley
continued gazing on this apparition in silence; but one glance was
enough for Iola; and, springing down, she covered her face with her
hand, saying in a low terrified voice--

"Oh, come down, come down!"




CHAPTER XV.


To the surprise of Iola, and certainly not less to that of good Ibn
Ayoub, though with Mahommedan gravity he gave no voice to his wonder,
Chartley burst into a violent fit of laughter.

"Good Heaven, what is it?" exclaimed Iola, looking up; and at the same
moment Chartley sprang down from the chair, still laughing.

"Forgive me, dear Iola," he said, taking her little hand and kissing
it, "but did you ever see the devil play on a bag-pipe?"

"I never saw the devil at all," replied Iola, with a bewildered look;
"but I do not understand what you mean."

"I mean, sweet friend, that this is evidently a piper, and, if I
mistake not much, 'tis man I saw in Tamworth this very morning and
yesterday also. He seemed the life and soul of the people round, a
merry happy-hearted fellow, whom they call Sam the Piper, with a
breast without guile, if one may judge by his face, which bespeaks him
no one's enemy but his own. Strange to say, he would drink neither
wine nor ale, though I offered him either, and though his face
betrayed many a potation past, if not present. Stay a while. I will go
out and see. If it be the man I mean, I will bring him in; for by all
means we will have the piper of our faction."

"But are you sure that it is safe?" said Iola, timidly, but holding
his arm to detain him.

"Oh, he will not betray us," exclaimed Chartley; "and besides we can
keep him here as long as we like."

"But if it should prove to be the--the--" said Iola, adding, after a
moment's pause, "some evil being."

Chartley laughed again; and gently putting his arm round her for a
single instant, he said--

"Fear not, Iola. With the angels in those eyes upon my side, I would
undertake to protect you against all the evil spirits in the
universe."

Iola dropped the eyelids over the lustrous orbs below; and a blush
spread over her cheek like the crimson light of the setting sun.
Chartley instantly withdrew his arm; and repeating--"Fear not," he
opened the door and went out of the hall.

A few words were then heard, spoken without; and a moment after he
re-entered, followed by Sam the Piper, with his beloved instrument
still tight under his arm. The good man's steps were not quite steady,
and certainly it was not natural feebleness that caused their
vacillation. Yet his eye was clear and bright; and his merry voice
seemed not in the least thickened by any liquor he might have imbibed.

"Gad ye good night, lords and ladies, gad ye good night," he said, as
he entered, making a low obeisance, and producing at the same time a
lamentable squeak from his chanter. "Gad ye good night, tawny Moor. I
did not think to see your beautiful black face again for many a day.
Gad ye good night, fairest of ladies. To see you and his dark lordship
here, one would think one's self upon the confines of the upper and
the nether world, with angels on the one side and devils on the
other."

"Meaning me for one, knave," said Chartley, giving him a good-humoured
shake.

"Ah, mercy, mercy, noble sir," cried the piper in a pitiful tone.
"Shake me not; for my legs are not made of iron to-night, and my
stomach is as full as my bag when well blown up."

"But your stomach has something stronger than air in it, if I mistake
not," said Chartley, laughing, "Come tell me, sirrah, how it happens
that you, who would take no strong drink yesterday, are well nigh
drunk tonight."

"There's no contradiction in that," replied the man, "though I take no
liquor, liquor may overtake me; and if a man is overtaken in liquor,
the fault's in the liquor, not in him."

"Still, if the fault's in the liquor, and the liquor in him, the fault
is in him," answered Chartley; "for learned doctors say that the thing
which contains another contains all that it contains."

"But, then," replied the piper, who, like many of his class, was
exceedingly fond of chopping logic; "if the fault's in the liquor, and
the liquor in him, he cannot be in fault, for the thing that contains
cannot be in the thing contained. But marry, my good lord, the truth
is, I made a promise to good sister Alice at the convent, not to get
drunk at Tamworth fair, and gloriously I redeemed my word, and
gloriously I got drunk afterwards."

While this dialogue had been proceeding, Iola stood by, marvelling
greatly at all she heard; for it was a scene altogether new to her,
and one of which, in her simplicity and ignorance of the world's ways,
she could have formed no conception. In her ramblings hither and
thither, which her good aunt had permitted pretty liberally, she might
indeed have seen, now and then, a drunken man, for alas, drunkenness
is a virtue of no particular age; but she had never met with the merry
reckless wine-bibber--one of the peculiar character of the good
piper--who has an excuse for his sins always ready, by which he does
not impose upon himself.

After a few more words of the same kind, Chartley moved her chair for
her back to the fire, seated himself as before on the stool by her
side, and, while the Arab resumed his place, pointed to the opposite
side, saying to the piper, "There, sit you down, and tell us what
you've seen in the forest to-night."

"Good faith, I have seen nothing," answered Sam, "for the night's
dark, and I have been somewhat dark too. After I had been to the abbey
for the morning dole, to show good sister Alice that I had kept my
word and was quite sober, I went away to the first tavern, and, with
all the pence I had collected in the fair, bought myself a stoup of
small wine, and a farthing's worth of sugar. Your lordship's groat
helped me wonderfully. Then, not liking the thought of a forcible
division of my property, I brought my wine up here, ensconced me in
the doorway of the little tower, and went on sipping till I fell
asleep. When I woke, it was black night; but there was still something
left in my wine-pot, and I set to again to gain courage, and to keep
out the cold. When I looked abroad, however, I soon saw that somebody
had lighted a fire in the court; and I crept round and round on the
walls, to see who it was, saying Paters and Aves all the time, and
thinking it might be the devil had done it; for he, it is said, keeps
up the best fire in his house of any man."

Lord Chartley gave a meaning and merry glance to Iola; and Iola smiled
in return.

"At length, seeing no one there," continued the piper, "I ventured
down into the court to warm myself, when suddenly your lordship
came upon me, and took me prisoner. I suppose it was my mad pipes
betrayed me, for, like a chattering wife, they are always talking
where they should not, unless I am careful to blow all the wind out
of the bag. However, I am never much afraid of robbers, plunderers,
camp-followers, or anything, for nobody meddles with a piper. You
cannot have more of a cat than her skin, nor of a piper than his
pipes, and neither the one nor the other is of much use to those who
do not know how to handle them."

Chartley mused for a minute or two, and then said in a low tone to his
fair companion:

"Do you not think, dear lady, that we could make use of this merry
ribald, to communicate our situation here to those who could give us
intelligence--ay, and even help in case of need. It is very sweet," he
continued, tenderly, "to sit here by your side, whiling away the
livelong hours of night, with one so fair and gentle. But I must not
forget your comfort in my own happiness. You have passed a weary and
an anxious night, and the sooner I can restore you to your friends, to
tranquillity and repose, the better. I must find some other moment,"
he added rapidly, "brighter and calmer, to say more of myself--I think
that we may use this man, who will not be stopped by the soldiery, to
bear tidings of where you are----"

"Oh yes," exclaimed Iola, "let him go as quickly as possible to the
abbey. My aunt will be sadly anxious about me."

"I fear that would be dangerous," replied Chartley. "Rather let him go
to the woodman, tell him where we are, request him to send us
information and advice, and, if possible, to communicate to the
abbess, that you are quite safe. That I think is the best course to
pursue."

"Perhaps it is," answered Iola; and then in a lower tone, she added,
"if you can quite trust to this man--he seems a libertine and a
drunkard."

"You must not judge him too harshly," replied Chartley. "Most men,
especially of his class, have their peculiar vices; but, though it may
seem strange, from those vices you must not imply others of a
different class and character. Nay, more, there are faults which are
almost always accompanied by certain better qualities; and, from what
I know of the world, I am inclined to think, that this man's good
faith might be better trusted than that of many a sanctimonious friar
or smooth-spoken propriety-loving trader."

"But is he fit?" asked Iola. "To me he seems hardly sober."

"Oh fit enough," answered Chartley. "With daily tipplers a certain
portion of good wine is needful to sharpen their senses. That gives
them wit which takes away the wits of other men; and he is not likely
to find more drink in the forest unless he apply to the pure
stream.--Hark ye, good master piper. Tell me how much discretion is
left in that noddle of yours?"

"Enough to prevent me running my head against a post, or leading
another into a ditch," answered the piper. "Now, good my lord, did I
not come down the stairs, from the little turret into the courtyard,
with every stone step as frail and moveable as the rounds of
ambition's ladder?"

"And thou art trustworthy, methinks," said Chartley, in a musing tone.

"Else have I drunk many a butt of good liquor to no purpose," replied
the piper.

"How should that make thee trustworthy?" demanded the young lord.

"Because the liquor was sound and honest, my lord," replied the piper;
"and as by this time it must have penetrated every part, I should be
sound and honest too. Moreover, it was best half drunk in secret, so
that secrecy's a part of my composition also."

"Well, I will trust thee," replied Chartley, "and if thou wilt win a
gold angel, thou shalt have the means of doing so."

"I will not debate upon the question long," said Sam, starting up. "I
am always ready to go upon a pilgrimage, and far readier to worship a
gold angel than a painted saint. Let me see, six stoups, at one
shilling and two pence the stoup, would be--soul of my body, there's
drink for a week in a gold angel."

"There, there, cease your calculations," cried Chartley; "first win
the angel, and then use it discreetly afterwards."

"So shall it be my better angel," said the piper, laughing, and
winking his eye. "But how is the celestial coin to be obtained, my
lord?"

"Listen, and you shall hear," replied the young nobleman; "and be
serious now, for this is a matter of importance. Do you know Boyd, the
head woodman of the abbey?"

"Do I know the great oak of Ashton?" exclaimed Sam. "Do I know the old
tower of Tamworth? Do I know anything that men frequenting this
neighbourhood see every day? Why, Boyd has given me both a beating and
a breakfast, at times, has made my back groan under a cudgel and under
a bacon. That last was a-good deed, for it saved my boy, who is now
over the sea with the Marquis of Dorset, from starving, when he was
hid away in Mount Sorel wood. Oh yes, we all know Boyd; the roughest
tongue, the hardest hand, the clearest eye, and the kindest heart in
the country."

"Well then," said Chartley, "I wish you to find him out, and to tell
him for me, that I am here in the old castle, and have a lady with
me whom he wots of. My name I suppose you have learned from the
horse-boys, by your be-lording me so often; and he will divine who the
lady is; if you tell him that she is with me, and safe, but that we
dare not venture forth without further information, while these
soldiers are watching the wood. Let him send word to the lady's
friends that she is in security, but, above all, give us intelligence
and help if he can."

"Soldiers watching the wood?" said the piper, in a tone of surprise.

"Ay, even so," answered Chartley. "Thou, hast been like one of the
seven sleepers, my friend, and hast dozed, unconscious, while great
events were going on around thee. Half the houses on the abbey green
have been burned; and there are bands now upon all the great roads of
the wood. Does that frighten thee?"

"Not a whit," cried the piper. "How should it frighten me? They could
but slash the sow's stomach under my arm, or my own; and neither the
one nor the other is worth the sharpening of a knife. They'll not harm
me; for all your mud-splashing, sheep-stealing, wench-kissing,
big-oathed, blaspheming horse troopers are fond of a minstrel; and I
will strike up my pipes when I come near the high road, to let them
know who I am. It may be a signal to old Boyd too, if he's wandering
through the wood, as most likely he is; for, like a ghost, he goes
about more by night than by day.--Burned half the houses on the abbey
green! That's serious. By my pipes, some necks'll be twisted for it, I
think."

"I trust there will," answered Chartley; "but now set out upon your
errand, my good man, and when next you see me, my message being
delivered, claim of me a gold angel; but if you say a word of it to
any one else but Boyd himself, when next I see you, you shall have
another sort of payment."

The piper laughed, and, giving the bag under his arm a squeeze, made
his pipes squeak in a very ludicrous manner. Then quitting the hall,
with a steadier step than that with which he had entered, he took his
way down through the wood which had often been his home during many a
warm summer night. Most of the paths were familiar to him; and
trudging on, he entered one of the broader ways, which led directly to
the high road that divided the forest into two unequal parts. After he
had gone on for about half a mile, he heard voices speaking, and
paused for an instant to consider. "I will be very drunk," he said to
himself. "Drunkenness is often as good a cloak as hypocrisy. All men
make their garments out of the skins of beasts, and the smoothest are
not always the thickest. Here go I then;" and, assuming a reeling and
unsteady step, he blew up the bag of his pipes, and soon, from the
various stops, produced a gay wild air, which would have been pretty
enough, but for the continued dull squeaking with which it was
accompanied.

"Ha, who goes there?" cried a voice, a minute or two after, as he
emerged upon the road; and two mounted men were immediately by his
side.

"Sam the piper, Sam the piper," he answered, in drunken accents. "And
who are you, jolly boys? What do you keep the king's highway for? Are
you looking to see if any man has dropped his purse? If so, I cry
shares; for by St. Dominic, there's nothing in mine. Now, marry, if a
fat priest were to fall in your way, I would rather be his mule
afterwards than before."

"Why so, knave?" asked one of the men.

"Marry, because he'd ride lighter, I've a notion," replied Sam.

"Ha, say'st thou so, knave?" cried one of the men, lifting up his hand
to strike him; but the other interposed, saying--

"Nay, nay, 'tis Sam the piper. He has a fool's privilege, and means no
harm. Besides the man is drunk."

"Come, tell me, knave," exclaimed the other, "whither thou hast been
wandering in the wood?"

"Nay, Heaven knows," answered the piper, "wherever wine and destiny
led me. I have been asleep half the time; and since I woke, I have
been walking about in the cool, to clear my complexion, and get the
fumes of Tamworth fair out of my head; for I felt my knees weaker than
they ought to be, and a solemn sort of haziness of the wits, just such
as the preaching parson at Ashton must have after writing one of his
sermons, and his congregation do have after hearing one."

The two soldiers laughed, and the fiercer of the two demanded--

"Did'st thou meet any man in the forest?

"Not till I met your reverences," replied the piper. "I do not know
what any man should do here, unless it were to sleep off a tipsy fit,
lose his way, or pick up a purse, though the last has grown a rarity
since the wars came to an end. In former times men might gather purses
like blackberries upon every bush. That was when I was a soldier. But
that whorson poke with a pike I got at Barnet crippled my crupper
joint for life, and made me walk unsteady, which causes the poor fools
to say I am drunk, though all the world knows that I live like an
anchorite, eat herbs and roots, when I can get no flesh, and drink
pure water, when there's neither wine nor ale to be had. Give you good
den, my masters--What's the time o'day?"

"Night, you drunken dolt," replied one of the men. "It's matins by
this time, but are you sure that you have not seen a man in a friar's
gown? If you lie to me, your ears won't be safe for the next month.

"A man in a friar's gown?" said the piper with a hiccup, "ay, to be
sure I did."

"When? Where?" cried the soldiers eagerly.

"Why, in Tamworth, yesterday morning," answered the piper; and one of
the men, giving him a smart blow with his fist, told him to go on his
way, with no very commendatory valediction.

Playing his part admirably well, the piper reeled down the road,
passing two other patroles, each of which stopped and interrogated
him, as the other men had done; somewhat more briefly, however, when
they found he had been stopped and questioned before. At length,
sitting down by the road side, as if his legs refused to carry him
farther, when two of his interrogators had just passed on, he waited
till they had gone to a little distance, and then plunged into the
wood. He soon forced his way on, to one of the lesser paths, but there
he stopped to consider, saying to himself--"How shall I make Boyd
hear, if he be roaming about? I'll go straight to his house; but this
forest is for all the world like a rabbit burrow; and I may be popping
out of one hole while he is popping into another, if I cannot contrive
to send some messenger to his ears, that will run a few hundred yards
on each side of me, at least. I must not try the pipes again, but I
will make the belling of a deer. If he hears that at this season of
the year, he will be sure to come up to see what's the matter."

Accordingly, by placing his fingers after a fashion of his own upon
his lips, he contrived to produce a very accurate imitation of the
peculiar call of the deer at certain periods of the year; he continued
to emit these sounds from time to time, as he walked on, till at
length he heard a rustle in the brushwood near.

"Now that's either a stag," he said to himself, "who, like a young
gallant of nineteen, makes love at all times and seasons, and I shall
have his horns in my stomach in a minute; or else it is Boyd or one of
his men, and I have hit the mark. I must risk the horns, I fancy."

A moment after, a low voice said--

"Who goes there?"

"Sam the piper," answered our good friend, "looking for what he cannot
find;" and the next moment, pushing through the shrubs, the tall and
powerful form of the woodman stood before him.

"Ah, Sam," said Boyd, "what are you seeking, you drunken dog?"

"Seeking you, master Boyd," answered Sam in a very different tone from
that in which he had addressed the soldiers. "I have news for you."

"Ay, and what may that be?" demanded Boyd, with the utmost
indifference of manner; "some of the gossip of Tamworth I suppose. The
bailiff has beat his wife, or the mercer's daughter has gone off with
the smart apprentice; but I have other things to think of, master Sam,
to-night. Have you heard that the rough bands from Coleshill have
burnt the houses on the abbey green?"

"Yes, I've heard of it," answered Sam; "and there has been a great
fire up at the old castle too."

The woodman started.

"At the old castle! What do you mean?" he exclaimed. "Who should burn
the old castle?"

"I didn't say it had been burned," replied the piper. "I only said
that there was a great fire there; and very comfortable it was too,
considering the cold night and the good company."

"Speak out, man! What do you mean?" demanded the woodman sternly.
"This is no time for fool's play."

"I think not," answered the piper; "and so the plain truth is, that I
was ordered, by a certain young lord, to tell you, that a certain
young lady is up there safe with him and his tawny Moor, and that they
are afraid to stir out while the wood is watched by the soldiers,
without farther information and advice; and they look to you to give
both, and moreover to send intelligence to her friends, that she is
quite safe. There, I have delivered my message, better than ever
message was delivered before, for I have given it word for word, and
you may make the best of it."

"Up there, with him alone throughout the night!" said the woodman, in
a tone of no very great approbation. "Yet he may be trusted, I
think--but still 'twere better not. What will the other feel, when he
hears of it?--No matter. It cannot be helped. There is nothing else to
be done."

"Oh yes, there is," answered the piper; "if you could take them up a
stoup of wine, or a black jack of good strong beer, you would do more;
for, if I judge rightly, they have nothing to keep up the spirits, or
support the body; or amuse the time, unless it be making love, and
that is cold work without meat or drink."

"Listen to this fool now!" said the woodman, "how he hits the nail
aright--I will go up myself."

"They will not thank you if you come empty-handed," answered the
piper; "and you had better take me with you, to show you the way; for
the forest is changed since you last saw it, and there are living
trees on the high road, which stop up the paths, and move to and fro."

"I understand thee, piper," answered the woodman. "Thou art a shrewd
knave with thine enigmas. Come along with me then. I will try to make
thee useful, for the first time in thy life."

"Not useful!" said the piper, as the woodman moved on, taking a branch
of the path that led away to the right. "I am the most useful man in
the whole hundred. What would weddings be without me, or baptisms
either? How many quarrels do my sweet notes allay? How often do I make
peace between man and wife, by drowning her shrill voice by my
shriller notes, and outroaring him with my drone? Go to, you would
never get on without me--Useful, quotha? But where are you going, now?
This is not the way to the castle."

"I am going to take thy sage advice," replied the woodman, "which on
ordinary occasions is not worth a groat. But we may as well carry up
some provisions; and for that purpose, as well as others, I must take
my cottage by the way. But now hold thy peace, man, for I would have
my thoughts clear."

Thus saying, he strode on before, the piper following, till they
reached the broader road, which passed the cottage, and came in sight
of the little green.

"Hist, hist," said the piper. "There is some one before the door. It
may be one of the soldiers who set fire to the houses."

"Then I will cleave his skull with my axe," answered the woodman,
lightly; "but, 'tis only David. Go on--get thee into the house. I want
to speak, to him;" and striding forward, he approached the man, and
spoke a few words to him, of which the piper could only distinguish a
few, though he was all ears.

"By half-past five," said the woodman, "as many as you can, and well
armed."

"At the old castle?" asked the man.

"Yes," answered the woodman, "under the gateway. The sky will be grey
by that time. Quarrel not with the soldiers, if you can help it. Say
you are but doing your needful service; but keep to it sturdily. Nay,
now I think of it, 'twere better to gather in the wood upon the hill
before the castle, especially if the soldiers follow you. There, begin
hewing down the young trees which we marked for cutting out, and run
up to the gate if you should hear my horn. Now away, and bring all you
can; but mind you send Adam up on his pony at once to the abbey."

The man replied not, but ran away with a peculiarly quick but easy
trot; and Boyd entered the hut, where he found the piper standing very
near the door. He felt inclined to ask him why he had not gone in,
feeling sure that he had lingered to listen; but there, just before
him, stood the great deer-hound Ban, neither growling nor attempting
to seize the intruder, but gazing at him with a very fierce and
formidable expression of countenance, which might well daunt even a
stout heart in the breast of an unarmed man. The moment the dog saw
his master, however, he dropped his stiffened tail and raised ears;
and the woodman said, "Now, Sam, come you with me, and we will load
ourselves with food for the nonce. Here, sling this great bottle under
your right arm, to balance your bag-pipes, and take this loaf upon
your back. I will carry the rest; but I must leave my right hand free,
in case of need, to use my weapon."

"But how am I to use my weapon, if you load me so?" asked the piper,
making his instrument give a squeak.

"The less you use it the better," answered the woodman.

"I say the same of all weapons," rejoined Sam. "But never mind, put on
the load, and let us go."

Their arrangements were soon complete, and with a rapid pace they
gained once more the edge of the high roads and there paused under the
trees, to watch the proceedings of the enemy. The same vigilant patrol
was kept up; but the woodman marked it with a smile.

"They think the person they seek must have taken refuge there," he
said in a whisper to his companion, "because he could not pass by the
hamlet or the lower road, without falling in with them; but if they
keep their parties so loose, I would pass a hundred men across, one by
one. I will go first, and you follow. He waited till the next couple
of soldiers had ridden slowly by, and then with a silent step crossed
to the opposite side of the road, where he paused for his companion;
but the poor piper had nearly brought himself into a dangerous
situation, by a hankering for the great bottle which hung under his
arm. In extracting, with his stout finger and thumb, the cork from the
mouth, he produced a sound loud enough to make two of the soldiers
stop, and then ride up to the spot; but his bagpipe once more saved
him; for squeezing the bag hard, and running his fingers over the
pipe, he produced a series of sounds only to be equalled by those of
two cats in a gutter; and one of the soldiers exclaimed:

"It is only that drunken piper again. Cease your squalling, knave, or
I'll break your pate."

The sound of the pipe instantly stopped; and the moment the two men
had gone on, the piper passed the road and joined his companion. The
rest of the way was speedily accomplished, and, a little before five,
the woodman approached the gates of the old castle. There he paused,
and, after a moment's thought, turned to his companion, saying:

"It would be a great advantage to us, my good friend, Sam, if we could
get some information of the movements of these bands."

"I'll undertake it," said the piper, whom success had made bold. "You
shall have tidings of any change in their dance. But you must give me
something to wet my mouth first, Master Boyd."

"Well, well," answered the woodman, set the bottle to your lips, but
only drink to the peg, do you hear? Stay, I'll hold my hand upon it,
and stop you; for you must leave some for others, and not take too
much yourself.

The piper took a deep draught, and was only stayed by his companion
snatching the bottle from him. Then followed a consultation as to what
was to be done in the many contingencies which might arise. It was
agreed that, if the piper did not return within half an hour after
day-break, the party in the castle should conclude he had been
detained by the soldiery; that if he came back without being followed,
and having remarked no movement of importance, he should play a low
and quiet air upon his instrument; while, on the contrary, if the
soldiers were at his heels, and danger menacing, he should come on
with a quick loud march.

This being settled, he departed on his errand; and, passing over the
frail remains of the bridge, the woodman entered the great court,
where the embers of the fire were still gleaming in the ashes, like
the eyes of a wild beast through a thicket. Approaching the door of
the hall, he paused and listened, not knowing what might have occurred
since the wandering musician had quitted the place. But all was
silent; and, bending down his head a little, he looked forward into
the interior of the hall through one of the rifts which had been made
violently in the door at the former siege. The party were nearly in
the same position as when the piper had left them, the Arab crouching
upon the ground near the fire, which he seemed lately to have supplied
with wood, and his dark face resting on his darker hand. Chartley was
seated on the footstool, with his feet stretched towards the fire, and
his left side leaning against the arm of the chair. In the chair was
Iola as before, but her eyes were closed. Her hand rested upon
Chartley's arm; and her head drooped upon his shoulder, while her
balmy breath fanned his cheek, as she slept, tired out by emotions and
fatigues.




CHAPTER XVI.


In the course of this work I have mentioned several roads, the
direction of each of which will be very easily understood by those who
have an acquaintance with the locality, even in the present day. For
those who have not, however, I must add a few words of explanation.
One road, passing over the abbey green and between the houses on the
western side, descended the <DW72>, on the top of which the buildings
stood, and then, running through the lower part of the wood, ascended
the higher hill, cutting straight across the heart of the forest. At
the bottom of the <DW72>, however, just under the abbey, and at the
distance of, perhaps, a quarter of a mile, this road was entered by
another, which, coming through the lower ground from the hamlet at
Coleshill, and joining the valley and the stream at the distance of
about a mile from that place, followed all the meanders which the
little river chose to take, till it reached the spot I have mentioned.
At the point where the two roads met, Sir John Godscroft, after
distributing his men around the wood, fixed his temporary head
quarters, and took the measures which he thought necessary for
obtaining information. Two messengers were also sent off in haste in
different directions; and every peasant who could be brought in was
strictly interrogated, as well as the bailiff of the abbey, who was
subjected to more than one cross examination. The information of the
bailiff was peculiarly valuable, not so much because it was eagerly
and minutely given, both from motives of revenge and apprehension, as
because it afforded the most perfect and detailed account of every
part of the abbey, as far as it was known to the coward himself. From
it, Sir John Godscroft satisfied himself completely, first, that no
part of the abbey where a man could be concealed had escaped search,
and, secondly, that the fugitive must have taken refuge in that
portion of the forest lying to the right of the road as you ascended
the hill. With this conviction he established a line of patrols all
round the wood, too close, as he thought, for any man to pass
unnoticed, and then wrapping himself in his cloak, with a saddle for
his pillow, he gave himself up to sleep. Twice he woke during the
night, and, mounting his horse, rode at a rapid pace round the whole
of that part of the wood which he was watching so eagerly, and ever,
as he went, he encouraged the men on duty, by reminding them that a
reward of a thousand marks was promised for the capture of the bishop
of Ely.

"Be vigilant till morning," he said, "and then we will search the
wood. In a few hundred acres like this, it is impossible he can
escape."

He once more stretched himself on the ground, when it wanted about an
hour to dawn, and had slept for somewhat more than half an hour, when
he was roused by the return of one of his messengers.

"Up into the saddle, Sir John, up into the saddle!" said the man; "Sir
William Catesby is at my heels with full five hundred spears. He rose
and mounted at once, as soon as he got your message; and his men say
that he has a warrant under the king's own hand for the arrest of the
bishop and several others."

Godscroft looked somewhat grim at this intelligence, imagining,
perhaps that the reward he anticipated was likely to be snatched from
his grasp by another. What he might have done in these circumstances,
had there been time for deliberate thought and action, I cannot tell;
but before he could well shake off the effects of sleep, the head of
Catesby's troop came down from the green; and the crafty and
dissimulating minister of Richard sprang to the ground by his side.

Catesby took Sir John Godscroft by the hand, and divining, perhaps,
what might be the impression produced by his coming, said in a loud
frank tone, "Sir John, you and your brave companions have done the
king good service, which will not be easily forgotten. Think not that
I come either to share or take away your reward, but simply as a loyal
subject and a good soldier, to do my duty to my prince and my country,
without any recompense whatever. We must have this traitor before noon
to-morrow."

"That shall we, beyond doubt, Sir William," replied the other, while a
good number of the soldiers stood round and listened. "With the force
which you have brought, one body can surround the wood while the other
searches."

"I must detach a considerable troop," replied Catesby, "to pursue the
party of Lord Chartley to Hinckley; for I have authority to attach
every one who has contributed in any degree to the escape of this
proclaimed traitor, the bishop of Ely."

"Then I have a notion you must attach the abbess of St. Clare," said
Godscroft, "for she has certainly sheltered him and favoured his
evasion, since the young lord left him there."

"How many men has Chartley with him?" demanded Catesby, not appearing
to notice the suggestion regarding the abbess.

"Well nigh upon fifty," answered Godscroft, and then added, returning
to the point: "Had you not better secure the abbey first?"

"No, no," answered Catesby; "we must not violate sanctuary, nor touch
the privileges of the church;" and, taking Godscroft's arm, he said in
a low voice, "What is the meaning of those houses I see burned upon
the green? I hope your men have not done it."

"Good faith but they have," answered the other; "altogether contrary
to my orders though; and I have hanged several of them for their
pains."

"Better keep this from the king's ears," said Catesby, musing.
"However, we must have the bishop, Sir John, and this young Lord
Chartley too, who has been clearly privy to Morton's visit to England,
which makes it a case of misprision of treason, for which disease the
axe is the only remedy I know."

After uttering these bitter words in a somewhat jocose tone, he
returned to the head of his troop, and gave some orders, which
immediately caused a party of forty-eight or fifty men to ride on,
with all speed, upon the same road which had been taken the night
before by Chartley and his companions. The rest of Catesby's
dispositions were soon made; for, in order not to disappoint Sir John
Godscroft and his companions of their prey, he reserved to the regular
soldiers the simple task of guarding the wood, while it was searched
by Godscroft's band. Nothing, however, could be done till day-break,
beyond a few preliminary arrangements; and the rest of the time was
spent by the two leaders in walking up and down, and conversing over
the events in which they took an interest.

"If we had but known an hour or two before," said Sir John Godscroft,
"we should have caught the bishop in the abbey. We lost no time by the
way, nor in setting out either; for we were not five minutes out of
the saddle after Sir Charles's messenger arrived. 'Tis marvellous he
did not send before; for his man tells me he was more than a whole day
in the bishop's company, and knew him from the first."

"He could not help it," answered Catesby. "He wrote at once to the
king and to myself; but it was agreed on all hands that it would be
better for Weinants to follow him till he was lodged somewhere for the
night; for, if we had attempted to take him in Tamworth yesterday
morning--not having known soon enough to seize him in his bed--he
would have escaped to a certainty, in the confusion of the fair. Then
to catch him on the road would have been difficult, for Chartley's
party is large; and a very little resistance on their part would have
given him time to fly. No, no, Weinants is wonderfully shrewd and
discreet; and he calculated to a nicety, that this traitor prelate
would either stop here upon some pretence, while the rest rode on to
Hinckley, or go on with them to Hinckley, where he could be taken
without trouble.--Is not the sky turning somewhat greyer, think you?"

"Methinks it is," replied the other.

"Well then, let us to our work," said Catesby. "You must dismount your
men, and let two or three enter at the mouth of every path, pursuing
it through its whole track, till they meet somewhere in the centre of
the wood. Have you any one who knows the forest well?"

"But few," replied the other. "However, I have remarked, when riding
by on the other road, the towers of an old castle rising up, about the
middle of this part which we have surrounded. They can all direct
their steps thither--"

"Ay, and search the castle too," said Catesby. "He must have some one
to guide him, depend upon it. The ruin will be a good place for
refuge."

"If we find him not at the first essay," responded the other, "we can
afterwards take the wood in separate portions, and beat through every
thicket, as we should for a stag."

"Away then, away!" answered Catesby. "It will be well day before we
have commenced."




CHAPTER XVII.


The opening of the door of the hall startled Iola from her slumber;
and when she found where her head had been resting, a bright warm
blush spread over her fair face. Though the lamp was by this time
glimmering low, the form and face of the woodman were instantly
recognized by all the party in the hall; and an expression of gladness
came over all their faces. He was instantly assailed by many questions
which he could not answer; but he told all he knew; and one piece of
information was at all events satisfactory to both Chartley and Iola,
namely, that the bishop had escaped. "There," he continued, setting
down the food and wine which he carried, "there is something to
refresh you, young people, though good sooth, lady, I thought you were
by this time safe within the walls of the abbey, and would rather it
had been so."

"And so would I," answered Iola, though, perhaps, her heart was at
that moment a little doubtful; "but it could not be, Boyd, for the
door in the cell was closed when I went back--I fancy the bishop had
let it slip from his hand--and I could not return to the abbey without
passing through the midst of the armed men. Then as I was hurrying
towards your cottage for shelter and protection, I met with this noble
Lord, who told me the soldiers were upon the road----"

"And proved a pleasanter protector than an old woodman, I doubt not,"
replied Boyd, with a cynical smile.

Iola's face reddened again; but she replied frankly: "a noble, a kind,
and a generous one certainly, to whom I shall ever feel indebted."

"One does not choose in a thunderstorm, my good friend," said
Chartley, in his usual gay tone, "whether one will take refuge in a
palace or a hermitage. The nearest place at hand is the best; and this
fair lady, I doubt not, cared not much whether it was a lord or a
woodman that came to her aid, so that she got help at need. But now
let us think of what is to be done. Morning will soon be here, and
some course of action must be determined."

"What course do you propose?" asked Boyd.

"Nay, I know not," answered Chartley. "The only thing I can think of
is to take the lady by the hand, and walk straight through these men
back to the abbey with her. They cannot prove me to be a bishop, nor
her either, I suppose."

The woodman mused, and then, pointing to the provisions, he said, "Eat
and drink, eat and drink; you can do that and think too--They cannot
prove either of you to be the bishop. I wish you were anything so
good; but they can, perhaps, prove that you have, both of you, helped
the bishop; and they can make treason out of that, I doubt not, after
the proclamation. 'Tis an awkward case," he continued; "but if you
wait awhile, the piper will bring us intelligence. The best spies in
the world are pipers, horse-doctors, and mendicant friars. Perhaps the
tidings he brings may save you the trouble of decision."

"That is always something gained," replied Chartley; "for decision is
sometimes the hardest work we have to do; but yet I think any plan may
be the best after all; for they can prove but little against me, and
nothing against this sweet lady. They can but suppose that I am
conducting her back to the abbey from some visit or expedition, with
which they have nought to do."

"Ha!" exclaimed the woodman, sternly; "thou would'st not risk her name
and fair fame, young lord? Some visit! What, in this garb, without
coif, or veil, or mantle--on foot, with no attendants? No, no. If she
were to be met and questioned, she must e'en tell the truth, for to
suffer prison, or to lose life itself, were such a thing probable,
were but light to a taint upon her name."

"And who would dare utter such an insinuation in my presence?"
exclaimed Chartley, his eye flashing at the thought. "By Heaven, if
any man did, I would cram it down his throat with my sword."

"So hot!" said the woodman, with a laugh. "If they did not utter it in
your presence, they might utter it behind your back, which were as
bad. They might say--and how could you deny it?--that this lady had
been out of the abbey with you, roaming about no one knew whither,
without motive, without cause, without excuse. No, no! That will not
do. Lord Chartley cannot fight or frighten two hundred men; and they
will have a reason for all this, depend upon it. If not, they'll make
one. 'Tis most unlucky that I knew not of these events before, or I
would have found means to send to the abbey, and have the door from
the cell opened; but it is now too late, I fear, and, at all events,
we must wait for further intelligence. But fear not, lady, fear not.
We will find resources, which are many here, though not quite so
plentiful as the acorns on the trees."

"I am not afraid," answered Iola. "The king, I do not think, would
kill me for guiding the bishop into the wood."

"But he might prevent your marrying the man of your heart," answered
the woodman, with one of his grim smiles.

Iola's colour rose a little; but she replied boldly: "I have no man of
my heart, Boyd; and therefore he could not do that either."

Chartley's eye had turned rapidly to Iola's face, as the woodman
spoke, with an anxious and inquiring look; but her frank reply seemed
to relieve him, and he said, gaily: "Nevertheless, we must not risk
anything where there is risk to you, dear lady. Methinks you are one
who would find even gesses of silk or gold cord difficult to wear; and
we must give Richard no excuse for putting them on, if we can help
it."

"Women are born to wear gesses of some kind or another, noble lord,"
replied Iola; "and unhappy is the woman who cannot, content herself
with them; but I trust you will consult your own safety without
heeding mine."

"Not I, in faith!" answered Chartley, in a determined tone. "I will
see you back to the abbey, and safe in the hands of your friends, come
what will--that is to say, if I have power to do so. They may take my
life or my liberty, but no man has power to make me break my word, or
fail in my devoir."

"Well, well," said the woodman; "let us think of these things no more.
Come, take some bread, good friend," he continued, speaking to the
Arab. "There is salt in it, and you can e'en taste the bottle too, I
dare say, for you cannot tell what are the contents."

He then leaned his head upon his hand, as he lay stretched out by the
fire, and seemed to fall asleep, while Iola and Chartley conversed in
low tones. But, though his eyes were closed, it was not with slumber;
and at length, after an hour or somewhat more had passed, he and the
Arab both started up at once, the woodman exclaiming: "Hark! there is
our messenger! Come forth with me, my lord, and meet him. Your trusty
infidel can stay and protect the lady."

Chartley followed at once, and the woodman strode rapidly across the
court, but suddenly stopped, under the old arch of the gateway; and,
laying his hand upon Lord Chartley's arm, he said, in a low serious
tone: "Are you aware, my lord, that the Lady Iola St. Leger is
contracted in marriage to Arnold Lord Fulmer?"

Chartley stood and gazed at him in silence, with his brow contracted
and his lip quivering. He could not or he would not reply, and the
woodman went on saying: "I am sorry, you did not know this. It should
have been told you before."

"It should, indeed," replied Chartley; and then, after a pause, he
added: "But it matters not, she is not to blame. More than once I have
seen something hanging on her lips as if seeking utterance but afraid
to venture forth. If I had told her what was growing upon my heart,
she would have spoken."

"Most likely," answered the woodman; "for hers is a heart very soon
seen through. 'Tis like a clear well, where one can trace all the
pebbles in the bottom--their shape, their colour, and if anything
obscures them, it is but a light ripple from a passing wind."

"And yet she said but now that she had so love," replied Chartley,
moodily.

"And that is true also," answered the woodman; "contracted in infancy,
how can she love a man she does not even recollect?"

"Well, 'tis no matter," answered Chartley; "the vision of happiness
will pass away, and it is something to have served, protected,
comforted her. Hark, the man is drawing near with a low and solemn
dirge, as if we were all to be slain and buried ere noon. There is the
dawn too, coming in the east, if I mistake not. Let us go on, and stop
the piper's melancholy squeaking."

"'Tis but a sign he is not followed," replied the woodman, detaining
him. "Let us stay here, we might miss him in some of the turnings; I
will whistle, however, to show him that we hear, and then perhaps he
will stop."

But the inveterate piper droned on, till he was within sight of the
gates, and Chartley and the woodman went down to meet him.

"What news, what news?" they both demanded, eagerly.

"Bad tidings," answered the piper, shaking his head. "First, my lord,
you owe me a gold angel."

"There are two," answered Chartley, sharply. "Now for the rest."

"Why then, it is but this," answered Sam. "The rogue, Catesby, has
come down with five hundred horse. He has sent on fifty to arrest your
lordship at Hinckley, before you are out of bed in the morning. The
rest he keeps here to surround the wood, while good Sir John Godscroft
searches every nook and corner of it and the old castle and all, to
find the bishop and any one who may have aided in his escape from the
abbey. They will not leave any stone unturned, depend upon it; and
they swear by their beards, God bless them, that every one who has had
any hand in it is a foul traitor, worthy of gibbet and post."

"Then are we in a strait indeed," exclaimed Chartley; "for with four
hundred and fifty men to watch the wood, and two hundred to search it,
there is but little chance of escape. I care not for myself, woodman,
if you can but save the lady without scaith or ill construction."

"On my life 'tis that that puzzles me most," answered Boyd; "there may
be help at hand, for I have provided some. Your own people, too, will
be back soon, for I have sent for them; but we have no force to cope
with such a number."

"Nay," answered Chartley; "give me but ten men, and I will break
through their line, at least so as to lodge the lady in the abbey.
Then as for my own fate, fall what may, I little care."

"Ten men you can have," answered the woodman; "but tell me first, my
good lord, what you intend to do?"

"Make at once for the nearest door of the abbey," replied Chartley.
"Their line must be thin around the wood, and on that side, perhaps,
the thinnest. Grant that we fall in with some of Catesby's men, as
most like we shall, we can make head against them for a time, and
insure the lady's reaching the gates of the abbey."

"It were better," said Boyd, after thinking for a moment, "that while
one part keep the king's men engaged, two or three of the others carry
the lady quickly across the dell to the little gate. We have no other
chance that I see; but remember, my good lord, that you will be
overpowered and taken to a certainty."

"What matters it?" exclaimed Chartley. "Even were one to act on mere
calculation, 'tis better to lose one than to lose two. Here we should
be both taken together, there we insure her escape. Let us waste no
more time in talking. How can we get the men?"

The woodman threw his eye over the edge of the hill on which they were
standing, and replied, "You can have them at once." Then putting his
horn to his lips, he blew a low and peculiar note; and, in a moment
after, several men were seen running up from amongst the trees and
bushes which covered the descent. "We must lose no time," said the
woodman, "but forward with all speed, or we shall have the search
begun and be cut off. You bring the lady forth while I speak to the
men."

Chartley turned to go; but, pausing suddenly, he said: "Remember, my
good friend, it is on you that I rely to bear the lady safe to the
abbey, while I engage the troopers. Think not on my safety for one
moment; but take some whom you can trust, and away with her at once. I
would fain have seen her safe myself, but it must not be. The dream is
at an end."

The woodman gazed at him with a well-pleased smile, which made his
stern countenance look bright and sweet; and Chartley, without waiting
for further words, hurried away into the ruin.

"There goes a nobleman indeed," said the woodman; and then, striding
forward, he met the men who were advancing upon the hill.

"How many men have you got, David?" he continued, addressing the first
man who came up.

"There are twelve of us," replied the man. "Three are wanting. I
suppose they have stopped them. Most of us slipped through unseen; and
the rest got through in different places, on telling their calling."

A short consultation then ensued, which, brief as it was, had hardly
ceased when Chartley again came forth, bringing Iola with him. Her
face was pale, and she was evidently agitated and alarmed; but she did
not suffer fear or hesitation to embarrass in any degree the
proceedings of the others. Holding tight by Chartley's arm, with the
woodman and one of his men close behind them, and preceded and
followed by the rest, divided into two bodies, she was led on, through
one of the narrowest paths, down to the bottom of the little rise on
which the castle stood. They then crossed a somewhat wider road,
running by the bank and fountain I have mentioned before, and then
plunged again into the thicker part of the wood. Hardly had they done
so however, when the sound of a horn was heard upon the right; and,
turning back his head towards the woodman, Chartley said in a low
voice, "The hunt has begun."

"Wary, wary," said the woodman. "Keep a sharp ear there in front, and
halt in time."

With a somewhat slower step they walked on for a couple of hundred
yards further; and then the two men at the head of their little
column suddenly stopped, one of them holding up his hand as a signal
to those behind. The sun had not actually risen; but yet the grey
morning light had spread over the whole sky; and, though the path was
somewhat dark and gloomy from the thick copse on either side and the
manifold naked branches of the trees overhead, yet, the motions of
each of the little party could be seen by the rest. All stopped at once;
and a dead silence succeeded amongst themselves, through which, the
moment after, the sound of voices and footsteps could be heard, at the
distance of a few paces from them. The woodman laid his finger on his
lips and listened; but there was a smile upon his face which gave
courage to Iola, although the sounds seemed to be approaching fast. So
distinctly were they heard indeed, the moment after, that it seemed as
if a space of not more than five or six yards was left between the
fugitives and the searchers; and Iola clung closer to Chartley's arm,
and looked up in his face, as if asking what would come next. He did
not venture to offer any consolation, but by a look; and still the steps
and the voices came nearer.

"'Tis as thick as a hay stack," one man was heard to say to another,
apparently close by.

"And we are set to find a needle in the pottle of hay," replied his
companion. "Why he may lurk here without our finding him all day."

"But if we find him we shall get a good reward," replied the first.

"Do not reckon upon that, or you will cheat yourself," said his
companion, in a scoffing tone. "At the best, the reward is but a
thousand marks. Then Sir John takes two tenths, and the captain one
tenth, and the other head men two tenths more amongst them, so that
there are but five hundred marks left for two hundred men, even if
Catesby and his people were out of the way, and, depend upon it,
they'll share, so there wont be ten shillings a man."

"What a head you have for reckoning," said the other; "but go on. I
wonder where, in hell's name, we are going. Can you see the castle?"

"Not I," answered the other; "but we must follow this path to the end
any way. There goes the horn that is to lead us."

And they seemed to proceed upon their way.

"Now, forward," said the woodman, in a low voice; and moving rapidly
on, they came to a large holly bush which concealed the mouth of the
little foot track they were following from the very path which the
soldiers had taken. Cutting straight across it, they entered a
somewhat thinner and more open part of the wood, from which the castle
was occasionally visible, so that any one above could have seen them
without much difficulty; but it extended not far; and the danger was
soon past.

"I know where wo are now," said Iola, in a whisper. "We are close to
the cell."

"Hush!" said the woodman. "Hush!" But the unfortunate piper, who was
in the rear, stumbled over the root of a tree, and his pipes emitted a
melancholy groan.

The woodman turned, and shook his fist at him; and the whole party
halted to listen. No sound was heard however; and turning away to the
right, by a gentle descent, they approached the spot where the forest
stretched furthest into the valley.

"I will go forward and look out for a moment," said the woodman at
length, speaking to Chartley in a low voice. "As ill luck would have
it, I had the brushwood on the verge cut down last autumn, to prevent
rascals lurking about there, little thinking I should need it myself;"
and creeping on from bush to bush and tree to tree, he at length got a
view along the whole side of the wood fronting the <DW72> on which the
abbey stood. It was no pleasant sight that he beheld; for, at a
distance of not more than a hundred and fifty yards apart, were
stationed horsemen, watching every point of the wood. With his right
shoulder resting against a tree, and secured on the left by a thick
holly, he remained for about a minute, carefully examining the
proceedings of the soldiery. They moved not from the spots at which
they had been placed; and the path which he had been hitherto
following, wandering in and out amongst the trees upon the <DW72>,
passed at some little distance between two banks, till it reached the
bottom of the descent, not a hundred and fifty yards from the little
postern gate in the abbey wall, over which hung the bell profanely
called the Baby of St. Clare.

Boyd saw at once, from the distance at which the men were stationed,
that there was a great chance of the whole party reaching the entrance
of the lane between the two banks, before more than two of the
soldiers could come up with them; and that if this were effected, Iola
at least was safe.

After finishing his contemplation quietly, the woodman returned to his
party in the same manner as he had left them, taking perhaps even
greater precautions, and stooping almost to his knees, lest his great
height should carry his head above the bushes. When he reached the
others he commanded, rather than explained, saying--

"Now, all upon the path as fast as possible. Robin lead the way to the
passage between the banks. Then follow me, wherever I go, and guard me
from attack; let all the rest halt at the mouth of the lane, and keep
it with a strong hand against pursuers. Now on! Quick, quick!"

The whole party rushed forward, except the piper, (who remained under
cover of the wood,) much in the same order as that in which they had
hitherto proceeded. Iola was hurried on in the midst, with her heart
beating and her head confused, yet gazing round from time to time, and
catching with a quick and hurried glance the scene which immediately
followed. She beheld the horsemen watching the forest; but, till she
had nearly reached the edge of the woodland, the party, which bore her
along amongst them, did not seem to attract any attention. Then,
however, the two soldiers on each side put spurs to their horses, with
a loud shout; and she felt herself instantly caught up in the arms of
the woodman, carried along with extraordinary swiftness down the
descent, and into the hollow between the two banks.

Iola gazed back over her bearer's shoulder; and the last sight she saw
was the party of foresters occupying the mouth of the lane, while
three or four armed horsemen were galloping upon them; and Chartley,
with his drawn sword in his hand and the Arab beside him, stood a
little in advance of his companions, as if to meet the soldiers at
their first onset. They were close upon him; and, with a painful
shudder, she closed her eyes. When she opened them, the bank hid the
scene from her view; and the next moment she heard the bell of the
abbey ring sharply.




CHAPTER XVIII.


"Keep back, my men!" exclaimed Chartley, as the two first soldiers
rode down towards him; "keep back, or the peril be upon your own
heads."

The foremost of the pursuing party put his horn to his lips, and blew
a loud long blast, drawing up his horse at the same time.

"Yield you, yield you!" he exclaimed, turning then to the young
nobleman; "'tis vain to resist. We have men enough to take you all,
were you told ten times over."

"Call your officer then!" cried Chartley, "I yield not to a churl."

"Ay, and in the mean time the others escape," cried the man; "that
shall not be, by ----! Round, round! Over the banks," he continued,
straining his voice to the utmost, to reach the ears of his
companions, who were galloping down, "cut them off from the abbey!"

But the others did not hear or understand the cry, and rode on towards
Chartley and the rest, whom they reached, just as Iola was borne to
the postern gate.

"Hold back, sir!" shouted the young nobleman; "mark me, every one. I
resist not lawful authority! But marauders I will resist to the death.
Show me a warrant--bring me an officer, and I yield at once, but not
to men I know not. As to those who are gone to the abbey, you can
yourselves see that they are but a lady and two of the foresters to
guard her--"

"The lady is safe within the gates, noble sir," said one of the
woodmen, speaking over his shoulder.

"Thank God for that!" cried Chartley.

"We are not seeking for women," answered the soldier, "but there are
two men there; and we will know who they are."

"They are coming back. They are coming back," cried one of the men
from behind.

The soldiers perceived the fact at the same moment; but their number
was now becoming so great, one horseman riding down after another,
that they seemed to meditate an attack upon the little pass which
Chartley defended; and some of them rode up the bank, to take the
party in the flank.

"Mark you well, good men," said the young nobleman, raising his voice
to its highest tones; "if one stroke be struck, the consequences be
upon your own heads. I refuse not to surrender to a proper warrant, or
any officer of the king; but, as a peer of England, I will not give up
my sword to any simple soldier who asks it; and if I am attacked, I
will defend myself to the uttermost."

"Halt, halt!" cried one of the men, who seemed to have some command
over the rest. "Ride away for Sir William Catesby. He is on the road
just round the corner."

"There he comes, I think," cried another of the soldiers, pointing to
a large party, riding at a rapid rate down the course of the little
stream.

"No no," exclaimed the other. "I know not who those are. Quick, spurs
to your horse, and away for Sir William. These may be companions we
shall not like. He is round the corner of the wood, I tell you."

The man rode off at full speed; and the soldiers who were left drew
somewhat closer round the little party in the mouth of the lane, while
one or two were detached to the right and left, to cut off the woodman
and the man who had accompanied him, in case they endeavoured to
escape on either side.

Boyd, however, confirmed to walk slowly and quietly down from the
abbey, towards the group he had left below, casting his eyes from one
side to the other, and marking all that was taking place, till at
length, descending between the banks again, the scene upon the open
ground was shut out from his eyes, and he could only see his own
foresters, Lord Chartley, and the party in front.

A few steps brought him to the side of the young nobleman; and he
gazed at the ring of soldiers round the mouth of the lane, with a
smile, saying,

"What do these gentlemen want?" and then added: "Here are your friends
and servants, coming down from Hinckley, my lord, so if you have a
mind to make a Thermopylæ of the lane, you may do it."

"Not I," answered Chartley. "Would to God, most learned woodman, that
the time when Englishmen spill Englishmen's blood were at an end.
Besides, I could not make it a Thermopylæ, for the only Orientals on
the field are on my side;" and he glanced his eye to the good Arab,
who stood gazing upon the scene, with his arms folded on his chest,
apparently perfectly indifferent to all that was taking place, but
ready to strike whenever his master told him.

While this brief conversation was going on, the troop which had been
seen coming down on the right approached nearer and nearer; and at the
same time a gentleman, followed by eight or ten horse, came up from
the road which entered the wood opposite to the abbey green, riding at
a light canter over the green sward that covered the hill side. The
two parties reached the end of the lane very nearly at the same
moment, Catesby indeed the first; and his shrewd, keen, plausible
countenance, notwithstanding the habitual command which he possessed
over its expressions, displayed some sort of trouble at seeing so
large a body of men, over whom he had no controul.

"What is this, my good lord?" shouted Sir William Arden to Chartley,
before Catesby could speak. "We got news of your jeopardy, strangely
enough, and have come down at once to help you."

"I have ordered my knave to bring you a furred dressing-gown, and a
bottle of essence of maydew," cried Sir Edward Hungerford, with a
light laugh; "supposing you must be cold, with your forest lodging,
and your complexion sadly touched with the frosty air. But what does
the magnanimous Sir William Catesby do, cantering abroad at this hour
of the morning? Beware of rheums, Sir William, beware of rheum! Don't
you know that the early morning air is evil for the eyes, and makes a
man short-breathed?"

"This is no time for bantering, sirs," exclaimed Catesby. "Are you
prepared to resist the royal authority? If so, I have but to order one
blast upon a trumpet, and you will be surrounded by seven hundred
men."

"We come to resist no lawful authority, but merely to help a friend,"
replied Sir Wilhelm Arden; "and, in doing so, I care not whose head I
split, if it comes in my way."

"Peace, peace, Arden," cried Chartley, "Let me answer him. What do you
want with me, Sir William? and why am I assailed by your men, if they
are yours, while peaceably pursuing my way?"

"Pooh, pooh, my lord," answered Catesby. "Do not assume
unconsciousness. Where is the bishop? Will you give him up?--or, if
you like it better, the friar who rode with you from Tamworth
yesterday?"

"As for a bishop," answered Chartley, laughing, "I know of no bishops;
and as for the friar, if he be a bishop, it is not my fault; I did not
make him one. Friar I found him, and friar I left him. He remained
behind, somewhat sick, at the abbey."

"Then what do you here, my lord?" demanded Catesby, "tarrying behind
in the forest, while all your company have gone forward?"

"In truth, good Sir William," answered the young nobleman; "whenever I
am brought to give an account of all my actions, you shall not be my
father confessor. I will have a more reverend man. But you have not
yet answered my question; why I am menaced here by these good
gentlemen in steel jackets?"

"You shall have an answer presently," replied Catesby; and, stooping
down over his saddle bow, he conversed for a moment or two with one of
the men who had been first upon the ground, and who now stood
dismounted by his side. Then raising his head again, he said: "There
were three people left your company, my lord, a moment or two since.
Two have returned, I am told, and one was received into the abbey. Who
was that person?"

"You must ask those who went with her," replied Chartley. "They have
known her longer than I have, and can answer better. My acquaintance
with her"--he added, as he saw a meaning smile come upon Sir Edward
Hungerford's lip--"my acquaintance with her has been very short, and
is very slight. I have acted as was my devoir towards a lady, and have
nought farther to say upon the subject."

"Then your would have me believe it was a woman," rejoined Catesby.

"Ay, was it, master," answered the woodman, standing forward and
speaking in a rough tone; "or rather, as the lord says, a lady. She
was sent out by the lady abbess, as the custom sometimes is, to the
cell of St. Magdalene, there upon the hill; and when she would have
gone back, she found the houses on the green in a flame, and all the
wood surrounded by your soldiers. I wish I had known it in time, and I
would have contrived to get her back again, in spite of all your
plundering thieves. But the king shall know of all you have done, if I
walk on foot to Leicester to tell him."

"If it was a lady, pray, goodman, who was the lady?" demanded Sir
Edward Hungerford, laughing lightly.

"What is that to you?" exclaimed the woodman, turning sharply upon
him. "If she was a lady, forsooth!--I might well say when I look at
you, 'If you are a man,' for of that there may be some doubt; but
nobody could look at her face, and ask if she were a lady."

A low laugh ran round, which heightened the colour in Sir Edward
Hungerford's smooth cheek; but Catesby, after speaking again to the
man beside him in a low tone, fixed his eyes upon the woodman, and
demanded--

"Who are you, my good friend, who put yourself so forward?"

"I am head woodman of the abbey," answered Boyd, "and master forester;
and by the charter of King Edward III. I am empowered to stop and turn
back, or apprehend and imprison, any one whom I may find roaming the
forest, except upon the public highway. I should have done so before
this hour, if I had had force enough; for we have more vagabonds in
the forest than I like. But I shall soon have bills and bows enough at
my back; for I have sent, to raise the country round. Such things as
have been done this night shall not happen within our meres, and go
unpunished;" and he crossed his arms upon his broad chest and gazed
sternly in Catesby's face.

"Upon my life you are bold!" exclaimed Richard's favourite. "Do you
know to whom you are speaking?"

"I neither know nor care," answered the woodman; "but I think I shall
be able to describe you pretty well to the king; for he will not
suffer you, nor any other leader of hired troops, to burn innocent
men's houses and spoil the property of the church."

Catesby looked somewhat aghast; for the charge, he knew, put in such
terms, would not be very palatable to Richard.

"I burned no houses, knave," he said, with a scoff.

"'Tis the same thing if your men did," answered the woodman. "You are
all of one herd, that is clear."

"Shall I strike the knave down, sir?" demanded one of the fierce
soldiery.

"I should like to see thee try," said the woodman, drawing his
tremendous axe from his girdle; but Catesby exclaimed--

"Hold, hold!" and Chartley exclaimed--

"Well, sir, an answer to my question. We are but wasting time, and
risking feud, by longer debating these matters here. For your conduct
to others this night, for the destruction of the property of the
church, and the wrongs inflicted on innocent men, either by your
orders or with your connivance, you will of course be made responsible
elsewhere; but I demand to know why I, a peer of England, going in
peaceable guise, without weapons of war; am pursued and surrounded, I
may say, by your soldiery?"

"That question is soon answered," replied Catesby. "I might indeed
say, that no one could tell that you were a peer of England when you
were found a-foot walking with foresters, and such like people, below
your own degree. But in one word, my lord, I am ordered to apprehend
your lordship, for aiding and comforting a proclaimed traitor. Do you
surrender to the king's authority? Or must I summon a sufficient force
to compel obedience?"

"I surrender at once, of course, to the king's authority," answered
Chartley; "and knowing, Sir William, your place and favour with the
king, will not even demand to see the warrant. But I trust my servants
will be allowed to ride with me to Leicester, where I appeal the
immediate consideration of my case to the king himself."

"So be it, my lord," answered Catesby; "but if I might advise for your
own good, you would not bring so many men with badges of livery under
the king's eyes; for you know the law upon that subject, and that such
displays are strictly prohibited."

Chartley laughed.

"Good faith!" he said; "I am not the thoughtless boy you take me for,
Sir William. I have a license under king Edward's hand for these same
badges and liveries, which has never been revoked. Methinks it will
pass good even now."

"Be it as you will, my lord," replied Catesby. "I advised you but as a
friend. Nay, more; if you can find any other gentleman to be bound
with you for your appearance at Leicester, within three days, I will
take your lordship's parole to deliver yourself in that city to the
king's will. I do not wish to pass any indignity upon a gentleman of
worth, though lacking somewhat of discretion mayhap."

"I'll be his bail," cried Sir William Arden at once. "I am a fool
perhaps for my pains, as he indeed is a fool who is bail for any man;
but the lad won't break his word, although leg bail is the best bail
that he could have, or any one indeed, in this good kingdom of
England, where accusations are received as proofs, and have been for
the last thirty years, whichever house was on the throne. There was
nought to choose between them in that respect."

"You should be more careful, Sir William," answered Catesby with a
grim smile. "The house which is on the throne is always the best.
However, I take your pledge, and that of Lord Chartley; and now I will
back to my post, taking it for granted, my lord, that this was really
a woman who was with you, and that, even in such a case as this, a lie
would not sully your lips."

"I am not a politician, Sir William," replied Chartley, somewhat
bitterly; "so I have no excuse for lying. The person who just now
entered the abbey was a lady, seemingly not twenty years of age; and I
pledge you my word of honour, that her chin never bore a beard, nor
her head received the tonsure, so that she is assuredly neither man,
friar, nor bishop."

"Give you good day, then," said Catesby; and turning his horse he rode
away, followed by the soldiers, who resumed their post around the
wood.

"There goes a knave," said the woodman aloud, as Richard's favourite
trotted down the <DW72>. "Had it not needed two or three men to guard
you, my good lord, your parole would have been little worth in the
Cat's eyes."

"On my life, Boyd, you had better beware of him," rejoined Lord
Chartley. "He does not easily forgive; and you have spoken somewhat
plainly."

"Humph! I have not been the only one to speak my mind this day," said
the woodman. "I did not think there was anything in the shape of a
lord, at the court of England, who would venture to show such scorn
for a minion--unless he was on the eve of falling."

"No hope of such a thing in this case," answered Chartley; "he is too
serviceable to be dispensed with. But now I must have my horse. By
good fortune, 'tis on the other side of the wood; so they will let us
get it without taking it for a bishop."

"And who is this bishop they are seeking?" asked Sir William Arden, as
he walked down on foot at Chartley's side, by a somewhat circuitous
path, to the cottage of the woodman.

"The only bishop whose name is proclaimed," replied Chartley, avoiding
a direct answer to the question; "is Doctor Morton, bishop of Ely; but
I trust and believe that he is far out of their reach. However, I
would have you take care, Boyd," he continued, turning towards the
woodman, who was following; "and, if you should meet with the bishop
in the wood, give him no help; for these men will visit it savagely on
the head of any one against whom they can prove the having succoured
him--I would fain hear how this hunting ends," he continued; "for I
have seldom seen such a curious chase. Can you not give me intimation
at Leicester?"

"And pray add," continued Sir Edward Hungerford, in a low tone, "some
information concerning the sweet Lady Iola. Her beautiful eyes," he
added, as Chartley turned somewhat sharply towards him, "have haunted
me all night, like a melodious song which dwells in our ears for days
after we have heard it."

"Or a bottle of essence," said the woodman, "that makes a man smell
like a civet cat for months after it is expended."

"Drown me all puppies," exclaimed Arden. "A young cat that goes
straying about with her eyes but half open, and her weak legs far
apart, is more tolerable than one of these orange flowers of the
court, with their smart sayings, which they mistake for wit;" and
imitating, not amiss, the peculiar mode of talking of Hungerford and
his class, he went on, "Gad ye good den, my noble lord! Fore Heaven, a
pretty suit, and well devised, but that the exceeding quaintness of
the trimming is worthy of a more marvellous furniture.--Pshaw! I am
sick of their mewing; and if we have not a war soon, to mow down some
of these weeds, the land will be full of nettles."

"Take care they don't sting, Arden," said Sir Edward Hungerford.

The other knight looked at him from head to foot, and walked on after
Lord Chartley, with a slight smile curling his lip.

The party met no impediment on the way to the woodman's cottage.
Chartley's horses were soon brought forth; and after lingering for a
moment, to add a private word or two to Boyd, the young nobleman
prepared to mount. Before he did so, however, he took the woodman's
hand and shook it warmly, much to the surprise of Sir Edward
Hungerford; and then the whole company resumed the road to Hinckley,
passing a number of the patroles round the wood as they went, and
hearing shouts and cries and notes upon the horn, which only called a
smile upon Chartley's lips.

When they had passed the wood, however, and were riding on through the
open country, Sir Edward Hungerford fell somewhat behind, to talk with
a household tailor, whom he entertained, upon the device of a new sort
of hose, which he intended to introduce; while Sir William Arden,
naturally a taciturn man, rode on by Chartley's side, almost in
silence. The young nobleman himself was now very grave. The excitement
was over. All that had passed that night belonged to the past. It was
a picture hung up in the gallery of memory; and he looked upon the
various images it contained as one does upon the portraits of dead
friends. He saw Iola, as she had sat beside him at the abbey in gay
security. He felt the trembling of her hand upon his arm, in the hour
of danger. Her cheek seemed to rest upon his shoulder again, as it had
done, when, weary and exhausted, she had slept overpowered by slumber.
Her balmy breath seemed once more to fan his cheek. The time since he
had first known her was but very short; but yet he felt that it had
been too long for him. That, in that brief space, things had
been born that die not--new sensations--immortal offspring of the
heart--children of fate that live along with us on earth, and go with
us to immortality.

"She cannot be mine," he thought. "She is plighted to another whom she
knows not--loves not." He would fain have recalled those hours. He
would fain have wiped out the sensations they had produced. He
resolved to try--to think of other things--to forget--to be what he
had been before. Vain, vain hopes and expectations! Alas, he sought an
impossibility. No one can ever be what he was before. Each act of life
changes the man--takes something, gives something--leaves him
different from what he was. He may alter; but he cannot go back. What
he was is a memory, and never can be a reality again; and more
especially is this the case with the light careless heart of youth.
Pluck a ripe plum from the tree--touch it as tenderly as you will; the
bloom is wiped away; and, try all the arts you can, you can never
restore that bloom again, nor give the fruit the hue it had before.
Happy those buoyant and successful spirits who can look onward at
every step, from life's commencement to its close, and are never
called upon to sit down by the weary way side of being, and long for
the fair fields and meadows they have passed, never to behold again.




CHAPTER XIX.


Clouds roll over the sky; the large rain drops descend; the lightning
flashes; the thunder rolls along the verge of heaven; darkness and
tempests rage above; and ruin and desolation seem to reign below. They
have their hour, and pass away. Often the clouds roll on to some
distant bourn, leaving the sky clear, the sun smiling brighter than
ever, the blades of grass gemmed with the diamond drops, the earth all
fresh, and the birds all singing. But there are other times, when,
although the fierceness of the tempest is over, the streaming deluge
suspended, the torch of the lightning quenched, and the angry voice of
the thunder hushed, a heavy boding cloud remains behind, hiding the
brightness of the face of heaven, and threatening fresh storms to
come.

Thus it is too with the human heart. In the spring-tide of our
life--in those gay early years, when the merry rays of the sunshiny
heart dance gleam-like with the storms and clouds of life, the tempest
of passion or of sorrow is soon swept away, and the universe of the
heart resumes its brightness. But there comes a time when the storm
falling upon life's decline--I speak not of mere years, but at the
epoch of each man's destined change--the spirit cannot cast off the
shadow of the cloud, even when the eyes are dried, and the lightning
pang of anguish or the terror speaking thunder of retribution are
staid for the hour.

Thus was it with Richard. His son, his only son, his beloved, was
gone. The fountain of hope and expectation was dried up. For him, and
for his future, destiny, he had laboured, and thought, and striven,
and calculated, and sinned, and offended God and man, and won a dark
and fearful renown, tainted a mother's fame, violated trust and
friendship, usurped the patrimony of the orphan, spurned every tie of
nature and affection, trampled upon gratitude, and imbrued his hands
in blood. Strange that the brightest and the purest of human
affections, when mingled in our nature with the darker and the more
violent passions, instead of mitigating their influence, should prompt
to deeper crimes, and plunge us into more overwhelming guiltiness--as
the most precious medicines, mingled chemically with some foreign
matter, will, is a moment, become the most dangerous poisons. He was
gone; the object of all his fond imaginings, his daily labours and his
nightly thoughts. The hopes that had been built up upon his life were
all thrown down. The line between the present and the future was
snapped asunder. The pang had been suffered--the terrible pang of the
rending of a strong manly heart from its closest ties and its dearest
expectations. The effect had been awful, terrible. It had for a time
unseated reason from a throne where she had ruled with sway almost
despotic. But that pang had been conquered. Reason had regained her
rule. The tempest of the heart had passed away, and had left the sky
calm--but not bright. No! Dull, dull, heavy, leaden, threatening, was
the aspect of all around. The pure light of day was extinguished,
never to dawn for him again; and all the light that was left came from
the dull torch of ambition.

Richard sat in the room of the royal lodging at Leicester, where we
have before seen him. There was a gentleman by his side, with head
slightly bent, reading, from a long slip of paper, some notes of all
the different pieces of intelligence which had been received during
the day.

"What next?" demanded the king, in a dull and almost inattentive,
tone.

"The letter which your grace proposed to write to your royal
sister-in-law," replied the gentleman.

Richard started, "Ay," he said, thoughtfully; "ay, it must be done;"
and, rubbing his temple gently with the fingers of his right hand, he
seemed to give himself up to meditation. After a short space of time,
it would appear, he partly forgot, if I may use such a term, the
presence of another; and he murmured words to himself, which he might
not have done had he been acutely conscious that they were overheard,
"Shall the son of Clarence succeed?" he asked himself, in a long
gloomy tone; "for him have I done all these things?--To make him King
of England? That fair inheritance, for which I have toiled and
laboured, and thought, and desired, and watched by night, and acted by
day, shall it be his?--No, no! And yet there is a fate that overrules
man's policy, and thwarts his best-devised schemes.--No child for me,
if Ann lives; and it all goes to another race.--What then?" And he
paused, and thought once more very deeply.

The busy movements of his mind during that reverie who shall
scrutinize? But at length he said: "No, no! She was the love of my
youth, the partner of my early cares and joys.--No! Grief will soon do
its work on her. She is of that soft and fragile-hearted nature, which
crumbles at the first rude touch, like the brittle sandstone. I am of
granite, which the chisel may mark, but which no saw will touch--hard
and perdurable. We must bide the event. The canker is on the frail
flower, and it will fall soon enough! In the mean time, 'tis well to
be prepared;" and, turning to the man beside him, he added, "I will
write that letter with my own hand. Have a post ready by six this
evening. What next?"

"The young Lord Chartley waits your grace's will, in ward," replied
the secretary; and, seeing that Richard seemed plunged in thought
again, he added, "suspected of aiding the escape of Morton, bishop of
Ely."

"Ha!" cried Richard, with an angry start; "he shall--" But he paused
suddenly, laid his hand upon his brow for a moment or two, and then
added in a calmer tone, "No. He is a foolish boy. This man was his
tutor. We love those who were the guides and conductors of our youth.
But I will make sure of him. Give me those letters--No, not those, the
packet on the left;" and, having received what he demanded, he
examined the despatches carefully, and then said, "What next?"

The secretary looked at the paper in his hand, and then replied:

"Arnold Lord Calverly craves your highness's gracious sanction, to
complete the marriage already contracted between his niece, the Lady
Lola St. Leger, and the Lord Fulmer. He craves audience on this score,
and is, I believe, even now in the great hall below."

Richard meditated for a moment or two.

"He is a stanch and steady friend," he said at length; "yet, this Lord
Fulmer--I love him not. I doubt him. He is a man of high-toned
fantasies, and grave imaginations--moveable with the wind of passion,
and notions of what he believes fine thoughts. I love not your men of
emotions. Give me the man of firm calm deeds, who sets a mighty object
before him, and cleaves a way to it through all impediments. The
inheritance is large; his own power great; united, they may be
dangerous. But we must temporise and see. 'Tis wise to keep
expectation on the wing. When we have given all, we have no more to
give; and, by St. Paul, gratitude is a poor bond, compared with
desire.--But I must see the Lord Calverly. Go, give him admission. We
will hear the rest afterwards."

The secretary departed; and Richard remained with his brow resting on
his hand, till a door again opened, and a stout elderly gentleman was
admitted, with an expression of countenance indicating no slight
opinion of his own importance, but no very great profundity of
intellect. The king instantly rose, and took him by the hand.

"Welcome, welcome, my noble lord," he said. "You have come to me at a
moment of deep grief and pain; but your presence is none the less
acceptable, as, indeed, what can afford greater consolation than the
society of a true friend?"

The cordiality with which he was received might have surprised any
other person than Arnold Lord Calverly; for Richard was not a man of a
cordial nature, and displayed little warmth of manner to any but his
mere familiar tools, or to those whom he intended to deceive or to
destroy. The worthy lord, how, ever, was quite satisfied that he
deserved the utmost kindness and consideration; and taking it for
granted that the monarch really received him joyfully, he proceeded to
comfort him with such common places as men of inferior intellect
mistake for the dicta of wisdom.

"Alack, my lord the king," he said, "you have indeed suffered a great
deprivation. But, you know, this is merely to share the common fate of
all men, from which the king is no more exempt than the peasant. Death
respects not the young or the old, the high or the low. We are all
subject to his power; and, perhaps, those he takes soonest are the
happiest. I would have your highness consider what a troublous life it
is that man leads here below; and how many sorrows the young prince,
God rest his soul, may have escaped; and, in your own knowledge of
life, you will find consolation for his having lost it."

"True, very true," replied Richard, with a grave and thoughtful look.
"That is sound philosophy, my dear lord, as indeed is all that you say
on all occasions. Yet one cannot help regretting, if not the poor
boy's release from earthly suffering, at least the extinction of one's
own succession, and especially where a crown is a part of the
heritage."

"Nay, now, sire, in this you judge not altogether wisely," replied the
old nobleman. "Pardon my boldness in so speaking. But why should a man
desire to transmit his possessions to a child of his own, rather than
to the child of any other man. I speak in the abstract, mark me--I
speak in the abstract--for, if a man have children of his own, of
course he would rather that they succeeded. That's very natural. But
if he have none, why should he desire posterity? His eyes must be
closed before his child can take the succession. He cannot therefore
see the enjoyment of it by his child."

"Very true," said Richard. "Very true."

"Besides," continued Lord Calverly, "we cannot tell that our children
will use what we leave them better than the children of other men. It
is but a prejudice, my lord the king, to wish for posterity; and,
indeed, I are inclined to think that those men are happiest who have
never had any children."

"If they have minds so full of philosophy as yours, my lord," answered
Richard; "and you can judge well, for you are yourself childless, and
yet happy in yourself."

"Perfectly, your highness," replied Lord Calverly. "I would not change
with a patriarch. Indeed, the presence of children and our love for
them often betrays us into dangerous weaknesses, against which we
should guard with care, if Heaven should inflict them on us. I have
been always watchful--very watchful, your highness, against such
foibles. Even in the case of my niece, my poor brother's child, who
was left to my charge and guidance a mere infant; as soon as I found I
was becoming too fond of her, and that, when she was well I was too
careful of her, when she was ill I thought too much about her, I sent
her away at once to my sister, the abbess of St. Clare. Women's minds
being, weak, cannot be injured by such softnesses; but they suit ill
with a philosopher, a soldier, or a statesman. But it is upon this
subject that I came to speak with your highness."

"What, regarding the abbess of St. Clare?" said Richard, with a start.

"Of her presently," replied Lord Calverly; "but first of my niece. I
wish to crave your highness's permission to complete the marriage of
this little Iola with my friend, and the son of my friend, Arthur Lord
Fulmer."

"You shall have it right willingly," replied Richard, in the
frankest tone possible. "It shall be drawn out in due form, and
receive our own sign manual. Can I refuse anything to so tried a
friend?--Nevertheless, my most dear lord, I will beseech you not to
proceed hastily," he continued with a significant nod of the head.
"Delay the marriage a little, at my request. We would be present at it
ourselves, I and the queen; and, moreover, I have intentions--I have
intentions----"

He paused, looking in Lord Calverly's face, with a bland smile, and
then added: "Who knows what name you may be called upon to write, my
lord? It may not be Calverly then. Coronets will change their forms
sometimes; and we do not bind our brows always with the same cap.
Delay a little, delay a little! At the present moment sad thoughts
possess me, and I have not your philosophy to combat them. There are
many important matters to do. The succession to the crown must be
settled; and we shall need all your wise counsels, in graver things
than marriages and merrymakings. Delay a little, delay a little, my
right good friend."

"Your highness is too gracious," replied Lord Calverly, with a shining
and radiant look. "Your commands are law but there is one other
subject I must bring before you, a matter touching your royal throne
and dignity."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Richard. "What may that be?"

"All men know, my royal lord," said the old nobleman, in an oratorical
tone, "that your highness's devout reverence for the church is not to
be questioned, that religion, as one may say, is not in you, as in
other men, a matter acquired by mere learning and meditation, but a
part and principle of your own royal nature. Now my sister, the abbess
of St. Clare of Atherston, whose conduct in her high charge has
deserved and received the praises of all men, and especially of our
holy father, has commissioned me to state to your highness, the fact,
that the abbey--an abbey of nuns be it remembered, filled with young
and delicate women, vowed to seclusion and prayer--was surrounded on
the night of Wednesday last by a body of rude soldiery, under the
command of one Sir John Godscroft, who, upon pretence of seeking for a
deserter, insisted upon admission, notwithstanding her warning that
the place was sanctuary. The whole building was searched; and not only
that, but the priest's house and many of the cottages on the green,
belonging to the servitors of the abbey, were burned to the ground."

Richard's brow grew as black as night; and, setting his teeth hard
together, he rose and walked up and down the room, muttering to
himself--

"This must be repressed. This must be repressed."

"Let your highness conceive," persisted Lord Calverly, following him a
step or two behind, "only conceive what a condition these poor nuns
were in, roused out of bed by these rude men, in the middle of the
night."

A grim smile came upon the king's handsome face; and he replied--

"Grey gowns are soon put on, my lord. Nevertheless this shall be
looked into severely--Ha! Let me see--The abbey of St. Clare;" and,
taking some papers from the table, he ran his eye hastily over them,
and then exclaimed, with a frowning brow, "It is so! 'Twas not a
deserter whom they sought, my lord, but a traitor; no pitiful trooper
fled from his colours, but Morton, bishop of Ely, the instigator of
Buckingham, the counsellor of Dorset, the friend and confidant of
Richmond."

"But, my lord the king, the abbey is sanctuary," replied Lord
Calverly; "and--"

"Were it God's altar, with his hand upon the horn, I would tear that
man from it," thundered Richard, his whole countenance working with
passion.

The moment after he cast himself into his chair, and covered his eyes
with his hands, while the pompous old nobleman stood as one
thunderstruck before him. After a dead silence of nearly a minute, the
king looked up again, and the cloud had passed away from his brow.

"I have been moved, my lord," he said. "I have been moved. This man,
this Morton, is my deadliest enemy, a reviler, a calumniator, the
stirrer of every trouble in the realm; and he has escaped me.
Doubtless it was not your good sister's fault; and even if it were,
these men have exceeded their commission. I will have no such acts of
violence within this kingdom. Rich and poor, strong and weak, shall
know that the sword of justice is not trusted to my hands in vain. Nor
will I suffer my name and my service to be used as pretexts for acts
so criminal. It shall be inquired into and justice done."

He paused, casting down his eyes; and Lord Calverly, frightened out of
his wits at the storm he had raised, was retreating towards the door,
when Richard called him again, saying--

"Stay, stay. I may have a charge to give you, my good lord. A very
noble gentleman brought up in the court--I may say under my own
eye--has somewhat failed in his duty. To what extent I know not yet. I
would fain not deal with him harshly; for he is young and rash, and
lately come from foreign lands, so that he may not know the full
extent of his fault. I will examine him however in your presence. If I
find he has acted with malignant purpose, he shall go to York for
trial. If it be but a rash prank of youth he has committed, although
it galled me somewhat closely, I will place him in your lordship's
ward, assigning you one third of his revenues while he remains there."

As he spoke he rose, and called in one of the attendants saying,
briefly--

"Summon Lord Chartley hither."

"I trust he may clear himself in your highness's opinion," said Lord
Calverly, while the attendant proceeded to obey the king's commands.
"I have heard him highly spoken of as one more than ordinarily
learned, and a complete master of exercises. Good Lord, I have often
patted his head as a boy; and such a curly head as it was too, all
wavy and silky, like a Spanish dog's. I little thought it would be
filled with philosophy."

"Perhaps some slipped in from the tips of your fingers," said Richard,
with a slightly sarcastic smile; and in a moment or two after the door
of the cabinet opened.

With a free light step, though a somewhat grave countenance for him,
Chartley entered the king's presence, and advanced to the side of the
table, opposite to that at which Richard was placed. The king gazed at
him, not sternly, but with that fixed, attentive, unwinking eye, which
is very difficult for conscious guilt to bear.

Nevertheless Chartley sustained it firmly; and, after maintaining
silence for a full minute, with his lips compressed, Richard said--

"I have sent for you, my lord, because there are heavy charges against
you."

"Will your highness state them?" said the young nobleman. "I will
answer them at once boldly and truly."

"I will," answered Richard. "The first is--and all the rest are
secondary to that--that you have aided and comforted, contrary to our
proclamation, a known and avowed traitor, Morton, bishop of Ely; that
you took him in your train disguised as a friar, and carried him with
you from Tamworth to the abbey of St. Clare of Atherston, for the
purpose of facilitating his escape, well knowing him to be a traitor.
How say you? Is this charge true?"

"In part, my lord the king," replied Chartley; "but in part also it is
false."

"In what part," demanded Richard.

"In that part which alleges I knew him to be a traitor," replied
Chartley, "and in that which implies that I had seen said did know
your royal proclamation. I never saw it, nor knew the terms thereof,
till yesterday; nor did I know or believe that the bishop was a
traitor. Yet let me not say one word that can deceive. I was well
aware that he had incurred your highness' displeasure; but on what
grounds I was not informed."

"And, knowing it, you aided his escape?" said Richard sternly.

"I did, my lord," replied Chartley; "but, if you will hear me speak a
few words, I may say something in my own excuse. I never gave you
cause before, wittingly or willingly, to doubt my loyalty. I have
trafficked with none of your personal enemies, nor with those of your
royal estate. I have taken no part in plots or conspiracies; but this
was a very different case. I found the friend, the guide, the
instructor of my youth, flying from danger; and my first thought was
to succour him. I know, my lord the king, that I have put my head in
peril by so doing; but what man would consider such peril to save a
father? and this man I looked upon as a second father. I will ask you,
sire, if you would not have done a hundred times as much, to rescue
the noble duke of York?--I loved Morton as much."

He touched upon a tender point--perhaps the only really tender point
in Richard's heart. There are spots in the waste of memory ever
green--according to the beautiful figure of the poet--oases in the
desert of life. The burning sun of ambition cannot parch them, the
nipping frost of eager avarice cannot wither them. The palm tree of
early affection shades them for ever; the refreshing fountains of
first love keep them ever verdant. They are few with most men; for all
bright and beautiful things are few; but rarely as there a heart so
rugged in its nature, so scorched by earthly passion, or so faded from
dull indulgence, as not to have one (if not more) of those spots of
brightness, which, when the eye of remembrance lights upon it,
refreshes the spirit with a vision of the sweet calm joys of youth.
The memory of his great father, and of the love which he had borne
him, was the purest, perhaps, the only pure thing for Richard, in all
the treasury of the past; and he felt the allusion with sensations,
such as he had not experienced for many a long year. They were tender,
deep, almost too deep; and, turning away his head, he stretched out
his hand with a gesture, which seemed to command the speaker to stop.

"Pardon me, your highness," said Chartley, seeing the emotions he had
aroused, and then was silent.

Richard remained musing for several minutes. His mind was busy with
the past; but he had the peculiar faculty of all great and resolute
spirits, that of casting from him rapidly all impressions but those of
the present. He looked up again; and it was evident that the emotion
was at an end. Still it would seem that it had produced some effect in
its passage, for his next words were in a milder tone.

"I am willing, my lord," he said, "to believe that you have acted
indiscreetly, but without evil intentions. I will make allowance for
youth, and for affection; but still, this must not go altogether
unpunished. Are you willing to abide by my decision?"

"Needs must, my lord the king," replied Chartley, almost gaily. "I am
in your hand, and it is a strong one."

"Nay!" answered the king. "You have a choice, if you like it better. I
can send you for trial by your peers."

"Good faith, no!" cried Chartley. "That were worse a thousand-fold. In
a word, sire, I know my danger. Ignorance, youth, friendship, were no
defence before the stubborn rigour of the law. You have the power to
mitigate it, and, I believe, the heart. I leave my cause with you."

"Well then," said Richard, "by St. Paul, you shall not have cause to
repent. As you have put yourself in the king's will, we will put you
in ward with this noble lord, till our further pleasure; assigning him
one third of your revenues, for the guard and maintenance of your
person, and making him responsible to us for your conduct. He will not
deal harshly with you, methinks. Does this satisfy you?"

"Since better may not be, my lord," replied Chartley. "I would as
gladly be in the hand of this noble lord, who, if my memory fail me
not, is the Lord Calverly, as any one. Give a bird the choice, whether
yon shall put it in a gilded cage or wring its neck, and doubtless it
will prefer the wires; and yet it can scarcely be said to be
satisfied, when it would fain use its wings in freedom, though for no
evil purpose."

"I seek not that his imprisonment be very strict, my lord," said
Richard, turning to Lord Calverly. "You will take such securities as
you judge needful, but do nought with rigour; for, even by the light
way in which he fronts his danger, one may judge that he did what he
has done in careless ignorance rather than in malice. Now take him
with you, and bestow him as you think fit."

"Ay, young heads are too hot for cool judgment," said Lord Calverly,
as they walked towards the door. "It is a marvel to me how boys ever
grow men, and how men ever reach maturity; for, not contented with the
perils of life, they are always making new dangers for themselves."

"Stay," cried Richard. "Stay! There is yet one question I would ask
before you go, Lord Chartley. Was the abbess of St. Glare privy to
your bringing this turbulent bishop within her walls? I hear you sent
forward a messenger."

The question was a perilous one; but Chartley fixed upon the latter
words of the king for his reply, and thus avoided the danger. "My
messenger bore a letter, your highness," he answered, "which letter
the abbess doubtless still has and can show you. You will there see,
that I only told her I was coming to crave her hospitality with some
friends. The bishop I presented to her as a friar travelling with my
train. Nor was there one amongst the friends who were with me, nor
amongst my servants, who was made aware of our companion's quality.
There is a proverb, very old, that fine feathers make fine birds; and
I do not believe that any one saw the bishop's robe through the
friar's gown."

Richard smiled, thinking of Sir Charles Weinants, but bowed his head
in signal of the conference being ended; and the two noblemen withdrew
together.




CHAPTER XX.


I know not whether the architecture of the middle ages--that peculiar
architecture, I mean, which existed in different varieties in England,
from a little before the commencement of the reign of the Conqueror,
till the end of the reign of Henry VII.--can be said to have advanced
or retrograded from the time of Edward III. to the time of Richard.
Every one will judge according to his particular tastes of the merits
of the style; but one thing is certain, that, although the houses of
the lower orders had remained much the same, the domestic arrangement
of the baronial residences had greatly improved. Notwithstanding that
long period of contention, which succeeded the accession of Henry VI.,
notwithstanding constant wars and the frequent summons to the field,
men seemed to have looked for comfort in the laying out of their
dwellings; and the feudal castle, although still a castle, and well
fitted for defence, contained in it many of the conveniences of a
modern house. Perhaps it was, that the struggle of great parties had
taken the place of private quarrels between the great barons
themselves and struggles between mere individual conspirators and the
crown. Thus great towns were attacked more frequently than fortified
mansions; and, during this period, we meet with very few instances of
a simple baronial fortress being subjected to siege.

However that might be, the chambers in a great nobleman's house, the
halls, the lodging chambers, the ladies' bower, were now all more
commodious, light, and airy, than at that former period of few, small,
narrow and deep windows, when light and air were excluded, as well as
the missiles of an enemy. Not only in monastery, convent, and college,
but even in private dwellings, the large oriel was seen here and
there, suffering the beams of day to pour freely into the hall, and
casting the lines of its delicate tracery upon the floor; and, raised
somewhat above the general level of the room, approached by two steps,
and furnished with window seats, it afforded a pleasant and sun-shiny
sitting-place to the elder and younger members of the family.

There was one of these oriel windows in the lesser hall, of Chidlow
castle; and round the raised platform, within the sort of bay which it
formed, ran a sort of bench or window seat of carved oak, covered with
a loose cushion of crimson velvet. The lattice was open, and soft air
and bright light streamed in. The winter had been remarkably long and
severe. The snow had lain upon the ground till the end of March; and,
even then, when one bright day had succeeded, and withdrawn the white
covering of the earth, it was only to be followed by a week or ten
days of sharp frost, which reigned in its full rigour during some of
the events which we have narrated in the previous chapters. Now,
however, winter had departed, and spring commenced with that sudden
and rapid transition, which is often the case in more northern
countries, and is sometimes seen even in England. The air, as I have
said, was soft and genial; the blue skies were hardly chequered by a
fleecy cloud; the birds were singing in the trees; the red buds were
bursting with the long-checked sap; and snowdrop and violet seemed
running races with the primrose and the anemone, to catch the first
smile of their sweet mother spring. The little twining shrubs were
already green with their young leaves; and the honeysuckle strove hard
to cast a verdant mantle over the naked brown limbs of the tall trees
which it had climbed. The scene from the lattice of the oriel window
was one of those fair English landscapes on which the eye loves to
rest; for the castle was situated upon a height, and below spread out
a rich and beautiful country, waving in long lines of meadow and wood
for fifteen or sixteen miles, till sloping uplands towered into high
hills, which glowed with a peculiarly yellow light, never seen
anywhere, that I know of, beyond the limits of this island. Gazing
from that lattice, over that scene, sat two young and beautiful girls,
with whom the reader is already acquainted. Very different, it is
true, was their garb from that in which they were first presented to
you whose eye rests upon this page; for the more simple garments of
the convent had given place to the splendid costume of the court of
that time; and the forms, which required no ornament, were half hidden
in lace and embroidery. But there was still the beautiful face of
Iola, with the bright beaming expression, which seemed to pour forth
hope and joy in every look, but now somewhat shaded with a cloud of
care; and there, the not less fair, though somewhat more thoughtful,
countenance of her cousin Constance, with her deep feeling eyes poring
over the far prospect, and seeming to search for something through the
thin summer mist that softened all the features of the landscape.

They were both very silent, and evidently busied with their own
thoughts. Some attendants passed across the hall, and others lingered,
to arrange this or that article of furniture. Others entered to speak
with them and the two girls, from time to time, turned an inquiring
look at those who came and went, showing that they were in some sort
strangers in the home of their fathers.

At length, the hall was cleared of all but themselves, and Constance
said in a low voice, "I wish, dear cousin, that my aunt would come. We
should not then feel so desolate. I think our good lord and uncle
might have left us at the abbey till he was at home himself."

"He would not have made the place much more cheerful," answered Iola,
with a faint smile; "for wisdom is a very melancholy thing, dear
Constance; at least if it be always like his. I fear me, too, even my
good merry aunt would not make this place feel anything but desolate
to me, just at present. She might cheer and support me a little, it is
true; but I have got terrible dreams of the future, Constance. I try
not to think of them, but they will come."

She paused and bent down her eyes, in what seemed painful meditation;
and Constance replied, in a gentle tone, saying: "Why, how is this,
Iola? You used not to look upon the matter so seriously."

"Alack, it gets very bad as it comes near," answered Iola, with an
uncheerful laugh. "It is something very like being sold for a slave,
Constance. However, the poor slave cannot help himself, nor I either,
so do not let us talk any more about it. I suppose I shall soon see my
purchaser. I wonder what he is like. Do you recollect whether he is
white or black?"

"Good faith, not I," answered Constance; "but he is not quite a <DW64>,
I suppose. I have heard people say he was a pretty boy."

"A pretty boy!" cried Iola, raising her eyebrows. "Heaven defend me!
What will become of me if I am married to a pretty boy? Somewhat like
Sir Edward Hungerford, I suppose, lisping lamentable nonsense about
essences, and bestowing his best thoughts upon his tailor."

"Nay, nay! Why should you conjure up such fancies?" said Constance.
"You seem resolved to dislike him without cause."

"Nature, dear cousin," said Iola. "Nature and the pig's prerogative,
to dislike any road we are forced to travel. Yet, it is bad policy, I
will admit; and I will try to shake it off, and to like him to the
best of my ability. The time is coming fast when I must, whether I
will or not; for I think the oath I am about to take is to love him. I
do think it is very hard that women should not be allowed to choose
for themselves, and yet be forced to take an oath which they do not
know whether they can keep or not. Well, the worst of all the seven
sacraments is matrimony, to my mind. Extreme unction is a joke to
it--how can I tell that I shall love him? I don't think I can; and yet
I must swear I will."

"You are making a rack of your own fancy," said Constance. "Wait till
you have seen him at least, Iola; for, after all, you may find him the
very man of your own heart."

Iola started, and then shook her head mournfully, saying, "of my own
heart? Oh, no!"

Constance gazed at her in surprise; and for the first time a suspicion
of the truth crossed her mind. She said not a word, however, of her
doubts, but resolved to watch narrowly, with that kind and eager
affection which two girls brought up from youth together often feel
for each other, where no rivalry has ever mingled its bitter drop with
the sweet current of kindred love. She changed the subject of
conversation too, pointing to some towers in the distance, and saying,
"I wonder whose castle that is."

"Middleham, I dare say," answered Iola, in an absent tone. "It is
somewhere out there--but yet it cannot be Middleham either. Middleham
is too far."

"There is something moving upon that road which we see going along the
side of the hill," said Constance. "I dare say it is my uncle and his
train."

"No, no, Leicester lies out there," answered Iola; "you never can find
out the country, dear cousin; and I learn it all in a minute, like the
leaf of a book. I dare say it is some wild lord, riding to hawk or to
hunt. Heaven send it be not my falcon, just towering to strike me
before my uncle comes. I'll not look at them. They seem coming this
way;" and she turned from the window and went down the steps, seating
herself upon the lower one, and resting her cheek upon her hand.

Constance did watch the approaching party, however, till it became
evident that those whom she saw were coming direct towards the castle.
They were now seen and now lost among the trees and hedges; but every
time they reappeared they were nearer.

At length Constance turned her eyes to Iola, and said, "they are
coming hither, whoever they are; and my uncle is certainly not one of
the party. They are only five or six in all, and seem young men. Had
we not better go away to our own chamber?"

"No," answered Iola, starting up. "I will stay and face them.
Something seems to tell me, that I know who is coming. You shall see
how well I can behave, Constance, wild as you think me, and untutored
in the world's ways as I am."

"They may be mere strangers after all," said Constance; "but here they
are; for I can hear the dull sound of their horses' feet upon the
drawbridge."

Iola sprang up the steps again with a light step, and twined her arm
in that of her cousin. Both movements were very natural. We always
like to stand upon a height when we meet those of whom we have any
fear or any doubt; and Iola felt the need of sympathy which the very
touch of her cousin's arm afforded her. A pause followed, during which
Constance sought to say something and to look unconcerned; but words
she found not; and her eyes as well as Iola's remained fixed upon the
door. At length it opened; and, preceded by one of the officers of the
castle, but unannounced by him, two gentlemen entered with a quick
step. One was instantly recognized by both the fair girls who stood in
the oriel, as Sir Edward Hungerford. The other was a stranger to them
both. He was a dark handsome-looking young man, of some two or three
and twenty years of age, dressed in somewhat of a foreign fashion,
which, had they been much acquainted with such matters, they would
have perceived at once to be the mode of the Burgundian court; but
Iola's eye rested not upon his dress. It was his face that she
scanned; and Constance felt a sort of shudder pass over her cousin's
frame, as she leaned upon her arm, which pained and grieved her much.
She saw nothing disagreeable, nothing to dislike in the countenance or
air of the stranger. His step was free and graceful, his carriage
dignified and lordly, his look, though perhaps a little haughty, was
open and frank. In fact he was a man well calculated to please a
lady's eye; and again Constance said to herself--"There must be some
other attachment."

The stranger came on at an equal pace with Sir Edward Hungerford; but
it was the latter who first spoke.

"Permit me," he said, "dear ladies, to be lord of the ceremonies, and
introduce to you both my noble friend Arthur, Lord Fulmer."

The other seemed not to hear what he said; but, mounting the steps
into the oriel at once, he took Iola's hand, saying--

"This must be the Lady Iola."

With a cheek as pale as death, and an eye cold and fixed, but with a
firm and unwavering tone, the fair girl answered--

"My name is Iola, my lord. This is my cousin Constance. We grieve that
my uncle is not here to receive you fittingly."

"I bring you tidings of your uncle, dear lady," replied Fulmer, still
addressing her alone. "A messenger reached me from him at an early
hour this morning, telling me that he would be at Chidlow during the
evening, with a gay train of guests, and bidding me ride on and have
everything prepared for their reception. He spoke indeed of sending a
servant forward himself. Has no one arrived?"

"No one, my lord," replied Iola, "at least no one that we have heard
of. But, having lived long in close seclusion, we are, as it were,
strangers in my uncle's house, without occupation or authority. I pray
you use that which my uncle has given you, to order all that may be
necessary. As for us, I think we will now retire."

"Nay, not so soon," exclaimed Fulmer, eagerly. "This is but a brief
interview indeed."

Sir Edward Hungerford too, in sweet and persuasive tones, besought the
two ladies not to leave them, but to stay and give their good advice,
as to the delicate preparation of the castle for the expected guests;
but Iola remained firm to her purpose; and Constance, when she saw
that it would distress her to remain, joined her voice to her
cousin's; and, leaving the two gentlemen in the hall, they retired to
Iola's chamber.

With her arm through that of Constance, Iola walked slowly but firmly
thither; and it was only as she approached the door that anything like
agitation showed itself. Then, however, Constance felt her steps waver
and her frame shake; and, when they had entered the room, Iola cast
herself on her knees by the side of the bed, hid her face upon its
coverings, and wept.




CHAPTER XXI.


When Iola and her fair cousin were gone, Lord Fulmer gazed for a
moment from the window, with a thoughtful and absent look; and then,
descending the steps, walked once or twice up and down the hall. At
length, turning to Sir Edward Hungerford, he exclaimed:

"She is beautiful, indeed! Is she not, Hungerford?"

"Yes, exceedingly," replied the young knight; "although, methinks, the
upper lip might be a trifle longer; but you would think her fairer
still if you beheld her as I first saw her, with a colour in her
cheek, like that of the morning sky. Now, I know not why, she is as
pale as one of those marble statues which we see at Rome."

"Emotion!" said Fulmer, thoughtfully. "Perhaps it was wrong to take
her thus, by surprise. Come, Hungerford, let us give these orders with
which I am charged;" and, advancing to the door, he called for the
attendants.

The orders were not so difficult to give as to execute; for they
implied immediate preparation for the accommodation of at least twenty
honoured guests besides the usual inhabitants of the castle, together
with all their attendants, and for a splendid repast, to be ready for
supper at the unusually late hour of nine. Special directions were
added, to prepare one of the numerous detached buildings, which were
frequently to be found within the walls of the fortified houses of
those days, for the reception of the Lord Chartley and his train; and
a portion of the immense range of stabling, which lay, strange to say,
immediately at the back of the chapel, was to be set apart exclusively
for his horses. Sir Edward Hungerford listened in polite silence, till
Fulmer had delivered himself of his commission to the chief officer of
Lord Calverly's household; but he could not suffer the good man to
depart, without putting in a word or two, as advice to the master
cook, concerning the dressing of cygnets, and the absolute necessity
of immediately seeking a young heron of last year, or at least a
bittern, as heron poults were not to be obtained.

"Porpoises are hopeless," he said, "at this distance from the sea, and
squirrels in the spring are lean and poor; but, I have known a large
luce, quaintly stewed with lard, supply the place of the one, while a
coney may do well instead of the other; only I fear me it is somewhat
late in the year."

The major domo bowed reverently at this discourse; and, as soon as he
was gone, Fulmer exclaimed: "Come, Hungerford, let us walk upon the
battlements, this sunshiny afternoon. Perchance these two fair girls
may come down to breathe the air."

"Stay," replied Sir Edward Hungerford. "I will go and put on my green
and sable surcoat; if they see it, it may attract them."

"Pshaw!" cried Fulmer. "Do you think they are bulls, which, men say,
will run after a piece of cloth of a particular colour?"

"Nay!" replied Hungerford, with perhaps a little spice of malice; "but
this surcoat of mine is, point for point, the very model of
Chartley's."

"What has Chartley to do with the matter?" demanded Fulmer, turning
full upon him, with some surprise.

"It shall be on in a moment," replied Sir Edward, without answering
his question. "I hate this orange tawny colour, though it be now worn
by every one. It does not at all suit my complexion. 'Tis a sort of
jealousy colour. I will no more on't;" and away he went.

Lord Fulmer paced up and down the hall. "Her greeting was mighty
cold," he thought. "Well, perhaps 'twas natural; and yet 'twas less
troubled than chilly. She seemed firm enough, but yet as icy as the
grave. What can this man mean about Chartley? Nothing, nothing. He has
no meaning in him. I wish her greeting had been somewhat warmer--and
in his presence too. He smiled, when he talked of Chartley."

He had not time for any long meditations, for he was very soon
rejoined by his friend, habited in the most extravagant extreme of the
mode, with the sleeves of his surcoat actually trailing on the ground
when not fixed back to his shoulders by small loops of gold cord, and
ruby buttons. The two gentlemen then found their way to the
battlements, and walked round nearly their whole extent; Hungerford
looking up, from time to time, at the principal masses of the
building, in the hopes of ascertaining, by seeing some sweet face at a
window, in what part of the castle Constance and her cousin were
lodged. He said no more upon the subject of Iola and Chartley; and
Fulmer did not choose to inquire further, though, to say the truth,
the mere casual words he had heard, implying in reality little or
nothing, rested on his mind more than he wished. Wrapped up in the
thoughts of his own glittering person, Sir Edward Hungerford walked on
by his friend's side in silence, and might perhaps have said nothing
more for the next half hour, if Fulmer had not begun the conversation
himself. Of course, it was begun from a point quite different from
that at which he proposed to arrive.

"This castle is pleasantly situated," he observed, "and commands all
the country round."

"Good faith, I like your own better," answered Sir Edward Hungerford.
"Sheltered as it is, by woods and higher hills than that on which it
stands, you have no dread of north winds there. Here, let it blow from
east, west, north or south, you meet with every gust of heaven that is
going; and, unless a man's skin be as tough as a horse's hide, he will
ruin his complexion in a fortnight."

"I like it better," said Fulmer. "I love to have a free sight round
me, to look afar, and see what comes on every side, to catch the rays
of the sun in their warmth, ay, and sometimes to give the sharp wind
buffet for buffet. Were both mine, I should choose this for my
residence."

"Well, it will soon be yours," answered Sir Edward Hungerford; "for,
I suppose your marriage is to take place speedily, and this old lord
cannot live long. He is worn out with wisdom. You can then inhabit
which you like. Every man has his tastes, Fulmer. Some, as you know,
delight in orange tawny. I abominate the hue. You dislike your own
place, and prefer Chidlow; I the reverse. You, doubtless, judge Iola
the most beautiful. I admire little Constance, with her thoughtful
brow."

"Because you have no more thought yourself than would lie in the hem
of a silk jerkin," replied Fulmer. "Yet, methinks she were too grave
for you."

"Nay! She can be merry enough when she is with those who please her,"
replied Hungerford, with a self-satisfied nod of his head. "That
pretty little mouth can dimple with smiles, I assure you."

"Why, how know you all this, Hungerford?" asked Fulmer, in as light a
tone as he could assume. "You seem to be wondrous well acquainted with
these ladies' characters."

"Ay, ay," replied Sir Edward, with a mysterious and yet laughing look.
"Constance and I passed that self same evening side by side; and, in
one evening, a man may learn and teach a great deal."

"What evening?--What do you mean?" demanded Fulmer, sharply; but his
companion only laughed, replying:--

"Ha! ha! Now, I could make you jealous--but, hush! No more just now.
Some one is coming; and look, here is a party riding up--there, over
that hill, upon the Leicester road."

The person who approached along the battlements was Lord Calverly's
master of the household, come for some explanation from the young
lord, whom he knew right well; and, while he spoke with Fulmer, Sir
Edward Hungerford threw himself into a graceful attitude by one of the
embrasures, and fell into thought--ay, reader, even into thought; for
he was somewhat different in reality from that which he has hitherto
appeared to you. I have only depicted him in certain scenes, and
recorded his sayings and doings therein; and, if you judge other men,
in your actual commerce with the world, by such partial views, you
will make a great mistake--unless indeed you possess that instinct,
the gift of few, which enables some to pierce through all the various
veils with which men cover themselves, and see their real characters
at once in their nakedness. Notwithstanding all the trifling, and the
foppery, and the folly of Sir Edward Hungerford, there was no lack of
brain beneath that frivolous exterior. I do not mean to say that his
apparent tastes and pursuits were altogether assumed. He had a real
fondness for splendour and delicacy of dress, for refinements in
cookery, and softness and smoothness of demeanour. He was inordinately
vain too of his person; and these were certainly defects, ay, and
defects of intellect; for they showed a misappreciation of the worth
of things; but, if you set down every <DW2> for a fool, you will commit
an egregious error. Every man has his weak point, they say, and
foppery is certainly a very great one; but there may be a many strong
points behind, and such was the case with this young knight. He was a
man of undoubted courage, notwithstanding all his care for his fine
person; by no means eager in quarrel, who could hear a jest, or a
taunt, or even a reproach, with great patience, provided it did not
become an insult; but then no one was more ready with his sword. The
man, in short, who wished to fight him, he was ever prepared to fight;
but he never showed any of that assassin-like love of mere fighting,
which has gained many a man, very unjustly, the reputation of great
courage. Not, however, to make him appear better than he really was, I
must say a few words more upon his character. Though he could think
deeply, and sometimes well, upon any subject placed before him, yet he
had no value whatever for the power of thought. His great fault was a
miscomprehension of what is precious and what is valueless in man; and
this affected his estimation of his own qualities as well as those of
others. Whether from a strange but not unusual philosophy, he thought
the trifles of every day life more important to man's happiness, from
their frequent occurrence, than the weighty things of the heart and
mind, or whether the mocking persiflage of the court in which he had
been brought up, had sunk, as it were, into his spirit, and made him
look upon all things equally as trifles, I cannot tell; but certainly
he would have prided himself more upon the cut of a doublet, which
would have secured a multitude of imitators, than upon the wisest
saying he could have uttered, or upon the profoundest reflections that
could have passed through his mind. But this philosophy, or whatever
it was, had its dangers and its evils. He looked upon morals with the
same distorted vision as upon all other matters; even laughed at
restraints which other men held sacred, and regarded every course of
conduct as perfectly indifferent, because all things were equally
empty and idle. To the punctilios of honour, as to the ceremonies of
religion, he submitted with a good grace, merely because it was not
worth while to contest them; and, if he did not injure a friend, or
betray a cause he had espoused, or violate his plighted word, it was
merely--I will not say by accident--by some slight impression received
in youth, which he would have scoffed at in his own mind, if any one
attempted to erect it into a principle. He seldom argued indeed, and
never combatted other men's opinions, because he thought it quite as
well that they should have them as not; and the only thing he thought
it worth while to reason upon for five minutes was the fashion of a
point, or a cloak, the design of a piece of embroidery, or the
composition of an essence. These matters indeed rose into some
importance with him; but the cause was, that he had talked himself
into a vanity upon the subject, and other men had given value to his
decisions by following them as law.

He thought then, while his companion was engaged in conversation; and
his mind rested naturally upon things which had just passed.

"How some men trouble themselves about vain fancies," he said to
himself. "Here is this good friend of mine would soon be in a flame of
jealousy, if he knew all; not considering how very foolish and unlike
a gentleman it is to be jealous at all. It is quite a gone-by mode, a
faded suit, since good King Edward's days, and is as bad as a pale
yellow doublet with a crimson cloak. Yet this man would wear it, and
make himself as ridiculous as a Turk, with fifty wives, and jealous of
them all. It would be amusing enough to see him, with all the
wonderful graces of such a condition, now writhing like a saltimbank,
yet grinning all the while to hide his pangs--then with a moody air
walking apart with crossed angry arms, and thundery brow, and now
affecting the gay and jocular, and dealing blows right and left, under
the colour of sportive playfulness, only waiting to cut some one's
throat, till he got the proof positive, which never comes. But I will
not do it. It is not worth the while. Trouble would grow out of it;
and nothing on earth is worth trouble but a dish of lampreys or a pair
of new-fashioned hosen.--They are coming on fast," he continued aloud,
looking from the walls. "On my life I believe it is the old pompous
lord coming at the full gallop as if he were following a falcon. Come,
Fulmer, come; let us down to the gates. Here is that most honourable
peer, Arnold Lord Calverly, with two or three score in company, riding
as fast as if King Richard were behind him. Pray Heaven the good
nobleman's horse stumble not, or what a squelch there will be."

Thus saying, he began to descend one of those little flights of steps,
which, in castles such as that of Chidlow, led from the battlements
into the courtyard. Fulmer followed with a quick step; but the words
of Sir Edward Hungerford had already planted doubts and apprehensions,
which were not easily to be removed.




CHAPTER XXII.


"It was discreet, my lord, it was discreet," said Lord Calverly, as he
walked up into the hall with Fulmer by his side; "and take my word for
it, that discretion is a quality which every man should prize in a
wife. She meant you no offence, depend upon it, but with maidenly
modesty retired till she had the sanction of her guardian's presence."

"I made no complaint, my dear lord," replied Fulmer, for the first
time aware that, in telling how soon Iola had left him, his tone had
displayed some mortification; "I merely said that, after a moment's
interview, the dear girl withdrew; and you may easily imagine that I
should have better liked her stay."

"Nay, nay, not so," answered the old peer. "That is a boyish fancy. We
should always prefer lengthened happiness to present pleasure. Now her
retiring was a sign of that frame of mind which will be your best
happiness hereafter, therefore you should have been well pleased."

Fulmer set his teeth tight together, bearing the lecture with
impatience, to which he did not choose to give utterance; but the next
moment the old lord continued, saying--

"Thanks for your diligence, my dear lord. I see the people are all in
a bustle of preparation. My noble friend Lord Chartley will be here
anon; for, good sooth, it gave me some trouble to outride him; and I
would not have him find anything in disarray; for his own household, I
am told, is the best ordered in England."

The words galled their auditor. He asked himself why it should be so;
and he had nothing to reply; for the movements of the human heart,
deep, subtle, and intricate, conceal themselves constantly more or
less, not only from the eyes of the outward world, but from the sight
of the mind, which is affected by their impulses. As the ship leaves
no permanent trace in the ever closing waters, as the arrow marks not
its path through the sky, so do feelings often pass through the human
heart, leaving no trace of the way by which they came and went.

Fulmer could not prevent a frown from gathering on his brow; but,
though marked by Sir Edward Hungerford, it passed unnoticed by old
Lord Calverly, whose coming somewhat earlier than had been expected
set the whole household of the castle in movement. Orders had to be
given; rooms to be assigned; new preparations to be ordered; old
preparations to be undone; servants, attendants, guests hurried here
and there; and a great deal of bustle, and not a little confusion,
prevailed, when, at length, Iola and Constance appeared in answer
to a summons from their uncle. The former was still very pale; and
the keen and marking eye of Fulmer detected--or he fancied that he
detected--the trace of tears upon her beautiful cheek.

All passed unnoticed by her self-occupied uncle. He had not seen her
for nearly two years, and he did not remark any change in her
appearance. She might have been pale before, for aught he knew; and
besides he was too busy to take any note of such trifling things as
paleness or tears. He saluted both his nieces, and welcomed them to
Chidlow in fewer words than was his wont; asked why their aunt, the
abbess, had not come with them at his summons; but waited for no
answer; and, committing them to the care of Lord Fulmer and Sir Edward
Hungerford, with some gentlemen, of inferior fortune and station who
had accompanied him from Leicester, he proceeded to reiterate orders
given twice before, and confuse his servants with manifold directions,
often somewhat contradictory.

Left in the hall with her cousin, and her uncle's guests, Iola felt
some relief in the numbers who were present. Fulmer would fain have
enacted the lover's part; nor was he indeed at all unfitted to do so;
for his heart was naturally warm and impetuous, and Iola's beauty and
grace might well have kindled the flame of love in a colder breast
than his own. Strange human nature, too, would have it, that the
doubts and apprehensions which had arisen in his mind should render
him only the mere eager to overcome anything like coldness upon her
part; and he strove, with soft speeches and low-toned words, to win
her ear to himself alone.

The result was not favourable. Iola listened calmly, coldly, and ever
replied aloud, in words which all the world might hear. She did so,
not upon any plan or system indeed, but from the feelings which were
busy in her own heart, and the impressions which his words produced.
She was contrasting them all the time with those of Chartley; and to
her mind, at least, the comparison was unfavourable. The frank gay
manner, the lively half-careless answer, the want of all study and
formality, the shining forth of a heart that, like a gay bird, seemed
made captive in spite of itself, which had all pleased, excited, won
her in Chartley, was not to be found in the conversation or demeanour
of Lord Fulmer. Between her and him there were but few subjects in
common; the only one, indeed, being that from which she shrunk away
with apprehension. He could but have recourse to the common places of
love and admiration; and they were not at all fitted to win her. It
was his misfortune indeed, and not his fault; but yet we often
aggravate our misfortunes by our faults; and so it was in some degree
with Fulmer. He had dreamed bright dreams of their meeting; and,
little knowing woman's heart, he had fancied that she would do the
same, that she would look forward with the same hopes to their union,
that her heart unwooed would spring to meet his; and he was
disappointed, mortified, somewhat irritated, to find that it was not
so.

Worse, in the end he showed such feelings in his manner, and by an
impatient look and tone, caused Iola to shrink from him still more
coldly.

It was just at that moment that old Lord Calverly returned, saying
aloud--

"Our other guests are coming. They are just at the castle gates. Now,
Constance," he continued, for his lordship would sometimes venture an
insipid joke, "now, Constance, if you would win a rich and noble
husband, put on your brightest smiles."

"Who may he be, my lord?" asked Constance, who as well as Iola was
ignorant of the names of the persons expected.

"Nay, nay, you will see," said Lord Calverly. "Did not his young
lordship tell you?"

"No, indeed!" answered Constance quietly; "but I can wait in patience,
my good lord. Time brings all things to light."

Through the open windows came the clattering sound of horses' feet
from the courtyard, and then of orders given and voices speaking.
There is something very strange in our memory of sounds. How long, how
clearly we remember, how definitely we can trace back those intangible
footprints of things that we have loved or dreaded, on the pathway of
the air. A tone which has once awakened strong emotions is never
forgotten. Iola's heart thrilled as she heard those sounds from the
court.

There was then a pause of a minute or two, during which no one spoke.
Then came steps upon the short wide staircase; and then the door
opened. Fulmer fixed his eyes upon Iola's face; but she remarked not
that he did so; for her own look was bent forward upon the door. He
saw a clear light rise up in her eyes, a soft warm glow spread itself
over her cheek and forehead, a bright but very transient smile,
extinguished as soon as lighted, beam upon her beautiful lips. The
next instant she was calm and pale again; and, turning his head, he
saw Chartley approaching.

The wound was given. His doubts, his apprehensions, his suspicions
were confirmed. Yet there was nothing tangible; nothing that could
justify him in saying a word, or acting in any way except as before.
But that was the greater torture; and now he resolved to watch for
some occasion to speak or do. In the mean time Chartley advanced
rapidly, followed by good Sir William Arden. He was somewhat changed
since Iola had seen him. He looked graver, sterner. His cheek had
grown pale too. There were care and thought written on his brow.

"He has suffered also," thought Iola; and her heart sunk more than
ever.

"Oh, would that I had told him all at once!" she said in her own
heart. "Yet how could I do it? Alas, that I should make him unhappy
too."

Chartley's manner however showed no agitation. He had been prepared by
his conversation with Lord Calverly to meet those whom he found there;
and, at once addressing the old nobleman, he said:

"I here redeem my parole, my good lord, and surrender myself to your
ward, according to the king's will, and to my word given this morning
when you left me."

Then turning to Iola, he took her hand with a frank but grave air, and
bent his head over it, saying, "dear lady, I rejoice to see you once
again, and trust that you have been well since the evening when we
met."

With a degree of haste, which was the only sign of emotion he showed,
he next saluted Constance, almost in the same words; but then, with a
kindly and sincere tone, inquired after her aunt, the abbess, trusting
that she had not suffered from the alarm and anxiety she must have
felt on the night when he last saw her. He listened too attentively to
Constance's reply; but he could not prevent his eyes from wandering
for a moment back to the face of Iola; and then, with a sort of start,
he turned away, looking round the circle, and exclaimed, "oh,
Hungerford, I did not expect to meet you here. When you left me at
Leicester, I thought you were bound for London, and believed you, even
now, plunged in a sea of green Genoa velvet."

"Nay, you forget," replied Sir Edward Hungerford; "summer is coming
on. No one could venture to wear velvet for the next eight months,
except a lord mayor or an alderman."

"Faith, I know not much of such matters," answered Chartley; "but that
is the most reasonable piece of tailorism I have heard, which gives us
warm clothing for our winter wear and lighter garments for our summer
use. However I thought you were in London."

"So had I been," answered the young knight; "but I was stopped by a
delicate epistle from my friend Lord Fulmer, here, containing an
invitation not to be refused."

"Let me make you acquainted, any good lords," said Lord Calverly,
advancing between the two young noblemen, and presenting them to each
other. Each bowed with a stiff and stately air; and Chartley paused
for a moment, as if to see whether Fulmer would speak or not; but,
finding him silent, he turned on his heel; and, seeing Sir William
Arden talking bluffly to Iola, he took his place by the side of
Constance, and once more spoke of the night of their meeting.

The entrance of the young nobleman and those who accompanied him had
caused one of those pauses which are very common in--I might say
peculiar to--English society. Amongst foreigners in general, a
stranger can enter, glide in amongst the other guests, speak with
those he knows, pass those who are strangers, and be introduced to
this person or to that, without interrupting the occupations or
amusements going on. If his rank be very high, or his character very
distinguished, a slight murmur, a hardly perceptible movement, and a
few seconds of observation, form all that is produced by his
appearance; but here such is not the case; and, unless the
conversation going forward be very entertaining indeed, or the
amusement in progress very exciting, a long silence follows the
introduction of any personage worthy of note, during which he is well
aware that every body is observing and commenting upon him. Such had
been in a great degree the case in the present instance. For the first
five minutes, nobody had spoken but Chartley, Iola, Constance, their
uncle, and Sir Edward Hungerford. But, at the end of that time, each
of the many guests resumed his conversation with his neighbour; and
Chartley had a better opportunity of saying a few words, which he did
not wish heard, to Constance, while the busy buzz of tongues prevailed
around.

"I am happy, dear lady," he said, as soon as he had made sure of the
moment, "to see you looking so well. I wish I could say the same of
your sweet cousin. She looks pale, anxious, and thoughtful."

He paused as if for an answer, but Constance merely replied, "she does
not look well indeed."

"I fear," continued Chartley, "that terrible night she passed in the
forest, with all the alarm that she must have felt, was too much for
her fair and delicate frame. I did my best, believe me, to comfort and
protect her; but my best was but little, and she must have suffered
much."

"I do not think that had any effect," replied Constance. "Her health
has ever been strong and unimpaired--" she stopped for an instant,
fearful of being led on to say more than she intended, and then added;
"but she certainly looks ill. She speaks, however, my lord, with great
gratitude of the kindness which you showed her, on that terrible
night, which I shall never think of without dread."

"Gratitude!" said Chartley, with a smile. "Kindness! Dear lady, she
must have formed a very unfavourable opinion of mankind, if she
thought there was any gentleman who would not do the same."

"But it may be done in very different ways, my noble lord," answered
Constance; "and she assured me that you treated her as if you had been
a brother."

Chartley murmured to himself in a low tone, "Would that I could have
felt as one!" The sounds were hardly articulate; but they caught the
ear of his companion, and the whole secret was revealed at once. She
cast down her eyes in painful thought, from which she was roused the
moment after by Chartley saying, almost in a whisper,

"Will you give her a message for me, dear lady? for I may never have
the opportunity of saying what I wish myself."

"What is it, my lord?" demanded Constance, timidly, with a glow of
agitation coming into her cheek.

"It is merely this," replied the young nobleman. "Tell her, that he
for whom she risked so much--I mean the bishop of Ely--is safe in
France. I have received intimation of the fact from a sure hand. Tell
her so, and add that, if the deepest gratitude and the sincerest
regard can compensate for what she underwent that night, she has
them."

"I will," replied Constance. "I will repeat your words exactly. There
can be no harm in that."

She laid some emphasis on the last words; and Chartley gazed in her
face as if to learn the interpretation thereof, "There can, indeed, be
no harm in that," he rejoined: "nor in telling her any thought of my
mind towards her."

Constance was about to reply; but, looking up, she saw the eyes of her
uncle fixed upon her, with a meaning smile upon his lip, as if he
thought she had already made a conquest of Lord Chartley. The
conversation between them then paused; and Lord Calverly, crossing to
where they stood, proposed to lead the young nobleman, who was partly
his guest, partly his prisoner, to the lodging which had been prepared
for him, his friend Sir William Arden, and their attendants. Chartley
followed in silence, and found everything done that it was possible to
do to render his residence at Chidlow pleasant.

The old lord was all courtesy and kindness. In his usual pompous tone,
he excused what he called the poverty of the furniture, though it was
in reality of a very splendid description. He declared the bed was not
half large enough, though it would have afforded room to turn in, to
at least six well-grown persons. The plumes of feathers too, at the
top of the posts, he declared were in a bad fashion, as well as the
hangings of the bed, and the tapestry of the bedroom somewhat faded.
The antechamber and the chamber adjoining were well enough, though
somewhat confined, he said; but he excused their narrowness, on
account of that part of the building being the most ancient of all,
the tower having been built by William the Bastard.

"Our Norman ancestors," he said, "thought more of defence than
convenience; but we have larger apartments in the main building, where
Lord Chartley will always be received as an honoured guest. And now,
my dear young lord," he continued, "though I grieve in some sort to be
made, as it were, your jailer, yet in some sort I rejoice; for I can
lighten your captivity, or, to call it by a better name, your
wardship. I would fain have it as mild as may be, and, though I am
responsible to the king for your person, yet I would only secure you
by bolts and bars of words, and fetters of air. Give me your promise,
as knight and nobleman, as you did this morning, that you will make no
attempt to escape, and then roam whithersoever you will. I will set no
spies upon you. You have then only to fancy yourself a guest in my
poor mansion, and all the pangs of imprisonment are gone."

"A thousand thanks, my noble friend," replied Chartley. "My promise I
freely give; but it were better for both you and me that your
forbearance and my engagement should have a limit. Let it be from
month to month. Thus, the first of every month I present myself as
your prisoner, and then you can renew your kind permission if you
please, or not."

"Agreed, agreed," cried Lord Calverly. "It is a marvellous good
arrangement. The rooms of your friend, Sir William Arden, an
exceedingly good and valiant knight, though somewhat more familiar
with the battle field than with bower or hall, are immediately above
you; the rooms of your own attendants below. The truckle beds in the
antechamber are somewhat small, but will serve two of the knaves well
enough. And now I leave you, with a warning that our repast will be
upon the board within the hour.--Ha, here comes Sir William Arden
across the court, conducted by my cousin John. I will tell him of our
supper hour as we pass; but he does not spend much time on his
apparel, I should think."

"Good faith, he is well apparelled in his own high qualities," replied
Chartley, "however he be dressed. The wool of a sheep and the entrails
of a silkworm make but a poor addition in my eyes to a man's own
worth--but," he added, not willing that his bluff friend should be
undervalued, even by one who esteemed wealth as a high quality, "the
plainness of Arden's apparel is from choice and not necessity.
Doubtless, you know, my lord, that in worldly wealth he is as well
furnished as in qualities of heart."

"Nay, nay, I did not know it," said Lord Calverly, with a look of much
interest. "I thought he was but one of the knights of your household."

"My mother's first cousin," replied Chartley, "which is the cause of
his attachment to myself."

"Nay, nay, your own high merits," said Lord Calverly, with a sliding
bow, and took his leave.

In a few minutes more, Sir William Arden entered Chartley's room, with
a gay air.

"Well, boy," he exclaimed, "here you are a prisoner. Think yourself
happy that you have not been gored by the boar's tusks. Good faith, he
wounds deep where he strikes. That old fool, our host, has stopped me
for five minutes in the court, with a panegyric on your merits, and
looked much surprized when I told him the plain truth, to wit, that
you are a foolish mad-headed boy, who will need fifty such hard
lessons as you have received, before you get some grains of common
sense beaten into you."

Arden threw himself on a seat in the window, as he spoke, and gazed
out, little attending to Chartley's answer, which consisted but of
some words of course. He remained silent, even for a minute or two
after; but then, turning sharply round, he said--

"Tell me, Chartley, what has happened to that sweet girl, Iola? She
that was bright is dull; she, who was gay, is sad; she, whose cheek
was like the rose, is now like a lily bending amongst its green
leaves, bowed down with drops of dew."

"Nay, I know not," answered Chartley, leaning his head upon his hand,
and bending his eyes upon the table.

"Then, what's the matter with you, my lord?" rejoined Sir William
Arden; "for yours is the same case as hers. You are sad where you were
gay; you are stupid where you were sharp; you look like a pipped hen
instead of a rosy bumpkin."

"Methinks my present situation were enough to account for all this,"
replied Chartley.

"Come, come. That will not do, my lord," answered his friend. "I have
seen you in much worse plight, when we were taken by the brown fellows
at Tripoli, and you were then as gay as a lark. Better you should have
some one to consult with. Tell me in a word, then. Were you making
love to this dear little lady, when you were out with her the whole
night in the forest? It was a great temptation, truly. I was half
inclined at supper to make an old fool of myself, and say sweet things
to pretty Constance, just to console her for the empty babbling of Ned
Hungerford."

Chartley still leaned his arm upon the table, and remained in thought.
It was not a usual mood with him; for, generally, the first emotions
of his heart soonest found utterance; but new passions will produce
new conduct. For the first time in his life, he felt inclined to be
angry at his acts being inquired into, even by a friend, for the
purposes of friendship. But he felt that it was foolish and wrong;
and, being a very imperfect creature, after a brief struggle, he went
into quite the opposite extreme.

"You are too sharp a questioner, Arden," he said, with a laugh, which
had somewhat of his old gaiety in it; "but I'll answer your question
manfully. I do not think the name of love ever passed my lips during
that whole night."

"Ay, ay," cried the bluff knight; "but talking of love is not making
it."

"Perhaps not," answered Chartley; "but, if I did make it, it was
without intention. One thing, however, I feel too well, that, if I did
not make love, I learned to love; and that is much worse. But it were
worse still, Arden, should I have taught her to love too."

"Why so?" asked Sir William Arden, with a start.

"And yet I cannot think it," said Chartley, pursuing his own course of
thought. "No, no, God forbid! This paleness, this sadness, may have a
thousand other causes."

"But how now? What's the matter?" asked Arden, again. "Why should you
wish yourself unloved? Remember, young man, when once put on, you
cannot strip off love like a soiled jerkin. The honest man and true
seeks no love that he cannot wear for ever--at least, till the garment
drops off of itself."

"You do not know. You do not understand," said Chartley, impatiently.
"The lady is contracted, I tell you, to this Lord Fulmer--ay,
contracted in infancy, by every tie but the mere last ceremony of the
church."

"And did she not tell you?" demanded Arden. "That was wrong, very
wrong."

"'Tis you who are wrong," replied Chartley. "Why should she tell me?
How should she tell me, when I never spoke to her of love? What my
manner said, I know not; but there was not one word uttered by me
which could give her a plea for relating to me all her private
history. I thought I should have plenty of opportunity of speaking
boldly, at an after time; and, alarmed and agitated as she was, I
would not for the world have said or done aught that could add to what
she felt. Since then, I have learned that she was contracted, when a
child, to this Lord Fulmer; but that, educated as he has been at the
court of Burgundy, they have never met from infancy till now."

"Damnation!" cried Sir William Arden, striding up and down the room.
"This is the most unpleasant thing I ever had to deal with! And you
forced to live in the same house with him too. In fortune's name, what
will you do, my dear boy?"

"As best I may," answered Chartley. "Perhaps 'twere as well, Arden, to
resume the appearance, at least, of all my old light spirits. At the
worst, she will then but tax me with levity; and, if the feelings she
has taught me have been at all learned by herself, she will soon be
brought to believe that I am unworthy, because careless, of her
affections, and feel the less regret at the sacrifice she must make."

"Don't resume, or assume anything, my dear lord," answered Sir William
Arden. "Be what you are, seem what you are at all times. Confound me
all men that walk in vizards! The best result always comes of the most
straightforward course. But I will go and change these travel-soiled
garments, and think of it all while I am getting the dust out of my
eyes.--By the Lord that lives," he continued, looking out at the
window, "there comes the abbess of St. Clare into the court, with
Heaven knows how many more people. The castle will be too full, and I
shall have to share my room with her. Well, thank Heaven for all
things. She is a merry little fat soul, and will help us to laugh care
away."

Thus saying, he turned and left his friend, who was not ill-satisfied,
on the whole, at having been forced into making a confidant of one, on
whose honour, integrity, and good sense he could firmly rely.




CHAPTER XXIII.


There was a man walking in the woods, with a slight limp in his gait.
He was coarsely but comfortably dressed, and had something very like a
Cretan cap upon his head. His face was a merry face, well preserved in
wine or some other strong liquor; and, from the leathern belt, which
girt his brown coat close round his waist, stuck out, on the one side
a long knife, and on the other the chanter of a bagpipe. The bag,
alas, was gone.

He looked up at the blue clear sky. He looked up at the green leaves,
just peering from the branches over his head; and, as he went, he
sang; for his pipes had been spoiled by Catesby's soldiery, and his
own throat was the only instrument of music left him.


SONG.

     Oh, merry spring, merry spring!
     With sunshine on thy back, and dew upon thy wing,
           Sweetest bird of all the year,
           How I love to see thee here,
           And thy choristers to hear,
                   As they sing.

     Oh happy time, happy time!
     When buds of hawthorn burst, and honeysuckles climb,
           And the maidens of the May,
           Hear the sweet bells as they play,
           And make out what they say
                   In their chime.

     Oh jolly hours, jolly hours!
     Of young and happy hearts, in gay and pleasant bowers,
           Could I my spring recall,
           I'd be merrier than all;
           But my year is in the fall
                   Of the flowers.

     Still, I feel there comes a day
     Far brighter, than e'er shone upon this round of clay,
           When life with swallow's wing
           Shall find another spring,
           And my spirit yet shall sing,
                   In the ray.


Thus sang Sam the piper, as, with his rolling gait, but at a good
pace, he walked on from the high road, running between Atherston and
Hinckley, down the narrower walk of the forest, which led, past the
cottage of the woodman, to the bank of the stream. His was a merry
heart, which sought and found happiness wherever it could be met with,
and bore misfortune or adversity as lightly as any heart that ever was
created. Oh, blessed thing, that cheerfulness of disposition, which
makes its own sunshine in this wintry world--blessed whencesoever it
comes, but most blessed when it springs from a fountain of conscious
rectitude, a calm unspotted memory, and a bright high hope!

I cannot say that this was exactly the case with our good friend Sam;
but he had a wonderful faculty, notwithstanding, of forgetting past
pains and shutting his eyes to coming dangers. His wants were so few,
that he could entertain but small fear of their not being satisfied;
and, though his desires were somewhat more extensive, yet the rims of
a trencher and a pottle pot were sufficient to contain them.
Apprehensions, he entertained none; cares he had long before cast to
the winds; and by circumscribing his pleasures and his necessities,
within the smallest possible limits, it was wonderful how easily he
walked under the only pack he had to carry through the world. Other
men's sorrows and misfortunes, the strife of nations, intestine wars,
portents, or phenomena, acts of violence and crime, I may say,
afforded him amusement, without at all impugning poor Sam's kindness
of heart or goodness of disposition; for all I mean to say is, that
they gave him something to gossip about. Now gossiping and singing
were Sam's only amusements, since a brutal soldier had cut his bag in
twain. Drinking was with him a necessary evil, which he got over as
soon as possible, whenever he had the means.

He was now on his way from Hinckley, to disgorge upon the abbey
miller, who lived near the bridge, all the budget of news he had
collected at that little town, and other places during the last
fortnight or three weeks. He would willingly have bestowed a part of
the stock upon Boyd the woodman; but he did not venture even to think
of doing so, inasmuch as Boyd had always affected to be as great an
enemy to gossip as the miller was a friend.

The summer sunshine, however, coming a month or two before its time,
had lured Boyd to his door; and there he sat, with a large strong
knife in his hand, and sundry long poles of yew and other wood,
fashioning arrows with the greatest possible skill. It was wonderful
to behold how straight, and round, and even, he cut them without
compass or rule, or any other implement but the knife. Then too, how
neatly he adjusted the feathers to the shaft, from a bundle of grey
goose quills that lay on his left hand. Heads indeed were wanting; but
Boyd thought to himself, "I will bring six or eight score from
Tamworth when next I go. At all events it is well to be prepared."

As he thus thought, the step of the piper, coming down the road, met
his ear, and he looked up; but Sam would have passed him by with a
mere "good morning," for he stood in some awe of Master Boyd, had not
the woodman himself addressed him, in a tone that might be called
almost kindly, saying:

"Well, Sam. How goes the world with you? You have got a new coat and
hosen, I see."

"Ay, thanks to the young lord's gold pieces," answered Sam. "He paid
well and honestly; and I took a mighty resolution, and spent it on my
back rather than on my belly."

"Ay, some grace left!" exclaimed Boyd. "But what has happened to thy
pipes, man? They used always to be under thine elbow, and not stuck
into thy belt."

"Those rascal troopers slit my bag," answered the piper; "and I shall
have to travel through three counties ere I get another. I lost a
silver groat, I am sure, by the want of it this very morning; for
there was a bright company at Hinckley, and some of them speaking the
Scottish tongue. Now every Scot loves the bagpipe."

"But not such pipes as yours," answered Boyd. "Theirs are of a
different make. But who were these people, did you hear?"

"Nay, I asked no names," replied Sam; "for Scots do not like to be
questioned. But there was a fair lady with them--very fair and very
beautiful still, though the spring tide of her life had gone by--and
the people called her Highness."

The woodman mused, and then inquired: "Were they all Scottish people?"

"Nay, some were English," answered Sam, "gallants of the king's court,
I judge, and speaking as good English as you or I do. But there were
Scottish persons of quality too, besides the lady who was so, I am
sure--for what English princess should she be?"

"And were they all so gaily dressed then?" asked Boyd, in the same
musing tone.

"Some were, and some were not," replied the piper; "but the lady
herself was plainest of them all, more like a nun than a princess. But
you can see them with your own eyes if you like; for they will pass by
in half an hour, if they keep to the time at which they said they
would set out. They are going to offer at St. Clare; and you may plant
yourself at the gate, or under a tree by the roadside, and they will
all pass you like a show."

"I will," replied the woodman; and, rising from his seat, he put his
hat, which had been lying beside him, on his head, and was striding
away, when suddenly, seeming to recollect himself, he turned back,
saying to the piper, "I dare say thou art thirsty and hungry too, Sam.
Come in with me, and thou shalt have a draught of ale, and a hunch of
ewe-milk cheese."

It was an invitation not to be refused by the piper, to whom meat and
drink rarely came amiss. He accordingly followed, and received what
was proffered gratefully. The woodman waited not to hear his thanks,
but, having seen him drink a moderate quart of ale, sent him away with
well nigh half a loaf of brown bread and a lump of cheese as large as
his two fists. Then, leaving his huge dog to watch the house, he,
himself, took his departure, and walked with a rapid pace to the road
which the piper had mentioned. There he stationed himself under the
very tree by which he had been standing on a night eventful to him,
when he had slain one of the king's couriers or posts. One would have
thought the memory must have been painful; but it seemed to affect him
not in the least. He stood and gazed upon the very spot where the man
had fallen; and, had there not been rain since then, the blood would
have been still upon the stones; but, if there was any change in his
countenance at all, it was merely that his brow somewhat relaxed, and
a faint smile came upon his lip. "It was the hand of justice," he said
to himself. "Yet 'tis strange there has been no inquiry. I went in and
touched the body; but it did not bleed. The inanimate corpse
recognised the hand of the avenger, and refused to accuse."[4]


---------------

[Footnote 4: He referred, of course, to the superstitious notion
prevalent not alone at that time but for long afterwards, that if the
body of a murdered man was touched by the hand of his assassin, the
wound of which he died would bleed. I may remark that such
superstitions were recognised even in Scottish courts of justice long
after they were extinct in England.]

---------------


He waited for some time, every now and then looking up the road, and
sometimes bending his head to listen. At length he caught the sound of
horses' feet coming at a slow pace, and making but little noise; for,
as I have said elsewhere, the road was sandy. He then looked up the
hill, and saw, coming slowly down, in no very regular order, a party
of from twenty to five and twenty persons, male and female. Without
waiting for anything but the first casual glance, he withdrew a little
further from the road, amongst the high bushes which skirted the
forest all round, intermingled with a few taller trees. There, where
he could see without being seen, he paused, and crossed his arms upon
his chest, looking intently through an aperture in the young green
leaves, which afforded a good view of a considerable part of the road.
At the end of some three or four minutes after he had taken his
station, the cavalcade began to appear. It was headed by a lady on a
fine grey horse, which she managed well and gracefully. The
description given of her appearance by the wandering musician was
quite correct, so far as it went. She was very beautiful, and her
skin, most delicately fair and soft, without a wrinkle. Her hair,
braided across the forehead, in a mode not usual in England, seemed
once to have been nut brown, but was now somewhat streaked with grey.
Her figure too was exceedingly fine, though not above the middle
height; but it had lost the great delicacy of youth, and assumed the
beauties of a more mature age. Her dress was exceedingly plain,
consisting of a grey riding-gown, cape, and hood, which had fallen
back upon her shoulders; but there was an air of graceful dignity in
her whole figure which was not to be mistaken. The expression of her
countenance was dignified also; but it was exceedingly grave--grave
even to melancholy.

A number of much gayer-looking personages succeeded, and some of their
dresses were exceedingly beautiful and even splendid; but the eye of
the woodman--as that of most other people would have done--fixed upon
that lady alone, was never removed from her for an instant, and
followed her down the road till the trees shut her from his sight.
Then, after pausing for a moment or two, with his gaze firmly fixed
upon the ground, he cast himself down in the long grass, and buried
his face in his hands.




CHAPTER XXIV.


The hall was as light as day; for Lord Calverly was fond of a glare.
The feast was as delicate as he could have desired, and even the
critical taste of Sir Edward Hungerford found nothing to criticise.
The arrangement of the guests, however, was not altogether that which
best suited their several inclinations. There were many, with whom we
have little or nothing to do, who might, or might not, be placed as
they would have placed themselves; but, certainly, with regard to Iola
and Chartley, such was not the case; for she was seated between her
uncle and Lord Fulmer, while Chartley was at some distance from her,
on the opposite side of the table. Let the mind say what it would, the
heart told her she would rather have had him near. Her ear thirsted
for the tones of his voice, and her eye wandered for a moment, from
time to time, to his face, with a glance withdrawn as soon as given,
but with an impulse she could not controul. She was very young, and
very inexperienced, and some excuse must be made for her. She wished
to do all that was right, to avoid all that was wrong; but the heart
was rebellious, and would have its own way.

Constance, too, could have wished something changed in her position.
Sir William Arden, it is true, had contrived to place himself on her
left; and with that part of the arrangement she was very well
satisfied; but Sir Edward Hungerford occupied the other side, and
there was hardly any one in all the hall whom she would not have
preferred.

"Be merry, be merry, my friends," said excellent Lord Calverly, who
perceived that, for some reason or another, his guests were not as
cheerful as they might have been. "Let us all be gay; for in these
troublous times, when one sits down to the merry evening meal, with
friendly faces round us, it is never possible to tell when we shall
all meet again."

"By St. Paul, that's a topic well calculated to promote hilarity!"
said Sir William Arden in a low voice to Constance; "and, to say
truth, dear lady, the castle hall does not seem to me so gay a place
as the abbey refectory."

"I begin to think," said Constance, "that the calm shade of the
cloister may, upon the whole, contain more cheerfulness than the
laughter-loving world."

"Pooh! We must not let you think so," said Sir William Arden. "Cannot
Sir Edward Hungerford persuade you of the contrary? He has been
trying, I think."

He spoke in a whisper, and his words produced a slight smile, but no
blush, upon Constance's face, and her only reply was:

"Hush, hush!"

"Nay, then, if he can't succeed, I must try," continued Sir William;
"though, to say truth, it would be somewhat like an old suit of armour
dancing a quick step. But why should you not be happy in the world, as
well as your fair cousin?"

"Is she happy?" asked Constance, with a sigh.

"Ay, that is a question, in regard to which I have some doubt,"
answered the good knight; "but, no more at present; the popinjay is
turning round. Now, I'll warrant, he has discussed the whole question
of the superiority of cendel over laid silk, with that pretty little
thing on his right, who seems to have as many ideas as he has; and, I
will answer for it, half an hour's talk would make them both bankrupt,
so that they have stopped payment for lack of coin."

"It is marvellous hot to-night, sweet lady Constance," said Sir Edward
turning towards her. "My cheek burns, till I am sure I must be rosy as
a country justice's serving-man."

"Better that than white and yellow, like a lump of tallow," replied
Sir William Arden, across her. "These people, with their delicate
complexions, drive me mad, as if they thought a man, to be a courtier,
should look like a whey-faced girl, just emptied from the nursery. And
then they must blush too, and find the air oppressive; but there is
one way of banishing the red rose from your cheek. Faint, Hungerford,
faint outright! Then you'll be as pale as usual."

"Did'st thou ever hear, fair lady, such a blustering old son of Mars
as this?" demanded Sir Edward Hungerford. "He thinks no one can fight
but himself, unless he be full of big oaths, with a face like ebony,
and a skin like a rhinoceros."

"Nay, I know thou can'st fight, Hungerford, like a man," answered Sir
William Arden. "More shame for thee to talk like a woman, and dress
like a mountebank. If thou didst take as much care of thy pretty
person in the field, as thou dost in the hall, thou wouldst be a worse
soldier than thou art."

"Gallantly said!" replied the other knight; and, turning again to
Constance, he continued the conversation with her, saying: "He is not
bad at main, this worthy man. Though, to hear him talk, we might
suppose him one of the devils; but it is all talk, dear lady. He is at
heart as gentle as a lamb, except when he is in the field; and then,
of course, he fights for company; but, polish is impossible with him.
His mother forgot to lick him when he was young, I suppose; and so we
have the bear in his native state."

Sir William Arden laughed, though he was the object of the sarcasm;
and, looking round at Constance, he said:

"It is all quite true, lady, as true as what I said of him. We are
famous for drawing each other's characters. So now, you have heard us
described each by the other, say which you like best."

"Good, mighty good!" exclaimed Hungerford. "That is an offer of his
hand and heart."

"Well, so be it," answered Sir William Arden, with a laugh. "That is
something solid at all events. He can offer nothing but a shadow in a
slashed doublet, a mere voice and a walking suit of clothes. Echo is
nothing to him, in respect of thinness; and I should fear his
undergoing Narcissus' fate, but that he loves himself better than even
Narcissus, and would not part with his own pretty person for anything
else whatsoever, be it substance or shadow. He will never pine himself
either into a flower or a water-course, as those young gentlemen and
ladies did in days of old."

"I should be a great fool if I did," replied Hungerford; "but if you
were to begin to melt, Arden, all the world would thaw; for it is
difficult to say whether your head or your heart is the hardest."

"Why, gentlemen, you are using very bitter words," said the pretty
lady, on the other side of Sir Edward Hungerford. "Really I must
appeal to my good Lord Calverly."

"Nay, rather let me appeal to you," said Hungerford, in a tender tone;
and thenceforth he continued to talk with her till the supper was
over, which was all she wanted.

"That shaft is shot," said Arden, resuming the conversation with
Constance, but speaking in a lower tone than before. "You asked but
now, 'Is she happy?' and, good faith, she does not look like it. Her
lips have hardly moved since we sat down to the board; but methinks
that question might be put of every one round. It is not the gay
smile, or the cheerful laugh, that shows a happy heart within; and I
doubt much, if you could see into every bosom along these two ranks of
human things, whether you would not find some hidden care, or some
sorrow that flies the light."

"That is to say," replied Constance, "that every one who mingles with
the world finds unhappiness in it; a fine argument to keep me out of a
convent, truly. Either your gallantry or your wit halts, Sir William;
for, to my knowledge, there is many a happy heart beats in the
cloister."

"Are there no masks there?" asked the stout knight. "If not, there are
veils, fair Constance; and, take my word for it, sooner or later,
there come regrets and repinings, longings to see the world that has
been renounced, and pluck some of the fruit of the pleasant tree of
knowledge, that bitter sweet, the pleasant berries of which tempt the
eye from afar, although there is now no serpent hid amongst the
foliage."

"But look at my good aunt, the abbess," answered the young lady. "She
has none of these regrets and repinings that you mention. She is
always merry, cheerful, contented."

"Ay, but hers is a case by itself," answered Arden. "She can get out
when she likes; and a good creature she is. Her life is as easy as a
widow's. No, no. Take my advice, and think not of a convent."

"Why, what would you have me do in the wide world?" asked Constance,
half gaily, half sadly.

"Why, marry to be sure," replied the good knight, "and have a score of
cherub babes, to cheer you with their pleasant faces. Let me tell you,
it is like having heaven round your knees, and you are not a whit the
less likely in the end to reach the heaven overhead."

"But suppose no one would have me," answered Constance, with a smile.

"Try all the young fellows first, and then try me," answered Sir
William, bluffly, but with a light laugh at the same time, which
softened the point of his words; and Constance answered--

"No, no. A woman can try no one. I must be wooed and won."

"On my life, if I thought you could," murmured Arden to himself, "I
think I would try;" but the words did not reach Constance's ear; and,
after a short pause of thought, the old knight said abruptly, "I don't
like your fair cousin's looks."

"And yet they are fair looks too," answered Constance.

"Ay, so are my cousin Chartley's," said the knight; "but I don't like
his looks either."

"They are gay enough, surely," replied Constance. "See, he is laughing
even now."

"Did you ever see a will-o'-the-wisp?" asked Sir William.

"Yes," said Constance. "What of that?"

"They flit over deep morasses and dangerous spots," answered the
knight. "Don't you let Chartley's laugh mislead you. See how he holds
his head in the air, with his nostril spread, and his lip curling. Be
sure, when he laughs with such a look as that, there is something very
bitter at his heart."

"But they say he is half a prisoner here," rejoined Constance. "That
is enough to make him sad."

"Would that were all," replied Arden; "but let us talk no more of him.
It is your fair cousin I am thinking of. When she sat opposite to me
at the abbey, a week or two ago, her eyes were like stars that
glistened up instead of down. Her brow was smooth and clear. Her lip
played in smiles with every thought. I would fain know what it is has
clouded that ivory brow, what it is weighs down that rosy arch, and
sinks the sweeping eye-lashes to her cheek."

"I cannot tell," answered Constance, with a little mental reservation;
"but I suppose great changes coming, when they are foreseen, will make
the heart somewhat pensive."

"Pensive, but not sorrowful," answered Arden. "Well, well," he added,
"I see your uncle moving in his seat, as if we should not be long side
by side. Let me see--when you were a little smiling child, just
toddling about your nurse's knee, I was in arms, dealing hard blows in
more than one stricken field. There is a mighty difference between our
ages, some four and twenty years perhaps--Nay, do not be afraid. I am
not going to ask you--but, methinks, a young thing like you may place
some confidence in a man old enough to be your father; and all I can
say is if you, or your fair cousin, need counsel of a head that has
had some experience, or help from an arm none of the weakest, you may
rely upon a heart which has been ever believed true to friend and foe,
to man or woman. There, my dear child, I have said my say. It is for
you to act upon it, as you think fit."

Sunk almost to a whisper with much emotion, the voice of Constance
answered--

"I thank you deeply;" and the next moment, according to a bad custom,
even then prevalent, the ladies of the party rose, and left the
gentlemen to pursue their revel unchecked.

We must go back a little, however; for during the meal we have
followed only one little group at that long table. What was the
conduct, what were the thoughts of Lord Fulmer, while all this was
passing? He sat beside Iola in anguish, the anguish of doubt and
jealousy; and, conscious that his mood was not fitted to win or
please, he struggled with it sorely. He determined to use every
effort, both to conquer himself, and to gain her love; but it is
difficult to conquer an enemy without when there is an enemy within;
and the very effort embarrassed him. If he sat silent for a minute or
two, he was revolving what he should say. When he did speak, it was
not the tone or the words of the heart which came forth; the whole was
studied; the effort was too evident. He felt it, yet could not help
it; and Iola's reply did not generally aid or encourage him. It was
courteous but cold, civil but not kind--very brief too; and the moment
it was uttered, she fell into thought again. It was clear there was a
struggle in her mind, as well as his, and the only difference was,
that she did not strive to conceal it. He was angry with her and with
himself; with her, because she did not put on at least the semblance
of regard she did not feel; with himself, because he knew that his own
want of self-command was every moment betraying the interests of a
passion which was growing upon him more and more, even under doubt and
disappointment. Still he struggled, still he strove to please, or, at
least, to amuse; but it was in vain. His words were cold and formal,
and Iola was grave, absent, thoughtful, so that no conversation lasted
more than a minute. At length he gave it up. He struggled no more. He
yielded to the feelings within; but they impelled him in a very
different course from that of Iola. She saw, heard, marked, very
little of what passed at the table. Buried in her own thoughts, she
only roused herself from time to time, to reply to her uncle, who sat
at her side, or to answer the abbess, who was placed opposite, or to
give a momentary timid look towards the face of Chartley.

Fulmer, on the contrary, was full of eager observation, quickened by
the passions in his heart. "I will know all," he thought. "I will
force Hungerford to tell me all--ay, this very night. I cannot live in
this torture any longer? and if I find it as I think, that man shall
answer me with his heart's best blood. What right had he to win the
affections of my contracted wife. He must have known that she was so.
Every one knew it; but I will be satisfied. Hungerford shall explain
his words before he lays his head upon his pillow."

He could not be content to wait for that explanation, however; and, as
I have said, he watched, in order to ascertain, as far as possible,
how far the evil, which he suspected, had gone. Three times he saw the
eyes of Iola raised for an instant to Chartley's face, and then as
speedily withdrawn. Oh, what would he have given, in some mysterious
glass, to have seen a picture of the emotions which were passing in
her breast. The first time she looked at him, her colour was
heightened the moment she withdrew her eyes. He could not tell why,
and he puzzled himself to divine the cause. Was it that Chartley was
talking with another, and that his tone was gay? Or was it that she
found the eyes of the abbess upon her, and, blushed from
consciousness. The second time she looked that way, a slight passing
smile followed--the mere shadow of a smile. Was it that Chartley,
fallen into a fit of absence, committed some strange error, which made
those around him laugh. The next glance she gave left her in deeper
thought than ever; and to him her eyes seemed to swim in bright dew;
but she dropped the deep veil of long silken lashes over the
glistening drop, and it was hidden.

In the mean time, what marked he in Chartley's conduct? It was the
same in some respects as Iola's, but different in others. He often
looked to the spot where she was seated; but it was in a calmer,
firmer, less timid manner. Once or twice his gaze was earnest, intent,
full of deep thought. There was no levity in it, none of the
confidence of knowing that he was loved. It was a look of almost
painful interest, deep, tender, grave; and once he fixed his eyes upon
Fulmer himself, and gazed at him long, notwithstanding an angry
expression which came upon the young lord's face. Busied altogether
with what was passing in his own mind, Chartley saw not that irritable
look, never fancied that it was called up by his own. He scanned every
feature of his face, as if he were scrutinizing some inanimate object
which could not perceive or comprehend the examination it was
undergoing. And yet that gaze almost drove Fulmer mad; and even the
way in which it was withdrawn, the fit of thought which succeeded, and
then the start, and the resumption of conversation with those around,
all irritated the young man more.

Fortunately, some time elapsed before the gentlemen there present were
left without the restraint of ladies' presence; for Fulmer had time to
recover himself; and, though still highly irritated, to recollect what
was due to Iola, to himself, and to his entertainer. He resolved
to bridle his passion, and to guide it; and, could he have kept
the resolutions which he formed--he did not, as the reader will
see--though not altogether good ones, they were much better than the
wild impulses of passion.

"There must be no quarrel _about her_," he thought. "I must not mingle
her name is our enmity--I have no right to do that. 'Tis easy to
provoke him upon some other subject; nor will I too hastily do that,
for the good old lord's sake. I will irritate him by degrees, till the
actual offence comes from him; and then to justify myself with my
sword is a right. I can do it with all courtesy too, and I will."

If man's resolutions are generally rendered vain and fruitless, by the
force of circumstances, when they affect things over which he has no
control, it is sad to think that they should be so often rendered
ineffectual, by passions, when they refer only to his own conduct,
over which he should have the mastery. So, however, it is
often--almost always--I had well nigh said, ever. It was not otherwise
with Fulmer. His resolutions passed away, under the heat of his
temper, like the shadowy clouds of morning. Ere five minutes were
over, he was in full career to irritate, if not to insult, Chartley.
His resolutions to be courteous, to be moderate, were forgotten, and
his tone was very offensive.

But the calm indifference of manner on Chartley's part, while it
provoked him, frustrated his purpose. His rival, for as such he now
fully looked upon him, heard any words he addressed to him calmly,
replied to them briefly, and then seemed to withdraw his thoughts from
him altogether. It was impossible to engage him in any irritating
conversation, his answers were so short, so tranquil, so conclusive;
and Fulmer, driven at length to seek more plain and open means of
offence, began to touch upon the cause of Chartley's having fallen
under the king's displeasure, thinking that thus, at least, he should
draw him forth from his reserve. But here old Lord Calverly at once
interposed.

"Nay, nay, my noble friend," he said. "These are subjects that are
never spoken of, except when they are matters of mere business; but
methinks it is time to seek repose. My noble Lord Chartley, I will
once more conduct you to your lodging. After to-night, you will be
able, methinks, to find your way yourself;" and he at once rose from
the table.




CHAPTER XXV.


Each of the guests retired to his chamber; but, for some little time,
there was a considerable degree of bustle and movement in the castle,
pages and servants hurrying to and fro in attendance upon their
masters, and serving men clearing away the dishes from the hall, while
scullions scraped the trenchers, and the pantry-men cleaned out the
cups. Such operations however were not long in the performance; and
gradually the whole building resumed its quiet. A light might be seen
in a window here and there; and a lamp, which burned all night long in
the high tower, served as a sort of beacon to any traveller wandering
in the darkness, showing him afar where Chidlow castle stood. The
battlements all around were dark and solitary; for there were very
strict laws at that time in force, against collecting what might be
considered a garrison, in the fortified houses of the nobility, or
maintaining, except in a few special cases, watch and ward within the
old baronial castles. The policy of Richard, indeed, seems to have
been somewhat similar to that which was pursued in France, nearly two
centuries later, by the famous Cardinal de Richelieu; and he evidently
aimed at breaking down the feudal power, which had often rendered the
great barons such formidable enemies of the crown. He lived not long
enough, indeed, to carry out his object, or to enforce his laws; but
still the proclamation was in force against giving badges and liveries
to retainers, or, in other words, against maintaining a regular armed
force, arrayed and organised under certain symbols, and independent of
the crown. This law, it is true, was openly violated by many. Every
great house in the land was filled with armed men; badges were
retained, and displayed, in various instances; and many a castle was
as strictly guarded as if it had been a royal fortress. But all who
sought favour or courtly advancement were scrupulous to observe the
king's will; and, as Lord Calverly was one of these, all outward signs
of military precaution had been given up. The chief cannonier had
become the master porter; and the warders were now called porter's
men. The great gates, however, were still closed, bolted, and locked,
the drawbridge raised, and the portcullis let down at the hour of ten;
and the posterns were shut an hour earlier; but, in every other
respect, defensive measures, and, above all, military display, were
abandoned, and an appearance of security was assumed, which, in truth,
no one felt in England during the short reign of Richard III.

All then was tranquil and quiet in Chidlow castle by half an hour
before midnight; and, although it was evident that some were still
watchers within its walls and towers, yet the greater part of the
guests were sound asleep, and almost all the others preparing for
repose.

At about a quarter to twelve, however, Lord Fulmer, with a lamp in his
hand, issued forth from his sleeping-chamber, and walked along the
exceedingly narrow passage into which it opened. Our ancestors of that
age, and of the ages before them, were not very careful to provide
broad corridors or staircases for their guests. The greater and the
lesser halls, the gallery, if a castle had one, several nameless
chambers--which were frequently to be found in what poetically would
be called the lady's bower, but which about that time was more
generally denominated the lady's lodging--and, in short, all rooms of
state were spacious and magnificent enough; but many of the bed-rooms
were exceedingly small; and, where they were on a larger scale, for
the reception of more distinguished guests, the neighbouring passages
were curtailed in proportion.

Along this passage then walked the young nobleman, with a slow and
thoughtful step. He had had time for meditation, and passion had
somewhat cooled down. His irritation had taken a more gloomy and stern
character, but it was not the less persisting. "I will know all," he
thought, "and then judge and act."

Turning sharply to the right, at the end of the first ten or fifteen
yards, he entered and crossed a large sort of vestibule, occupying one
half of the space in one of the flanking towers.

It had two windows in it, through one of which the moon was shining
brightly, marking the stone floor with the chequered shadows of the
leaden frame-work. He passed on, however, and then, turning to his
left, paused and opened a door, which admitted him to a little
ante-room. Two or three small beds were ranged around, of that kind
called by the French "_lit de sangle_;" but they were not occupied,
for their intended tenants, consisting of a page and two ordinary
attendants, were seated at a little table in the middle of the room,
gambling with dice. They all started up, however, when the young
nobleman entered; and, in answer to his question, whether Sir Edward
had retired to sleep, replied:--

"Oh, dear no, my lord. He will not go to bed for some time;" and the
page, stepping forward, opened the door of the inner chamber, saying
aloud, "Lord Fulmer, sir."

On advancing into the room, while the boy held back the tapestry,
Fulmer found Sir Edward Hungerford, with another person, standing
before a table, on which was spread out a large piece of
violet- satin, whereunto were being applied, by the inferior
personage, an enormous pair of shears. The entrance of the young
nobleman made them both start; and the first exclamation of Sir Edward
was, "My God, you've cut it askew. Heaven and earth, what shall we do
now? There will never be enough in that corner to purfle the sleeves."

"I beg your worship's pardon," replied the other, without taking any
more notice of Lord Fulmer than his master had done. "There will be
quite enough. If I cut it slant so, from the corner to the middle, it
will just leave what is needful for the bands."

"I want to speak with you, Hungerford," said the young nobleman. "I
pray you, send this fellow away."

"Wait a moment, wait a moment," replied the knight. "This is the most
important thing in life. You can't imagine what trouble it has given
us to devise.--Now, cut away, Master Graine, and let me see how you
will manage it?"

"Oh, quite easily," answered the other; and, delicately using his
shears, he cut the satin straight across, and then divided one part of
it into two, from which he again pared two long strips, pointing to
the whole in triumph, and saying, "There, worshipful sir, I told
you--"

"Yes, yes, I see, I see," said Hungerford, in a meditative tone. "It
is a great question settled. Now, take them away; and, remember, I
shall want it by to-morrow night."

The man bowed and withdrew; and then, for the first time, Sir Edward
turned to Lord Fulmer, and invited him to be seated, saying, "That was
a momentous business, Fulmer; and your imprudent entrance so suddenly
had well nigh spoiled all."

"I did not know that you were engaged upon matters of life and death,"
replied Fulmer, bitterly, lifting up the tapestry at the same time, to
see that the tailor had closed the door behind him.

"I have somewhat of less importance to say," he then continued,
seating himself, "but still of some moment to me."

"What is it, my dear lord?" asked Hungerford, taking a chair
opposite. "I can conceive nothing very important, when compared with
the cutting out of a surcoat. However, I have seen that you have been
uneasy--or to speak more accurately, nearly as hot in your skin as a
poor devil of a lollard, whom I once beheld, when I was a boy, burned
in a pitch barrel. He looked just as uncomfortable as you did at
supper, when one could get a sight of his face through the flames. I
wish you could bear as easy a mind as I do, and see the little value
of things that men make themselves uncomfortable about--and angry
about into the bargain, it would seem."

"Nay, I am not in the least angry," replied Fulmer, who believed he
was speaking truth. "I merely want to hear some simple facts to which
you alluded somewhat mysteriously this morning. Marriage, you know,
Hungerford," he continued, affecting a light and jesting tone, the
better to conceal the bitter feelings within, "marriage, you know, is
a matter of destiny; but, when a man is about to unite his fate to a
fair lady, it is quite as well that he should be made aware of all
previous passages, in order that he may take his measures
accordingly."

"Upon my word, I disagree with you," answered Hungerford, with a
smile. "No man should ever do anything that can make him uneasy. Calm
and perfect indifference to all things in life is the only means of
obtaining that greatest blessing in life--tranquillity. If we have a
stock of enthusiasm, which must be spent upon something, it is much
better to spend it upon what you call trifles, because, if any
misadventure happens, the evil is easily repaired. Now, if when you
came in just now, you had made Master Graine irremediably damage that
piece of satin, which I should have considered the greatest misfortune
in the world, I could send a man on horseback to London or York, to
get me another piece, and thus the evil is cured. But, if a man cuts
another man's throat, or makes his wife hate him by black looks and
cold words, he cannot give his friend a new throat, or send to York
for a new love."

"Pshaw!" exclaimed Fulmer, sharply. "I wish to Heaven you would be
serious but for a moment."

"I am perfectly serious," replied Hungerford. "The only question is,
which is the best philosophy, yours or mine? However, each man knows
his own nature. What do you wish to ask me?"

"Simply this," answered Fulmer. "What is the previous acquaintance to
which you alluded with a sneer, this morning, between my contracted
wife, the Lady Iola St. Leger, and that very noble and excellent
gentleman, the Lord Chartley?"

"With a sneer, my dear lord!" exclaimed Hungerford. "See what it is to
be of an imaginative disposition. I sneered not at all."

"Then the simple question," rejoined Fulmer, restraining his feelings
with a great effort, "what know you of their acquaintance?"

"Mighty little, my good lord," replied Sir Edward Hungerford, who was,
to say the truth, a little amused by the eager impetuosity of his
companion, and somewhat inclined to spur him on, merely for the joke's
sake; but, knowing that the affair might have very serious
consequences, he kept to the strict truth, and even within it, though
he could not refrain from playing a little with Fulmer's impatience.
"Be it known unto you then," he continued, "that somewhere about a
fortnight ago--let me see. It was on Monday----"

"The date matters little," said Fulmer, moodily. "All I want are the
facts."

"Well, about a fortnight ago, then," continued Hungerford, "as I was
riding from London, I chanced to stumble upon my good friend Lord
Chartley, at the little inn at Kimbolton. The whole place was occupied
by himself and his people; but he kindly made room for me, and gave me
an excellent good supper, prepared by his own cook. The snipes were
excellent; and there was an alaud of salmon, I never tasted anything
better--"

"Well, well, what then?" said Fulmer, quickly.

"Why, I thought him too good a companion to be parted with easily,"
said Hungerford. "So we passed the evening in talking of Bohemia,
where we had last met, and drawing savoury comparisons between the
cookery of that rude land and good old England. Finding we were
travelling the same way, I joined myself to his train, which was
discreet and well ordered, having a friar to bless the meat, and a
cook to cook it. Good faith, it was a pleasant journey; and I put
myself in mind of the gentleman who gave crumbs to Lazarus; for I took
care to be dressed in purple and fine linen, and with him I fared
sumptuously every day. At length, one evening, after having dallied
away some time at Tamworth, we stopped to sup at the abbey of St.
Clare--an abbey of nuns, you know--"

"Yes, yes. I know all about it," replied Fulmer. "Go on."

"I had no inclination to go on, when I was there, I can assure you, my
good lord," said Hungerford, laughing; "for right happily did the
merry little abbess entertain us, and not only supped with us herself,
in the strangers' refectory, but brought a prioress as deaf as a post,
and the two pretty cousins, her nieces, Iola and Constance. The Lady
Iola sat next to my noble friend; and, as a courteous gentleman, he
did his best to entertain her, and, to my thinking, succeeded. I could
have made up my mind to lodge there for the night; but Chartley was
peremptory to go forward to Hinckley. So, after supper, we rode on.
The friar, indeed, remained behind, pretending to be sick; and, when
we had got some two miles through the wood, Chartley suddenly
perceived--how, I know not, for it was dark enough amongst the
trees--that some one had left the train. It turned out to be one of
Sir Charles Weinant's men; for that smooth gentleman was with
us--playing the traitor, if I mistake not. However, Chartley set spurs
to his horse to catch the deserter, telling us to ride on, and he
would overtake us. We good people did as he bade; but we got to
Hinckley before him, and were roused early the next morning from our
beds, by news that his lordship was in danger, and needed our instant
help. Arden was in the saddle in a moment; and away we went pell mell,
getting what intelligence we could, till we came to the wood which
covers the hills over the abbey. There we found the whole place full
of soldiers, searching a bit of the forest ground, for whom or what we
could not learn; and, at length, riding round between the wood and the
abbey, we found Chartley, his tawny Moor, and half a dozen woodmen,
keeping a pass between two banks against Catesby, and a good number of
the king's soldiers."

He paused, and rubbed his temple, till Lord Fulmer exclaimed:--

"Well, what then?"

"Why, that is all I know, of my own knowledge," answered Hungerford,
"except that Chartley's coat seemed somewhat worse for a night's
lodging in the forest."

"There is something more, Sir Edward Hungerford," said Fulmer, in a
low, stern, bitter tone. "I must know it."

"Perhaps it is better to tell the rest," said the knight; "although,
you must remember, my good lord, that I now speak only what I have
gathered from other people's conversation. Of course, Chartley had not
planted himself there, and embroiled himself with the king's troops,
for nothing; and I made out, that his resistance was offered to cover
the retreat of a lady into the convent. She had, by some chance, been
out in the wood at night, and was cut off by the soldiers, who were
searching, it seems, for good old Doctor Morton, the bishop of Ely.
Chartley had met with her, and gallantly escorted her through the
midst of the men; but, to do him all justice, he spoke of her with
knightly reverence; and moreover, I should have told you before, that
this friar of his, who, as I said blessed the meat, was none other
than the good bishop himself, in effecting whose escape Chartley had
the principal share. Thus, he had a personal interest in the whole
matter."

Fulmer pressed his hand upon his brow, and murmured: "Alone with him
in the wood all night!"

"Nay, nay, my good lord, do not so disturb yourself," said Hungerford.
"Chartley is a man of very peculiar notions, and doubtless----"

"Pshaw!" said Lord Fulmer. "I do not disturb myself in the least,
Doubtless, he is full of courtesy, and a man of high honour--All night
in the wood with him!--I will go out upon the ramparts and walk. The
moon is shining clear."

"You had better keep out of the moonlight, my good lord," said
Hungerford, carelessly. "Stay, I will throw on a hood and come with
you."

"I would rather be alone," answered Lord Fulmer; and, taking up his
lamp, he left the room.

Hurrying along the narrow passage, he soon reached that large open
sort of vestibule, which I have mentioned, in one of the square
flanking towers; and there he paused, and stood for a moment or two
with his eyes fixed upon the ground in deep thought. After a while, a
sound, as of voices singing, came upon his ear. At first it did not
wake him from his reverie; but gradually it seemed to steal upon his
senses and call his thoughts, at least in some degree, from that which
had previously occupied them. There were seats on either side; and,
setting down the lamp on one of them, he opened the window which
looked to the south west, and through which the moonlight was
streaming. The music then became more distinct, though it evidently
proceeded from a great distance. It was calm, and sweet, and solemn; a
strain of exquisite melody, not so rich and full in the harmony,
indeed, as the anthems or masses of the Roman church, but yet
apparently of a religious character. It seemed a hymn; and, after
listening for a moment, Fulmer said:--

"This is strange! What can it mean? I will go forth and listen. It
seems to come from the wood, there. I shall hear better on the
battlements."

Descending the narrow winding staircase, which terminated the passage
about ten yards beyond the door of his own apartments, he entered the
inner court, and thence, through a tall archway, reached the outer
court, beyond which lay the ramparts. Then ascending by the steps to
the top of the wall, he walked round, till he had reached a spot
exactly below the window in the square tower. The music, however, had
ceased; and he listened for some minutes in vain, though he thought he
heard a murmur of many voices speaking or reading altogether.

The momentary excitement of curiosity passed away; and, sitting down
upon a stone bench placed for the warders' temporary repose, ha leaned
his arm upon the battlement, and returned to his dark thoughts. Still,
the calm and solemn scene around, the grey landscape lying stretched
out afar in the moonlight, the waving lines of hill and dale faintly
traced in the dim obscurity, the light mist lying in the hollows, a
bright gleaming line in the distance where the rays fell upon some
sheet of water, the tall dark towers of the castle rising by his side,
the blue sky overhead, flooded in the south west with silver radiance,
and in the north and east speckled with gemlike stars, the motionless
air, the profound silence, seemed to calm and still his angry
feelings, if not to soften or remove them. There are things in life,
which, like frost, harden while they tranquillize. Such was not
altogether the case with him, but still the root of bitterness was in
his heart.

He paused and thought; but, before many minutes had passed, the music
burst forth again, rising and falling in solemn swell and cadence,
evidently many voices singing some holy song. It came from far; no
articulate sounds reached his ear; but music is a language--a language
understood by the whole earth--speaking grand truths to the heart;
wordless, but more eloquent than all words. If he was not softened
before, he was softened now; if his spirit before had been tied down
to earthly passions, it was now, for a time at least, elevated, above
himself.

I have said "for a time;" for Richard had described him rightly. He
was a man of varying moods, naturally generous, high-minded, kind, but
subject to all the impulses of the clay, and in whom there was an
everlasting warfare between the mortal and immortal. He thought of
Iola, and her beauty, and the dreams which in his imaginative heart he
had dreamed of her; and still that wild and thrilling strain sounded
in his ears amidst the solemn scene, raising his feelings up, above
selfishness, and worldly lessons, to generous feelings and noble
aspirations. He thought what a grand though melancholy joy it would be
to give her happiness even by the sacrifice of his own. Something of
pride might mingle with it too; for, in the picture of the mind, Iola
was seen confessing that she had misunderstood him, and admiring where
she could not love; but still it was not a low pride; and he felt more
satisfied, more at peace with himself. His eyes wandered over the
space before him, and he recollected how he had seen it that very day,
as he rode towards the castle, lighted up with sunshine, bursting
forth into green life, and full of the song of birds. Now it was all
grey and still, with no sounds, but that faint echo-like hymn, pouring
on the air like the dirge of departed hopes. It seemed a picture of
his own fate, so lately lighted up with bright expectations, and now
all dark and cold.

Suddenly, on the green <DW72> beyond the walls, he saw a figure--a
woman's figure, clad in white. With a quiet gliding motion, it walked
quickly on; and, ere he had recovered from his surprise, it had
disappeared amongst the first trees at the nearest angle of the wood.
He thought it looked like Iola, that its movements were like hers, so
easy, so effortless, so graceful. He turned towards the place where he
knew her chamber was, and gazed up. There was a light still burning
there, and, as he gazed, a female figure passed across the window.




CHAPTER XXVI.


Had he been chief warder of a beleaguered fort, Lord Fulmer could not
have examined every gate and sally port of the castle more carefully
than he did, when he descended from the walls. The figure which he had
beheld had evidently seemed to come from the castle; but how it had
issued forth he could not divine. Every postern was barred, bolted,
and chained; and the porter, and the porter's men were all snoring in
their dens, of which he had ocular proof before he retired. The fat
old porter, whom he had roused and informed of what he had seen,
treated the matter lightly, saying, half sleeping, half waking, it was
impossible: it must have been the moonlight on the bank, or a white
thorn coming into flower. But, when Fulmer reminded him that the month
of May was still far off, and told him he had seen the figure move for
some distance, he quietly replied--

"Then it must have been a spirit. There are plenty hereabout;" and,
lying down on his pallet again, he was asleep before the young
nobleman had quited the lodge.

Fulmer almost felt inclined to believe that the porter's last
supposition was correct, and that the music he had heard was a strain
of unearthly melody. Perhaps there have been few ages in the world's
history more grossly superstitious than those which immediately
preceded the reformation. The process of darkening the human mind, by
which alone the errors of the church of Rome can be maintained, had
been going on for so many centuries, that it had almost reached
completeness; and the art of printing, the precursor of Luther, had
not yet fulfilled its mission; and though here and there a few great
minds were to be found which shook off the garment of superstition
with which the papal church had liveried the world--though Wicliffe
and John Huss had given the first terrible blow to Rome, yet her
partizans laboured but the more strenuously to retain for her the
shadowy empire she had created. At this very time new saints were
made, and their days appointed to be honoured; and the festivals of
old saints were, in many instances, ordered to receive double
celebration. In England, especially, every false, abominable, and
idolatrous dogma was more sternly and clearly defined, in order to
prevent the escape of the Wicliffites through any ambiguity of
language. It was solemnly declared that not one particle of the
sacramental bread remained bread after consecration, that every drop
of the cup was blood. Pilgrimages, the worship of saints, the
adoration of the cross and of relics, were enjoined under the penalty
of fire; and everything that could lead or tend to superstition was
encouraged and upheld. Taught to believe so much of the supernatural
within the church, it is not wonderful that the great mass of the
people, high and low, should believe in much of the supernatural
beyond the church, and that the priest should encourage them in so
doing.

Nevertheless, Lord Fulmer was by no means one of the most
superstitious of his class. To doubt the occasional apparition of
spirits, or even devils, he would not have ventured; but to believe
that he had seen one was very different; and, not knowing what to
think, or what solution to give to the mystery, he retired to his
chamber, and lay down to rest. Sleep did not visit his eyes for some
hours; but still he rose early, roused his attendants in the
antechamber, and dressed for the day. He then gazed forth from the
window for a moment or two; but, as something passed before his eyes,
he turned round with a sudden start, and a flushed cheek, and went
out.

He passed quickly, through the courts, towards the walls; but, at the
foot of the steps, he paused and thought, for a moment or two, and
then mounted to the battlements with a slower step and more tranquil
air.

About fifty yards in advance was Chartley, the man he sought, walking
tranquilly towards him, with his arms folded on his chest, and his
eyes bent down in meditation. They were now alone together on the
walls; and Fulmer thought that there could be no better time for
saying what he proposed to say than that moment. His mood, however,
had varied from that of the night before; and, at first, he addressed
Lord Chartley courteously enough.

"Good morning, my lord," he said "Summer is coming on us with a
swallow's wing;" and he turned to walk back with his companion.

"It is indeed very warm," answered Chartley, mildly; "and the air here
seems temperate and fine."

There the conversation halted for a moment, for Lord Fulmer made no
answer, and walked on in silence, till they had nearly reached the
angle of the wall. There was a struggle going on within--a struggle
for calmness; for he felt agitation growing upon him.

At length, however, he said--

"I find, my lord, that you are well acquainted with the Lady Iola St.
Leger, and that you rendered her some service a little time ago."

"Service of no great importance," replied Chantey; "and which any
gentleman would render to any lady."

"You are, I suppose, aware that she is contracted to me as my future
wife," said Lord Fulmer, turning his eyes full upon Chartley's face.

"I was not aware of it at the time," answered Chartley, holding his
head very high. "I am now."

"That near connexion," continued Fulmer, "not only gives me a right,
but requires me, my good lord, to inquire into the nature of the
service that you rendered her, that I may"--he added with a sort of
sarcastic smile, "that I may proportion my thanks to its degree."

"I require no thanks," answered Chartley, coldly. "Of what is required
of you, my lord, I am no judge. Your right to make the inquiry, I am
not called upon to consider; and the lady herself will doubtless give
you what information she thinks fit upon the subject."

Fulmer strove to put down the wrath which was rising up in his bosom;
but yet there was a great degree of sharpness in his tone as he
replied--

"My right to make the inquiry, my good lord, you are called upon to
consider; for I make that inquiry of you."

"Then I refuse to answer it," replied Chartley. "If a gentleman have
rendered a lady service in any way, it is not his business to speak of
it. She may do so, if she thinks proper but his part is different."

"Then, my lord," replied Fulmer, "if you give me not account in one
way, you must in another;" and he set his teeth hard, as if to keep
down the more violent words which were ready to spring to his lips.

Chartley laughed.

"On my life," he said, "this is the strangest sort of gratitude which
it has been my lot to meet with in this wonderful world! Here is a man
comes to give me thanks, and then calls me to a rude account, because
I will not tell him why! What is the meaning of all this, my lord?
Your strange conduct certainly requires explanation--far more than any
part of mine, which has always been very open and simple."

"Oh, if you think it requires explanation," exclaimed Lord Fulmer,
readily, "I am quite ready to yield it, after the fashion that I
hinted."

"Is that a worthy answer, Lord Fulmer?" demanded Chartley. "You seem
determined to find cause of quarrel with me, and can meet with no more
reasonable pretext than that I once did some slight service to a lady
affianced to you."

"Exactly so," replied Lord Fulmer, dryly.

"Well, then," cried Chartley, tossing back his head, "I answer, I will
not quarrel with you on such ground. Charge me fairly--accuse me of
any wrong that I have done you, or any mortal man, or woman either,
and I will either clear myself or make reparation with my person at
the sword's point; but I will not bring a lady's name in question, by
quarrelling with any man on such a plea as this you bring. If you have
aught to say against me, say it boldly."

"Have you not already brought her name in question, by passing one
whole night with her in the woods of Atherston?" demanded Fulmer,
sternly. "Have you not made it a matter of light talk with lighter
tongues--"

"Stay, stay!" exclaimed Chartley, "I do not rightly understand you. Do
you mean to say that I ever have lightly used that lady's name--that I
have ever made it the subject of my conversation at all?"

"No," answered Fulmer, gravely. "That I cannot say; but I aver that
you have given occasion for its being talked of by others, in
remaining with her one whole night, as I have said, in the woods of
Atherston."

Chartley laughed again.

"He would have had me leave her to her fate, in the midst of the
wood!" he exclaimed; "or else have had her fall into the hands of
Catesby's rude soldiery, or the ruffian mercenaries of Sir John
Godscroft, who were, even at the moment I met her, daintily engaged in
burning down the buildings on the abbey green! By St. Peter, the man
seems to have a rare notion of courtesy towards a lady! Let me tell
you, Lord Fulmer, that had I left her, she must have encountered those
who would have treated her somewhat more roughly than I did. Stay,
stay, a moment. I have not yet done. You say that I have given
occasion for people to talk lightly of her. Give me the name of one
who has dared, even by a word, to couple her name to mine in aught
that is not pure--ay, even in a jest--and I will make him eat his
words or send him to the devil a day before his time."

Fulmer gazed down upon the ground in moody silence. "There may be
words," he said at length, "which, separate from the tone and manner,
imply but little, but which, eked out with nods and smiles and
twinklings of the eye, would go far to blast the fairest reputation.
In a word, Lord Chartley, I will not have it said, that the woman I
make my wife has passed the whole night alone, in a wild wood, with
any living man."

"Then do not make her your wife," answered Chartley. "That is easily
settled."

"There is another way of settling it," replied Lord Fulmer, bitterly,
"by cutting the throat of him who has done so with her."

"So, so, are you there?" answered Chartley, now made angry, in spite
of himself.

"If such be the case, my lord, I will not baulk you. I might refuse
your appeal, as a prisoner in ward. I might refuse it, as having no
reasonable grounds; but I will not do so; and satisfaction you shall
have of the kind you demand; for no earthly man shall say I feared
him. But this, my good lord, is not without a condition. It shall be
fully and entirely known, how and why you have forced me to this--what
is the quarrel you have fixed upon me--and why I have consented. All
this shall be clearly stated and proclaimed, for my own character's
sake. This I have a right to demand."

"But the lady's fair name!" exclaimed Fulmer, alarmed at the
condition.

"Who is it that blackens it?" demanded Chartley, fiercely. "Not I, but
you, Lord Fulmer. I proclaim her pure, and good, and true, to you, to
me, and all men; and you, if any one, shall stand forth as her
calumniator, in forcing this unjust quarrel upon me. I cast the
responsibility upon you; and now I leave you."

"Stay, sir, stay," exclaimed Fulmer, driven almost to fury. "You have
called me calumniator; and you shall answer for that word, or I will
brand you as a coward in every court of Europe."

"Methinks you would get but few to believe you," replied Chartley,
proudly; "but let me tell you, if you dare venture to use that term to
me, before any competent witnesses, I will punish you on the spot as
you deserve. You think, my lord, by taking me here in private, to
gratify your malice while you conceal your own weakness, and to leave,
perhaps, the blame upon me; but you are mistaken, if you think you
have to do with a feeble-minded and passionate boy like yourself."

Fulmer lost all command over himself; and drawing his sword at once,
though close before the castle windows, he exclaimed, "Draw! I will
bear no more."

But Chartley was comparatively cool, while his adversary was blind
with passion; and, springing upon him with a bound, he put aside the
raised point with his hand, and wrenched the sword from his grasp,
receiving a slight wound in doing so. Then, holding his adversary in a
firm grasp, he cast the weapon from him over the castle wall.

"For shame," he said, after a moment's pause, "for shame, Lord Fulmer
Go back, sir, to the castle; and, if you have those honourable
feelings, those somewhat fantastic and imaginative notions, which I
have heard attributed to you, think over your own conduct this
morning--ay, think over the doubts and suspicions, unjust, and base,
and false as they are, in which such conduct has arisen, and feel
shame for both. I am not apt to be a vain man; but when I scan my own
behaviour in the events which have given rise to all this rancour on
your part, and compare it with your conduct now, I feel there is an
immeasurable distance between us; and I regret, for that sweet lady's
sake, that she is bound by such ties to such a man."

"You have the advantage, my lord, you have the advantage," repeated
Fulmer, doggedly. "The time may come when it will be on my part."

"I think not," answered Chartley, with one of his light laughs; "for
we are told God defends the right, and I will never do you wrong."

Thus saying, he turned upon his heel, descended the steps, and walked
back into the castle.

Fulmer followed with a slow and sullen step, his eyes bent down upon
the ground, and his lips, from time to time, moving. He felt all that
had occurred the more bitterly, as he was conscious that it was his
own fault. He might feel angry with Chartley; his pride might be
bitterly mortified; he might have every inclination to cast the blame
upon others; but there was one fact he could not get over, one truth,
which, at the very first, carried self-censure home. He had violated
all his own resolutions; he had given way to passion, when he had
resolved to be calm and cool; and this conviction, perhaps, led him
some steps on the path of regret for his whole conduct. At all events,
passing through his ante-room without speaking to any of his servants,
he entered his own chamber, and cast himself down upon a seat, to
scrutinize the acts he had committed.




CHAPTER XXVII.


Let us return to the close of supper on the preceding night. The
abbess and her two fair nieces, with some other ladies who had been
congregated in the castle, retired, first, to a little hall, above
that where they had supped, and then, after a short conversation,
separated into various parties, and sought the chambers where they
were to take repose. Iola, Constance, and their aunt, retired to the
bed-room of the former, before they parted for the night, and sat and
talked for a few minutes in a calm tone.

"My dear child, you look sad," said the abbess; "has any thing vexed
you?"

"No, dear aunt, nothing more than usual," answered Iola, forcing a
laugh. "I suppose a man may be merry enough, when he knows he is to be
hanged at the end of a year; but the case alters when he finds himself
at the day before the hanging."

"A hang dog simile, my child," said the abbess. "But fie, Iola, put
away such thoughts. Marriage is an honourable state, though it lacks
the sanctity of devotion; and I doubt not it is a very comfortable
condition, though, good lack, I have never tried it, and never shall
now;" and she laughed a little at the thought. "Well, well, methinks
you ought to be content," she continued; "for, certainly he is a very
fair and handsome young man."

"Is he?" said Iola, in an indifferent tone. "I thought he was dark."

"Well, his hair and eyes are dark," replied her aunt, "and his skin
somewhat brownish; but what I meant was, that he is good-looking and
manly. I do not think your fair men, with pink cheeks, handsome for my
part, though I take but little heed to men's beauty--why should I?
However, I say he is as handsome a young man for a husband as woman
would wish to choose."

"I must have him for a husband whether I choose or not," answered
Iola; "so, handsome or ugly, it comes to the same."

Constance thought for a moment, and then said, in a quiet tone, "I do
not think he is so handsome as Lord Chartley;" and she gave a quick
glance towards her cousin's face as she spoke.

Iola's cheek was crimson in a moment, but she said nothing; and the
abbess exclaimed gaily, "Oh, this world, this world. I see it will
steal your heart away from us, Constance. No more vows and veils for
you now. Well, do as you like, my child. I have found a convent life a
very happy one--perhaps, because there was no choice, and I resolved
to make the best of it; and, if Iola would take her aunt's advice, she
would look upon marriage as much the same, and make the best of it
too."

With this piece of exceeding good counsel, the worthy lady rose and
left her two fair companions; and, no sooner was she gone, than
Constance moved closer to her cousin, and, laying her hand upon
Iola's, looked tenderly into her face.

"Give me your heart, Iola," she said. "You have withdrawn your
confidence from me, and your heart must have gone with it."

Iola bent down her forehead on her cousin's shoulder, and wept without
reply.

"Nay, dear cousin," continued Constance, "if not for my sake--if not
for old affection's sake, and for love, which, unlike the love of the
world, can never weary or wax old--for your own sake, give me your
confidence as in days of yore. Tell me your heart's feelings and your
mind's thoughts; for, be sure that there are few, if any, situations
in life, in which counsel cannot bring comfort."

"I will, I will, Constance," said Iola, wiping away the tears. "These
foolish drops," she continued, "spring but from a momentary weakness,
my Constance. I have borne up and struggled hard till now. It is
kindness that shakes me."

"But then tell me," said her cousin, "tell me whence they spring,
Iola. I see you are unhappy--miserable. I would fain help you, or, at
least, console you; but I know not how."

"What would you have, dear Constance?" said Iola, mournfully. "You
must see it--I love him not--I can never love him; and yet in a few
days, I know not how soon, I must vow at the altar to love him for
ever. Is not that a hard fate, dear Constance?"

"It might be worse," answered Constance. "How worse?" demanded Iola in
surprise. "If you loved another," said her cousin, slowly and
sorrowfully.

Again the crimson glow spread over Iola's brow and cheek, followed by
a warm gush of tears; but Constance twined her arms round her saying:

"I have your secret now, dear Iola. That is over. Let us speak freely
of all things. But first, for some comfort--though it be but a
reprieve. My uncle told me, just before supper, that the king's
consent to the celebration of the marriage has not been obtained; that
Richard begs him to delay, till he and the queen can be present. It
may be long first; for poor queen Ann, they declare, is gone mad upon
the death of the prince. It must be some months; for they cannot be
present at a marriage in mourning. But, what is very strange, my uncle
seemed well satisfied with the delay."

Iola sat and gazed at her as she spoke, with a look of wonder, as if
the tidings were so unexpected and incredible, even to hope, that she
could hardly comprehend what she heard. The next instant, however, she
started up and clapped her hands with a look of childlike joy.

"A reprieve!" she cried. "Oh, it is everything. It is everything. It
is comfort. It is life. It is hope!" and then, casting herself upon
her cousin's neck, she wept again, sobbing as if her heart would
break.

Constance tried to calm her, but her words seemed not to reach Iola's
mind; for, when the tears had had their way, she sprang up, clasping
her hands again, and crying, with the same radiant look, "Months, did
you say? Oh, moments were a blessing--who can tell what months may
bring forth? They have sometimes swept away empires. Now, we shall
have time to think, and speak, and act. Before, I thought it was
useless to take counsel even with you, dear Constance; for what could
counsel avail, when the event was hurrying on with such terrible
rapidity. It seemed like one of those mountains of snow, which I have
heard of, falling in the Alps, where, though they be seen thundering
down, 'tis vain to fly, or move, or think; for their coming is too
rapid, their extent too wide; and all that remains is to call upon the
name of God and die."

"Good Heaven, what an image!" exclaimed Constance; "and have you
really suffered all this, my poor Iola?--But now tell me what has
passed between you and Lord Chartley?"

"Nothing," replied Iola; and, be it remarked that, at every word she
uttered, her spirits seemed to revive more and more, as if nothing but
the intolerable burden which had been cast upon them had been able to
keep them down, and that, as soon as it was removed, they sprang up
again fresher than ever. "Nothing at all, but what I have told you,
dear Constance. For the world, I would not have told you a falsehood."

"Then, nothing has been said to make you think he loves you as you
love him!" asked Constance.

Iola blushed a little, and looked down; but, there was an expression
of arch meaning about her smiling lips; and she replied:--

"Nothing has been said, it is true, dear Constance; but a good deal
has been looked. How the tone, how the eyes change the whole meaning
of cold words: I have not loved, unbeloved, I hope--I trust--I
believe. Men are deceivers, you will say, and in nought more deceitful
than their looks. Perhaps you will tell me too that Chartley, this
very night, was gay and joyful, that he laughed and talked with those
around him, not at all like a disappointed lover. But he was not
joyful at his heart, Constance. I watched and saw it all. I saw that
the laugh was forced, the merriment unreal. I marked the sudden fit of
thought, the gloomy look that chequered the smile, the head held high,
and the curling lip which scorned the words the tongue uttered."

"Alas, that you should have watched so closely," answered Constance;
and, after a moment's thought, she added; "but, as we are to have
confidence in each other, dear Iola, I must feign nothing with you;
and I do believe that it is as you say. Nay, more. There is another,
who knows him better than I do, who thinks so too."

"Who? Who?" demanded Iola, eagerly.

"None other than good Sir William Arden," answered Constance; and she
went on to give her cousin a sketch of the conversation which had
taken place between herself and her companion at supper.

"I saw you talking very busily," replied Iola, with a smile; "but in
truth, dear Constance, I almost fancied you and the good knight had
better subjects of conversation than the fate of Iola and Chartley.
Well, thank Heaven, we have got another in the plot, who can give us
good help too, in the hour of need, perhaps."

"A plot!" said Constance, with a look of apprehension. "What plot do
you intend to form, Iola?"

"Now she is frightened out of her wits!" cried Iola, laughing as
merrily as ever. "No plot, dearest cousin. I spoke in my wild way, and
gave it a wild name. Only this, Constance, be sure of, that if there
be a means of escape--and what may not this respite produce--I will
not give my hand to Lord Fulmer--no, even though a convent should be
my only refuge, though Heaven knows, thinking as I think, that would
be bad enough."

"Thinking as you think--I do not understand what you mean, Iola," said
her cousin in some surprise.

Iola thought gravely for a moment or two, before she spoke; but at
length she replied:

"Perhaps I am not so devout as you are, Constance, and yet, in some
things more devout. There is another enigma for you; but I know a
convent would not suit me. You will say, I seemed happy enough in one;
but yet I have come to the belief that they are not truly holy or good
institutions. To take the vows I should have to take, were I to enter
one, to live according to all the rules and ordinances, to go through
all the ceremonies, and to make all the professions, I should be a
hypocrite, Constance. But to marry this Lord Fulmer, to vow that I
will love him when I love another, would make me worse than a
hypocrite."

Constance gazed at her with a bewildered look; for, though her words
were not very plain, yet they created doubts.

"I do not know what to think of your language, Iola," she answered.
"Holy men, fathers of the church, successors of the apostles, have
founded convents, and blessed them. Surely they cannot be evil
institutions with such a sanction."

Iola laughed, seeming not inclined to grapple with the question; and
then, with a playful gesture of the hand, she asked abruptly--

"Would you like now, now as you sit here, to devote yourself for life
to one of them?"

"That is not a fair question," answered Constance, with a blush and a
smile; "but now, let us think, Iola, of what must be your conduct
between these two men. To one you are bound by a contract, valid it
seems in the eye of the law, and from which you cannot escape,
although it was entered into when you had no power to assent or to
refuse. To the other you are linked by ties of affection, which are
even less easily broken, I do believe."

"Most mathematically put, dear cousin," answered Iola, in her old gay
tone; "but yet I can hardly reply. I must seek advice of some one who
knows more of the world's ways than either you or I do."

"My aunt?" suggested Constance. "She will say, there is but one thing
to be done--to yield, and make the best of it."

"No, no. Not to her will I apply," said Iola. "Of the world's ways,
dear Constance, of its laws and rules, she knows but little--hardly
more than we do. She can deal with foresters and bailiffs, sell timber
or wheat, collect the abbey dues, regulate its expenses, rule her nuns
wisely, though not strictly, and make devotion cheerful, without
depriving it of reverence; but there is a wide, wide circle beyond all
this, of which she knows nothing--nor I either, but that it exists."

"Then to whom can you apply?" asked Constance; and Iola, rising, laid
her hands upon her cousin's, with a grave smile.

"I will apply to one who will advise me well," she said; "but here,
dearest Constance, I must--however unwillingly--hold back a part of my
confidence from you. Were it my own alone, you should have it all,
fully and at once; but there is another, whose confidence I must not
break. Rest satisfied with this, that, as far as Chartley and I are
concerned, every secret of my heart, every act that I perform,
propose, or think of, shall be told to you at once. You shall see into
my breast, as if it were your own."

"But yet there will be one dark spot," said Constance, almost
reproachfully.

"Not concerning myself," answered Iola. "I tell you I am going to seek
advice. What that advice is, you shall know. Where I ask it, who gives
it, you must not know. This shall be the only reserve."

"And you will not act in anything without speaking to me?" asked
Constance anxiously.

"Certainly not," replied Iola; "but, you must promise in return,
Constance, that my confidence will never be violated, that no notions
which you may have imbibed of duty or propriety, or anything else on
earth--no, not of religion itself--shall make you ever betray to man
or woman that which I shall tell you."

Constance seemed to hesitate; and Iola added, firmly, but sadly--

"You must promise, Constance, or there can be no confidence. My heart
must hide itself from you, as from the rest of the world, unless I
know that its secrets are as safe with you as with myself. Will you
promise, without any reservation, remembering, that I shall look upon
no consideration of 'my own good,' as it is called, as an excuse for
your violating that engagement. I know you will keep your promise when
you have given it."

"Assuredly I will," replied Constance; and, after a moment's thought,
she added; "and I will give the promise too, Iola. If I did not, you
could easily withhold your confidence from me; and I do think that it
will be better for you to have some one, of whose love you can have no
doubt, to consult with and rely on. Remember I do not know and cannot
divine who this secret adviser is, nor how he or she should have
followed you hither, to give you counsel on any sudden occasion.
Surely you would not rely upon your maid, in preference to your
cousin."

Iola laughed gaily.

"Nay, Heaven forbid," she cried, waving her hand. "Besides, what knows
she of the world? Poor Susan's utmost experience reaches but to know,
that Harry Smith, the abbey gardener's son, bought her pink ribbons at
Tamworth fair, and asked her to marry him at Shrovetide next. No, no,
dear Constance. All my confidence you shall have--that is to say, all
my own. I will only keep from you the confidence of others; and now
your promise is given, is it not--fully and without reservation?"

"It is," answered Constance. "I know you have always hated that
doctrine of mental reservation, and called it unchristian and
uncandid. I do not like it, and will never act upon it, though very
good men say that it is sometimes needful."

"Fie on them!" cried Iola, warmly. "Those who would teach that would
teach any other kind of falsehood. But now, my own dear cousin, now
for a petition. Will you help your Iola to seek this advice?"

"How can I help you? What would you have me do?" asked Constance.

"'Tis but to endure imprisonment for an hour," said Iola, "to stay here
and watch till I come back, and, if any one comes to the door, merely
to answer, 'You cannot come in!'"

"That is easily accomplished," replied her cousin; "and I may as well
perform my devotions for the night here, as in my own chamber hard
by."

"Quite as well," answered Iola, with a smile. "But now I must clear
the way;" and, opening the door into the ante-room, she said--"Here,
Susan. Have the guests left the hall?"

"Oh yes, lady," replied the rosy country girl, who appeared in answer
to her summons. "They did not sit long to-night. They have all gone to
their chambers some time."

"Well then, I shall not want you for an hour," said Iola; and she
added, with a laugh--"I know there is some one whom you want to talk
with. But be discreet, Susan; and you shall have a present on my
marriage, to furnish house with."

The girl blushed, and simpered, and retired.

"And now," said Iola, "I must cover over these gay robes;" and,
opening one of those large cupboards, which, from the use that they
were sometimes applied to, retained, for many years, and still do in
some parts of Europe, the name of armoury, she drew forth a white
serge gown and hood, which she threw over her other apparel.

"But where are you going?" demanded Constance, in a tone of alarm.
"Surely not beyond the castle walls. Your wanderings round the abbey
used to frighten me sometimes, when the broad daylight shone upon you;
but now you make me fear still more."

"Fear not, and ask no questions," answered Iola. "I shall not be
without protection in case of need."

"Oh, Iola, Iola, think well of what you are doing!" exclaimed her
cousin, detaining her by the hand.

"I have thought," answered the lady. "See how the moon shines; and,
hark, there is my summons."

Constance looked out and listened; and, faint upon her ear, the closed
casement dulling the sound, came the same strain of music which Fulmer
had heard from a different part of the castle. Gently disengaging her
hand, Iola glided into the ante-room, and opened the door leading into
the passage. She returned the moment after, however, saying--

"There is some one moving. I must wait a little;" but, ere two minutes
more were over, she went out again, and closed the doors behind her.

Constance remained where her cousin left her, listening with anxious
ears, for several moments, but Iola returned not; and, locking the
door, her cousin cast herself upon her knees, and prayed fervently.




CHAPTER XXVIII.


We must give a glance beyond the waters. "What waters?" The reader may
ask, "the waters of time?"

No, alas, that we cannot do. Let the eager eye stretch as it will,
aided by whatever glass the ingenuity of man can devise, or his
presumption use, that wide horizon will never present any object
distinctly. A mirage may raise the images which lie beyond the scope
of natural vision; but, after all, it is a fading picture, where
everything is indistinct, uncertain, and confused.

No, the waters that I speak of are those which flow between the white
cliffs of England and the shores of France; and I leap over no
particle of time; for the day and hour were the same as those of which
I have just been speaking; and it is to keep up the perfect
synchronism of my narrative that I am obliged to change the scene, and
travel all the way to France, carrying the unwilling reader with me.

It was in a small room, lined with shadowy tapestry and ceiled with
black oak, carved in a strange and peculiar fashion--in the form of
pentagons, piled one upon the other, and each centred with a little
gilded star--that there was seated, towards the first hour of the
morning, an elderly man of dignified though quiet aspect, habited in
the robes of a bishop. Near the door stood two ecclesiastics,
with a boy of some fourteen years of age between them, apparently
equipped for a journey.

"And you are sure you know every step of the way, my son?" said the
bishop, fixing his eyes upon the boy, and speaking in French.

"As well as I know the steps to my mother's door, my lord," answered
the boy.

The bishop mused, and motioned one of the ecclesiastics to come
nearer. The good man approached, and bent down his head, till his ear
was on a level with the prelate's lips; and then, in reply to a
whispered question, which the other seemed to ask him, he exclaimed--

"Oh, I will be his surety, my lord; for he ran between the armies, in
the times of the late troubles with Britanny, and never betrayed his
trust in a single instance."

"Well then, take him away for the present," said the bishop; "and I
will write the letter at once; for there is no time to be lost,
Entreat him kindly, and feed him well before he goes. I will call when
I want him."

The two priests and the boy retired; and, when left alone, the bishop
took some little time for thought.

"So far all is safe," he said to himself. "Once more I am upon these
hospitable shores of France; and my escape is well nigh a miracle. I
trust no evil has befallen those who were, under God, my kind
preservers. That dear child, I trust she got safely back to the arms
of her good aunt, the abbess. 'Tis very strange, how often, by the
merest seeming accidents, a kindness shown to a fellow creature
returns to bless us after many years. Nor has man's gratitude any
great share in it; for how rarely do we find anything like gratitude,
especially amongst the high and noble. Often too, those whom we have
served have gone away from earth, and cannot show gratitude, if they
would; yet still the good deed rises up, in after years, to shelter
us, as a tree against a storm. Little did I think, when I entreated
for St. Leger's life, and not only won it against all odds, but
obtained that his estates should be not confiscated to the crown, but
transferred for life to his brother, with a provision reserved for
himself--little did I think that his sister would shelter me at the
peril of all worldly good, and his daughter would guide me to escape
in safety."

"Now for another act," he continued, drawing a sheet of paper towards
him. "I pray God this may be for the benefit of my country. Gratitude,
in this instance, I want not, expect not, and shall not obtain. It is
not in his nature--well, if he turn not and rend me! It matters not;
it is right and shall be done. Better a cold and greedy prince upon
the throne, than a murdering usurper. This man must labour for a
people's good, for his own interest's sake; and then a marriage with
the heiress of York will cure all divisions, and heal the wounds of my
bleeding country."

He still seemed to hesitate, however; for although he had drawn a
sheet of paper to him, and taken pen in hand, he did not write for
several minutes.

"It must be done," he said at length; and, when he began, his letter
was soon finished.

"There," he said, when it was completed. "Now he can act as he sees
meet. If he be wise, and occasion serves, he will say no word to this
weak duke of Britanny, even should he be in one of his lucid moments,
but will fly at once to France, where, thanks to my efforts, all is
prepared to give him friendly reception. If revenge get the
mastery--and he has no small share of it in his nature--he will
endeavour to strike at Peter Landais, and be given bound into the
hands of Richard. Then farewell to England. Stay, I will add a few
words more of caution and advice; for I must needs enclose the
despatch obtained by my good friend, the woodman, to let him see the
extent and nature of his danger."

The postscript to his letter was soon written, the paper, which the
woodman had given him, enclosed, the letter tied with the silk, and
sealed; and the boy was then recalled and charged with the packet.
Manifold were the directions given him, as to how he was to conceal
the dangerous despatch; and the youth, who seemed quick and active,
retired furnished with a packet of ordinary letters, addressed to the
Marquis Dorset, and several other English noblemen then living in
exile at the court of Britanny.

His weight was light, the horse prepared for him strong and active;
and, mounting in the court-yard, he set out upon his way, passing
through the heart of Normandy in perfect security. Séez, Alençon were
reached; and, shortly after, the peril of the enterprise began; but he
knew all the roads well, and, after sleeping at a small village on the
confines of Normandy, he rose some hours before daylight, and made his
way through narrow lanes into the duchy of Britanny, under cover of
the darkness.

It is rare that a journey is performed with so little difficulty, even
when there are much fewer dangers; but the messenger met with no
impediment till he reached the town of Rennes, where his horse was
detained for several hours, on the pretence that so fine an animal
could not fairly belong to a youth of his appearance. But the letters
he produced, addressed to the Marquis Dorset, accounted for his
possession of the animal; and, though there was not wanting
inclination on the part of Landais' officers to seize it, for their
own or their master's use, they did not venture to do so; for it was a
part of the treacherous minister's policy to lull the English exiles
into security by seeming kindness, till he could deliver them into the
hands of Richard.

The letters, however, were strictly examined, and, when returned to
the boy, had evidently been opened; but the secret despatches,
concealed in the large wooden boot which he wore, passed undiscovered.
The contents of the letters, which had been read, only served to
convince Landais that his meditated treachery was unknown to the
friends of the exiles in England.

Hastening on with all speed from Rennes to Vannes, the boy nearly
accomplished the distance of more than twenty leagues in one day; but
he arrived at night, and was forced to remain till morning at a small
inn in the suburb, on the right bank of the river Marle. He there
gathered intelligence, however, of some importance. A strong body of
archers, he learned, had entered Vannes the day before, and the earl
of Richmond, with many of his chief friends and followers, had sought
hospitality at the fine old abbey of St. Gildas, situated on a little
peninsula in the neighbourhood. Thither then, on the following
morning, he took his way; but he did not arrive in the court of the
abbey till the earl and his companions were just mounting their horses
to set out upon some early expedition. The boy's shrewd eyes instantly
detected, amongst those present, several who were not Englishmen; and,
with the keen good sense for which he had been selected for that
mission, he determined at once upon his course. The earl of Richmond
he had never seen; but, perceiving that to one particular person there
present, a spare but somewhat forbidding-looking man, all the others
paid much reverence, he walked up to him with a letter in his hand,
and asked if he were the Marquis Dorset.

"No," answered Richmond, who had his foot in the stirrup, to mount.
"Yonder he stands. Is that letter for him?"

"Yes, my lord," replied the boy; "but I have several others from
England."

"Have you any for me, the earl of Richmond?" asked the other; and,
dropping his voice to a low tone, the boy replied:

"I have a word for the earl of Richmond's private ear."

"Deliver your letters, and then come back to me," said Richmond, in
the same low tone; and then he added, aloud, "Here is a little courier
from England, my lords and gentlemen, with letters from home, for most
of you, but none for me. Take them and read them. We can well afford
to put off our ride for half an hour. In the mean time, I will
question the boy as to the news of our native land--Here, Bernard,
hold my horse. Boy, give them their letters, and then come with me."

"Why, this has been opened," cried the marquis of Dorset, looking at
the epistle which he received from the boy's hands.

"I know it has, noble sir," answered the boy aloud. "All my letters
were taken from me at Rennes, and, when they were returned, I could
see they had been read."

"Out, young cur," cried one of the Landais' officers, who was present.
"Say you the people of the duke of Britanny would open your letters?
Doubtless you opened them yourself."

"Not so, noble sir," answered the lad; "for, alas, I cannot read."

"Well, well, come with me," said Richmond, seeing that the nobles
crowding round him had taken the packet, which the boy had held in his
hand, and were distributing them amongst themselves, according to the
superscription. "This way, lad--permit the boy to pass, reverend
father;" and entering the abbey by a small door, at which appeared an
old monk, he walked onward, followed closely by the boy, till he
reached his bed-chamber.

"Now, what have you to say to me?" he exclaimed eagerly.

But the boy, before he answered, closed the door behind him, and
pushed the bolt.

"I have a packet for you, noble lord," replied the boy; "but I was
ordered to deliver it to your own hand in private, and I have kept it
concealed from all eyes, here in my boot."

"Then the people at Rennes did not find it?" asked Richmond, sharply.

"No one has ever seen it, from the moment I received it," answered the
boy. "That I will swear to; for I have slept in my boots; and, when I
took them off for ease, I kept them always in my sight."

The boots of an unarmed courier or post of that day were of a kind, I
believe, now utterly banished from use, but which might still be seen
in France, amongst postilions, at the end of the last war. They
consisted of an inner covering of leather, with large and
rudely-shaped pieces of light wood, fastened round them with straps of
leather, to guard the leg against any blow or accident. Out of these
cumbrous appendages, the boy had withdrawn his feet while he was
speaking; and now, unbuckling the wooden cases from the leather, he
opened a little sliding lid in one of the former, and drew forth the
packet which Morton had entrusted to him. Richmond took it eagerly;
but, with his usual cool observing spirit, before he opened it, he
looked carefully at the silk and the seal, to ascertain that it had
not been examined previously. Satisfied on that point, he cut the
fastening, broke the seal, and read the contents. His countenance,
though the boy's eye fixed upon it while he read, gave no indication
of what was passing in his mind. It was cold, quiet, resolute. When he
had done, he thought in silence for a moment or two; and then looking
at the lad, he said--

"Thou hast performed thy task well. There is gold for thee. Were I
richer it should be more. Now tell me how it came that they chose one
so young to carry tidings of some import?"

"Because I knew every inch of the country well," replied the boy;
"because I had carried many letters between the armies in the time of
the war, and because my mother, and father Julien, said that I was
honest."

"Good reasons," said Richmond; "knowledge, experience, honesty. I
think you deserved your character. Do you know the country between
this and Tours well?"

"Every part of it," replied the boy.

"And between this and Angers?" asked Richmond again.

"As well as the other," answered the boy.

"Well, then," said Richmond, "open the door and call one of my valets.
I retain you in my service, if you are free."

"Oh yes, my lord, I am free and willing," replied the boy; for there
was that in the manner of the future king of England which, though dry
and cold, and somewhat stern, inspired respect; and the boy's
character was peculiar too. The man who knows how to command will
always find those who are willing to obey; and the attachments
inspired by the strong-minded and the stern are often more rapid,
generally more permanent, than the affection excited by the weak and
gentle.

The boy's nature was brief and laconic; and, as soon as he had made
his answer, he went out into the passage, and sought one of the
attendants of the earl, with whom he returned to his presence.

"Take care of that boy," said Richmond, to the man, "and bring him to
me as soon as I return. Treat him well, and let him have whatever he
wants; for he has rendered me service."

"Thus saying, he walked out into the court again, assuming a moody and
somewhat discontented air. The reading of his letters and his
conversation with the boy had not occupied five minutes; and some of
the English gentlemen were still studying the epistles they had
received in the court."

"You have been very brief, my lord," said the Marquis Dorset,
thrusting his letter into his pocket. "What news did the boy give you?
I have little or none."

"I have none at all," answered Richmond. "The boy only came from
Rouen, I find. The English messenger stopped there. So I must wait for
another long tedious fortnight before I get intelligence. I am glad to
hear from Rennes, however, my Lord of Morlaix," he added, addressing
one of the Breton gentlemen, who had been placed with him more as a
guard than an attendant, "that your noble duke is perfectly recovered,
and gone towards Maine for better air, to give him strength again."

"Indeed, my lord. I had not heard it," answered the gentleman he
addressed.

"It is true, notwithstanding," answered Richmond. "Come, gentlemen,
let us mount;" and, springing on his horse, he rode forth, followed by
his whole train.

As he went, he continued to talk of the duke of Britanny's recovery,
in a public and open manner, addressing some of his observations to
the Bretons who accompanied him.

"I fear," he said at length, "that his highness may think me somewhat
remiss if I do not go to compliment him on his recovery."

He remarked a slight frown come upon the face of Morlaix, as he spoke;
and that gentleman ventured to say--

"Perhaps, my lord the earl, it might be better to send a messenger
first, giving some intimation of your purpose; for his highness, if
you recollect--"

"I know what you would say," replied Richmond, as he paused and
hesitated. "His highness assigned me my residence at Vannes; and I am
well aware that observance of a prince's wishes is of more importance
than any mere point of ceremony. You, Dorset, are in the same case;
but, in this instance, happily we can do both; remain at the spot
assigned us, and yet show our gladness at our princely friend's
recovery. We will send every man, not tied down to this spot as we
are, to offer our sincere congratulations, and to show that we do not
come ourselves solely front respect for his commands."

"That, my lord, is indeed obviating all difficulties," said Morlaix,
with a smile; "and doubtless," he added hypocritically, "you will soon
receive an invitation to the court, to receive the honours due to your
station."

Richmond's face expressed no satisfaction at this answer; and, turning
to the rest of the English exiles, he merely said--

"Well, gentlemen, we will not ride far or fast to-day, as you will
need your horses for a longer journey to-morrow. I will write a letter
of compliment to his highness, which you shall deliver for me, and
explain that I only regret I could not be my own messenger. Monsieur
de Morlaix, if you will do me the honour of breaking your fast with
me, at an early hour to-morrow, we will see these gentlemen depart."

The other bowed with all due reverence, and, with much satisfaction,
seeing that the arrest of the earl of Richmond, and his delivery into
the hands of Richard's emissaries, which he knew was meditated by
Landais, would be much more easily effected, during the absence of so
large a body of the earl's friends and followers, than it could be
while they so closely surrounded his person. It was necessary however
for the Breton to obtain distinct directions as to how he should act;
and, as soon as he returned to the abbey of St. Gildas, he despatched
letters to Landais, informing him of the proposed movements of
Richmond's friends, and requiring orders for his guidance.

While he was thus occupied, the young messenger from the bishop of Ely
was again brought into the earl's presence, and the door closed and
bolted. Richmond eyed him for a moment attentively, and then said--

"What do you know, lad, of the contents of the packet you brought me?"

"Nothing, my lord," replied the boy.

"What do you guess?" demanded Richmond, who seemed to comprehend and
be comprehended at once.

"That your lordship is in peril from something," replied the other.

"Why do you guess that?" asked Richmond.

"Because I was told to be secret and swift," answered the boy, "to
destroy the packet if there was danger of its being taken, and to find
means of telling you, if I should be prevented from delivering it, to
be upon your guard against enemies. Moreover, I heard last night that
three hundred archers had marched into Vannes in the morning."

"Ha!" said the earl. "I heard not of that. They are rapid, it would
seem. Now, young man, are you willing to serve me well?"

"Right willing," replied the boy.

"Can you guide me, by the shortest and most secret ways, hence to the
town of Angers?" demanded Richmond.

"None better," said the boy.

"Well then, you shall do it," said Richmond; "but be silent and
secret. Utter no word of what I say to you, even to those who seem my
dearest friends. I have an expedition to make to Angers, to take
counsel with persons much in my interest there; but none must know of
my going. That is all. Stay, a word or two more," he continued,
thoughtfully. "It were as well that none should remark your staying
here, or know that we hold private conference together. It may seem as
if the news you brought from Rouen was of sufficient import to justify
suspicion. I will send you into Vannes. Stay there at the suburb at
the Golden Dolphin, and mind you chatter not."

"I chatter little, my lord," said the boy.

"I trust so and believe it, my good lad," replied Richmond; "but it
sometimes happens that youths like you, when speaking to persons of
superior station, are silent and discreet enough, and yet find a noisy
and loquacious tongue when with their fellows. But I will not doubt
you. You must have been proved, ere Morton trusted you. Only remember,
that if you are not now discreet, you may lose a good master, who will
make your fortune should you prove worthy."

"I will not lose him," said the boy.

"To-morrow night I will speak with you more," said Richmond; "do you
know a place near Vannes called Carnac?"

"What, where the great stones lie?" asked the lad. "Many a time I have
played amongst those stones, when I was eight years old."

"Then meet me there with your horse, just at the hour of sunset,
to-morrow evening," the earl replied. "Set off upon the road to
Rennes. Turn round by the great fish-ponds, and wait between the first
and second line of stones till I arrive--though I may tarry a little,
still wait."

"I will, my lord," replied the boy, and left the earl's presence.

He kept his word to the letter; for, though he laughed, and jested,
and talked with the people of the little cabaret where he put up, the
name of the earl of Richmond never escaped his lips. He talked of the
long journey he had had, and of how tired his horse was, and
complained a little that the Marquis Dorset had not paid him for his
services.

"Doubtless you are well paid before," said the landlord of the inn, to
whom he spoke. "You seem a sharp boy, and not one to go without
payment."

The lad laughed, and said nothing, confirming the man's suspicions,
that he had desired somewhat more than his due. Upon the pretence of
his horse needing repose, he continued to linger where he was during
the whole of that day and great part of the next, always talking of
going back to Rouen, till, at length, when evening approached, he paid
his score and departed. The landlord remarked, as he went away, "Ay,
there goes a young truant, who will be scolded roundly, I will
warrant, for lingering so long, and yet will not want an excuse for
his tardiness."

Slowly jogging on his way, the boy rode even somewhat farther than
Richmond had directed him. But, to say the truth, he knew the country
better than the earl himself; and he knew also the habits of the
place, which brought to the point at which Richmond had told him to
turn off, a considerable number of the country people, going into
Vannes, at that hour, to hear the evening service, at the church of
St. Paterne. Passing completely round the large tank or fish-pond
there, he approached the great Druidical temple of Carnac--the most
remarkable, perhaps, in the world--just as the sun was setting; and,
dismounting from his horse, he stood and gazed forth at the bright
sky, with interest very different from that which he might have felt
had he known where he stood. The boy was ignorant indeed of all the
historical associations connected with the place. He had never heard
of Druids, or Celts, nor of any other religion but the Roman Catholic;
but yet there was a curious sort of solemn grandeur in that scene,
with the thousands and thousands of tall stones, most of them then
standing upright in their five curious ranges, with the rosy 
light of the evening sky pouring in amongst them, which produced a
sensation almost akin to awe in his young though not very imaginative
heart.

"This is a strange place," he thought. "I wonder what it means? These
stones must have been put here by somebody. Perhaps they intended to
build a church here long long ago. But why should they spread them out
so far and set them all on end. It can't have been for a church
either. But they are all dead and gone, that's clear, and the stones
remain;" and his mind being then led on from point to point, by some
process within himself, he said, "I wonder what will become of me. It
is very droll, one can never tell what is to happen to oneself
afterwards. That earl said he would make my fortune. What will that
fortune be, I wonder?"

The sun gradually sank, and all was darkness; but shortly after a pale
gleam, coming upon some clouds to the eastward, showed that some other
light was coming; and the moon soared up in time, and shed her light
over the same scene. The boy looked round him somewhat timidly. He
began almost to fancy that ghosts of the dead might haunt those solemn
places. All remained still and quiet, however, till at length he heard
the sound of horses' feet, and ventured to look out. The riders were
not near enough for him to see anything, however; for the night was so
still that he heard them afar. At length they came nearer and nearer;
and, taking his stand at his horse's side, he gazed along the line of
stones till four horsemen rode in and approached him.

"Mount and come on," said the voice of Richmond; and the boy sprang
into the saddle at once. The earl had not stopped to speak the words,
and, ere the lad was mounted, he had ridden on some hundred yards, as
it seems in a wrong direction, for he speedily heard a low voice,
saying, "To the right, my lord. It is safer and shorter."

"But this is the road to La Roche Bernard," replied Richmond, turning,
and eyeing him by the moonlight.

"But you must not go by La Roche," replied the lad, "but by Redon and
Nozay. We will cross the Villaine near Redon. Then there is nothing to
stop you till you get to Nozay, neither towns nor castles, but sandy
tracks through the bushes. There is the castle of Furette, indeed; but
it was burnt in the last war, and there is no one in it."

"Play me not false," said Richmond, in a threatening tone, but turning
his rein at the same time in the direction the boy pointed out. "Ride
here," he continued, "between me and this good lord. Now tell me, how
far is it to Angers by this road?"

"Some twenty-six leagues, my lord," replied the lad, "and by the other
more than thirty."

"You are right there," said the Marquis Dorset.

"And what will one find on the other side of Nozay?" asked the earl.

"Nothing to stop you, sir," said the boy; "between it and Angers there
is the little village of Conde, where you can bait your horses; and
there is a good road thence to Angers, with nothing but hamlets or
scattered farm-houses, till you reach the town. No one would be able
to take you from Redon to Nozay but myself--at least, nobody at
Vannes; but from Nozay to Angers you could go by yourself if you
liked."

"You seem to know it well," said Richmond.

"I was born at Nozay," replied the boy.

There the conversation stopped; and they rode on in silence for some
time, going at a very quick pace, till at length the Earl said,

"We must spare our horses a little, or they will hardly bear us out.
Twenty-six leagues; think you we can do it in one day, boy?"

"Oh, yes, my lord," replied the boy, "if your beasts be strong and
willing. The night is fresh, and the ground soft; and we can afford to
stop and feed the horses at Nozay, for, if any one comes after us, a
thousand to one they will take the other road."

"That is one recommendation to yours at all events," said Dorset,
laughing; "and the ground is soft enough indeed, for it seems to me as
if we were entering a morass."

"So we are," answered the boy, coolly. "We had better ride one by one.
Then if I make a mistake, I shall be the first to pay for it."

Thus saying, he rode on boldly and rapidly, till, at the end of about
half a league, the swampy ground ceased, and the country began to rise
a little. Ascending by gradual <DW72>s the road which they now
followed, and which was clearly enough defined by its sandy colour,
gained a considerable elevation above the sea; and Richmond was just
in the act of observing that they must have got at least eight miles
from Vannes, when they heard the distant report of a cannon boom upon
the air, and Dorset exclaimed:

"What may that mean?"

"That they have found out you are gone," said the boy, laughing.

"Did it seem to come from Vannes?" demanded Richmond.

"To a certainty," answered the boy. "The wind sets this way; but it is
our own fault if they catch us now."

No other indication of pursuit reached their ears as they pursued
their way, till at length the boy, pointing forward with his hand,
said:

"There is Redon. You can either go through the town or by the ford.
The ford is shortest."

"And safest too, in all probability," replied Richmond.

"I think they could hear that gun," said the boy, "if they could but
make out what it meant."

"Then take the ford, by all means," said Richmond; and, pursuing a
narrow path to the left, which ran some way up the river, the lad led
them to the bank of the stream, and passed safely through, though the
water rose to the horse's girths. The rest followed; and, turning over
the shoulder of the hill, at the end of a few miles, they entered a
wild and desolate track, where woods and bushes seemed scattered over
a wide extent of shifting sand, amidst which all vestige of a road
seemed lost. Straight on went the boy, however, without pause or
hesitation, appearing to be guided, in finding his way back to his
native place, by the same sort of instinct which is possessed by dogs
and some kinds of pigeons.

All seemed so dark--for the moon had by this time gone down--so wild,
so trackless, that Richmond at length exclaimed, with anxious
sternness:

"Are you sure you are right, boy?"

"Quite sure," replied the boy; and on he went, leading the way through
one wide patch of bushes, round the angle of a little wood, down a
little dell, across a rivulet, up a <DW72>, into another track wilder
than before, as if not a tree had been cut down or a bush grubbed up
since last he was there.

"There comes morning," he said at length. "We shall reach Nosey just
at break of day."

"And right glad will my horse be to get there," said Dorset; "for he
is well nigh knocked up. He has been stumbling at every step for the
last hour."

"Food will set him up," said the boy, "and that he can soon have.
There is Bohalard and its windmill, to the right, peeping through the
dusk, like a great giant with his arms stretched out to catch us."

The sight of the windmill, and the boy's instant recognition of it,
relieved Richmond a good deal; for he had not been able to divest his
mind of some doubts as to his young guide's accuracy; for the country
had been so wild and trackless, that it seemed impossible to him for
any one accurately to remember every step of the way, and one mistake
must have been irretrievable in the darkness. A few minutes more set
him at rest completely; for as the air grew lighter every moment, he
perceived at no great distance in advance a tower upon an elevated
spot, and a little beyond that again, but lower down, the spire of a
church.

"What is that tower, boy?" he asked, as they rode on.

"It is called Beauvais, my lord," replied the lad; "and that is the
church of Nozay."

"Then let us slacken our pace a little," said Richmond, and, according
to the boy's prediction, they rode into the small town just as the sun
was rising.

"Here, stop here," said the boy, drawing in his horse's rein before a
house, which seemed somewhat like an inn of the second or third class;
"this is not the best cabaret, but the landlord is the honestest man;"
and, by thundering with his fists at the large gate, he soon brought
forth some of the inmates from their beds.

"Ah, petit!" cried the landlord, who was amongst the first; "is that
you again, Pierre la Brousse? and so you have brought me some guests."

"Who must have food for themselves and horses, in a minute, father,"
replied the boy, "for they want to be in Angers before mass."

"They'll hardly manage that," said the landlord, looking at the
horses; "however we must do what we can. Come in, come in. Jacques
tend the horses. Come, in, Pierre."

"No, I must up to the top of the church," said the boy, "to see who
comes after; for Maître Landais is no friend of mine, and, if his
people catch me, I shall taste hemp. So keep my horse saddled while he
feeds. The gentlemen can do as they like, for they can find their way
now; but I'll be away as soon as I see any one coming over the
_landes_."

This was said aloud, and Richmond answered--

"No, no. We will go with thee, lad."

"Stay, stay; my son shall go up the steeple," cried the landlord; "he
is quick enough in all conscience, and his eyes are good. You stay and
feed, Pierre."

Such was then the arrangement. The son of the landlord was sent up to
the top of the church to watch, while the whole party of travellers
halted at the little inn, to rest, feed their horses, and partake of
what coarse refreshment the place afforded. The horse of the Marquis
of Dorset, however, would not feed; but, by the mediation of Pierre la
Brousse, that nobleman procured another very fair animal to carry him
on, and the furniture of that which he had been riding was transferred
to the back of the fresh steed. The other four horses took their
provender willingly enough; and, having seen this most necessary point
settled, Richmond and his companions entered the house, and soon had
some eggs, meat, and wine set before them. They had time to make a
tolerable meal, but no more; for, just as they had finished, the
landlord's son came running in to say, that he saw a party of horsemen
coming over the _landes_, at the distance of about three miles.

"How many are they?" demanded Richmond, in a calm tone.

"A good number, sir," replied the young man, "but I did not stay to
count them."

"How can they have tracked us?" cried the boy.

"They had something running before them which looked like a dog," said
the landlord's son. "It was too far to see exactly what it was; but it
might be a blood-hound."

"My dog for an hundred angels!" said Richmond, in a low tone; "we must
to horse at once. Were they coming quick?"

"No, slow enough," answered the young man, following the strangers to
the courtyard.

"Thank Heaven, their horses must be as tired as ours," said Dorset;
and, paying the reckoning, the party of fugitives mounted in haste to
depart.

"There is a gold crown for thee, young man," said Richmond to the
landlord's son, before they set out; "and if thou and thy father can
contrive to delay those who come after for one hour, I promise, on the
word of an English nobleman, you shall have ten such sent to you by
some means. If I reach Angers in safety, you may come and claim the
reward. Now, on gentlemen, as fast as whip and spur will carry us."

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."




CHAPTER XXIX.


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.




CHAPTER XXX.


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."

"Warmer _things_, 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.




CHAPTER XXXI.


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 <DW19> 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.




CHAPTER XXXII.


Richard had seated himself, and taken up a paper from the table, which
he was perusing attentively, when Lord Fulmer entered. He laid down
the letter instantly, however, and gave the young nobleman the most
flattering reception.

"This is kind indeed, my lord," he said, extending his hand to him. "I
did not think the journey could have been performed so quickly. It
shows that you look upon the king's service as paramount indeed, when
you can quit your lady love thus, at a moment's notice, to render him
assistance."

Unwittingly the monarch touched upon a tender point, as the reader is
aware, and Fulmer felt in painfully. A cloud came upon his brow; and
he replied, somewhat coldly, that he was always ready to serve the
king.

"So, so," thought Richard, who was a great master of looks, and a
great observer of them, "this young man is moody. I suppose my
messenger arrived just in time. We must put a stop to this."

"I am glad to hear it is so, my lord," he said aloud, in a somewhat
proud and kingly tone; "for while we can, as you know, curb with a
strong hand the turbulent and the rebellious, we are ever willing to
shower honours and rewards upon those who serve us zealously and
faithfully."

"The only reward I desire, your grace," replied Fulmer, "is your kind
permission to complete my marriage with the Lady Iola St. Leger as
speedily as may be. I and my family have ever been faithful servants
to the house of York. We have never changed our faction; and to your
grace's person you know I am attached. I trust then that I may have
your permission."

"Ay, and much more," answered Richard. "There are intentions in my
bosom towards you, and my good Lord Calverly, which need not be
mentioned; but they will bear fruit--they will bear fruit;" and he
nodded his head significantly. "As soon as this expedition is over, on
which I would have you go,--I mean into Dorsetshire, to guard the
coast there for a few days, and put down the turbulent spirit of the
people in those parts, your marriage shall take place."

"May it not take place as I go thither, sire?" asked Fulmer, with an
impatient tone. "I must have a day or two for preparation. 'Tis but
the last ceremonies of the church are wanting; and I know that I shall
have Lord Calverly's good will. I will set off immediately, when she
is my own.

"What," exclaimed Richard, "has not my Lord Calverly told you that we
propose to be present ourselves? He concealed it from you, to make it
a pleasant surprise. No, no, this business admits of no delay. These
turbulent peasants must be put down, before their discontent becomes
dangerous; and you must away at once."

"May I speak plainly to your grace?" demanded Fulmer.

Richard bowed his head gravely; and the other went on, in a somewhat
mortified tone.

"In quitting Chidlow castle now, for your grace's service," he said,
"I leave a somewhat dangerous rival with my promised bride."

"A rival!" said Richard. "Who may that be? I thought she was
contracted to you."

"It is so, sire," answered Fulmer; "but we all know that no contracts
are held very valid, by some men, against the power of love."

"My brother Edward thought so," answered Richard, with a sarcastic
turn of the lip. "Who may this rival be, I say?"

"No other than the Lord Chartley," answered Fulmer, "whom your grace
has placed in ward with the lady's uncle."

"What, that gay youth again!" exclaimed Richard, with a laugh. "By my
faith he meets us at every turn. But he shall be looked to--make your
mind easy--he shall be looked to. Only serve us faithfully and well,
and the lady's hand shall be yours, whoever may gainsay it."

"Her hand were of little value to me, my good lord and sovereign,"
replied Fulmer, boldly, "if her heart be given to another."

"Her heart!" said Richard, with one of those low, cold, withering
laughs, so painful to an enthusiastic mind; "well, well, be you easy,
this gay fisherman of hearts, this Chartley, shall be removed in a
week or two, to some other place."

Fulmer was just in the act of muttering to himself--"In a week or
two!" when the door of the cabinet was opened; and a gentleman in
dusty apparel entered.

"They bade me come in, sire," he said, in a blunt tone, "though the
news I bear is not a fair exchange for a gracious welcome. The earl of
Oxford, with some other gentlemen of repute, has broken out of Ham
castle, and has taken the way to Britanny."

Richard smiled; and, seeing that the gentleman had something more to
add, he said--

"Go on."

"It is but a rumour," answered the other; "but, when at Dover, tidings
were brought, that Sir John Fortescue, one of your officers in Calais,
with twelve young gentlemen of good stock, had followed the same
course."

"Ha!" said Richard, in a sterner tone. "Is this so wide spread? But it
matters not," he added the moment after, with the smile returning to
his lip. "I have the wasp in my gauntlet; and he cannot sting, but
die."

"There was much turbulence in Kent too, as I rode along," said the
blunt messenger.

Richard mused for some moments, and then said--

"It is not comfortable news, Sir Arthur. Nevertheless be you welcome.
Is there anything else, you have to say?"

"No, my liege," answered the old knight, "what I have had to say is
bad enough; but, as I came along, not three miles from York, I passed
a limber young gentleman, on a weary horse. I have seen him in John
Hutton's train; and he told me that he had ridden post, from a place
called Lyme in Dorset, whither he had come in a fishing-boat, to bear
your grace tidings from Britanny."

The news seemed to affect Richard more than all the rest; and starting
up he exclaimed--

"Ha! Call me a groom, there!"

A groom was instantly called; and the king demanded, gazing at him
with an eager eye--"Has any one arrived from Britanny?"

"Not that I know of, sire," replied the man; "but there was some one
rode into the court just now."

"Bring him hither, instantly," said Richard; and, seating himself
again at the table, he gnawed the side of his hand with his front
teeth.

"Might I venture to say a word, sire?" asked Lord Fulmer.

"No, sir, no!" exclaimed Richard, vehemently, waving his hand for
silence, and then resuming his bitter meditation.

At the end of a few minutes, a young gentleman covered with dust,
pale, and evidently sinking with fatigue, was introduced into the
cabinet; and the king, fixing his eyes upon him, demanded--"What
news?--You are Sir John Hutton's nephew, if I mistake not."

"The same, my liege," replied the young man, in a feeble tone. "Would
that my uncle had been still in Britanny, methinks he had watched
better."

"Speak, speak," said the king, in as calm a voice as he could command.
"Some mischief has happened--say what has gone amiss."

"The earl of Richmond, my gracious lord, has escaped from Vannes,"
replied the young man. "He was pursued with all speed, tracked by his
own dog; but he reached the gates of Angers just as the duke's men
were at his heels."

Richard sat for a moment as if stupified. Then turning fiercely to
Fulmer, he exclaimed, "Is this a time to talk of marriages? To horse,
Lord Fulmer, and away. Your instructions shall be ready in an hour.
Serve the king well, and the brightest lady in all the land shall be
yours, if you but ask her. Fail, and as I live I will give her to
another. By Heaven, we will take hostages of all men; there is too
little faith on earth. The lady's hand for the best doer! Till then,
I'll keep her sure. Away, let me hear no more!"

Fulmer dared not express the feeling which these words called up, but
hastened from the room, with a flushed brow and cheek, while Richard,
leaning his head upon his hand, muttered once or twice, "'Tis time to
buckle on our armour."

The two gentlemen who had brought him the intelligence which had so
moved him remained standing before him without receiving the slightest
notice, for some five minutes, though one was hardly able to stand
from fatigue, and both were somewhat alarmed at the absent and unusual
mood into which the king was plunged. His face was agitated, while he
thus thought, with a thousand shades of emotion. Now he bit his lip,
and fixed his keen eye upon the floor; now his brow contracted, and
his lip quivered; now he raised his eyes to the fretted and painted
ceiling over head, with a sort of vacant look, from which all
expression was banished; and when he at length ended this fit of
meditation with a loud laugh, both the spectators feared his powerful
mind had become affected, by the disappointment he had lately
undergone. They tried, indeed, to suppress all signs of wonder; but he
seemed to read their thoughts, the moment his spirit was re-called to
the immediate business of the hour.

"Strange, Sir Arthur," he said, "that the things which--seen through
rage and disappointment--are magnified, as in a mist, into giant
evils, should, under a moment's calm reflection, diminish to their own
pigmy reality. Here now, a minute or two ago, I thought the escape of
this earl of Richmond from Britanny, and the reception in France, a
mighty great disaster, the earl of Oxford's flight from Ham a
portentous incident. Now it moves my merriment to think how I would
whip the dame of Derby's beggar boy back to his Breton almshouse, if
he dared to set his foot within this realm of England. By holy St.
Paul, I would give him safe conduct over the narrow seas, and not
place a galliot to impede his coming, for the mere jest of scourging
him like a truant back to school, but that our realm has bled too much
already, and that I hold the life of every subject dear. Who is this
Richmond? Where is his name in arms? On what fields has he gained
glory? Where learned he the art of war? And is it such a man as this
shall come to battle for a crown, with one whose cradle was a corslet,
his nursery a bloody fight, his schools Hexham, and Barnet, and
Tewksbury, his pedagogues York, and Salisbury, and Warwick and Edward?
Where are his generals? Will Dorset--feeble, vacillating, frippery
Dorset, lead the van, and order the battle? Methinks, it is indeed
meet matter for merriment; and I may well laugh, to think that I
should have given an anxious look towards the movements of this Tudor
boy. Say, my good friend, have all the fugitive lords gone with him
into France? But you are weary. Sit you in that chair--nay, the king,
wills it. Now answer me."

"No, my gracious liege," replied young John Hutton; "he gave them all
the slip, I hear; sent them to the duke's court, to compliment him on
his recovery; and thus having lulled suspicion, by the sacrifice of
his friends, he fled away with only four in company?"

"Is the good duke then well again?" asked Richard, with a slight frown
once more contracting his brow; "what news of Master Landais?"

"I heard he was right well, sire, and in high favour with his lord,"
replied the young man; "but I stayed not to learn all that was
passing; for I thought your grace had been ill-served, and, entering a
fishing-boat at once, I came over, and took horse. I have not lain in
a bed since; for, although evil news never make a welcome messenger,
yet I fancied your Highness' service might be benefitted by early
tidings; and I thought that if it should be really so, your frown
would prove lighter to me than your thanks for better tidings."

"You did well," said Richard, gravely, "you did right well, young man;
and shall not go unrewarded. Weinants has been outwitted; over
discreet men often are. Now go and seek repose; and remember, take
your place at the board of our gentlemen of the privy chamber, till I
can place you better."

The young man bowed, with a grateful look, and withdrew. Then turning
to the other, Richard said, "Are you too over-weary, Sir Arthur?"

"Faith not I, my lord the king," replied the old knight. "I am
hardened. My old clay has been beat to such consistence with hard
knocks, that it cracks not easily."

"Well, we will give you till to-morrow for repose," said Richard,
"then, good, faith, you must back to Kent, and strive to quiet the
turbulent folks. You shall have letters, and authority. 'Tis pity no
hemp grows there; but you will find ropes at Dartford--you understand
me."

When Richard was once more left alone, he strode up and down the room
for several minutes, in much agitation. "No more losses!" he said at
length, "No more losses! They must not be suffered to fall off. This
marriage must go forward quickly, once more to heal the breaches in
the house of York. They shall not be patched with Tudor clay. We must
keep all, gain more. This young Lord Fulmer, I was somewhat stern with
him in my haste. I must smooth that down before he goes. But I will
keep my fair hostage for his faith. Chartley--there is great power and
wealth and many friends there. He must be won. Perchance this heiress
may be a meet bait for him too. Let them contend for her in the king's
service. At all events, while I have the pretty decoy in my own hand,
I can whistle either bird back to the lure."




CHAPTER XXXIII.


It was like a cloud passing away from a summer sky. It was as when a
weary traveller laying down the heavy burden he has carried far, by
the side of the road, stretches his freed limbs in an interval of
rest. Such was the effect of Lord Fulmer's departure from Chidlow.
Iola's light and buoyant heart bounded up from beneath the load; all
her bright and happy spirits returned; the smile came back to her lip;
and, though the rose took longer to expand upon her cheek again, yet,
after a night of sweet calm rest, some part of the bloom had returned.

Constance was never very gay; but she was cheerful. Chartley felt that
a source of constant irritation and annoyance was removed; and, with
the happy facility of youth, he prepared to enjoy the present hour,
careless of fortune's turn the next. Even the abbess, though she knew
little or nothing of what had been passing in the hearts around her,
seemed to share in the relief, and laughed and talked in merry mood,
especially with Chartley, who was an object of high admiration to her.
Clear-sighted Sir William Arden, who had seen right well that Chartley
and his rival could not go on long in the same dwelling without danger
of bloodshed, felt his apprehensions removed; and Sir Edward
Hungerford remarked:--

"Well, I am glad Fulmer is gone; for he was turning marvellous fierce,
and he wore such an ill-appointed doublet. It was painful to see the
blue and yellow, and made one think of some strange bird."

Only the good pompous lord of the castle seemed unchanged; and he,
"full of wise saws and modern instances," walked gravely about,
reasoning in very trite sort upon all he saw, and lecturing rather
than conversing.

Early in the morning of the day after Fulmer's departure, all those
who were mere guests, invited for a day or two, took their leave and
left the castle. The abbess proposed to return to her cure on the
following morning; and Lord Calverly was laying out various plans for
making the heavy time pass lightly, when a courier arrived with
letters from the king's lieutenant in the county.

"Now good faith," he said, "this is unfortunate; for it breaks all my
purposes. This noble lord here requires my immediate presence, to
consult as to the best and most approved means of preserving peace and
tranquillity in the county. He knows I have some experience in such
things; and, though my judgment be but a poor judgment, yet he has
confidence therein. Strange stories are current, he says, of meetings
of peasantry by night, and strangers coming from distant parts to be
present thereat. God forefend that there should be new troubles
coming! But I must to horse and away. I will return before night; and,
in the mean time, lords and ladies, you must amuse yourselves as best
you may. There are fish in the stream, deer in the park, chess, dice,
and other games in the little hall, instruments of music in the
gallery, lutes, citherns, and the rest, so that you have means of
entertainment if you seek it; and, good faith, if you are dull I
cannot help it; for you know, my Lord Chartley, the call of duty is
imperative, and courtesy, which gives place to nothing else, must
yield to that."

They were not dull; but how shall I describe the passing of that day?
To Chartley and to Iola it was a long draught of the cup of joy. Did
they drink too deeply? I almost fear they did. Chartley _resolved_ to
act in all things prudently, to be calm, quiet, and upon his guard,
though courteous and easy, as he would be to any lady in whom he had
no interest. Iola _resolved_ neither to be cold nor warm in manner
towards him, neither to encourage nor to repel, to seek nor to avoid,
to let his conduct be the guide of hers, to govern her feelings and to
tranquillise her heart.

Oh, resolutions, resolutions! How that heart, which was to be so
tranquil, beat, when her uncle rode away, and she felt herself left
with him she loved, to pass the hours almost as they would! Heaven
knows how they flew. Chartley was often with her. He did not shut
himself in his chamber. He did not ride out to hunt, nor walk forth to
meditate alone. At first he conversed with her, as they had done at
their meeting in the abbey, gaily, cheerfully, with a vein of thought
running through the merriment, and a touch of feeling softening the
whole. But they were sometimes left alone together; and gradually they
began to call up the memories of the past, to talk of scenes and
incidents which had occurred, and words which had been spoken during
the long adventurous night they had passed in the forest. It was
dangerous ground; they felt it shake beneath them; but yet they would
not move away. Their hearts thrilled as they spoke. Iola, with the eye
of memory, saw Chartley sitting at her feet; and he, in fancy, felt
her breath fanning his cheek as her head drooped upon his shoulder in
sleep. Oh, how treacherous associations will open the gates of the
heart to any enemy that desires to enter! They approached nearer and
nearer to subjects which they had determined to avoid; they even spoke
of them in circuitous and ambiguous phrases. The words which they
uttered did not express their full meaning, but the tones and the
looks did; and, by the time that the sun had sunk to within half an
hour's journey of the horizon, Iola and Chartley knew that they loved
each other, as well as if they had spoken and vowed it a thousand
times.

She was agitated, much agitated, it is true, but perhaps less so than
he was; and to see why, we must look for a moment into their hearts.
Iola felt that in loving him she was doing no wrong, that the contract
which bound her to Lord Fulmer was altogether void and invalid, that
marriages in infancy, where that mutual and reasonable consent is
absent, upon which every contract must be based, were altogether
unlawful; and that therefore, morally and religiously, she was as free
as if her relations had never unjustly made a promise in her name. It
may be that she had been easily convinced--it may be that love for one
and disliking for another had smoothed the way for such conviction;
but still she was _convinced_; and no consciousness of doing wrong
added weight to other emotions. She might contemplate the future with
dread; she might gaze upon the coming days as upon a wide sea of
tumultuous waves, through which she could see no track, beyond which
appeared no shore; and she might tremble lest the billows should
overwhelm her. But she felt confident in the protection of Heaven, and
sure that she was doing nought to forfeit it.

Not so exactly Chartley. Not alone the future, but the present also,
had its darkness for him. He knew not her exact situation; he knew not
whether the ceremonies of the church--often in those days performed
between mere children, and looked upon, when once performed, as a
sacrament, merely requiring an after benediction to be full and
complete--had or had not taken place between her and Lord Fulmer. His
reason might teach him that such espousals, where neither the heart
nor the judgment were consulted, were in themselves wicked and
dangerous; but his mind had not yet reached the point of considering
them quite invalid. He had been brought up as a strict Roman Catholic.
It was the only religion tolerated in his native land; and, although
he could not but see that gross corruptions had crept into the church
to which he belonged, and that many of the grossest of those
corruptions had been made the foundation of dogmas even more dangerous
than themselves, yet, not having met with any of the followers of
Wickliffe, he had never heard the heresies, the idolatries, or the
usurpations of the Roman church fully exposed--nor indeed
attacked--till passing through Bohemia, in his return from the East,
he had met with some of the disciples of Huss at a small road-side
inn. The conversation had been free; for, far from large towns, the
doctrines which the council of Constance could not suppress were more
boldly spoken; and Chartley heard words which shook his faith in the
infallibility of Rome, and made him, determine to inquire and judge
for himself at an after period. He had not yet inquired, however; and,
even while he gave way to the impulses of the heart, he felt doubtful,
fearful of his own conduct. Had such not been the case, the passion in
his breast would have found open and undisguised utterance. Dangers
and difficulties he would have set at nought; impediments he would
have overleaped, with the knowledge that he was loved in return. But
now he doubted, as I have said, hesitated, suffered his love to be
seen, rather than declared it openly.

The abbess sat embroidering at one end of the hall, while Iola and
Chartley stood together in the oriel window at the other; and Sir
William Arden, with the right knee thrown across the left, and his
head bent, pored over the miniatures in a richly illuminated
manuscript of Monstrelet, lifting his eyes from time to time, with a
thoughtful look, towards Chartley and Iola, and thinking, if the truth
must be told, that Constance was somewhat long absent. The glow of the
evening sun, poured full through the window at which the lovers were
standing, concentrated upon them by the stone work; and, both so
beautiful and full of grace, they looked in that haze of golden beams
like the old pictures of saints in glory. Just at that moment
Constance entered the hall with a light step, and a more cheerful look
than usual. She too had been reading; and she had found what she
sought, truth--truth, which came home to her own heart, and dispelled
every doubt and shadow within it. She looked up at the window, as she
crossed the hall, and said, in a low sweet voice:

"What a fair evening! The sunset must look beautiful from the
ramparts."

"So it must!" exclaimed Iola. "Let us go out and enjoy it. Will you
come, dear lady mother?" she added, raising her voice to reach the ear
of the abbess.

"No, dear child, no," replied the elder lady, "I must finish this
cat's head. I never saw such a troublesome puss in my life;" and she
laughed merrily. "I cannot get her whiskers in, all I can do. When I
make them black, they look like a spot of ink, and when I make them
white, they look like a drop of cream. But go, my children, go. The
evening is beautiful; and sunsets and sunrises, and such sort of
things, do young people good. Forget not to tell your beads, Iola, as
he goes down; for no one can ever tell what his rising may look upon."

Without any other covering of the head than that which they wore in
the house, the two girls went forth with Chartley, Sir William
starting up and following. It need not be asked how the party divided
itself. Ah, it is a pleasant number, four. It does not admit of much
variety; but, on most occasions, it is perfect in itself. Happy Iola,
how gaily she walked on by Chartley's side, round those same walls
which she had trod some evenings before, with a pale cheek and anxious
eye, and a heart well nigh despairing. Now all the scene was bright
and beautiful, on the one side spreading out the purple glow of
evening, on the other, the pale primrose of the west growing fainter
at the approach of night, and the golden hills all round crowning
themselves with the beams of the departing sun. As if to leave them
free room to say all that might be sweet, yet dangerous, to say, Sir
William Arden and Constance lingered a good way behind, paused often,
once or twice sat down, till Iola and Chartley, circling all round the
walls, came back to them again.

What was Sir William Arden doing? I verily believe he was making love
in his own peculiar way; for, every now and then, in the midst of
smiles at some odd frank speech, a faint blush fluttered over
Constance's fair cheek, as if she felt that, in his warmer words,
there was an allusion to herself.

Chartley and Iola passed them by, each party so full of their own
thoughts as not to notice the other.

"It was indeed," said Chartley, "a night ever to be remembered--at
least by me--a night full of sensations new, and deep, and thrilling;
sensations known but once in a whole lifetime. Nor do I think that you
will ever forget it. Did I not tell you, that it was one of those
points of time which raise their heads above the waste of the past,
and are seen like a mountain peak, till man is at the end of his
journey?"

"It cannot be forgot, indeed," replied Iola, and cast her eyes down
thoughtfully.

"Strange words you spoke that night," continued Chartley; "words that
to me were then like the mysterious figures upon Egyptian stones, of
which I could interpret nothing. Now, alas, I have got the key."

"What words?" demanded Iola. "What words of mine can even from memory
produce so sad a tone?" and she looked up in his face, with the
feeling of her heart but too plainly written in her eyes.

"You spoke," replied Chartley, "words that have rung in my ear ever
since, 'Happy are those who have no ties to bind them!' I now knew of
what ties you spoke--" and he added, almost vehemently, "Oh that I
could rend them, and scatter them to the winds."

"Chartley!" said Iola, pausing for an instant, and then immediately
resuming her walk.

"Forgive me!" said Chartley. "I know I am wrong. I know it is very
wrong, even to feel what I feel, and that to speak it is worse.
Forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive," replied Iola, in a very low tone. "You
have done no wrong, that I know of."

"Oh yes, I have," answered Chartley. "I have agitated and alarmed you
by my rash words. You tremble, even now."

"Every wind will move a willow," answered Iola. "If I tremble,
Chartley, it is not from what you think; but, I say you have done no
wrong, and I mean it."

"What, not to acknowledge love to the wife of another?" said Chartley.

"I, I, his wife!" said Iola, with a start. "No, no, I am not, and
never will be. The sin were, if I vowed to love where I cannot love,
if I promised what cannot be performed;" and, casting her eyes to the
ground again, she clasped her hands together, and walked on by his
side in silence.

"What then," said Chartley, after a moment's thought, "has not the
church's sanction of your contract been pronounced?"

She remained silent for about a minute, ere she answered; and the many
changes which passed over her beautiful countenance, during that short
space, are impossible to describe. Then she looked up again, with one
of those bright and glorious looks, in which a happy spirit seems to
speak out, triumphing over dark thoughts or memories; but still there
were drops in her eyes.

"Hear what there exists," she said. "I had little knowledge of it
myself till I came here; but this, I now learn, is all. There is a
cold parchment, contracting in marriage one Iola St. Leger to one
Arnold Lord Fulmer. To it are signed the names of Calverly, Talbot,
Bouchier, Savage, and other peers and gentlemen, having some
guardianship over, or interest in, those two persons mentioned. But,
above all," she added, with a faint smile and a rueful shake of the
head, "are two crosses, somewhat crooked, shaken, and unseemly; for,
in truth, I think our little hands must have been guided in the making
of them, which, as at the side it is testified in clerkly hand, are
the signatures of Arnold Lord Fulmer and Iola St. Leger. This is all,
Lord Chartley."

"Then you are mine," said Chartley, in a low, deep, eager tone; "then
you are mine. Tell me not of obstacles, think me not over bold. Iola
would never have uttered what she has, had her heart not been ready to
say, Yea; and as for obstacles, I will devour them like a flame."

Iola now trembled more than before.

"Hush, hush!" she said, "Do not speak so vehemently; you frighten me,
Chartley. I must beseech you to do nothing rashly. Say nothing to any
one at present--nay, not a word. I must entreat, I must beg--and"
resuming in a degree her gay tone, she added: "more, I must command,
that you interfere not in the least. You are my servant, are you not?
Well then, servant, I order you to take no part in this whatever. Fear
nothing, Chartley. Light as I seem, gay, as I am, gentle as I would
fain be to all, I can be as firm as iron, where I am sure I have right
on my side, as I am sure here. I cannot love him. I will not marry
him; but the refusal must come from my own lips, and not be spoken by
another."

"But they may find means to overbear your will," said Chartley,
"unless you have some support--ay, and that support must be a strong
arm, a stout heart, and powerful means."

"Should the time ever come when I need it," said Iola, "you shall
have instant notice."

"But they may force you into a convent," said Chartley. "That, I
believe, is within their power to do. At least, I have heard of
several instances where it has been done."

"They would find it difficult with me," replied Iola. "They might
force me into a prison, it is true; but vows against my conscience I
will never take, to mortal man or to the altar. One thing, perhaps,
they can do; for of that I know little. They may take from me these
broad lands, and the goodly heritage which my father possessed and
forfeited. I am reputed to be their heiress; but doubtless my uncle
can take them from me, if I obstinately oppose his will."

"That is not worth a thought," answered Chartley. "Wealth has
undoubtedly its value, my Iola; but it is not happiness, and only a
small ingredient therein. Let us speak of things of more importance. I
cannot but fear you calculate too much upon your strength, your
courage, and your power of resistance. But leave the matter to me, and
I will contrive to cut the gordian knot of all difficulties, in a very
short space of time. There is a plan before my eyes, even now, which
could hardly fail us."

"Would you cut that knot, like the Macedonian, with your sword?" said
Iola, gazing at him with a meaning look. "No, Chantey, that must not
be. If you love me as you say, you will not attempt it. Nay, more, you
will trust to me, and to the promise which I make, to call upon you at
once, in the moment of need, whenever that moment comes."

"But I may be absent. You may have no means," replied Chartley.

"Ah, I have means and messengers that you know not at," answered Iola
gaily, "fairies that will fly like swallows with my messages, elves of
the green wood that will track you for me through their darkest
bowers. Nay, I am serious, Chartley. What would you think if I were to
tell you that even in the midnight, with doors all bolted, barred, and
locked, the keys lying by the heavy porter's head, and all the warders
snoring in their beds, I can pass forth from this castle, and sport
upon the lawns and <DW72>s around, as if it had no walls--nay, that I
have done it."

"Then you are a fairy yourself," answered Chartley, "as I have been
half inclined to think ere now. But I have your promise; your solemn
promise, that nothing shall ever force you, to this detested marriage,
and that you will send to me, or give me notice, the moment that my
aid is needful--and not delay too long."

"I will," she answered, emphatically. "Methinks you would not find it
difficult to guard me once more through the green forest, as you did
one night we both remember; and should it be needful, Chartley, so to
do, I will then trust as implicitly to your honour as I did before;
for Iola will be wholly at your mercy. But I must have promise for
promise, and vow for vow. You must assure me that, whatever you see,
whatever you hear, you will remain quiescent, and leave the whole
decision to myself."

"Then if that youth returns," answered Chartley, "I must shut myself
up in my dull tower, and make myself a prisoner indeed."

Iola smiled, saying in a low tone--

"It might perhaps be better--if Chartley cannot rule Chartley. But
happily there is no chance of my being pressed on this sad subjects
for weeks or months to come, as I learn from Constance that the king
has refused to give an immediate consent; for which I could almost
say, Heaven bless him."

"That is happy news indeed," answered Chartley; "and yet, Iola, I
could wish that if a struggle is to be made, it might be soon made;
for nothing is so painful as uncertainty."

"All men are alike in that, I see," replied Iola; "we women love to
put off the evil day."

"It may indeed, in this instance, be as well," answered Chartley, "for
it gives time for preparation; and that I will commence at once."

"Preparation for what?" demanded Iola in some surprise.

"For any thing that may occur," replied Chartley; "but for one thing
we must both be prepared, sweet Iola--for flight--ay, flight to
distant lands, love; for think not that if we venture to unite our
fate by the dearest and the holiest rite, against the consent of your
family, in defiance of their contract, and without the king's
permission, this land will be safe for us thenceforward. Richard is
well fitted to find treason in such acts; and, if he cannot part you
from your husband, to take your husband's head. My preparation
therefore must be, not only to secure a refuge in another land, but to
provide means there, to keep us from poverty or dependence. But that
will be easily accomplished. Will you regret it, Iola? Will you shrink
from it--to pass some few years with Chartley on a foreign shore, and
leave this fair land and all the memories of home behind you?"

"No, oh no!" she answered; "I will neither shrink nor regret. My home
will ever be with my heart--" she paused, and the crimson spread gently
over her cheek, as she felt how much her words implied. Her eyes too,
sunk under the warm, and tender, and grateful gaze which was bent upon
her; but the next moment she asked, in her low sweet tones--"Will you
never regret, Chartley? Will you never think that you have paid for
Iola's hand too dear a price, when memory turns back to your native
land, high station, wealth, ambition, all sacrificed for her?"

"Never," answered Chartley; "were it to cost me all, and leave us but
a cabin and bare food, I would not hesitate now, or regret hereafter.
I do but change dross for a jewel of inestimable price, and I will
value it ever as I do now."

They were both silent for several minutes; and then, as they turned
the north western angle of the walls, they saw the sun setting in the
splendour of scattered clouds, and Constance and Sir William Anton
advancing towards them. Iola perceived that her cousin's step wanted
its quiet steadiness; and when her eye fixed on her face, a blush rose
in Constance's cheek.

"There is the sun setting and your uncle rising, lady," said Sir
William Arden, in a gay voice, pointing with his hand in the direction
of the road across the park, upon which several horsemen might be seen
advancing--"we shall soon have the light of his countenance, though
the star goes down."

"Let us go in," said Iola, in a hurried tone; "perhaps we have already
staid out too long; but the evening has been so beautiful."

"And the conversation so sweet," said Arden, almost in a whisper to
Constance; "so should close the phrase both with Chartley and with me,
if I had aught of the court in my nature. I will study, dear lady--I
will study, and rub off the rust which has gathered between my armour
and my skin."

"No--Be ever, what you are," answered Constance.




CHAPTER XXXIV.


Another day elapsed, and another. The sunshine mingled with the shade;
as is ever the case in human life; but there were no dark clouds.
Sometimes, for many hours, Chartley and Iola could obtain not a single
moment for private intercourse. At others, a whole sweet hour was won
from the great adversary of love, the world. Lord Calverly perceived
not, or did not seem to perceive, that anything was changed; and the
lady abbess set off to rejoin her nuns, as ignorant of the secrets of
Iola's heart as she had come. Thus wore away the second day, till
towards nightfall, when the whole party of the castle returned from
their evening ride, and entered the great court. The porter did not
venture to stop his lord's horse, as he passed the archway; but he
followed him into the court, with a quick step, saying aloud--

"Lord Fulmer is returned, my lord, and wishes to speak with your
lordship instantly. He is in the little hall."

The old nobleman dismounted from his horse, and, leaving Iola and
Constance to the care of the rest, hurried up the manifold steps which
led to the door.

Chartley's cheek flushed, as he heard the words the porter spoke; but,
as he stood by Iola's side, assisting her to dismount, she said in a
low but earnest tone--

"Chartley, to your tower, till you can command yourself--I beseech--I
entreat you--if you love me."

Chartley bowed his head in sign of acquiescence; and, not considering
that Lord Fulmer could not know all that had passed between Iola and
himself, since his departure, he consoled himself with the thought,
"If this lord keeps the spirit which he has hitherto displayed, he
will soon seek me in my chamber."

Thus thinking, he turned away to the apartments assigned to him, while
Iola, Constance, and Sir William Arden entered the main body of the
building. The latter, however, seeing Iola take her cousin's arm, and
whisper something in her ear, tarried in the great hall, while the two
fair girls ascended the stairs.

The words of Iola to her cousin were--"Come with me, Constance.
Something tells me in my heart that the hour of trial is coming. Let
me meet it at once, before my spirit sinks with anticipation. But I
must have something to lean on, dear cousin. You be my support."

They walked on, till they reached the door of the little hall; and it
was not climbing the steps of the stairs, though they were many, that
made Iola's breath come short and quick. It was the beating of the
anxious heart. She opened the door at once, however, and went in. Her
uncle and Lord Fulmer were standing together at some distance on the
right of the door in earnest conversation; and, as soon as Iola and
her cousin entered, Lord Calverly retreated towards the oriel window,
saying to his companion--

"Come hither, come hither."

But Iola would not give up the ground; and, though she walked to the
other end of the hall, she remained in the room. She turned an anxious
and eager gaze towards her uncle and Lord Fulmer, however, and
whispered to Constance--"I knew it--see how eagerly they speak."

They spoke so long that the suspense was very painful; but, at length,
they turned, as if to come towards the two ladies, and Lord Fulmer
said aloud--

"Upon my honour and my faith, not a word shall be uttered without your
permission;" and then they advanced with a quick step, Lord Calverly
only saying in reply--

"So be it then."

Iola gazed at them in the dim light, for the sun was by this time
down; and her hand clasped tight upon her cousin's arm--

"Now, God help me," she murmured.

"Iola, my dear niece," said Lord Calverly, approaching, "I have a
communication to make to you, which will take you somewhat by
surprise; but you have received an education which will make you
always submit to duty, I am sure, unmurmuring. This noble lord here
has just informed me of circumstances which render it absolutely
necessary that we should pass over all preliminaries, and that you
should give him your hand immediately, according to the contract
entered into long ago."

"Iola gasped, and tried to answer, but her voice failed her; and Lord
Calverly went on to say--

"It is somewhat sudden in verity and truth; but he must depart for
Dorset by daybreak to-morrow, and therefore the marriage ceremony must
be performed to-night. The priest will be ready in the chapel at ten,
and--"

"Impossible!" said Iola, in a firm and almost indignant tone; for this
was worse than she had expected, and it roused her anger. "What, two
hours' notice to prepare for the most important step of all a woman's
life And does this noble lord think to conciliate affection, or to win
esteem, by such indecent haste, by such a rude insult to all the
feelings of my heart?"

"What feelings?" demanded Lord Calverly, sharply. "I see, my lord, it
is as you thought. Hark you, lady, I am not a man to be trifled with.
I have ruled my own household well and steadily; and, please God, I
will rule you too. No one has ever been suffered to disobey me; and
you shall not be the first. Go and prepare. What, ho, without there?"
he continued, turning to the door; and a servant running up, he
said--"Bring lights here. Where is Lord Chartley?"

"Gone to his apartments, noble lord," replied the man.

"Set a guard at his door," said Lord Calverly. "Let his servants pass
in and out, but not himself."

Then turning again to Iola, with an angry tone, he said--

"Marry! The feelings of your heart! We begin to understand them,
niece. What have the feelings of your heart to do with a contract of
marriage already signed and sealed?"

"Everything," replied Iola; "in as far as upon them depends whether I
will or will not fulfil a contract entered into without my consent,
and which therefore cannot be binding on me."

"Idle nonsense," cried Lord Calverly; "you know little of the law of
the land, my learned gentlewoman. God's my life! We shall soon have
chits out of a nunnery-school setting up for chief justices. The
contract was entered into by your guardians on your behalf, and is
binding upon you by law."

"Then let him appeal to the law to enforce it," said Iola; "for by my
act and my will, it shall never be fulfilled."

"Nay, nay, my dear uncle," said Constance, "you are too harsh with
her. Think what a surprise this must be, when you yourself told me
that the king had not yet given his consent to the marriage, and that
it must be put off for a month or two, till he and the queen could be
present. Of course, she marvels at this sudden change; for I told her
exactly what you told me."

"More fool you, wench," answered her uncle, who was irritated beyond
measure, at the first opposition he had ever met with, from one whom
he conceived to be dependent on himself. "Circumstances have changed;
and now we must pass over royal consents, and all such trifling
matters. She is a disobedient hussy, and shall bow her pride to my
will this very night, or my name is not Calverly. Away to your
chamber, madam, and prepare as fast as possible. You have two hours to
think. So make your mind up, as best you may, to yield obedience, or
you will find I will force you."

Lord Fulmer had stood during this conversation, which was so rapid as
hardly to admit of interruption, in no very enviable state of mind,
and with looks by no means calm or dignified. He had thought himself
firmer and sterner than he really was, and now he hesitated and
regretted.

"Stay, stay, my lord," he said. "Iola, let me beseech you--dear lady,
let me plead."

"Hush, my lord," answered Iola, giving him a cold and shuddering look.
"Your cause has been put upon its proper footing, force. My noble
uncle, prompted by you, speaks the first feelings of your heart. No
after thought can now avail. You and he may drag me to the altar. You
and he may cause a vain ceremony to be performed, turn a deaf ear to
my rejection of the vows tendered me, and commit what violence you
will. But you cannot make me your wife; for that depends upon myself;
and the words which would constitute me such shall never be uttered by
these lips in favour of a man whom I never loved, and whom I now
scorn."

"This is all vain," exclaimed Lord Calverly, his rage only increasing.
"Argue not with her, my lord; she will learn her duty when she is your
wife. This very night--ay, as the clock strikes ten--the ceremony
shall be performed in the chapel of the castle, whether she will or
not; and, once that sacrament received, the union is indissoluble. My
chaplain will administer it. He will have no scruples to obey my
commands, when I show him the contract. Away to your chamber,
disobedient wench, and be ready to perform what you cannot refuse."

With a slow step, and still leaning on her cousin's arm, Iola quitted
the hall, mounted a few steps near the hall door, passed through the
long corridor which ran round that side of the castle, and then turned
into the passage, leading to her own chamber. Constance marvelled that
she trembled not; but Iola's step was firm and light, though somewhat
slow. She opened the door of the ante-room, and looked in; but there
was no one there, and it was dark and vacant.

"What will you do, dear Iola? How can I help you?"

"No way, dear Constance," replied her cousin, "but by giving me an
hour for calm thought. Keep my girl, Susan, way from me. Tell her, I
want no lights for an hour, and only wish to think."

"But what will you do?" asked Constance.

"Not marry him," replied Iola; "no, not if he had an emperor's crown
to lay at my feet. Does he think this the way to win a woman's
heart?--Leave me, leave me, dear Constance! Come again in an hour. By
that time my resolution will be taken--" and as Constance turned sadly
away and closed the door, Iola added, in a low voice to herself, "and
executed."

Slowly and thoughtfully Constance trod her way back towards the lesser
hall, pausing more than once, as if to consider some plan. When she
entered, the sconces were lighted, and her uncle and Lord Fulmer were
standing under one of them at some distance, still talking loud and
eagerly.

"Nonsense, nonsense," cried Lord Calverly. "This is now my business.
She will disobey my commands, will she? She shall be taught
better--" Then, seeing Constance, he raised his voice, as if he had not
been speaking loud enough before, exclaiming, "Where have you left
that little rebel, Constance?"

"In her chamber, my lord," replied Constance, in a sad tone.

"'Twere better you stayed for her," said her uncle.

"She sent me away, my lord," replied Constance, "refusing all
consolation."

"Well, well, let her sulk," answered the old nobleman. "We care not
for sullenness, so we have obedience. The storm will work itself
clear, my lord, never fear;" and he resumed his conversation with
Fulmer.

In the mean time, Constance glided out of the other door, and sought a
small room where the women servants of the castle were accustomed to
work in the evening. She found her own maid there, but not Iola's
girl, Susan; and, sending the former, to give her cousin's message,
Constance proceeded through the lower passages of the house, and under
the lesser hall, to the great hall below. It was now fully lighted;
but she found Sir William Arden still there walking up and down with a
slow step, and his arms crossed upon his chest.

"I am very glad I have found you," said Constance, approaching him,
with an eager and confiding look. "I have something to tell you."

"I thought so, dear lady," replied the knight. "I thought so, as soon
as I heard of this young lord's return; and so I waited here, to see
if I could help. What is it? Two or three men came in, a few minutes
ago, and took down some partizans from the wall. What may that mean?"

"That they have set a guard at Lord Chartley's door," answered
Constance; "and that my uncle vows he will compel Iola to give her
hand to Lord Fulmer at ten tonight."

"A guard at Chartley's door," exclaimed Arden. "Then something must be
done indeed. We must consult, dear lady; but let us seek some more
private place than this. You are not afraid to go with me?"

"Oh no," answered Constance, giving him her hand; "you persuaded me to
tell you so the other day. But come into the passage behind the hall.
Few pass that way, I believe; and, we can speak freely there."

Thus saying, she led him to the farther end of the wide vaulted
chamber, and thence, through a low-browed door, into a small narrow
passage, where a single lamp was twinkling. They both paused near the
doors and Constance then said, "What is to be done? You told me you
would help me on any occasion if you could. Now is the moment, my
noble friend."

"And so I will," answered Arden, frankly; "ay, if it should cost my
heart's blood. But let me hear the whole. I will interrogate you in
order, my sweet witness. You say they have stationed a guard at
Chartley's door, and declare they will force Iola to marry this moody
boy at ten to-night. They must have discovered all that we have
fancied between her and Chartley. Is it not so?"

"I can reach no other conclusion," answered Constance.

"Then, where is your fair cousin?" asked Arden.

"In her own chamber," implied Constance; "whence my uncle threatens to
drag her down at the hour named, and force her to marry a man whom she
abhors."

"It has been done before now," said Arden, setting his teeth close.
"What does your cousin propose to do?"

"I know not," answered Constance. "She sent me away that she might
think alone. She will refuse to the last, of that I am sure; and she
will have strength to do it firmly too; for her courage is far greater
than I ever dreamt it would be."

"Think you the chaplain will perform the ceremony if she does refuse?"
asked Arden, in a meditative tone.

"I fear so," answered Constance. "He is a mere creature of my uncle's,
and, as you have seen, fat, sleek, and pliable, considering venison,
and capon, and Gascon wine, much more than the service of the altar,
or the conscience of his penitents."

"Then we must contrive to give your cousin some support in her
resistance," said Arden, gravely. "It must be done; for she shall not
be sacrificed, if I were to cleave Lord Fulmer to the chine with my
own hand. But, upon my life, it is dangerous; for, if the king has
given his consent, and we stop it with the strong hand, we shall have
the wild boar upon us, and he is a savage beast."

"But his consent is not given," exclaimed Constance, eagerly. "That my
uncle admitted, and said they would do without. From some words, too,
I gathered that the marriage is to be concealed when it has taken
place."

"So, so, then our course is clear enough," answered Arden. "We will
take the king's part! Otherwise, dear Constance, I must have asked you
to make up a little packet of plain clothes, and jump up _en croupe_
behind your knight, and away with him to Britanny, as ladies did in
days of old, if tales of knight errantry are true. Upon my life it
would be no bad plan."

"Nay, nay," said Constance, "speak seriously, Arden; for my heart is
very full of poor Iola just now."

"But one little corner left for me," answered Arden; and then more
seriously he added, "Well, well, I will stop this marriage. Fear not;
we must begin soon, however; for it will not do to have strife in the
chapel."

"There will not be bloodshed?" said Constance, with a look of terror.

"Oh no, I trust not," replied Arden. "That which requires secrecy is
soon given up, when men find it must be made public. The king's name
will, I doubt not, be sufficient; but we must take means to prevent
anything like resistance being offered. How many men are there in the
castle, do you know?"

"There were thirty-five," answered Constance, "so my maid told me; but
three of those who came from the abbey with us, and ten of my uncle's
men, went well armed to guard my aunt back, and have not yet returned.
Some, too, are cooks and kitchen men."

"We are ten," said Arden, musing. "That is quite enough; but yet we
must have recourse to stratagem, in order to make sure that no rash
opposition brings on violence. Leave it to me, dear Constance, leave
it to me. You go to your own little chamber, say your prayers, and,
when your hour is expired, go to your pretty cousin, and tell her, old
William Arden says that they shall not marry her to any one against
her will. So let her keep a good heart, be firm, and fear not."

"Had I not better go and tell her now," said Constance, eager to
relieve her cousin's anxiety.

"What, little soldier, not obey your general's orders," exclaimed
Arden, laughing. "No, no, we can do nothing yet, till the time comes
near; for I suppose you would not have me tell your uncle that it was
from you my information came. I must see signs of a wedding, before I
proceed to stop it. But be content; all shall be prepared; and you be
secret, not to let any burst of joy betray that we have concerted
measures of deliverance. Now, farewell, dear Constance. Both you and
Iola keep quiet above, till all the hurly burly's done; for we shall
have hard words going, if nothing harder still, which God forfend."

"Oh, I beseech you, let there be no violence!" said Constance,
imploringly.

"No, no, there shall be none," replied Arden. "If they assail not us,
we will not assail them. But still women are better out of the way,"
he added, kissing her hand; "for they scream, you know, Constance, and
that makes a noise."

With a faint smile Constance left him; and turning to the hall he
recommenced his walk, till, at length, Lord Calverly came down,
pausing suddenly, when he saw his guest there. The moment after he
called for a servant, however, and gave him some orders in a low
voice, while Arden turned at the other end of the hall, and in his
perambulations approached, the place where he stood.

"It has been a lovely day, and promises as fine a night, my lord,"
said the knight, in the tone of ordinary conversation. "Methinks I
will go and take a walk upon the battlements, a cup of wine, and then
to bed; for I was stirring early to-day."

"Would I could be companion of your walk," replied Lord Calverly, with
courteous hypocrisy. "Nothing is pleasanter than a warm moonlight
night of summer; but I have dull business to be attended to; and
business, you know, Sir William, must supersede pleasure."

"Quite just, my lord, and wise," replied Arden, "as indeed is always
what your lordship says. I will away, however, giving you good night.
May success attend all honourable business, and then slumber bring
repose." Thus saying, he turned and left the hall; and the old
nobleman called loudly by name for some of his attendants.




CHAPTER XXXV.


Now the reader must remember that a castle of those days, though
fallen from the "high estate" of feudal garrison and constant
preparation, was a very different place from a modern house, whether
in town or country. Grosvenor Square will give no idea of it; and no
country mansion, not even with park wall, and lodge, and iron gates,
will assist comprehension in the least. Sir William Arden had to
traverse a considerable number of round rubble stones, before he found
himself standing under the arch by the porter's dwelling.

The man had just given admission or exit to some one; for he was
standing at the wicket with the keys in his hand, gazing forth to the
westward, although all trace of the sun's setting had disappeared.

Arden cast his eyes towards the south, in which direction Chartley's
tower was situated; but it was not visible from the gate; and,
satisfied on that point, the good knight turned to the porter, saying,
without any preliminary explanation, to point out the person of whom
he was about to speak,

"He has gone to the chaplain's house under the hill, has he not?"

"Yes, honourable sir," replied the porter. "But, by my faith, my lord
perhaps reckons without his host; for the good priest calculates upon
no marriages, baptisms, or burials, to-night; and he is just the man
to forget that such a case may happen, and lay in a share of ale or
Bordeaux, too large to let any other thoughts enter."

"Oh, he will be sober enough to work matrimony, though he must not
undertake it himself," answered Arden. "Ha, ha, ha!"

The porter laughed too, right joyously, saying, "Jack stopped a minute
to tell me his errand; and I could not help laughing, to think how
suddenly the matter had come on at last."

And, as he spoke, he hung the enormous bunch of heavy keys up by the
side of the door, addressing to them the words, "Ay, you are rusty
enough to be spared more labour. Nobody will try to get into the
castle now-a-days."

"It would be a hard morsel," answered Arden. "But who are those I saw
riding up the hill at so much speed?"

"Heaven knows," replied the porter. "There were only two of them; and
we shall soon see what they want if they come here. It does those
knaves good to make them wait a little. So, by your leave, worshipful
sir, I will go and finish my supper."

Sir William Arden still stood near the gate; and a minute or two after
a horn without sounded; and the porter, creeping out of his den once
more, came forward to demand, through the little iron grate, who it
was that asked admission.

"We must see my Lord Chartley immediately," replied the man. "It is on
business of great importance."

"Who are you, and what are you?" demanded the porter; "and who is that
old woman in white on horseback? We don't admit any witches here."

These words were addressed to a man bearing the appearance of an
ordinary servant, with a badge upon his arm; but the janitor, as he
spoke the last words, pointed with his hand to the figure of good Ibn
Ayoub, who sat his horse like a statue, while all this was going on,
wrapped up in his white shroud-like garments, so that little or
nothing of face or person was to be seen.

"I am the lord's slave," said the voice of the Arab, from under the
coif-like folds which shrouded his head; "and this is my comrade--what
you call a servant in this land of Giaours. Open, and let us through."

"The orders were to admit his servants," said the porter, musing, and
turning at the same time partly towards Sir William Arden, as if
seeking his counsel.

"Oh, let them in, let them in," said the knight. "Of course, he must
have his servants about him. There can be no wrong in that."

The man immediately undid the bolts and bars, giving admission to the
two servants, who bowed low when they saw their master's kinsman under
the archway; and Arden, turning with them, walked by their side,
directing them to the stables.

"Keep your news safe, whatever it is," he said in a low voice to Ibn
Ayoub, "or you may do mischief. But stay, I will wait for you, till
you come out of the stables."

While the two men were taking in their horses, Sir William Arden
examined accurately the low range of building used as the ecury, or
cury, as it was sometimes called at Chidlow. It was very extensive,
though low, and situated under the wall for protection; but each of
the windows, small and high up as they were, were secured by strong
iron bars; and there was no means of entrance or exit, but by the
large door in the centre, and two smaller ones at the extreme ends,
but on the same face.

"Come this way, Ibn Ayoub," said the knight, when the Arab came forth.
"I will show you the way to your lord's lodging. Go up to him at once,
and beg him to come down to my chamber below, to speak with me on some
business of importance. Say, if he meets with obstruction by the way,
not to resist, but to return quietly, and I will come to him. You will
have to pass three men with partizans on the stairs, who are keeping
watch upon the good lord; and they may perchance refuse to let him go
forth."

"Then will I put my knife into them," said Ibn Ayoub.

"Softly, softly, wild son of Ismael. Do no such thing, but quietly
mark all that happens; and then, when your lord is in his room again,
come down to me; but tell him he will see me soon." Such were the good
knight's last injunctions to the Arab, who then mounted the stairs of
the tower: and immediately after, some words in a sharp tone were
spoken above. Sir William Arden listened, and then entered his own
apartments, which, as I have elsewhere mentioned, were on the lower
story. Two of his servants were in waiting in his ante-room, engaged
in the very ancient game of mutton bones. A word from their master
however soon sent one of them away, and when he returned, at the end
of five minutes, he brought with him four of Chartley's men. Almost at
the same moment, Ibn Ayoub returned, saying, with rolling eyes,

"They will not let him pass."

"Never mind, my friend," replied Arden; "remain here with these good
men till my return; and then, be all ready with what weapons you
have."

The Arab smiled, well pleased with the name of weapons, and bared his
sinewy arm up to the elbow. At the end of about five minutes, the
knight returned, and, in a calm and easy tone, ordered three of
Chartley's servants to go up to their lord, after which he turned to
the rest, saying, "now, good fellows, I wish you to understand clearly
what I desire to have done; and I command you in nothing to exceed the
orders you receive. There are three men on the stairs, keeping guard
upon my cousin and friend, Lord Chartley. This is contrary to the
orders of the king, and contrary to an express agreement between Lord
Chartley and Lord Calverly. I therefore intend to take those three
men, and lock them up in the room above, which looks upon the walls,
and to keep them there as long as I think proper. There must be no
bloodshed, no violence, but what is necessary to force them into that
room. You mark me, Ibn Ayoub. The great object is to avoid all noise,
which may attract others to the spot. I am not to be disobeyed in
anything, remember. Now, some one jump upon that table, and strike the
roof twice with his sword."

One of the men sprang up, and obeyed the order; and then, saying
"Follow!" Arden went out to the foot of the stairs. He ascended a few
steps leisurely, and till sound of voices was heard above.

"You cannot pass, my lord," said some one; "our orders are strict."

"My orders to you are, that you get out of the way," said Chartley;
"if not take the consequences. In one word, will you move?"

"My lord, it is impossible; you cannot pass," replied the voice, in a
louder and sterner tone; and at the same moment Arden ran rapidly up
the steps, followed by his companions, saying, "keep back, Ibn Ayoub.
Remember, no violence."

On reaching the little square piece of level flooring, commonly called
the landing-place, at Chartley's door, he found three of Lord
Calverly's servants with partizans in their hands, in the act of
resisting the progress of the young nobleman and his two servants, who
seemed determined to make their way out. Now, of all weapons on earth,
the most unwieldy and the least fitted for use in a narrow space was
the ancient partizan. It might have been employed to advantage,
indeed, in preventing Arden from mounting a stairs. But the servants
were eagerly occupied with Lord Chartley, who was on the same level
with themselves, where they had no room to shorten their weapons, so
as to bring the spear points to bear against his breast. One of them
looked over his shoulder, indeed, at the sound of feet rushing up, but
had they turned to oppose the ascent of Sir William Arden and his
party, they exposed themselves at once to attack from Chartley and his
two servants. Thus, between Scylla and Charybdis, they were
overpowered in a moment, and their weapons taken from them.

One of them then thought fit to say, that they had no intention of
offending, and that Lord Chartley might pass. But in profound silence
they were hurried into a small room, the windows of which looked
towards the walls, and not to the court, where the people of the
castle were likely to pass. There the door was locked and barred upon
them without any explanation; and Chartley and his friend looked at
each other and laughed.

"Now if you will take my advice," said Sir William, addressing his
cousin, "you will stay quietly here and not meddle any more. We have
got three of them safe; we must have five or six more; and then we
shall be in force enough to deal with the rest in a body."

"Out on it!" exclaimed Chartley. "What, shall I stay here like a
singing bird in a cage, while you are busily doing my work for me?"

"Hear me, hear me, Chartley," said Sir William, "and don't be a fool,"
and, drawing him away from the men, he said in a low voice, "remember
the king may have to deal with this at some time. Now, for me it is
all very well; for I act in the king's name, to stop a marriage to
which he has not given his consent. But with you the case is very
different, being a prisoner in ward."

"Preach to whom you will, my dear Arden," exclaimed Chartley, "I was
not made for sitting still when other men are acting. But I'll be very
prudent, on my life. For many reasons, I would not embroil myself with
good Lord Calverly, if there be any help for it; and when you deal
with him, I'll be your lackey, and wait without, unless I hear I am
wanted. In the mean time, however, I must help you to put some of
these rats into the rat-trap, and now let us lose no precious moments.
Where do you begin? With the porter?"

"No, no," answered Arden. "We must let the priest and the man who is
gone for him pass in first, or we shall have an alarm given. Besides,
I want to speak with the priest. So you had better take these men, and
secure all the fellows in the stables. There must be several of them
there now, tending their lord's horses after the ride; for I will
answer for it they all supped first. Remember there are three doors;
and you have nothing to do but lock each of them. Then you have our
men, as you say, in a rat-trap. I, in the mean time, will gather
together the rest of our own people, and come to you there, after I
have seen and spoken to the priest, and locked up the porter, and any
of his men that I can get."

On this briefly sketched out plan they acted, Chartley and his
attendants securing, without the slightest difficulty, two of Lord
Calverly's grooms, and three of Lord Fulmer's, in the stables, without
the prisoners even knowing, at first, that they were locked in. In the
mean time, Arden, passing alone through those parts of the castle in
which the servants generally congregated, gathered together two or
three of Chartley's men, who had not previously been summoned, sent
one of them to call the rest quietly out into the court, and then
proceeded towards the porter's lodging, followed at a little distance
by two of the men. In crossing the court towards the gateway, he found
that he was just in time; for the priest had hastened with reverent
diligence to obey Lord Calverly's summons; and he was already half way
between the barbican gate and the great door of the hall. Arden
stopped him, however, saying, "Ay, good evening, father, I am glad to
see you; for I want to put to you a case of conscience."

"Holy Mary, I cannot stop now, my son," cried the priest; "for I have
been summoned by my good lord in haste."

"What, is he ill? Is he dying? Are you going to shrive him?" exclaimed
Arden, with affected apprehension, still standing in the priest's way.

"No, no," cried the worthy man, impatiently; "'tis but to marry the
Lady Iola to the Lord Fulmer. The hour is ten; and 'tis coming fast."

"Not so, not so," said Arden; "'tis not yet half past nine; and I must
have my doubt resolved before you go."

"Then speak it quick," cried the priest, sharply. "You should choose
fitter times."

"'Tis but this," said Arden, with a smile. "If a man see another about
to do a wrong thing, and one which may produce great danger to
himself, is it a sin to stop him, even by force?"

"A sin!" exclaimed the priest, with a not very decent interjection,
common in those days, but which cannot be admitted there; "no sin at
all, but a good work. There, let me pass."

Arden made way and walked on, laughing, to the gate, where he found
the porter just entering his own abode, and saying good night to one
of the servants, who had been sitting with him.

"Why, you have not closed the gates for the night, have you, porter?"
said Arden, standing in the door-way of the lodge, so as to oppose the
egress of either of the two.

"Yes, indeed, I have, worshipful sir," replied the man.

"Why, the priest will have to go forth," said Arden.

"Not he," cried the porter, with a laugh, which was echoed by the
other servant. "After he has done his function, he'll get as drunk as
a fiddler, and sleep on one of the truckle beds. I should not wonder
if I had him here knocking for accommodation; but he shall not have
it."

As he spoke, he deliberately hung the keys upon a peg, just at the
side of the door.

"These are large keys," said Sir William, taking them down, to the
man's surprise, and fixing in his own mind upon the one which he
supposed to belong to the door of the lodge.

"Yes, they are, sir," answered the porter, somewhat gruffly. "Be
pleased to give them to me. I never suffer them out of my hands."

"Back, knave! Would you snatch them from me," exclaimed Arden,
thrusting him vehemently back; and the next moment he pulled the door
to, by the large bowed handle, and applied the key to the lock. It did
not prove the right one, however; and he had some difficulty in
holding the door close, against the united efforts of the two men in
the inside, till he had found one to fit the keyhole.

Chartley's men, however, had been trained to activity and vigilance,
in travelling with their lord; and the two who had followed Sir
William Arden, seeing a little bustle, and the light from the lodge
suddenly shut out, sprang forward to the knight's assistance. The door
was then soon locked; and, speaking through it, Sir William Arden
said, "Now, saucy porter, I shall keep you there for a couple of
hours, for attempting to snatch the keys from me."

The man was heard remonstrating and bellowing in the inside; but,
without paying any attention, Sir William hastened back towards the
stables, leaving the keys hanging in the doorway of the porter's
tower. In the stable court, as it was called, he found Chartley
himself, with eight companions; and a brief consultation ensued as to
the next step.

"How many have you got under lock and key in the stable?" demanded
Arden.

"Five at least," replied Chartley.

"Then there are five in your lodging and at the gate," said Arden,
"That makes ten in all. Allowing five for cooks and stragglers, we are
their superior in numbers, and a good deal their superior, I should
think, in the use of arms. Now let us go on. Hold back. Let that
fellow pass towards the kitchen."

"Had we not better go by the great hall?" said Chartley, as soon as
one of the servants of the house had crossed the other side of the
court. "We can secure any men who may be there."

"No, no," said Arden. "Leave all the management to me. I have promised
there shall be no bloodshed; and I do not want even to show any force,
unless it be needful. Let us go in by the back way, and up to the west
of the little hall. By that means we shall cut them off from the
chapel; and then, while you wait in the ante-room, to be ready in case
of need, I will go in and reason with the good lords."

"But," said Chartley, "suppose they have gone to the chapel, already.
I see light in the window."

"Then we must follow them," answered Arden. "But above all things, my
good lord, do not show yourself in the affair, if you can help it. You
may put yourself in great peril with the king, remember; whereas all
that Dickon, as I shall manage it, can say of me is, that I was
somewhat too zealous for his service. Do not come forward, at all
events, till you hear strife."

"Well, well," answered Chartley; "that I may promise at least, Now on;
for there is no time to spare."

Approaching quietly one of the many small doors which gave exit from
the great mass of the castle buildings into the courts around, the
whole party found before them a staircase, which, strange to say, was
broader and more easy of ascent than those communicating with either
of the two principal entrances. Treading as softly on the stone steps
as possible, they soon reached a wide landing-place, from one side of
which ran away a long corridor, passing over part of the staircase,
and guarded from it by an open screen of stonework, while on the other
side was a door; leading down by ten steps, to the entrance of the
chapel; and between the two appeared another door, opening into a
little ante-room, flanking the lesser or upper hall.

Sir William Arden lifted the latch of the ante-chamber door, and
opened it gently, when immediately the voice of Lord Calverly was
heard, raised to a loud and angry tone, exclaiming, "Get you gone,
mistress, and tell her to come down this instant, or I will come and
fetch her. Tell not me that you cannot get admission or an answer. If
I come, it shall be to make a way for myself."

"But it is not ten yet, my lord," said the sweet voice of Constance.
"You said you would give her till ten."

"What matters five minutes?" cried the old lord, in the same sharp
tone. "But we will be to the letter, and so shall she. Let her know,
girl, if she is not here, in this hall, by the time the castle clock
chimes the last stroke of ten, I will come to fetch her, and drag her
to the altar by the wrists."

Sir William Arden had held up his hand to those who were following
him, at the first sounds of the voices speaking; and the whole party
paused, some upon the stairs, and a few upon the landing. The next
moment, the door of the ante-room opened; and, coming with a slow
step, Constance appeared. She gave a slight start at seeing Arden and
the rest, where she least expected to meet them; but he quietly laid
his finger on his lip, and pointed along the corridor to the stone
screen. Constance made a mute gesture, as if deprecating violence, and
then passed on with a quickened step.

Arden did not immediately enter the ante-room, but waited till the
light foot-fall of Constance had died away; and then, once more giving
his directions to his followers, and bestowing another word of caution
upon Chartley, he walked straight through the ante-room into the hall.
When he entered, Lord Calverly was walking up and down one side of the
long chamber, and Lord Fulmer doing the same in the other. The face of
each was grave and moody; and they seemed not very well pleased with
each other, or with anything that was taking place around them. Both
however started on seeing Sir William Arden; and, in a tone of bitter
civility, Lord Calverly addressed him, approaching quite close as he
did so.

"I had thought, Sir William, you had retired to rest," he said, "and
was wishing you tranquil slumbers. Allow me to say that, at the
present moment, I and Lord Fulmer are busy with matters of much
personal importance."

"Good faith, my lord," replied Sir William Arden, in a light tone, "I
heard below that there were jovial things to take place in the castle,
and I wish to share in the festivities of my honoured host."

"I know not what you mean, sir," said Lord Calverly, with a cold
stare; but Fulmer at once advanced to the knight, saying--

"There is a meaning in your tone, sir, which must be explained. It
seems to me, that you are determined to force your uninvited society
upon us, at a moment when we desire to be alone."

"Exactly, my good lord," replied Arden. "I am precisely in that very
unpleasant predicament. You will see how disagreeable it must be to
me; and therefore I trust you will make it as smooth to me as
possible."

"Why, marry, what is all this?" exclaimed Lord Calverly.

"If so painful, what brings you here?" demanded Fulmer sternly.

"I will tell you, young man," answered Arden. "I have learned, that it
is the intention of this good lord to bestow on you the hand--"

"From whom, from whom?" shouted Lord Calverly.

"From an exceedingly fat priest, amongst others," replied Arden,
smiling; "but the news is all over the castle. If your lordship cannot
keep your own secrets, depend upon it, others will not."

"But what affair is this of yours, Sir William?" said Fulmer, with a
sneer. "Are you an aspirant to the lady's hand?"

"Not at present," answered Arden. "But the case is this, without
farther words, my lords. I find that this marriage is against the
lady's will, and that threats are held out to her of using force--"

"Oh, she has made her complaint to you, has she?" said Lord Calverly.

"No, she has not," replied Arden; "but hearing it by accident, and
having a great regard for your two lordships, I wished, as a knight
and a gentleman of some experience and repute, to remonstrate with
you, and show you what danger and disgrace to your fair names you
bring upon yourselves by such proceedings--proceedings unworthy of
English noblemen and Christian men."

He spoke so calmly, and in such a quiet reasoning tone, that neither
Fulmer nor Lord Calverly suspected for one moment that he intended to
proceed to any other measure than mere remonstrance. That they thought
bold enough; and Fulmer replied, "We understand from whence your
inspiration comes, Sir William; and I only wonder the prompter does
not appear himself."

"That I took care of," said Lord Calverly. "I am not one, my young
friend, to neglect any precautions. I think I have some experience in
dealing with men, and some foresight too as to all that is likely to
occur. It is not easy to catch me sleeping. Now, Sir William Arden,
One word for all. I am not inclined to be wanting in hospitality or
courtesy towards a guest; but I must desire to be left to the
management of my affairs, without either your presence or your
counsel;" and he made a low bow.

Arden paused for a moment, as if in expectation that he would add
something more; and the old nobleman, who had with difficulty bridled
his anger so far, went on in a tone far from cool, to say; "I would
lack no courtesy; but, if you do not go, you must be removed."

"I have but little more to say," replied Arden, with imperturbable
coolness, which contrasted somewhat strangely with his vehemence upon
minor occasions; "but that little is important. This marriage must not
go forward."

"But I say it must!" exclaimed Lord Calverly, calling down a bitter
curse upon his own head if he did not carry it through; and then,
striding to the door which led to the staircase from the great hall,
he shouted aloud, "Ho! Two of you come up here; here is something
unpleasant that must be removed."

Steps were immediately heard running up; and Arden retreated towards
the door by which he had entered, slowly and calmly, but with a smile
upon his countenance.

"My good lord," he said; "you do not know what you do;" and, opening
the door of the ante-room, he said aloud, "Here, I want some of you,
my friends. Two stand on the landing, and keep that way against all
comers."

"Take hold of him and carry him away to his own rooms," exclaimed Lord
Calverly, at the same moment, addressing two of his attendants, who
had entered; but when he turned and saw the number of armed men
pouring in, he stood as one aghast; and Arden whispered to one of his
followers, "secure that door," pointing to the one on the opposite
side of the hall.

The man to whom he spoke, and two others, darted across, and had
reached the middle of the hall, before the servants of the castle
seemed to comprehend what was going on.

"Keep the door, keep the door!" cried Lord Fulmer; and they both
immediately ran towards it. It was a race which of the parties should
reach it first; and indeed neither won; but, just as the first of the
old lord's servants was stretching forth his hand to seize the door,
which was partly open, a stout arm applied a blow to the side of his
head, which made him stagger back, and then measure his length upon
the floor. The next instant the door was closed and locked; and Sir
William Arden remained the master of both entrances.

"I beg your lordship's pardon," he said, "for taking somewhat decided
means to obtain a fair hearing, which it seems you were not inclined
to give me."

"Are we to consider ourselves prisoners, sir?" exclaimed the old
nobleman, confounded and dismayed. "If so, I must appeal to the throne
against such violence."

"If you, or Lord Fulmer either, can venture to do so, pray do,"
replied Arden, calmly. "But I too, my lord, am a prudent man, as well
as yourself; and it is difficult to catch me sleeping. I said that
this marriage must not go forward; and I now ask you both, my lords,
whether you have the king's consent to this proceeding? In a word,
whether it was not your intention to act in this business in direct
disobedience to his authority?"

Fulmer gazed down upon the ground, and bit his lip; but Lord Calverly
demanded fiercely--

"Who told you that, sir? I protest against such an interference in any
man."

"It matters not who told me," replied Arden. "Suffice it that I am
well prepared to justify what I do. Now, my lord, after what I have
said, you dare not proceed to the act which you were about to
commit--an act which would have only led you and Lord Fulmer here to
long imprisonment, if not worse. If you give up all notion of such
rashness, if you pledge me your word, that you will make no attempt to
carry through this marriage, till the king's full consent has been
obtained, and if this noble lord agrees to ride forward immediately
upon the errand with which he is charged by the king, I will restore
to you the command of your own house, which I have been obliged to
take possession of in his grace's service. Moreover, I will refrain
from reporting to the king the intended disobedience which I have been
in time to frustrate. If not, I shall feel it my painful duty to put
you both under arrest, and convey you myself to York."

It is hardly possible to describe the sensations produced by these
words, and the calm and quiet tone in which they were uttered, upon
the minds of his two hearers. Lord Calverly was astounded and
terrified; for, like almost all very vain and pompous men, he was very
easily depressed by difficulties and dangers. It only required to
humble his vanity sufficiently, to make it a very submissive and
patient quality, however vehement and pugnacious it might be under a
slight mortification. To find himself suddenly deprived of all power
in his own house, and treated with an air of authority and reproof, by
a guest who ventured to back his pretensions by the redoubted name of
Richard, was quite sufficient to silence him, although his wrath still
swelled and fretted within.

Lord Fulmer, for his part, heard the words which had just been spoken,
not only in sullen silence, but with much surprise. He well knew that,
hurried on by passion, he had placed himself in a position of very
great danger, and that the act of disobedience he had committed, if it
reached Richard's ears, was likely to be followed by the ruin of all
his hopes, and long imprisonment. But how Sir William Arden had so
rapidly received tidings of the commands the king had laid upon him,
he could not divine, forgetting entirely that the necessity of his
departure on the following morning had been mentioned to Iola in the
presence of Constance. At the same time, he felt that to remain would
be ruin, and that resistance was vain. His only hope, therefore, was
to escape the present danger, trusting that some of the many changing
events of the day would afford him better opportunities, or at all
events give him at some future time the means of revenge.

All Lord Calverly thought of, after he had in some degree mastered his
anger and surprise, was how to retract, in as dignified a manner as
possible; and he had just begun to reply, "Well, sir, if I am a
prisoner in my own house, I have nothing to do but to submit;" but the
voice of Constance was heard, speaking eagerly to some one without.

A moment or two after, she entered with a face still somewhat pale,
and a look of much anxiety, saying:--

"I am sorry to tell you, my lord, that my cousin is not to be found.
After knocking for some time at her door, I and her girl Susan chanced
to see the key lying on the table of the ante-room; but we used it
only to find her chamber vacant."

"Heaven and earth!" exclaimed Lord Calverly; "this is too much. Where
can the foolish child have concealed herself? From the castle she
could not go, for the gates were all locked at sunset. Let us search
for her immediately."

"Ay, let us search," exclaimed Lord Fulmer, with a look of great
anxiety. "If any evil have happened, I shall never forgive myself."

Sir William Arden was somewhat alarmed; but, although Constance's face
expressed anxiety, it struck him there was less terror in it than
might have been expected.

"Ay, noble lord," he said, "we always regret wrong actions when it is
too late; but, before I permit either of you to quit this hall, we
must have a clear understanding. Do you accept the conditions I
mentioned?"

"Assuredly," replied Lord Calverly; "I must search for this poor child
at once."

"And you, Lord Fulmer?" said Arden.

"I do," replied Fulmer, bowing his head.

"Then I commend you to your horse's back at once," said Arden; "and I
will have the honour of waiting upon you to the stables. Otherwise,
perchance, you might find neither men nor horses free to serve you."

"This is hard," said Fulmer.

"It may be no better, I fear," replied Arden. "Excuse me, for a
moment, my lords, while I speak with the guard without;" and, turning
to the men at the door, he added, "Suffer no one to quit the hall, but
the lady, till I return."

He was not long absent; but, many had been the questions poured forth
in the mean time, upon Constance, who was replying to one of them,
when Sir William re-entered the room.

"I cannot even divine, my dear uncle," she said; "she communicated not
her intention to me in any shape; and I certainly expected to find her
in her own chamber, when I returned at the end of the hour, during
which she wished to be left in solitude."

Arden seemed not to notice the words, though he heard them, but
informing Lord Fulmer that he was ready to accompany him, prepared to
lead the way.

At that moment, however, one of the servants whom Lord Calverly had
called into the hall, and who had of necessity remained there with the
rest, remarked, in a dull and sullen voice:--

"There is somebody ringing the great bell at the gate. 'Tis the third
time it has rung. The old porter must be sleeping, not to open."

"He has no power," said Sir William Arden. "I have the keys. Go you,"
he continued, speaking to one of his own followers--"open the wicket;
but give no admission to any large party. Two or three you may suffer
to enter."

Lord Calverly was apparently about to say something; but the veteran
soldier waved his hand to the man, as a signal to depart; and he
retired at once, knowing no authority but that of his own master.

During his absence, which lasted some two or three minutes, the whole
party stood in unpleasant silence. Lord Calverly, indeed, ventured a
word in a low tone to Fulmer, but obtained no reply; and some one came
and tried the door on the side of the principal staircase, leading to
the great hall; but it was locked and guarded. The eyes of Constance
sought the face of Arden; but neither spoke.

At length the servant returned; but he was not alone. Close upon his
steps came a man dressed as an ordinary post or courier of the court,
who gazed round the scene presented to him in some surprise.

"Which is Sir William Arden?" he said, somewhat to the dismay both of
Fulmer and the old lord.

"I am he," replied Arden, advancing with a mind relieved; for, though
resolved, at all hazards, to carry through what he had undertaken; yet
he had some fear that his first plans might be in a degree
disconcerted by the appearance of the royal messenger.

The post immediately handed him a letter, sealed with the broad seal,
and Arden received it as an ordinary occurrence, with admirable
command of his countenance.

"By your leave, my lords," he said, and, approaching one of the
sconces, he opened the paper and read. The cover seemed to contain two
other letters, and after having perused his own, he turned towards
Lord Calverly, presenting one of them to him, and saying:

"I presume, my lord, this is an order to deliver up the ward of my
cousin, Lord Chartley, to myself."

But there was more in the epistle to the old nobleman, and when he
read it his face turned very pale.

"Now, sir," said Arden, addressing Lord Fulmer, "I will conduct you to
your horse, and then immediately perform, the commands of his grace
the king."

"In the name of all the saints, my dear child," said Lord Calverly, as
soon as Arden and Fulmer had quitted the room; "what is to be done, if
we cannot find your cousin?"

"Nay, I know not," answered Constance, "but I trust we shall find her
well and safe, or at all events hear from her, if she should have
taken refuge elsewhere. In the midst of all this confusion, it is very
possible she may have slipped out of the castle unperceived."

Constance, it would appear, did not choose her means of consolation
well; for her words had anything but a soothing effect upon her uncle,
who walked up and down for two or three minutes, in a state of great
agitation, making sundry addresses to saints and the virgin, which
savoured much more of impatience than piety. At length, returning to
his niece's side, as she remained standing in the midst, of the room,
he whispered:--

"We must find her, we must find her, Constance. This is the most
unfortunate out of all. You don't know what is in this letter;" and he
struck it with his fingers. "The king here tells me to send her back
to the abbey immediately, and that he makes the abbess, my good
sister, responsible for her safeguard, till he can decide in the
matter of her marriage himself. He must have had some inkling of this
rash mad-headed boy's purpose."

"That is unfortunate, indeed," answered Constance, thoughtfully.

"Unfortunate!" exclaimed her uncle. "It is ruin, child. Why, I risk
not only imprisonment but confiscation. I cannot comply with the
king's commands; nor can I explain to him why I do not comply, without
telling him all that has occurred to-night. It is ruin, I tell you.
Here, come aside, that knave of a courier seems listening to us."

"You had better tell Sir William Arden your difficulty," replied
Constance, when they had got to the farther end of the hall. "Though
his manner is rough and blunt, yet sure I am he has a kind heart."

"Let us search well for her first," said her uncle. "Perhaps we may
find her in the castle after all. I wish the knight would return. What
a long time he stays. Hark!" he continued, after a pause of a minute
or two. "There is the sound of horses' feet in the court-yard. Now,
thank God, Fulmer is gone; a good riddance, on my life, for he had
well nigh persuaded me to that which might have been my destruction."

Only a short interval took place before Arden returned; and, after
giving some orders in a low tone to his own men, he advanced towards
Lord Calverly, holding out his hand and saying--

"I beseech you, my good lord, to let all angry feeling pass away
between us. Believe me, I have saved you from a great danger, into
which you were persuaded to run, by your regard for the young nobleman
who is just gone, contrary to the dictates of your own wisdom and
experience."

Lord Calverly took his hand, and shook it heartily, saying--

"That is very true, Sir William, that is very true. I never liked the
business, and was hard to persuade; but, having once decided, of
course I could not suffer myself to be thwarted by a mere child. Pray,
now, let us seek for her. I am ready, God knows, to obey the king in
everything," he added in a loud tone, for the messenger's ears.

"Well, we will seek for her at once," said Arden. "But first let us
restore the house to its propriety."

The followers of Chartley and of Arden himself were dismissed to their
several occupations; the servants of Lord Calverly permitted to depart
from the hall; the refreshment of the king's post was provided for;
and the search was commenced, Chartley having been called to aid, at
the suggestion of his cousin. Every nook and corner of the extensive
building was examined, but Iola was not to be found.




CHAPTER XXXVI.


The search was over. It had proved, as I have said, vain; and Lord
Calverly was in a state of bewildered confusion of mind, which it was
impossible to describe. Obey the king's commands by placing Iola once
more in the abbey of St. Clare of Atherston, he could not do. To
explain to Richard the cause of his disobedience was only to accuse
himself of a worse fault of the same kind. To frame any excuse, real
or false, for his conduct, he knew not how; and his whole anxiety
seemed to be to pursue and overtake the fugitive, wherever she might
have taken refuge. Several of the servants were examined, in order to
obtain some clue to the course which she had followed; but no one
could afford any. Her waiting-woman, Susan, was as much grieved,
distressed, and anxious as the rest. The porter declared that he had
closed every postern before he was shut into his lodging by Sir
William Arden; and, at first, the old lord was inclined to suppose
that Iola had taken advantage of the keys having been left in the
door, to make her escape, while Arden was remonstrating with him in
the hall. But, on the one hand, the porter declared that the keys had
never been removed from the place where Arden had left them till they
were taken to give admission to the king's messenger; and the man who
had been shut up with him confirmed the story. They had both watched
anxiously, they said, and must have heard the sound of the keys being
withdrawn, had such a thing occurred. Sir William's attendant, too,
who had given admission to the royal courier, stated that he had found
the gates both locked and barred. The girl, Susan, too, showed that
she had remained in her mistress's antechamber for nearly three
quarters of an hour immediately before she was missed; and every
servant stated positively that they had neither seen the lady, nor any
figure, which could have been hers disguised, attempt to pass out of
the castle.

"Nothing can, at all events, be done till morning," said Sir William
Arden, "and therefore, my good lord, I will wish you good night. Let
us take counsel with our pillows."

His suggestion was followed, Chartley accompanying his friend with
less anxiety apparent on his countenance than the occasion might
perhaps have justified. Before Arden went, he contrived to say a few
words to Constance, unheard by the rest; but Constance shook her head,
replying, "I know nought, indeed, and can give no information; but yet
I am inclined to believe that dear Iola is in no danger, wherever she
is. She used to roam far and wide, where I should have been afraid to
venture; and I feel sure she is safe." Then dropping her voice quite
to a whisper, she added, "Pray, tell Lord Chartley so."

A few minutes after, Chartley and his friend sat together in the
chamber of the former; and Arden eyed him with an enquiring and yet a
smiling glance.

"Know you aught of this escapade, Signor Chartley?" he said, at
length. "Methinks you seem not so heart-wrung and fear-stricken as
might have been expected, at the unaccountable disappearance of your
lady love."

"Nevertheless, I am anxious," replied Chartley, "for I know not where
she is, nor what has become of her, any more than the rest. But, at
the same time, I have this consolation, that I believe her escape must
have been planned, in case of need, long before; for she boasted to me
that she could pass through the walls of this castle like a spirit. I
therefore argue, that we have every reason to think her safe; and, to
tell the truth, I should not much regret her having put herself beyond
the power of her excellent wise uncle, were I not here in ward, and
unable to do as I could wish."

"What would you do, if you were out of the old earl's clutches?"
demanded Arden, with a smile.

"I would set off by day-break to seek her--" replied Chartley, "by
day-break to-morrow morning."

"And having found her?" asked Arden.

Chartley smiled, and looked thoughtfully down on the table, for a
moment or two, answering at length, "Don't you think, Arden, that if
one going a journey found a peculiarly beautiful flower growing near
his path, he would be inclined to gather it at once, not waiting till
he came back again, lest it should be withered or plucked in the mean
time. One would not mind a few scratches either, to get at it."

"Come, come, no metaphors," said Arden. "You know, I am dull as to all
fanciful things, my good lord, so tell me plainly what you would do."

"Well, then," answered Chartley, "if I found her, as you suppose, I
should be strangely tempted to ask her to get upon the back of an
ambling mule or light-footed Barbary jennet, and make a pilgrimage
with me to some shrines of great repute in Britanny or France."

"Hymen's for one of them, I suppose," said Arden, laughing; "ah,
Chartley, you are but a pagan after all. But you forget such things
might be dangerous. When you came back, your head would be in a
tottering condition, or, at the best, your dearly beloved liberty of
roaming might be confined within the four walls of a small room."

"I might stay away, till heads were more sure upon men's shoulders,
and liberties were not the sport of a tyrant's caprice," replied
Chartley, more gravely than was his wont. "This state of things cannot
last for ever, Arden. The world is getting sick of it. There are
strange rumours abroad. Our poor queen Ann is ill; and men much
suspect she will not recover. Few indeed do under the treatment she is
likely to have; and Richard, they say, is very anxious for heirs."

"So, so," cried Arden, "sets the wind there? Why, methought a Chartley
would never draw his sword against the house of York."

"Assuredly," replied Chartley, "so long as the lawful heirs of that
house sat upon the throne. But there is such a thing, Arden, as two
streams mingling--such a thing as two factions, long rivals arrayed in
bloody opposition, finding a bond of fellowship, and uniting to
overthrow one who has wronged and slaughtered both.

"I have heard something of this," said Arden, thoughtfully. "The
rightful heir of York is Elizabeth of York; and, were such a thing
possible, that Harry of Richmond should graft the red rose on the
white rose stem, there is many a man beside yourself who would gladly
couch a lance in his support."

Chartley gazed at him for a moment thoughtfully, and then answered.
"He has sworn it, Arden, in the cathedral church of Rennes. I know I
can trust you; and I tell you he has sworn it. The queen Elizabeth,
too, consents, I am informed; and men but wait for the propitious
hour."

"You have heard from Richmond!" said Arden, bluffly. "Your Arab
brought you letters from the earl."

"No," answered Chartley; "but I have heard from Oxford. He is already
in arms in Picardy; and Calais had better close fast her gates."

"Well, well," said Arden. "Love and war, 'tis strange how well these
two dissimilar dogs hunt in couples. We were talking of love just now,
and lo, she runs straight up to the side of war. So, if you were free,
you would ride off with this sweet pretty Iola, and wait for better
times, tending hens and sowing turnips round a cottage door. Upon my
life, I see no reason why you should not, even as the matter is."

"But I am in ward," said Chartley. "My pledge has been given to this
good old Lord Calverly."

"That is all at an end," replied Arden, with a smile, drawing some
papers from his pocket. "I have kept you all this time in ignorance,
to win your secrets from you. But now know, my lord, that you are in
ward to me, and not Lord Calverly. Here is the king's letter to me,
and there is one from his gentle grace for you, probably announcing
the same thing. The truth is, I fancy, this rash Lord Fulmer has let
Richard into too many secrets; and the king is determined to keep his
hold of the young lover, by delaying his marriage, while he at the
same time separates you from her, to ensure that she is not won by a
rival. How he happened to fix upon me as your jailer is a marvel."

While he had thus spoke, Chartley had opened the king's letter, and
was reading it eagerly.

"Wrong, Arden, wrong!" he exclaimed, with a joyous look, "wrong, and
yet right in some things--read, read!"

Arden took the letter and ran over the contents with that sort of
rapid humming tone which renders some words distinct, while others are
slurred over. Every now and then he added a comment in his own
peculiar way, not always in the most polite or reverent language; for
those were not times of great refinement, and right names were often
applied to things which we now veil both in word and seeming.

"'To our trusty and well beloved'--well, well--so he wrote to
Buckingham--'our intentions towards you were more gentle than the need
of example required to be apparent'--doubtless, his intentions are
always gentle; but his needs are numerous--'somewhat exceeded in
strictness the spirit of our injunctions'--Poor Lord Calverly, mighty
strict indeed when he lets his house be mastered by a prisoner and a
handful of guests!--'transferred you therefore in ward to your cousin,
Sir William Arden, who will better comprehend our intentions. Nor do
we purpose here to shut up our benevolence towards you, but to enlarge
it according to your merits and services, even in that which you most
desire'--What does the hypocrite mean? He will have your head off ere
he has done--'In the mean time, as you incurred displeasure by
rashness, so win fair fortune and your heart's content by prudence;
for having learned your wishes from a rival and an enemy, we give you
an earnest of our good will, in disappointing his desires, with the
thought of gratifying yours, according to your deserving, in good
season. So, commending you to the protection of God, the Blessed
Virgin, and St. Paul'--what a number of them!--'we bid you, et
cetera.'"

Arden laid down the letter, and fell into deep thought. Chartley spoke
to him, but he did not seem to hear. Chartley gazed at him, and
laughed in the joyous hopefulness of youth; but Arden took no notice.
Chartley shook him by the arm; but his cousin merely said in a sharp
tone--

"Let me think, idle boy!--Let me think. Would you be chained to the
collar of a boar, to be dragged with him, wallowing through the blood
of the dogs, which will soon be let loose to hunt him to the death?"

"I know not what you mean," exclaimed the young nobleman; "have you
gone mad, Arden?"

"It is you who are mad, if you see not the object of this letter,"
replied Arden. "Hope to you--suspense to Fulmer--both for the same
purpose. To keep you his. He holds out a prize to the eyes of both, to
be won by a race of services and submissions to himself. Will you
enter upon this course, Chartley? Will you, even for the hand of Iola,
become the labouring straining serf of him who slew your royal
master's children, slaughtered innocent babes, spilt the blood of his
own house? See through his artful policy--shut not your eyes to his
purpose--calculate the price you must pay for his support of your
suit--judge accurately whether, when all is done, the hypocrite will
keep the spirit of his promise; and then choose your path."

"I saw it not in that light," replied Chartley, at once brought down
to a graver mood, "and yet it may be as you say."

"May be? It is!" replied Arden, "by St. Peter, that dear little girl
was right and wise, to fly away and not be made a decoy to lead the
game into his net! She knew it not indeed; but that matters not. 'Tis
well that she is gone. Her foolish uncle must be sent to court, to
confess his sins and excuse them as he may. It is the best course for
him, the best result for us. Time--it is time we want."

"But I want something more, Arden," said. Chartley. "I want
liberty--freedom to act as I will. Then my course is soon decided. By
Heaven, I have a thousand minds to rise upon my ward master, bind him,
and carry him with me--whither he would be right willing to go, _under
compulsion_."

"No, Chartley, no!" answered Arden. "I will not put a colouring upon
my actions that they merit not. I will not seem to do by force that
which I am afraid to do with good will and openly."

"Then what will you do? How will you act?" demanded Chartley, somewhat
puzzled.

"'Tis a case of difficulty," replied Arden, musing. "I must not accept
a charge and then violate a trust; I must not shelter a breach of
faith under an equivocation."

"But if you refuse to ward me," answered Chartley, "'Tis certain I
shall be placed in stricter hands."

"I will not refuse," replied his cousin. "I know this king, and I will
accept the ward for a time; but I will write to him and tell him, that
it shall be for but one month, as I could never manage you long in my
life--which Heaven knows is true enough. If it last longer I renounce
it. I know well how it will be. If he sees you tranquil and quiet, he
may perhaps let you have full liberty then, thinking that he has power
over you by the hope of this fair lady's hand. If not, he will write
to me at the month's end, to keep you still in ward, which I will not
do for an hour. Meanwhile, we shall have time for all preparations, to
find the lady, and seek both the means of flight and means of living
afar. Then, have with you, Chartley, and good fortune speed us both!"

This arrangement was not altogether pleasing to his more ardent and
impatient companion.

"But hark you, Arden," he said, "long ere the time you speak of,
things may have occurred which will require instant decision.
Everything is hurrying here to a close; and, before a month be over,
much may take place which will render it necessary to act at once."

"I do not think it," answered Arden, deliberately. "The march of great
events is generally slow. Sometimes, indeed, it happens that an
earthquake comes and shatters all; but more frequently the changes of
the world are like the changes of the year, spring, summer, autumn,
winter; cloud, sunshine, wind, rain, thunderstorm, sunshine once more,
and then the same course round."

"But I tell you, Arden, Oxford is already in arms," replied Chartley,
"and marching towards Calais, to take it from the usurper, that
Richmond is promised aid from France, and that troops are already
gathering at Rouen."

"Rain drops before the storm," answered Arden; "but, before you can do
aught, you must find your sweet lady Iola, gain her consent to your
plans, make all your preparations for escape; and this will all take
some time, let me tell you."

"What if we find her speedily," said Chartley, "and see, moreover,
that she is likely to fall into the king's hands, and to be held out,
as you yourself have said, as a prize to the most serviceable."

"Good faith, then you must act as you think fit," said Arden. "I shall
guard you, and your seven or eight servants, with myself and my own
three. Richard cannot expect that I should augment my household to
pleasure him, in a matter that he puts upon me without my wish. Should
need be, you must lay your own plans and execute them. Only let me not
know them, at least, till the month is over. But methinks, my good
lord and cousin, your impatience somewhat miscalculates the future. A
month is a short time for all I have mentioned."

"Ay, but I go fast," answered Chartley. "To-morrow we will away to
seek this fair lady, and never give the search up till we have found
her. You despatch this old lord as fast as may be to York; for, if he
should stay and find her out, we might have strife or difficulty."

"See how he takes the tone of command already," exclaimed Arden,
laughing; "but do you know, Signor Chartley, that I have a strange
hankering for this great castle of Chidlow, and do not love to leave
it yet. There are others to be served as well as you."

"How so?" demanded Chartley, in surprise; "why should you wish to stay
at Chidlow?"

"Because there is a little maiden there, with sweet soft eyes,"
replied Arden, "who though, God wot, somewhat given to pensive mood,
smiles brightly when I talk to her; and methinks it will not be very
easy to tear myself away."

"What, Constance?" exclaimed Chartley. "You, Arden, you! You thinking
of love and matrimony! Why, I have given you over to dull celibacy for
the last ten years. You were wont to think no eyes so bright as a
spear's point, to feel no love for aught but a suit of Milan steel, to
warm to the sound of cannon sooner than the lute, and to think the
blast of the trumpet sweeter than any lady's tongue. Now, farewell to
all hopes of your inheritance! Lack-a-day, what a splendid fortune I
have missed by not watching you more closely! and we shall soon have
half a score of little Ardens, with round curly heads, playing with
your rusty greaves, and calling you Papa."

"Go on. I am laughter proof," answered Arden. "Let him laugh who wins.
Of one thing, at least, I am certain, if she gives me her hand, 'tis
with free will and all her heart. No ambition in a case where the
bridegroom is a simple knight, no ambition where she does not know him
to possess a single angel in the world, except herself. But tell me,
Chartley, where have been your eyes?"

"Looking into Iola's, I fancy," answered Chartley. "'Tis true, I saw
you sit and talk with her upon the battlements the other day, and
heard you laugh, and saw you smile; but I thought, good sooth, 'twas
mere good-nature that kept you lingering behind with Constance, in
order that Iola and I might have free leave to pour forth our hearts
to each other."

"No, no," answered Arden. "I am very good-natured and generous, I
know; but in this instance, like the rest of the world, I was
good-natured--with an object. 'Tis true," he continued, in a graver
tone, "there is a great difference between her age and mine--some four
and twenty years, and I shall wither while she will still bloom.
Perhaps you think her too young, Chartley, to be taken as my wife; but
I am not yet old enough to adopt her as my daughter; and one or the
other she shall be, if she will; for I will not leave that dear girl
to the sad choice of vowing herself to a convent, or remaining
dependent upon her foolish uncle's bounty."

Chartley laid his hand affectionately upon his cousin's, saying, "Far
from thinking her too young to be your wife, Arden--far from thinking
you should not make her such, I believe and trust that you will find
happiness with her, such as you have never known before. I have seen
the honeysuckle in the woods, twining itself sweetly round the trees.
It chooses generally a stout and sturdy trunk, of mature growth, and
there it winds itself up, loading the strong branches with its
nectar-dropping blossoms. Sometimes, however, I have seen it climb up
a light sapling, till they mingled leaves and flowers together, in one
heavy mass; but then, there being no steadiness in either, they have
been blown to and fro with every wind, till a fiercer blast of the
tempest has broken or rooted up the frail prop; and the honeysuckle
has been laid low with that it clung to."

"Well, I have no cause to make the objection if she do not," answered
Arden. "She has wound herself round my heart, I know not how; but I
have concealed nothing from her: She knows my birth-day as well as I
do myself; and she says she does not care a groat"--Chartley
smiled--"no, not exactly a groat," continued Arden, "but what she
said, was this, that when one loved any body, the heart never stopped
to ask whether he was rich or poor, old or young; that where
calculation entered, love was not. Upon my life, I believe what she
said is true; for I know I began to make love to her without any
calculation at all, and not much thinking of what I was about. Is that
the usual way, Chartley?"

"Precisely!" answered his cousin.

"Well, then, let us go to bed," said Arden; "for I shall rouse this
old lord by cock-crow, and send him off, as soon as I can, to York."




CHAPTER XXXVII.


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!


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."




CHAPTER XXXVIII.


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.




CHAPTER XXXIX.


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.'

"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."




CHAPTER XL.


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
<DW72> 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 <DW19>, 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.




CHAPTER XLI.


In a large room, of the convent of Black Nuns, near Tewksbury, with a
vaulted roof and one window at the farther end, seated at a small
table, and with an open parchment book upon it, was the Princess Mary
or Margaret of Scotland--for she is occasionally called in history by
both those names. She was diligently examining the pages of the
volume, in which seemed to be written a number of names, with comments
attached to them, in the margin, in a different  ink. On the
opposite side of the table stood an elderly man in the garb of a monk,
who remained without speaking, and with his eyes fixed calmly upon the
princess, apparently not at all comprehending the object of her
search.

At length, when she had run her eye and her finger down the whole line
of names upon every page, pausing for a moment here and there, to
examine the observations attached to some particular entry, the
princess raised her eyes to the old man's face, saying--

"And these are all the men of note, you are sure, good father, who
fell at Tewksbury?"

"All who are buried here," replied the monk. "There were some others,
whose names you will find, if you turn over two pages, who were borne
away to rest elsewhere. They were not many; for their friends did not
like to come forward and claim them, for fear of being compromised in
what was called the treason. So all that were not claimed were buried
here, and the rest, as I said, removed."

Mary turned over to the page which he mentioned, and found some twelve
or fourteen other names, which, to her at least, were totally without
interest. She then closed the book, and gave it to the monk, saying "I
thank you much, good father. There is something to benefit your
convent, and pay masses for the souls of those who fell."

The old man called down a blessing on her head, and walked slowly
along to the end of the old vaulted room, in order to depart, passing
a gay and sunny-looking girl as he did so. She advanced with a light
step from the door, towards the princess's chair, looking, as she went
by the old man in his sober grey gown, like spring by the side of
winter; and, when she came near the lady, she said, holding up a small
packet in her hand--

"Here is a curious thing, your highness, which has just been shown to
me by an extraordinary sort of man. He wishes you to buy it; and in
good truth it is not dear. I never saw anything more beautiful."

"I am not in the mood for buying gewgaws, child," replied the
princess. "Well, show it to me, not that I shall purchase it; for of
that there is little chance."

The young lady immediately advanced, and placed in her hand a golden
cross, ornamented with sardonix stones, Mary hardly looking at it till
she had received it fully, her mind being probably busy with what had
just been passing. When her eyes at length fixed on it, however, her
countenance underwent a strange and rapid change. Her cheek grew pale,
her beautiful eyes almost started from their sockets, and with a low
cry, as if of pain and surprise, she sank back into her chair.

"Good Heaven, what is the matter, lady?" exclaimed the girl. "Your
highness is faint. Let me fly for help."

But Mary waved her hand for silence, covered her eyes for a moment,
and then bending down her head over the cross, seemed to examine it
attentively. But the girl, who stood by her side, saw clearly tears
drop rapidly from her eyes upon the trinket.

The moment after, the princess dashed the drops away, and, turning to
her attendant with a face full of eagerness, demanded:

"Where is the man? Bring him hither instantly."

The changes of expression in her countenance had been so
lightning-like, so rapid, that the girl stood for a moment like one
bewildered, but then, at an impatient gesture of the princess, hurried
from the room. At the end of a minute or two she returned, followed by
the piper, somewhat better clothed than usual, but still bearing
evident signs of his class, if not of his profession, about him. The
princess fixed her eyes upon his face, with a keen, penetrating,
inquiring look, as if she would have searched his soul, and then said,
turning to the girl who had accompanied him into the room: "Retire."

Still, after the attendant was gone, Mary continued to gaze upon the
man before her in silence. It seemed as if she wished, before she
spoke, to read something of his nature and his character from his
looks. At length, in a low and tremulous but yet distinct voice, she
asked:

"Where got you this cross?"

"That I must not say, lady," replied the piper. "Are you the princess
Mary of Scotland?"

"I am," she answered. "Must not say?--Good faith, but you must say!
This cross is mine; and I will know how you possessed yourself of it."

"If you be the princess Mary of Scotland, and that cross be yours,"
replied the piper, who was now quite sober, and had all his wits about
him, "I was bid to tell you that the fate of the person you seek for
may still be heard of near the abbey of St. Clare of Atherston. You
may keep the cross without payment, for in reality it was sent to you
as a token."

"Keep it," cried the princess, pressing it to her bosom, "that I will!
I will never part with it more. Payment! Here, hold out your hand;"
and, half emptying her purse into it, she added: "Had you brought me a
king's crown, you had brought me nothing half so precious." Then,
leaning her brow upon her fair hands, she fell into a long deep train
of thought, which, perhaps, led her far away, to early days, and
scenes of youthful joy and happiness, while hope, and love, and
ignorance of ill, the guardian angels of youth's paradise, watched
round her path and round her bed. At length, She seemed to tear
herself away from the visions of memory; and looking up, she said, in
a slow and somewhat sad voice--

"St. Clare of Atherston. Ay, it was near there, at Atherston moor.
But, how can that be? I have watched, and enquired, and examined, and
seen with mine own eyes; and there was no trace."

"I cannot tell your highness how it can be," replied the messenger;
"for I know little or nothing; and guesses are often bad guides. But
this I can do. I can lead you to one who can give you all the tidings
you desire."

"Ha!" cried the princess, starting up. "Let us go. Let us go at once. I
will give instant orders."

"Nay, sweet lady," answered the piper. "In good sooth, my horse must
have some time for rest; and my old bones are weary too; for I have
had scanty fare and long riding."

"You shall have refreshment," said the princess. "I would not be
unmerciful, even in my impatience; but yet we must set out to-night. I
will not lay my head upon a pillow till I am upon the way. Now tell
me, before I send you to get food and rest, who is the person to whom
you take me?"

"Nay, that I know not," replied Sam. "I have given my message as I
received it. I know no more."

"Now this is very strange," exclaimed Mary, "and raises doubts. I know
not that I have injured any one, or that there is any who should wish
to do me wrong; but yet I have found that men will wrong each other
full often without a cause, sometimes without an object. Yet this
cross, this cross! I will go, whatever befall. This cannot lie or
cheat. I will go. But one thing at all events you can tell me. Whither
are you going to lead me. You must know the place, if not the person."

"Ay, that I can tell, and may tell," replied Sam. "It is to the house
of a poor honest Franklin, who labours his own land, in the heart of
an old wood. A quiet and a secret place it is, nearly half way 'twixt
Atherston and St. Clare. The man is a good and honest man too, lady,
of more than seventy years of age, who lives in great retirement,
rarely seen but once in every summer month at Atherston market, where
he sells his corn and sheep; and when they are sold, he goes back upon
his way, holding but little talk with any one."

"Seventy years of age," said the princess, thoughtfully. "Nay, that
cannot be then."

"But indeed it is, lady," replied the piper, mistaking her meaning;
"for I have known him twenty years myself and more, and have seen his
hair grow grizzled grey, and then as white as snow."

"Did you ever know or hear," demanded the princess, "of a dying or
wounded knight being carried thither, from any of the last combats
that took place between Lancaster and York--I mean about the time of
Tewksbury?"

"No," replied Sam; "but I was lying ill then, being hurt with a pike
at Barnet, and could not walk for many a month."

"And you can tell no more?" asked the princess.

"No, nothing more," he answered, "but that there you will have the
tidings which you seek, as surely as you see that cross in your hand."

"Come of it what will, I will go," said the princess. "But which is
the safest road? for it is strongly rumoured here, that the earl of
Richmond has landed somewhere on the coast, and that armies are
gathering fast to meet him. We might be stopped."

"Oh no, all is quiet in this part of the land," replied the other;
"and we can easily go by Evesham and Coventry. I heard all the news
as I journeyed on. The earl, they say, has indeed landed in the far
parts of Wales; but his force is very small, and not likely to stand
against Sir Walter Herbert who commands there. A mere scum of that
ever-boiling pot called France, with scattered and tattered
gabardines, lean and hungry as wolves."

"They may be found as fierce as wolves," said the princess. "But it
matters not. I will go, even should they be fighting in the midst of
the road. Now, good man, you shall have food, and your horse too. I
give you till four o'clock--time enough for rest. Be you ready; and,
if you lead me aright, you shall have further recompense."

Her impatience somewhat outran the clock. She was on horseback with
her train, some minutes before four; and, ere they paused for the
night, they reached the small town of Evesham. The next day brought
them to Coventry, and thence a short day's journey remained to
Atherston. They arrived in the evening; but still there were two or
three hours of light; and as soon as the princess had entered the
small inn, to which she had sent forward harbingers, she ordered her
guide to be called, and told him that in half an hour she would be
ready to set out.

"The place cannot be far," she said, "for I remember the road well;
and 'tis not a two hours' ride hence to St. Clare."

"Were it not better to wait till morning?" demanded Sam, with a look
of some doubt. "It will take you well nigh an hour and a half to reach
the place we are going to, and--"

"And what?" demanded Mary, seeing the man pause and hesitate.

"I was going to say," replied Sam, "that you must take but two
attendants with you--men to hold the horses; and it might be as well
to wait till morning, as I hear troops are gathering fast, and tending
towards Nottingham, so that 'tis better to ride by daylight."

Mary gazed at him with some suspicions rising again in her mind; but
yet the very wish to travel by daylight seemed to speak honesty of
purpose.

"Was that what the man told you, whom I saw speaking to you at the
door?" she asked.

"Yes," replied Sam. "He told me there were troops moving about in all
directions."

"And why must I have only two men with me?" she demanded.

"I know not," replied the piper. "So I am told. But, if you have any
fears, I will remain in the hands of your men, while you go in. They
can easily drive a sword through me, if any evil happens to you; but I
only say it is better to go in the morning, lest we should meet any of
the roving bands which always flock to the gathering of armies. Be it,
however, as you please."

Mary thought for two or three moments, but then rose, saying--

"I will go, and at once. I cannot rest in uncertainty. Let them bring
forth the horses as soon as they are fed. We will ride quick, and make
the way short."

From Atherston, for about half a mile, the little party pursued the
highway, till shortly after crossing the little river Anker, from the
banks of which they turned through lanes and by-paths, till they came
to a piece of sloping ground, where two hills crossed each other with
a low dell between them. A small stream ran in the valley; and beyond
the opposite <DW72>, towards the north west, extended a considerable
mass of wood-land, over which were seen, rising at the distance of
five or six miles, the ruined walls and towers of the old castle near
St. Clare. The sun was already on the horizon, and the spot over which
they rode was in shadow; but the sky was beautifully clear, and the
golden light of the setting sun caught the high distant ruins, and the
young trees upon the hill on which it stood.

"Here," said the piper, who was riding beside Mary to show her the
way, "here was fought the last skirmish of the war. It was one of the
most bloody too; for little quarter was given, and many a brave
soldier and noble gentleman fell here."

"I know it well," said Mary, with her eyes full of tears. "I have been
here to weep before now. Oh, that my eyes could pierce those green
grassy mounds, and know who sleeps beneath."

"They were not all buried here," said Sam, in a low tone. "Some were
buried at the abbey, and some at Atherston. Those were the knights and
captains. The common soldiers lie here."

Mary rode on in silence; and more than once she wiped the tears from
her eyes. A mile farther brought them to the wood; but from this side
the distance to the franklin's house was farther; and the last quarter
of a mile was ridden in twilight. At length, however, while they could
still see, they came in sight of the low house, with its single story,
and the cultivated ground around it; and pointing with his hand, the
piper said, in a low voice--

"That is the house. Now you must go forward alone, lady; and when you
reach the door knock hard with your hand, and they will give you
admission. Ask to see the lady."

"The lady!" said Mary, in a tone of surprise.

"Yes," replied her guide, "the lady. I will stay here with the horses,
in the hands of your servants. There you will get the tidings which
you have long sought."

The lady dismounted, and, bidding the servants wait, walked along the
little path. They could see her approach the house, and knock with her
hand at the door. It was opened instantly, and she disappeared.




CHAPTER XLII.


An old man, with a long white beard, presented himself before the
princess countess of Arran, almost the moment after she had knocked,
and, in answer to her demand to see the lady, simply said, "Follow
me," and led the way along the passage. Her heart beat; her brain
seemed giddy; her whole frame was agitated; but she went on; and, at
the end of a step or two, her guide opened a door, and held it in his
hand, till she had entered. Then closing it he retired.

The sun, as I have said, had sunk; but the twilight was clear, and the
windows of the room looked towards the west, where lingered still the
rosy hues of the setting sun. The room was filled with a sort of hazy
purple air, and the objects which it contained, though shadowy and
somewhat indistinct, could still be seen clearly enough. Standing not
far from one of the windows, with the light background of the sky
behind her, so that her features were not discernible, the princess
Mary beheld the beautiful form of a girl, apparently eighteen or
nineteen years of age. As the rays passing from behind glanced on the
rich satin of her robe, and the gold lace that fringed the bodice, it
was evident to Mary that the person before her was dressed in the
gorgeous habiliments of the court of of that time. She could see
nothing more at the first moment, but as the girl advanced towards
her, the face was slightly turned towards the window, and the fine
chiselled features were beheld in profile, showing at once, how
beautiful they must be when the light of day displayed them more
fully.

"Welcome, lady," said the sweet tones of Iola, the music of her voice
thrilling upon the ear of the princess, like the notes of some
delicate instrument, although there was much emotion in those tones.
"You have come somewhat sooner than I expected. I presume I speak to
the princess Mary."

"The same, my child," replied the lady, taking her hand, which Iola
had partly offered. "This is a strange meeting; and you tremble more
than I do, though I am told that from your voice I shall hear tidings
which, whatever be their especial nature, may well shake and agitate
my heart and frame."

"I am not wont to be so weak," said Iola; "nor to fear, nor to
hesitate; but yet I cannot help it at this moment. Let us sit down for
a while, and speak of other things, so that these emotions may pass
away."

"They will but increase by delay," replied Mary; "and I am eager to
hear from your lips, or indeed from any lips, those tidings which to
me are as the words of Fate. Speak, then, dear child, speak at once,
and tell me what you know."

"Nay, lady," said Iola, in a very grave and even melancholy tone,
withdrawing her hand from that of the princess; "I have questions to
ask as well as you; and they must be answered, before my lips are
unsealed."

"Nay, this is cruel," said the princess Mary, "to torture me with
delay, when the sight of that cross, the gift of early pure affection,
to him I loved the best, and this mysterious journey, and this strange
meeting, have raised my expectations--oh, that I dared say my hopes to
the highest point--it is cruel indeed."

"No, not cruel," answered Iola. "Could the dead see all the actions
of the living, would the living dare to meet the dead? I have a
hard and painful task to perform, and I must perform it. Yet, dear
lady, I would do it with all gentleness, for I have to ask painful
questions--questions which, if my heart tell me true, may raise anger
and indignation, as well as cause pain and sorrow."

"Speak then, speak then," said Mary, impatiently. "Let them be quickly
over."

"Well, then, as it must be so," said Iola, "let me first say, I know
the early history well, the marriage of the princess Mary to the earl
of Arran, her brother's subject and friend, the advantage which base
enemies took of his absence in Denmark, in his sovereign's service, to
ruin his father and his uncle, to seize his estates, forfeit his
honours, and blast his name--a name on which the voice of calumny
never breathed till then."

Mary sank into a seat and covered her eyes with her hands; but Iola
went on, seeming to hurry her words to get over her painful task with
speed.

"I know, too," she said, "the generous devotion of the princess, that
she fled in disguise from her brother's court, to warn her husband of
his danger, when he returned from his successful embassy, bringing
with him his sovereign's royal bride; I know that she sought his fleet
in a poor skiff, and fled with him into exile and poverty; I know that
she only returned to her own land, after years of exile, on the
delusive promise that her petition and submission would recover his
estates and honours, for him she loved. Hitherto, all is clear; but,
now comes the question--Lady, forgive me," she continued, taking
Mary's hand, and kissing it; "but I must pain you."

"Speak, dear child, speak," said the princess. "There is nought in my
whole life, that I am not ready to tell here or anywhere."

"Well, then," said Iola, with a sigh; "did the princess Mary, when her
husband was doing his knightly devoir here on this English ground, in
behalf of the house which had befriended him and his, did she consent
to a divorce from her once-loved lord, and----"

"Never, never, never!" cried the princess, starting from her seat,
"never, by word or deed. What, has that dark tale come hither too?
'Twas done without my consent or knowledge; and, when done, I raised
my voice and wrote my protest against it. They told me he was dead.
They told me that he fell there, on Atherston moor--fell, as he lived,
in noble deeds and gallant self-devotion."

"And then, hearing of his death," said Iola, in a voice sunk to the
lowest tone with emotion; "the princess married James, Lord Hamilton."

"'Tis false!" exclaimed Mary, vehemently; and then, clasping Iola's
hand in her own, she added: "Strange, mysterious girl, how is it that
you, who know so much, do not know more? Hamilton was kind. He sought
my noble husband as a brother, spoke in his favour to the king, raised
his voice with mine; and, when at length the news of his death came,
my brother and my sovereign signed a contract of marriage on my
behalf, between him and me, and in his bounty gave lands and lordships
to Lord Hamilton and the Princess Mary, his wife. They laid the
contract before me, and I tore it and scattered it to the winds--for I
had doubts," she added, in a low thoughtful voice. "I saw couriers
going and coming to and from England, whose tidings were concealed
from me; and, I had doubts--I have still doubts--that he died then.
Now, I am sure he is dead, or they would not give me liberty to roam
and seek his burial-place; for, ever since that day, when I tore the
contract before my brother's face, in name I have been free, in truth
a prisoner. I had but one faithful servant, whom I could trust. He,
indeed, once deceived me, because he was himself deceived. He told me
that my husband was dead in Denmark; and when we found, from certain
intelligence, that he was here in England, warring for the house of
Lancaster, the poor man was more thunderstruck than I was, for I had
not believed the tale. Oh, how the heart clings to hope--how it clasps
the faded flower, when even the root is withered. Still, still, till
the end I hoped! With what tears I watered my pillow! With what
prayers I wearied Heaven. Although I saw letters telling plainly that
he died, sword in hand, on Atherston moor, I would not believe, till
they told me at length, but a few months since, that, if I pleased, I
might come and seek him myself. But, oh, dear child, that hope which I
so fondly clung to would become a horror and a terror, if I could
believe that my dear, my noble Arran, had been lingering on here,
living, and yet doubting of my faith and truth. I know what his noble
mind would have felt; I know how his kind and generous heart would
have been wrung; I know the black despair into which he would have
fallen. But it cannot be. I will not believe it. He would have
written; he would have sent; he would have found some means to
re-assure and comfort me. Now, then, I have answered all. Tell me,
tell me, I beseech you, how died my husband? Where have they laid him?
But you are weeping, my poor child."

"Stay a moment," said Iola, her voice half choked with sobs. "I shall
recover in a minute. Then I will tell you all;" and, breaking away
from her, she, quitted the room suddenly.

With a foot of light, Iola trod the passage nearly to the end, and
opened a door, from which immediately a light streamed forth.

Sitting at a table underneath a burning sconce, with his arms resting
on the board, and his forehead on his arms, was a tall and powerful
man, dressed in the garments of a nobleman of high rank, somewhat
antiquated indeed in point of fashion, but still rich and in good
taste. He seemed not to hear Iola's foot; for he moved not, although
the stillness of his figure was broken by the heaving of his chest
with a long, deep, gasping sigh. She laid her hand upon his arm,
saying:

"Look up, look up. Sunshine has come again."

He raised his head with a start; and the countenance before her was
that of Boyd the woodman.

With that eager grace so charming to see but indescribable in words,
Iola caught his hand and kissed it, as he gazed upon her with a look
of doubt and wonder.

"It is all false," she cried, "all utterly false! She is yours--has
been yours always. True, through wrong, and persecution, and deceit,
she is yours still--yours only."

"False," cried Boyd. "False? How can it be false? With my own eyes I
saw the announcement of his sister's marriage to James Hamilton, in
the king's own hand."

"He signed the contract," cried Iola, "without her consent; but she
tore the contract, and refused to ratify it."

"But my letters, my unanswered letters?" said Boyd.

"She has been watched and guarded, surrounded by spies and deceivers,"
exclaimed Iola, eagerly. "Hear all I have to tell you. Much may even
then remain to be explained, but, believe me, oh, believe me, all will
be explained clearly and with ease."

"I know that one traitor, that John Radnor, was bought to tell her I
was dead, when not ten days before he had spoken to me--me, ever his
kind and generous lord--and knew that I was safe and well. I saw the
proof of the villain's treachery; and I slew him; but, oh, I cannot
think that there are many such. Yet they have been fiends of hell
indeed; for torture, such as the damned undergo, were not more than
they have fixed on me, by making me think my Mary, my beautiful, my
devoted, false to him she loved."

"Oh, she was never false," cried Iola. "They thought to cheat her to
her own despair, by tales of your death; but the instinct of true love
taught her to doubt, till she had seen your tomb with her own eyes."

"I will go to her. I will go to her," cried the earl of Arran, rising
up, and taking a step or two towards the door. But there he paused,
and asked, "Does she still believe me dead?"

"She does," replied Iola, "though perhaps a spark of hope is kindled."

"Go and fan it into flame," replied the earl, "gently, gently, Iola. I
will bear the delay. Yet come as soon as ever she can bear to see me.
Do it speedily, dear girl, but yet not rashly."

"I will be careful. I will be very careful," said Iola; and, hurrying
away, she returned to the chamber where she had left the Princess
Mary, bearing a light with her.

"You have been long, my child," said the Princess; "but your young
heart knows not the anguish of mine; and that fair face speaks no
unkindness."

"It would speak falsely, did it do so," replied Iola. "Methinks the
power to give joy and reawaken hope were the brightest prerogative
that man could obtain from Heaven. And now be seated, dear lady; and I
will sit on this stool at your feet, and tell you a tale, woven into
which will be answers to all that you could question, with many a
comfort too, and a balm for a crushed and wounded heart."

"Angel," cried the princess, drawing her to her and kissing her brow;
"you look and speak like one of Heaven's comforting spirits."

"Listen then," said Lola. "'Tis more than ten years ago that a party
of the lords of Lancaster, led by the gallant earl of Arran, as the
most experienced of the troop, hastened across this country to join
queen Margaret's force at Tewksbury. The news of Barnet had vaguely
reached them; but still they hurried on in the direction which the
retreating army had taken. The main body of their little force
remained for the night on the green at St. Clare. I remember it well,
though I was then but a child of eight years old; for the earl of
Arran came to the Abbey, and I saw him there in his glittering armour.
He came on here himself, with several other gentlemen, and lodged for
the night at this house; for he had learned that a superior body of
troops was on the way to cut him off, in the neighbourhood of
Atherston. The old man whom you saw but now tried to persuade him to
retreat; but his high courage and his good faith led him on; and, on
the following day, he encountered the enemy on the moor, and, for
nearly two hours, made his ground good against a force treble his own
numbers. At length, however, in a strong effort to break through,
having already received an arrow in the arm and a wound in the head,
he was cast from his horse by a lance which pierced through and
through his corslet. The troops then fled, and the day was lost."

Iola's voice trembled as she spoke, and Mary bent down her head upon
her hands and wept.

"Be comforted," said the young girl, taking the princess's hand, and
gazing up towards her. "Hear me out; for there is comfort yet."

"Ha!" exclaimed Mary, suddenly lifting her head. "Was he not slain
then--was he not slain?"

"Hear me to the end," said Iola, "and hear me calmly. The old man you
saw but now had been a follower of the house of Lancaster. He was
interested too in that noble lord; and when he beheld the fugitives
pass along the edge of the wood, and the fierce pursuers spurring
after, he went away towards the field to see if he could aid the
wounded. He found a number of the people from the abbey upon the
field, and some of the good sisters. Litters were procured; the
wounded men were removed; the dying had the consolation of religion;
but the earl of Arran was not found amongst either. While the old man
went his way, the litters travelled slowly to St. Clare. She who was
abbess then asked anxiously for the earl of Arran; but they told her
that he was neither amongst the wounded, nor the dying, nor the dead.
She said they must be mistaken; for a soldier, who had stopped to get
a draught of water at the fountain, had seen him fall pierced with a
spear; and she sent them back with torches, for, by this time, it was
night, to seek for him once more. They sought for him in vain; but the
old franklin, as he had turned homewards, had seen something glitter
in the bushes just at the edge of the wood. On looking nearer, he
found that it was the form of an armed man, with the head of a lance
in his breast. The staff was broken off."

"Oh, God, was he living?" exclaimed the princess.

"He was," replied Iola; "nay, be calm, be calm, and hear me out. I
must tell the rest rapidly. The old man staid with him till nightfall;
then got a cart and moved him hither, where a great part of his
baggage had been left. They dared not send for a surgeon; for pursuit
after the house of Lancaster was fierce, and slaughter raged
throughout the land. But the old man himself extracted the lance's
head, and stanched the bleeding by such simples as he knew. For three
months he tended him as a father would a child; but for nearly a year
he was feeble and unable to move."

"Does he live, does he live?" cried the princess.

"Can you bear it?" asked Iola. "He did live long, for many years; but
he heard tidings which disgusted him with life. Hermit or monk he
would not become; for he had other thoughts; but he cast off rank and
state, and, putting on a lowly garb, he lived as a mere woodman in a
forest near, a servant of the abbey where all my youth was spent."

"But now, but now!" demanded Mary. "Does he live now? Oh, tell me,
tell me!"

As she spoke the door opened. Mary raised her eyes and gazed forward,
with a look of wild bewilderment, and then, with a cry of joy and
recognition, sprang forward and cast herself upon her husband's
bosom.




CHAPTER XLIII.


Confusion and agitation pervaded England from end to end. Men gathered
together in the streets and talked. Couriers passed between house and
house. The fat citizen gossipped with his neighbour, over the events
of the day, and looked big and important, as he doled out the news to
his better half at home. The peasantry too were moved by feelings of
their own. The village green and the alehouse had their politicians.
The good wife looked anxious, lest Hob should be taken for a soldier;
and the old men and women recalled the days when the feuds of York and
Lancaster were at their height, and hoped that such times were not
coming again.

Still, however, the news spread far and wide, that the earl of
Richmond had landed on the Welsh coast, and was marching towards
London to grasp the crown. From castle to castle, and city to city,
and cottage to cottage, the rumour rolled on. He was there--actually
there, upon English ground; the long-expected blow was struck; the
long anticipated enterprise had begun.

Busy emissaries, too, whispered in every ear, that Richmond was
affianced to the heiress of the house of York. There was no longer a
question of York and Lancaster. It was no longer a fratricidal war
between the descendants of the same ancestor; but York and Lancaster
were united; and the long rival factions took their stand, and
unfurled their banners, side by side, against one who was equally
inimical to both. Every evil act which Richard had committed was
called to memory, denounced, and exaggerated. False facts were
fabricated, many of which have been transmitted to the present day, to
blacken his character, and misrepresent his conduct. His views, his
deeds, his very person, were all distorted, and the current of popular
opinion was turned strongly against him. Still the prudent, the timid,
and the idle, counselled together, and prepared to follow a
temporising policy.

"Take my advice," said an old man to his neighbours, "keep quite
quiet; take part with neither; let Lancaster cut York's throat or York
Lancaster's, or both join to destroy Richard, we have nothing to do
with such things. We shall suffer enough, whichever wins the day; but
better to suffer in pocket than to die or get wounds in a cause which
concerns us very little. One king is for us just as good as another;
and as to the question of right, as no doctors have settled it, how
should we be able to decide? Keep quiet, and let them fight it out
amongst themselves."

Such was very commonly the feeling amongst the lower classes of
the people; and many of a higher rank were moved by the same
considerations. "If we fight for Richmond," they thought, "he may lose
a battle; and then we are at the mercy of Richard. If on the contrary
we march under the banners of Richard, he may be defeated, and
Richmond have our fate in his hands."

The higher nobility, indeed, pursued a different course. They began to
gather men; they made preparations for war; but they kept as secret as
possible, in what direction they intended to act. They were in general
very silent as to their intentions, though exceedingly busy and active
in their preparation; and constant communications were passing from
one to the other, the nature of which was not discovered.

The only one who seemed inactive in the realm was the king himself.
He, so energetic and daring in the camp and the field, so astute and
cautious in the council-chamber, for a time seemed to do very little.
The first news of Richmond's armament, indeed, had almost cast him
into a state of frenzy; but, when he learned that the earl had landed
at Milford-haven with but three thousand men, his rage appeared to
sink into contempt. He treated his coming as a mere bravado, and
seemed to scorn the display of any extraordinary measures against so
pitiful an attack.

"Sir Walter Herbert will give a good account of him," he said, when
some of his courtiers spoke of the invasion. "Herbert has full five
thousand men, choice soldiers, ready and fit to rid our soil of these
French weeds, or I know nought of gardening. We shall soon hear news
of him."

He did soon hear news; but it was that Richmond marched on unopposed
through the land, that he had been joined by Rice ap Thomas, with a
thousand men, that Savage had gone over to him, that Herbert made no
movement to oppose his progress, that Wales was rising rapidly in his
favour, that friends and supplies were pouring into his camp, and that
he was rapidly advancing upon Shrewsbury. Then it was that Richard not
only felt the necessity of energy, but became sensible of his danger,
and began to act with that fierce and impatient eagerness which had
formerly characterized him. His messengers hastened over all the
country, calling every one he could count upon to arms, and ordering
those who were doubtful to join him at Nottingham, without an hour's
delay. Norfolk and Northumberland were summoned in the same terms; but
while the one hastened to obey, with all the promptitude of zealous
attachment, the other made no professions, but slowly raised men, and
marched with tardy steps, into such a position that he could act as he
judged fit, whenever the moment for action came. Catesby hurried up
with all the men that he could raise; and many others came in with
extraordinary speed; for though disaffection had spread wide, it was
by no means universal; and many of those who were discontented were
not willing to aid in hurling Richard from the throne. The army
increased in number daily; and when the king compared his own force
with that of Richmond, even after the latter had reached Shrewsbury,
and had been joined by the young earl of that name, and the Lord
Talbot, he laughed all fears of danger to scorn, and prepared to cast
himself in the way of his enemy, in whatever direction he might bend
his steps. Lord Calverly was sent to raise all his tenantry and
dependants; and, amongst others to whom messengers were despatched, to
call them immediately to the aid of the crown, were Fulmer and
Chartley. The courier sent to the former found him on the full march
from Dorsetshire, and returned to Richard with this reply to his
summons--

"The Lord Fulmer craves the king's pardon, for moving without his
commands; but having learned that the earl of Richmond had landed in
Wales, he thought he could not be far wrong in marching at once, to
offer his sword and his troops to his sovereign's service."

Richard was surrounded by many persons, when these words were
reported; but shortly after, he whispered to Ratcliffe, who stood near
him, saying--

"This youth Fulmer deserves well. He shall have his bride. But not
yet, Ratcliffe--not yet. We must crush this Breton-nurtured young
Richmond, and then we will have gay days and bridals. The girl must be
brought to a place of security. We will send her to York."

"But your grace forgets that she is not at the abbey," replied
Ratcliffe, who took the king's words for a command. "She must be
found, before she can be sent to York."

Richard smiled, with one of his dark looks of serpent subtlety, in
which a slight touch of scorn mingled with an expression of triumphant
cunning.

"She needs not to be found," he answered; "but what said the young
Lord Chartley to our summons? Has he returned no answer?"

"He called for his horse at the first word, sire," replied Ratcliffe,
"and said, that in four days his tenants should be in the field."

"Impetuous ever!" said Richard; but then he fell into a fit of musing,
and his brow grew somewhat dark. "Four days," he repeated, "four days
That argues preparation. He has a two days' journey, speed as he will.
His tenants shall be in the field--Ay, but for whom? Send some one
after him. Bid him join us at Broughton, and let him be well watched."

"At Broughton, sire?" said Ratcliffe, in a doubtful tone.

"Yes," answered Richard; "we march tomorrow for Leicester. At
Broughton we have him at our will. Have you heard from Lord Stanley,
or his brother, Sir William?"

"He is true, I doubt not, sire," replied Ratcliffe; "the last news was
that he had fallen back somewhat from Lichfield, upon the advance of
Richmond, not having force to oppose him, since the defection of Sir
George Talbot and the earl of Shrewsbury. But 'tis said his brother
William is marching to join him with two thousand men, and they will
fight the traitor as soon as they meet."

"That must not be," said Richard, with a stern thoughtful look. "If
they win the field, a subject gains the honour which the crown should
have. If they fail, they plume this gosshawk's wings with the eagle
pens of victory, and many will draw to him after a won battle, many
fall from us. There is ever, Ratcliffe, a light and fickle crowd, that
flutters round success, heedless of right or merit, as clouds gather
round the rising sun to gild their empty vapours in the beams that
suck them up ere it be noon. No, no! We will have no one either snatch
Richmond from our hand, or try and fail. Bid them fall back as he
advances, till, with our kingly force, we overwhelm him like a rat in
a torrent. Send off a post to-night; and, in the meanwhile, watch well
the young Lord Strange. His neck is better security than his good
father's faith. We will to Leicester early, before the army. But it
must not lag behind. One day's march lost, and Richmond would slip by.
He must not reach St. Paul's."

Thus saying, he turned to the rest of the courtiers, and spoke of
other things.




CHAPTER XLIV.


The sun had set nearly an hour. The moon had not yet risen, and the
forest was all in darkness; but there were many people round the door
of the woodman's cottage. Horsemen, and men in armour, and a groom
leading a beautiful white horse, evidently caparisoned for a lady.
Through the chinks of the boards which covered the windows much light
was streaming; and the scene within was an unusual one for such a
place. There were four persons standing round a table, on which was
laid a parchment; and Iola and Chartley had just signed it. The earl
of Arran took the pen and gave it to the princess countess of Arran,
who added her name to the act; and he, himself, then subscribed his
own.

Two or three of the attendants, male and female, attested the deed
likewise; and then the woodman, if we may still so call him, placed
Iola's hand in Chartley's, saying, "Now, take her, noble lord, and
place her beyond risk and danger as speedily as may be. To your honour
she is trusted; and I do believe that neither your honour nor your
love will ever fail; but yet, remember she is not your wife till the
ceremonies of religion have consecrated the bond between you. I trust
we shall all meet again soon, in the presence of those who may rightly
judge of these matters; and I promise you there to prove, that the
contract between this lady and the Lord Fulmer is utterly null and
void, and that this contract is legal and good. To insure all,
however--for who shall count upon even a single day--give this letter
to the earl of Richmond, when you have joined him, and tell him it
comes from the woodman who once sent him intelligence which saved him
from captivity, and perhaps from death. Now, God's blessing be upon
you, my children. Nay, let us have no farewells, dear Iola. Take her,
Chartley, take her, and away."

"But was not Constance to meet us here?" said Iola, in a low tone. "I
thought she was to be my companion."

"I fear that has gone wrong," said the woodman. "The abbey gates were
closed an hour before sunset, and even one of my men was refused
admission to the mere outer court; but I shall join you soon and bring
you news. Though I can raise no great force, yet with what men I can
muster I will not fail to help the noble earl with my own hand. So
tell him."

Thus saying, he led Iola to the door of the cottage, with his own
strong arms placed her on the horse's back, and then with one more
blessing, retired from her side. Chartley sprang lightly and happily
into the saddle, and the whole party rode on. It consisted of some
twenty men besides the lover and his lady; and, at a quick pace, they
proceeded through the forest, taking very nearly the same direction
which had been followed by the woodman and the bishop of Ely, but by
the general road, instead of the narrow and somewhat circuitous paths
along which the prelate had been led.

I have not time or space to pause upon the feelings of Iola at that
moment--at least, not to describe minutely. They were strange and new
to her. She had encountered danger; she had resisted anger, without
fear; but her circumstances now were very different. She was not only
going alone with the man whom she loved into the wide world, with
perils, changes, and events, surrounding them on all sides like a
mist, through which the most piercing eye could not discover one ray
of light, but she was quitting all old associations, breaking through
every habit of thought, entering upon an entirely new state of being.
The grave of a woman's first life is her marriage contract. Did she
doubt? Did she hesitate? Oh, no, she feared for the future in one
sense, but in one sense alone. She believed, she knew, she felt, that
she had chosen well, that Chartley's love would not alter, nor his
tenderness grow cold, that her happiness was in him, and was as secure
as any fabric can be, built upon a mortal and perishable base; but she
felt that in uniting her fate to his, if she doubled the enjoyments
and the happiness of being, she doubled the dangers and anxieties
also. She was much moved, but not by that consideration--in truth her
emotion sprang not from consideration at all. It was a sensation--a
sensation of the awfulness of the change; and though it did not make
her tremble, yet whenever she thought of it, and all that it implied
through the wide long future, a thrill passed through her heart which
almost stepped its beatings.

With Chartley it was very different. Men cannot feel such things with
such intensity, nay, can hardly conceive them. His sensations were all
joyful. Hope, eager passion, gratified love, made his heart bound
high, and filled it with new fire and energy. He was aware that many
dangers were around them, that every hour and every moment had its
peril, and that then a strife must come, brief and terrible, in which,
perhaps, all his newborn joys might be extinguished in death. But yet,
strange to say, the thought of death, which had never been very
fearful to him, lost even a portion of its terrors rather than
acquired new ones, by what might appear additional ties to existence.
We little comprehend in these our cold calculating days--in an age
which may be designated "The age of the absence of enthusiasms"--we
little comprehend, I say, the nature of chivalrous love; nor, indeed,
any of the enthusiasms of chivalry. I must not stay to descant upon
them; but suffice it to say, Chartley felt that, whenever he might
fall, to have called Iola his own, was a sufficient joy for one mortal
life, that to do great deeds and die with high renown, loving and
beloved and wept, was a fate well worthy of envy and not regret.

Still he had some faint notion of what must be passing in her breast.
He felt that the very situation must agitate her; he fancied that the
mere material danger that surrounded them might alarm her; and he
hastened to cheer and re-assure her as much as might be.

"I trust, dearest Iola," he said, "that I shall not weary you by this
fast riding, after all the agitation of to-day. Once past Tamworth,
and we shall be more secure; for all my men muster at Fazely; and I
trust to find myself at the head of three hundred horse."

"Do you stop at Tamworth?" asked Iola. "I have heard that there are
parties of the king's troops there."

"We must leave it on the right, where the roads separate," replied
Chartley. "Stanley, I hear, is retreating somewhere in this direction
from Lichfield; but him I do not fear. If we reach Lichfield in
safety, all danger is past. Ride on, dear one, for a moment, while I
speak to some of the men in the rear. I will not be an instant ere I
return to your side."

He might perceive something to raise apprehension, as he thus spoke,
or he might not; but Chartley dropped back, and gave orders to two of
the men, to keep at the distance of a hundred yards behind the rest,
and if the slightest signs of pursuit were observed, to give instant
warning; and then, while returning towards Iola, he paused for an
instant by the Arab. "Ibn Ayoub," he said, "in case of attack, I give
thee charge of the most precious thing I have. Shouldst thou see signs
of strife, seize the lady's bridle, and away for safety, wherever the
road is clear. Fleet will be the horses that can keep pace with thine
and hers. A town, called Lichfield, is the place where we must meet.
Thou hast once been there, and dost not forget."

"Why should the emir fight, and the slave fly?" asked Ibn Ayoub; "but
be it as thou wilt."

"It must be so," answered his lord; "now, ride up closer to us, and
remember my words."

Thus saying, he spurred on and renewed the conversation with Iola, in
a cheerful though tender tone, and dear words were spoken, and bright
hopes expressed, which made the way seem short. They recalled the
past, they talked of the night when they had first met, and their
sojourn in the forest, and Iola forgot in part her agitation, in the
thrilling dreams of memory; but every now and then she would wake
from them with a start, and recollect that she was there with
Chartley--there alone--not to return in a few hours to the friends and
companions of early youth, but in one, or, at most, two short days, to
be his wife, to renounce all other things for him, and to merge her
being into his. It was very sweet; but it was awful too, and, as from
a well in her heart, new feelings gushed and almost overpowered her.

They had passed the turning of the road to Tamworth, and were riding
on towards Fazely. All danger of an attack from that side seemed over;
and Chartley's conversation became lighter and more gay, when suddenly
one of his men rode up from behind, saying:

"There are some horsemen following, my noble lord. They are but three
indeed, of that I am sure, for I rode up to that little hillock on the
common, whence I can see for half a mile. But I thought it best to
tell you."

"Spies, perhaps," said Chartley, in a calm tone. "If so, I would fain
catch them, and bring them in to Fazely. Ride on, dearest Iola. I will
take ten men, and see who these gentlemen are. All is prepared for you
at Fazely, and we are beyond peril now. I will follow you at once. Ibn
Ayoub, guard the lady."

"Chartley, you would not deceive me?" said Iola; "if there be danger,
I would share it at your side."

"Indeed, there is none," replied Chartley, "you heard, dear one, what
the man said. I know no more. There are but three men. They can make
no attack, and indeed no resistance."

He turned his horse's head as he spoke, and, taking the eight last men
of the troop with him, rode back to the rear. He had not far to go,
however; for, about two hundred yards behind, he plainly saw the
figures of three horsemen, one in front and two following, coming at a
quick pace along the road. He halted his little troop when he could
distinguish them, and as they approached nearer, exclaimed:

"Stand! Who comes here?"

"Is that thee, Lord Chartley?" asked a voice, which the young nobleman
thought familiar to his ear.

"It matters not who I am," he replied; "you cannot pass till you
declare yourself."

"May I never wear aught but a sorry- cloth cloak and brown
hosen," cried the other, "if that be not Chartley's tongue. I am Sir
Edward Hungerford; do you not know me?"

"Faith, Hungerford!" replied Chartley, laughing; "like a kingfisher,
you are better known by your feathers than your voice. But what brings
you this way?"

"Seeking you, good my lord," replied Hungerford, riding up. "I have
been over at Atherston enquiring for you, and then upon a certain
green near a certain abbey; and I fear me, by riding through these
roads, in this dusty August, I have utterly polluted a jerkin of sky
blue satin, of the newest and quaintest device--would you could see
it; and yet now 'tis hardly fit to be seen, I doubt--but faith, all
the news I could get of you, was that you had ridden away towards
Fazely, where your musters are making, and, as I rode down to the
bridge on the Coleshill road, I caught a sound of horses' feet, and
followed."

"But what might be your object?" asked Chartley; "what your pressing
business with me?"

"Nay, I will tell you, when we get to Fazely," replied Hungerford;
"and we had better ride on quick, for I must bear back an answer to
Tamworth to-night."

The society of Sir Edward Hungerford, at Fazely, was by no means what
Chartley desired; and he determined on his course at once.

"Gramercy, Hungerford!" he said; "these are perilous times, which
break through courtesies and abridge ceremonies. Fazely is in
possession of my merry men. It is an open undefended village, and I
will let none into it, but my own people."

"Why, you do not look on me as a spy," replied Hungerford, in an
offended tone; "your hospitality is scanty, my lord Chartley."

"If you have to return to Tamworth to-night, Hungerford, it is not
hospitality you seek," answered Chartley; "true, I do not look on you
as a spy, or ought, but the best-dressed man of honour in the land;
but I do hold it a point of prudence, in times like these, to let no
one know the numbers and disposition of my little force, when one can
never tell in what ranks one may see him next. In a word, my gentle
friend, I have heard that you have been of late with good Lord Fulmer,
down in Dorsetshire; and Lord Fulmer is much doubted at the court, let
me tell you--of his love for me there is no doubt. Now, if you were
seeking me at Atherston and elsewhere, you can speak your errand here
as well as at Fazely."

"But you cannot read a billet here as well as at Fazely," replied
Hungerford, "no, nor smell out the contents--though I had it scented
before I brought it, which he had omitted."

"Who is he?" asked Chartley.

"My noble friend, Lord Fulmer, to be sure," answered the gay knight.

"Ah, then, I guess your errand," replied Chartley; "here, let us
dismount and step aside. Mundy, hold my horse." Springing to the
ground, he walked to a little distance from his men, with Sir Edward
Hungerford.

"Now my good friend," he said, "let me have it in plain words, and as
briefly as may suit your courtly nature."

The message, which Hungerford delivered in somewhat circuitous terms,
and with many fine figures of speech, was what Chartley anticipated;
and he replied at once--

"I will not baulk him, Hungerford, though good faith, he might have
chosen a more convenient season. Yet I will not baulk him; but, as the
person challenged, I will dictate my own terms."

"That is your right," said Hungerford, "we can have the cartel fairly
drawn out, and signed by each."

"Good faith, no," answered Chartley; "the first of my conditions is,
that there be no cartel. We have no time for fooleries. Events are
drawing on, in which all personal petty quarrels must be lost; but
still, although I might refuse, and refer our difference to a future
time, when peace is restored, yet I will not seek delay, if he will
demand no other terms but those I can grant at once. Thus then, I will
have no parade of lists, and witnesses, and marshals of the field; but
I will meet him sword to sword, and man to man, my bare breast against
his. Alone too let it be. There is no need of mixing other men in our
quarrels. It must be immediate too; for I have not time to wait upon
his pleasure. To-morrow at dawn, tell him, I will be alone upon the
top of yonder little hill, behind which the moon is just rising, if
that silver light in the sky speaks truth. There we can see over the
country round, so that his suspicious mind cannot fear an ambush. I
will be alone, armed as I am now, with sword and dagger only. Let him
come so armed likewise, and he shall have what he seeks. These are my
conditions, and thereon I give you my hand. Be you the witness of our
terms; and if either take advantage, then rest shame upon his name."

"I will tell him, my good lord," replied Hungerford, "but I cannot
answer he will come; for these conditions are unusual. 'Tis most
unpleasant fighting before breakfast. Men have more stomach for a
hearty meal, than a good bout of blows."

"Good faith, if he have no stomach for the meal I offer, he may even
leave it," answered Chartley. "'Tis the only time, and only manner
that he shall have the occasion. You own, yourself, I have a right to
name the terms."

"Undoubtedly," replied Hungerford. "Yet still the manner is most
uncustomary, and the hour comfortless. If I were a general I would
never let my men fight till after dinner: An Englishman gets savage in
digestion, owing to the quantity of hard beef he eats, and always
should be brought to fight at that hour when he is fiercest. However,
as such is your whim, I will expound it to Lord Fulmer; and now, my
noble lord, I trust you will not hold my act unfriendly, in bearing
you this billet, which I will leave with you, although I have
delivered the substance."

"Not in the least, Hungerford," replied Chartley. "I believe, like
many another man, you are better, wiser, than you suffer yourself to
seem."

"Thanks, noble lord," replied the knight, moving by his side towards
their horses; "but there was one important matter, which I forgot to
mention, though I have borne it in my mind for several months."

"Ay, what was that?" demanded Chartley, stopping.

"That last night at Chidlow," replied Hungerford, "your doublet was
looped awry. Were I you, I would strictly command the valet of my
wardrobe to begin at the lowest loop, and so work upwards; for it has
a singular and unpleasant effect upon the eye to see apparel out of
place, especially where slashings and purfling, or bands, or slips, or
other regular parts of the garment are out of symmetry. For my part I
cannot fancy any fair lady looking love upon such a disjointed
garment."

"I will follow your sage advice," replied Chartley, laughing; "and
now, good night, Hungerford. Another evening I trust to entertain you
better."

Thus they parted; and Chartley, putting his horse to speed, rode after
Iola and her companions. They had reached Fazely, however, before he
overtook them; and the young lord found the master of his household,
with all due reverence, showing the lady Iola to the apartments in the
large farm-house which had been prepared for her.

The place was not a palace assuredly; but many a little graceful
decoration had been added to its plain accommodations, since
Chartley's messenger had arrived that evening. Garlands of flowers had
been hung above the doors, fresh rushes strewed the floors, and
wreaths of box hung upon the sconces.

All was bustle too in the village. Groups of men in arms were seen
lingering about; and merry sounds came from the ale-house opposite.
Iola's heart, however, sunk a little, when she saw the many signs of
approaching warfare, although those who were to take part therein, and
peril life and happiness, seemed to treat it as a thoughtless May-day
game. A buxom country girl was waiting to attend upon her, some light
refreshments were spread out in the hall; and when Chartley's step and
Chartley's voice were heard, the momentary sensation of dread passed
away, and she felt that the first perils were passed.

An hour, a little hour, they stayed together, in sweet dreamy talk;
and then Chartley led her to her chamber, where a bed had also been
prepared for the maid. With a kind and gentle adieu, Chartley bade her
rest well, that she might be refreshed for their march on the
following day, and then returned to hear reports, and give directions.

The next was a busy hour. Orders, inquiries, the receipt of
intelligence, the examination of rolls and accounts, filled up the
time; and then, dismissing all to repose, the young lord sat down to
write. Two or three letters were speedily finished; one to Lord
Stanley, one to the Earl of Richmond, and one to Sir William Arden. A
few brief tender lines to Iola he folded up and put in his own bosom;
after which he wrote some directions upon paper, sealed them, and then
marked upon the back--"To be opened and followed if I be not returned
by eight of the clock--Chartley."

And then he sat, and leaned his head upon his hand, and thought. He
would not retire to rest, lest he should not wake in time; but the
hours of the night slipped by; and at length he rose, and broke the
slumbers of his drowsy master of his household, who, though startled
at seeing his lord by his bed-side, could hardly be brought to
understand what was said to him.

"Here, take these orders," said Chartley. "Put them under your pillow
for to-night, and see that they be executed at the hour named
to-morrow."

"I will, my lord. Yes, my lord, I will," replied the man, rubbing his
eyes; and having given him the paper, Chartley procured a cup of cold
water, drank it for refreshment after his sleepless night, and then
proceeded to the stable. There, with his own hands, he saddled his
horse; then mounted, and rode away.




CHAPTER XLV.


I know no labour of the body which fatigues so much as agitation of
the mind; but the fatigue which it produces is very often of that kind
which refuses repose. The mind, in its immortality, does not so easily
yield to slumber as its death-doomed companion. More than an hour
passed ere Iola slept; but, when she did sleep, it was with the calm
and tranquil repose of youth and innocence. Fears she might feel;
strong emotions might affect her; dangers, anxieties, and cares she
might undergo; but there was no evil act to be regretted, no evil
thought to be combatted. The worm that dieth not was not in the heart.
The fire that cannot be quenched had not passed upon the brain. She
slept sweetly, tranquilly then; and daylight found her sleeping still.

The light-hearted country girl, who lay on the small bed at her feet,
slept quietly too; but she had her accustomed hour of waking, and, at
that hour, she rose. Her moving in the room roused Iola; and on being
informed of the hour, though it was an early one, she said she would
rise too, that she might be ready for whatever course Chartley chose
to follow. Her toilet was nearly complete, and the girl had left the
room some minutes, when she suddenly returned with a look of alarm,
saying:

"Oh, lady, there is that terrible-looking black man at the door,
insisting to speak with you."

Iola waited not to hear more, though the girl was going on to tell her
that the whole house was in confusion, but sprang to the door and
threw it open, demanding,

"What is it, Ibn Ayoub?"

"There is danger, lady," said the Arab. "My lord gave me charge to
guard you to Lichfield in case of strife; and strife is coming."

"But where is your lord?" demanded Iola, with eager alarm in her tone
and look.

"It is not known," replied the Arab. "He rode out this morning alone,
it is supposed to visit some posts, or see for the men not yet come
up. But he commanded me yesterday to guard you safely to Lichfield in
any hour of peril. That hour is now. The Lord Stanley with a large
force is marching on us; and our people are parlying with his, at the
end of the village. They say they will give admission to none, till
our lord's return; and Lord Stanley says he will force them. Throw on
your hood, lady, and come down. Your horse is ready; and there is a
way through the farm into the fields."

Iola hesitated for a moment; and then, looking earnestly in the Arab's
face, she demanded:

"Did he say that I was to go?"

"By the beard of the prophet, he did," replied Ibn Ayoub.

At the same moment came the blast of a trumpet from no great distance;
and the voice of the master of Chartley's household was heard calling
up the stairs, and exclaiming:

"Call the Lady Iola, call the Lady Iola!--Tell her she had better
hasten away, out by the other end of the village. Bid her make
haste--bid her lose no time."

Iola snatched up her hood from the table; and leaving all the little
articles of dress which had been brought with her, scattered about,
she hurried down the stairs. All was confusion below; and in vain she
tried to obtain some further information concerning Chartley. Most of
the men had gone forth at the first news of danger; and there were
none but the farmer and his sons, and the master of the household, an
elderly and somewhat infirm man, on the lower story. The latter urged
her eagerly to fly; and, hurrying into the court at the back of the
house, she was soon mounted on the fleet horse which had borne her
thither. Ibn Ayoub seized the bridle. One of the young men opened the
great gates behind and in a minute or two after, Iola found herself
amongst the fields and hedgerows, to the east of Fazely. Those
hedgerows were then numerous, and in full leaf, hiding the fugitives
from all eyes; and for nearly half an hour, the Arab urged the horses
on at a quick pace. At first, just as they issued from the village, a
number of loud sounds were borne upon the air; and once again a blast
of a trumpet was heard. But gradually the sounds became faint, as Iola
rode on; and very soon the calm sweet silence of an early summer
morning fell over the scene around. Nought was heard but the beating
of the horse's feet upon the road, the lowing of some distant cattle,
and the singing of a bird. All was peaceful, except poor Iola's heart;
and it beat with manifold agitating sensations.

"Let us go slower, Ibn Ayoub," she said. "We must be out of danger
now--at least, out of that danger. Let me think, let me think. At this
pace, I seem to leave thought behind me."

"Ay, there is no peril now," said the Arab, in his peculiar Oriental
tone; "but yet it were well to reach Lichfield as soon as may be; for
there my lord said he would join us."

"But are you sure you are in the way to Lichfield?" asked Iola. "And
are you sure, also, that your lord will be able to join us?--Heaven,
what will become of me, if he should not?"

"God is good," said the Arab, reverently laying his hand upon his
breast, "and fate is unchangeable. This is the road to Lichfield; so I
understood them; but every road has an end; and we shall soon see. Yet
let us go slowly. I forgot you are not an Arab."

The way was longer however than the good slave thought, and seemed to
Iola interminable. Villages were in those days few in the land; and
many of the towns now existing were then villages. The road they
travelled was evidently a small country road, good enough from the
dryness of the season, but little frequented, and furnished with none
of that convenient information, which tells the traveller of modern
times, by an inscription on a tall post, that he must turn to the
right to reach one place, or to the left to reach another. The heat
was very great too, oppressing both the horses and the riders which
they bore; and gradually the bright clear light of the summer morning
began to be obscured. A thin filmy veil was drawn over the sky; and,
as if forming themselves out of it, the yellowish outlines of gigantic
clouds were seen writhing and twisting themselves into a thousand
strange fantastic shapes. There was no wind, and yet they moved, and,
gradually piling themselves up, they seemed to climb one over the
other, like the Titans in the strife with Heaven.

"We shall have a storm ere night," said the Arab; "and you seem weary
and alarmed, lady."

"Alarmed I am, but not for the storm, Ibn Ayoub," replied Iola. "It is
for your dear lord, I am alarmed. It is this apprehension makes me
feel weary, I believe, and the agitation of our sudden departure. Yet
the air is terribly oppressive. I feel as if I could hardly breathe;"
and she unclasped the sort of collar, called a gorget, which, at that
time, formed a part of every lady's dress.

The Arab smiled. "It has but the feeling of spring to me," he said,
"though in your cold clime, doubtless, it seems hot; but we will find
some house where you can get refreshment and a few minutes repose."

"We may obtain information," said Iola; "and that is of more
importance. I can very well ride on to Lichfield. It was but six
miles, I think they said, from Fazely. By this time, we ought to have
seen it, I think."

"True, we have travelled more than six miles," said the man; "but yet
all seems clear. Nay, there is a house there. I see the roof peeping
over the hill; and this must be, the gate leading up to it."

They turned along the little farm road, which they saw winding through
two neighbouring fields, sloping upwards towards the west; and, as
they rose upon the little hill, they attained a more distinct view of
a good sized farmer's or franklin's house, with the low sheds and
barns, which were then common in England.

"You go first and speak to them, lady," said Ibn Ayoub. "My skin
frightens them--as if it needed to be washed in milk, to have a true
heart."

He spoke from experience; and, judging that he was probably right,
Iola rode on to the door, and called to a girl, who was carrying a
milk-pail through the passage. She instantly set down the pail, and
came running out to speak with the beautiful lady who called to her;
but the moment she cast her eyes beyond Iola, to the face and figure
of Ibn Ayoub, she ran back into the house with a scream. An elder
woman, however, appeared in her place, with a frank good-humoured
countenance, to whom Iola explained that she had come from Fazely,
intending to go to Lichfield, but that, from the distance they had
travelled without finding the city, she judged they must have made
some mistake.

"Mistake, sweet lady! ay, marry, have you," answered the good woman.
"Why, you are within four miles of Castle Bromwich, and I don't know
how far from Lichfield--fourteen miles, we reckon; and they are good
long ones, as I know. But you look tired and pale. Won't you come in
and rest? That foolish child was frightened at your tawny Moor; but
I'll warrant she'll soon be playing with his golden bracelets."

Iola had turned pale, to find that she was so far distant from the
place of her destination. She feared, too, that in so long a ride as
was now before her, she might fall in with some parties of the troops
that were crossing the country; and, judging that she might obtain
some information for her guidance at the farm, she accepted the good
woman's offer, and dismounted. Ibn Ayoub led the horses round to a
stall at the back of the house; and Iola was soon seated in the
kitchen of the cottage, with milk and eggs before her, and the good
dame pressing her to her food. There is something in graceful
sweetness of manner, which wins upon the rudest and most uncultivated.
But the good farmer's wife was not so. By character kind and cheerful,
nature had taught her the best sort of courtesy, and to it had been
added an education superior to that of many in her own rank. She could
read, and she could write, which was more than one half of the class
above her own could do; and she had lived in towns before she married
a farmer, which had rendered her polished in comparison with others.
It was with the kindness of her heart, however, that Iola had most to
do; for there was so much frank sincerity in her hospitality, that
Iola was encouraged to place some sort of confidence in her, and to
ask her advice as to her farther course. The opportunity of so doing
was easily found; for the good woman herself was not without that
share of curiosity which is almost uniformly found amongst persons
leading a very solitary life; and she asked full as many questions as
it was discreet to put. Amongst the rest, how it happened that a lady,
like Iola, was going to Lichfield, with only one man to guard her, and
he a tawny Moor?

"There were plenty of men to guard me this morning," replied Iola;
"but Fazely was menaced by a large body of troops, which the people
about me judged to be enemies; and I was advised to fly as fast as
possible, with the good Arab, who is a faithful and devoted attendant
of----"

There Iola paused and hesitated, not knowing how to conclude her
sentence, without calling forth inquiries or perhaps exciting
suspicions, which might be difficult to answer, and unpleasant to
endure. But the good woman saved her all pain on the subject.

"There, never mind names," she said. "These are not times for people
travelling to give their names. It may be your husband, it may be your
brother, you are talking of; but it is all the same to me. So then,
there are two sets of them at Fazely, are there I heard of some people
having mustered there from the west, three or four days ago; but I
did not know there were any others marching up. Are you aware, dear
lady--nay, do take another egg; you want refreshment, I can see--are
you aware that the earl of Richmond and all his people are at this
time in Lichfield?"

"No, I was not," answered Iola; "but, nevertheless, I must get forward
thither as fast as I can; for there I am to be met by those to whom I
must look for assistance and protection; and what I now fear is
encountering any of the bands of lawless soldiers, who are now roaming
about the land."

"Ay, marry, 'tis to be feared you do, riding so lonely. Why, Castle
Bromwich was full of Sir William Stanley's people; but the greater
part moved on yesterday to Atherston; two thousand goodly men as you
would wish to see, they tell me; one half of them in armour of plate.
I know not whether any were left behind, but 'tis very likely; for
there is generally what they call a rear guard. Then there are the
king's troops moving from Tamworth towards Leicester. They were to go
yesterday. I don't know whether they did. As for that matter, Sir
William's are the king's troops too, I suppose."

This intelligence did not serve to cheer Iola very much, for it only
showed her, more forcibly than ever, the difficulty she might meet
with, in trying to escape from that circle of military operations
which were taking place all around her; and, for a moment or two, she
looked so disconsolate, that the good woman's pity was moved.

"Ah, poor thing," she said, "I wish I knew what I could do for you.
You are too young, and too gentle, to be exposed to such sort of
things. Now, I warrant you, you have seldom stretched your limbs on a
hard bed, or eaten homely fare like ours."

"Oh yes, I have, often," replied Iola, with a gayer smile than she had
ever assumed since she entered the house; "and very happy was I when I
did so."

"But you are a lady by birth?" said the good woman, with a doubtful
look.

"Oh yes," replied the fair girl, "I am the heiress of a high house, my
good dame; more's the pity."

"Ay, why more's the pity?" asked the farmer's wife.

"Because flies will come where there is honey," answered Iola; "and
many a one seeks riches who cares little for love."

"True, very true," replied the other, with a sigh. "I wish I could
help you, dear lady; but I know not how. They took all our horses and
carts yesterday, and the men with them, and my husband too, to carry
over the baggage of Sir William's troops to Atherston. If my man had
been at home, he would have told you what to do soon enough; for he
has got a head, I'll warrant."

"Let us call in the slave, and consult with him," said Iola. "He is
faithful and honest; and we trust him much."

Ibn Ayoub was accordingly sought for, and found in the farm-yard,
where he had already made such progress in overcoming the prejudices
of the farmer's daughter, that she had brought him a bowl of milk with
her own hands. Although he spoke English but imperfectly, and
understood less what others said than they understood him, his
questions soon elicited from the good farmer's wife and her daughter,
who followed him into the room, much more intelligence than Iola had
obtained. The girl told them, that people from Bromwich had been
seeking more carts that morning, that a band of Sir William Stanley's
men had arrived at the town by daybreak, and were to depart at noon,
or before, if they could get carriage. The farmer's wife remembered,
too, that one body of them was likely to pass along the very road upon
which she had been about to direct Iola towards Lichfield.

"Can we learn when they have gone by?" asked Ibn Ayoub, in his laconic
way.

"Then we could go on at once, when the way is clear," said Iola.

"That were easily done," said the farmer's wife. "The road is not very
far. We have a field that overlooks it."

"Send the little cow-boy to feed the cattle by Conyer's copse,"
suggested the daughter. "There he will see them all pass; and, my life
for it, he will go down and talk with some of the archers, and learn
what they are doing, and all about it."

"'Tis a good way," said Ibn Ayoub. "Let him not know why he is sent,
lest he tell as well as ask."

Such was the course followed. With his dinner put into his wallet, the
boy was sent to drive the cattle from the pasture where they were
feeding, to that which overlooked the road; and he was strictly
enjoined, if any soldiers went by, and asked whether there were carts
or waggons at the farm, to say, no, they had gone to Atherston and not
returned, and to come back and tell when they had passed. Iola, it was
arranged, should remain where she was, till it was ascertained that
this body at least had gone by; and when she made some faint excuse
for intruding so long upon the good dame's hospitality, her hostess
laughed, saying--

"Bless thee, my child, if 'twere for a month, thou art welcome. So thou
art safe, I do not care. Come, Jenny, you've got the churning to do;
and I have to make the cakes."

All that frank and simple kindness could do, during the next three or
four hours, was done by the good woman of the house, to make her fair
guest comfortable and at ease. Amongst the most painful periods of
life, however, are those when thought and feeling are compelled to
strive against each other for the mastery, when the heart is filled
with deep emotions, and yet the external things of life are pressing
upon the brain for attention and consideration. Such was now Iola's
situation, as she sat meditating upon how she should make her way to
Lichfield, through all the difficulties and dangers which surrounded
her, while her heart was filled with anxiety for Chartley, and for the
result of the struggle which she believed might be going on at Fazely.

Twelve o'clock, one, two, three o'clock came; and the cow-boy did not
return. At last, somewhat anxious in regard to his absence, the
farmer's daughter set forth herself to see for him. She found him in
the very act of watching a small body of troops, passing from castle
Bromwich towards Atherston; and, having looked along the road as far
as she could see, she returned to the farm to make her report. It was
now agreed that Iola, and her attendant, should still remain for half
an hour, as the girl had seen a number of stragglers on the road; and
while Ibn Ayoub went to prepare the horses, the good dame endeavoured,
to the best of her power, to give Iola an accurate notion of the
various paths she was to follow, to reach Lichfield by the least
dangerous roads. Iola bent all her attention to her lesson; but, at
length, she suddenly interrupted the good woman in her detail,
saying--

"Oh, I know that spot well, where there are the three stone mounting
steps, and the great cross above them. One road leads to St. Clare, of
Atherston, and the other to Tamworth."

"And the little one on the left straight to Lichfield," replied the
good woman. "It is the same distance from each, just seven miles and a
furlong. If you were to go on the Tamworth road, you would have Fazely
close upon your left. As you go to Lichfield, you will leave it four
miles upon your right."

The horses were soon after brought round. The adieus were spoken. The
good farmer's wife would receive no recompense for the entertainment
which she had afforded to Iola. But a small brooch, which the lady
took from her hood, and bestowed upon the daughter, was more than
compensation for everything but the kindness and tenderness which
nothing could repay; and, with a motherly blessing upon her head, as
she departed, Iola waved her hand, and once more rode upon her
journey.




CHAPTER XLVI.


On the evening of the nineteenth of August, and at the hour of
half-past six, was seen riding alone, through the woodland, then lying
about three miles to the right of the direct road from Lichfield to
Tamworth, a gentleman mounted on a powerful black horse. No pleasant
ride was it he was taking; for by this time, one of those violent
thunder storms which so frequently interrupt the brief course of an
English summer, and which were both more severe and more frequent when
the land was better wooded than it is at present, had broke upon the
earth, after it had been menacing in the sky all the morning. I am
fond of describing thunder storms, having watched many a one in all
its changes for hours; and there is infinite variety in them too, so
that a dozen might be described, and no two alike; but, as I have done
so more than once before, I would certainly have said nothing of this
storm, had it not been an historical one, and connected with an
incident of some interest in English history. Suffice it, however,
that the thunder seemed to shake the very earth, rattling amongst the
trees of the forest as if immense masses of stone had been cast
through them by some tremendous engine. The lightning gleamed all
around, before, behind, overhead, in amongst the trees, under the
green leaves and boughs seeming to display for an instant all the dark
recesses of the forest, as if they had been suddenly lighted up by a
thousand torches, and then leaving them in blacker shade than before.
For the roar of the thunder, for the flash of the lightning, that
traveller would have cared very little; but for the increasing
darkness of the day, which seemed to anticipate the setting of the
sun, and for the deluge which poured from the sky, drenching himself,
his horse, and his accoutrements, he did care. Had there been any
wind, the rain would have been blinding; but it came pouring down in
such torrents, straight, even, unceasing, that what between the
failing light, the vapour rising from the hot ground, and the
incessant dark drops, it was impossible to see for more than a hundred
or a hundred and fifty yards along the road.

Yet the traveller turned his head often as he rode, looking hither and
thither, wherever any opening in the wood appeared; and he went slowly
too, as if he were in no haste, or uncertain of the way. Still, as he
proceeded, he murmured to himself.

"This is most unfortunate. Perhaps 'twere better to go back; and yet,
in this blinding deluge, I might again miss the road, and wander
Heaven knows whither. What will they think too? Would to Heaven I had
brought the boy with me! True, he never was in this place in his life
before, any more than myself; but he seemed to have an instinct in
finding his way."

He rode on for about ten minutes more, and then exclaimed joyfully:

"There are some felled trees! There may be a woodman's cottage or some
forest but near--a horse, upon my life, and a woman's garments under
that shed. Woman, with all her faults, is ever a friend to the
distressed, a help in the time of peril;" and, turning his horse out
of the path, he rode quickly over some cleared ground, man[oe]uvring
skilfully amongst the felled trees and stumps with which the spot was
encumbered.

His course was directed towards a little open shed, into one side of
which the rain drove furiously; but immediately in the way, at the
distance of only a few feet from the shed itself, was a deep sawpit,
at either end of which were piles of timber, which he could not pass
without going round. Just opposite, however, under the partial shelter
which the shed afforded, was the form he had seen from the road; and
close by was the horse, a beautiful animal of pure Arab blood, covered
with splendid housings of velvet and gold, which were getting soaked
in the descending deluge. All that he could see of the woman was,
that, in figure, she was slight and graceful; for her hood was drawn
far over her head; and she stood in the farther part of the shed to
avoid the rain as much as possible. Her riding-suit, however, spoke no
lowly station; and it was with a tone of gentlemanly deference that
the stranger accosted her.

"Pardon me for addressing you, lady," he said; "for necessity compels
me to do so; and yet I fear, from finding you taking refuge here, that
my application will be fruitless. I have lost my way in this wood; and
I would fain know if I am near Tamworth, or if there be any place
where I can obtain shelter in the neighbourhood."

"You are far from Tamworth," said a sweet musical voice, "five or six
miles at least; and as to shelter, I have just sent an attendant to
see if there be any better place than this within a short distance. I,
myself, am not aware of any. He will be back immediately," she added;
"for I told him not to go far."

Perhaps there was a little apprehension in the latter part of her
reply; for, although the dress of the stranger was that of a high
rank, and his demeanour courteous, yet still he was a stranger; and,
to say truth, his features and expression, though not marked by any
violent passions, and hardly to be called repulsive, were not
altogether prepossessing.

"If you will permit me," he said, "I will wait till your attendant
returns, and crave a part of the roof that covers you."

What she replied he did not hear; for, at that instant, there was a
bright flash of lightning, which caused her to hide her eyes with her
hand, followed instantly by a tremendous roar of the thunder that
drowned every other sound. Before the rattling peal had ceased, for it
seemed to go round and round the whole sky, the stranger was by her
side, dismounted, and tying his horse at some distance from her own;
and Iola, with her eyes unshrouded, was examining his appearance
attentively. He was a man in the prime of life, tall and well formed,
but spare in person, and somewhat thin in face. The features were
good, but somewhat stern in character, with a forehead broad and high,
and a slight wrinkle between the brows. The whole expression was grave
and thoughtful, with a slight touch of shrewdness, and a cold,
inquiring, calculating eye. The second look, however, was more
satisfactory to Iola than the first had been. That grave, even stern,
looking man, was far more acceptable to her, as a companion at that
moment, than one of the gay light flutterers of the court would have
been. When his horse had been secured, the stranger pulled off his
hat, which was of a foreign fashion, and shook the wet from the broad
border and the plume; and then, turning to the lady, he said:

"I fear I break in upon your privacy; but I am sure your kindness will
forgive it, and trust that, if you have it in your power to give me
any information or direction, you will do so. Your own heart will
thank you; for it will be indeed a charity, and I shall be most
grateful."

"I know nothing of your need, sir," replied Iola. "All you have told
me is your wish to reach Tamworth, which is far. If you will tell me
what other information you may want, I will give it willingly, though
I know but little with any certainty."

"Business of importance, indeed, carries me to Tamworth," he answered;
"and I ought to have been there ere now; but we live in dangerous
times, and the country is in a troublous state, so that at every step
one may stumble upon some body of hostile troops."

"That is true," replied Iola; "for I am seeking, myself, to get beyond
these two lines of adversaries. If I knew which you had to fear,
perhaps I might give you information."

The stranger smiled. "Can you not tell me, in general terms, what you
know of the two armies?" he asked. "Then I may be able to judge."

"You fear to speak your faction to me," answered Iola; "and therein
you do me wrong; for, believe me, if you were king Richard himself, I
would not betray you to your enemy; nor, if the earl of Richmond, to
king Richard. Yet, perhaps, you are wise to keep your own counsel."

"I have always found it so," said the other, with a laugh. "Not that I
doubt you, dear lady; for you do not look like one who would injure
any one. But you can, as I have said, tell me generally."

"Well, then, I learn," said Iola, "that the king is at Leicester with
a large force, the earl of Richmond at Lichfield; Sir William Stanley,
on his march to join the king, moved yesterday to Atherston and the
Lord Stanley sought to pass through Fazely this morning, just between
us and Tamworth. Whether he passed or not I cannot tell."

"Retiring before the earl of Richmond's army," said the stranger,
musing. "But why think you he did not pass?"

"Because there were other troops in the village," answered Iola, "some
three or four hundred men, I learned, under the Lord Chartley."

"Then is Chartley at Fazely?" exclaimed the other, with a glad look.
"How far is Fazely hence, dear lady?"

"About three or four miles, I am told," answered Iola; "but I know not
that Lord Chartley is there now. When I came thence this morning, the
troops of Lord Stanley demanded admission, and were refused. Strife
was likely to ensue; and I was told to fly and seek safety at
Lichfield."

"Then now I know who you are," said the stranger, taking her hand;
"the Lady Iola St. Leger. Is it not so? I am a friend of Lord
Chartley's; and he wrote, to me, that he and you would be at Lichfield
to-night."

Iola blushed, she hardly knew why, and, when the thunder had ceased
echoing, replied,

"You have guessed right, sir; but I knew not that Lord Chartley had
written to any one. May I not know your name?"

The stranger paused for a moment thoughtfully, and then answered, "You
will think me discourteous; but yet, methinks, the rule I have laid
down it were best to adhere to. Much depends upon prudence in my case;
and it were better to be over discreet than rash."

"Then, my good lord, I know you too," replied Iola, with one of her
gay looks, beaming up for an instant, and then disappearing again like
a meteor over the night sky. "Shall I tell you whom I believe you to
be?"

"No," replied the stranger. "That might make me more discourteous
still, and neither answer yes or no to your surmise. But deal with me
merely as a friend of the Lord Chartley's, who wishes him well--as one
linked in the same cause with him, whose enemies are his enemies, and
let me hear anything you may judge necessary for me to know."

"I am quite sure I am right," answered Iola; "although it is a mystery
to me how you came hither alone, unattended, and certainly in a place
of danger."

"Good faith, it is a mystery to me too," replied the other; "but a
simple mystery, dear lady, and a foolish one. The truth is, I lost my
way. Now tell me, think you, from what you know, that I can cross
safely from this place to Tamworth?"

"No, indeed, my lord," replied Iola. "Lord Stanley's troops are most
likely in possession of Fazely; for I much fear that Lord Chartley's
men would be soon overpowered."

"Then why did Chartley refuse to let him pass?" demanded the stranger.
"All that Stanley could desire was to retreat in peace; but he was
compelled to clear a passage, at any risk, otherwise the earl's army
would cut him off from the king's host."

"Lord Chartley was not there," said Iola. "He had gone forth, they
informed me, early in the morning, and had not then returned; but I
can tell you little of the matter, for orders had been left to hurry
me away in case of danger. However, if even you could pass Fazely, and
could reach Tamworth, you would be in more danger still: for parties
of the king's troops were in possession of that place at a late hour
last night."

"They have been removed farther back," said the stranger, nodding his
head significantly; "and Stanley is in full retreat too, if this
unfortunate affair has not delayed him. Yet, it would be dangerous to
attempt to pass," he continued, musing; "for there is something
strange here; and one error were fatal. I must have farther
intelligence before I act."

"I trust we may have some soon," answered Iola; "for I know the slave
will not return without gathering tidings, if it be possible to get
them. I wish he would come, for, though it thunders less, the evening
is growing dark."

"Be not alarmed," replied the stranger. "As far as one arm can, I will
protect you, lady. I hold that point of chivalry to be the great and
most essential one, without which valour is the mere brute courage of
a bull, that teaches us to right the wronged, and to protect the
weak."

"I trust you are reserved for nobler things than even that, my lord,"
replied Iola, "and would not have you risk your life in my defence.
'Tis only that I may have to ride to Lichfield, through this dark
stormy night which makes me fear."

"Better not ride to Lichfield, at all," replied the stranger, "for
Lord Chartley's plans must have been altered by one circumstance or
another. He knew not yesterday that the earl of Richmond was to be at
Tamworth this night."

"I am but as a soldier, noble lord," replied Iola, with a faint smile,
"and must obey my orders. But, hark! I hear a horse's feet--my
faithful Arab, come to bring me news."

"God send the tidings be good," said her companion; and, advancing to
the other end of the shed, he exclaimed: "Heaven, what is this? In
this twilight, it seems like a spectre in a shroud!"

The next instant Ibn Ayoub rode up to the side of the shed, and sprang
to the ground casting the bridle free upon his horse's neck. He glared
for an instant at the stranger, with his black eyes flashing with
eagerness; and, then turning to Iola, he put his hand upon his head,
saying: "I have been long, lady; but, I could not help it. There is
neither house nor hut, for a mile and a half; and Heaven was sending
down streams of fire and water all the way."

"But what news from Fazely, Ibn Ayoub? What news from Fazely?" asked
Iola, eagerly.

The Arab gave a glance to the stranger, and she added: "Speak, speak!
You may speak freely. This gentleman is a friend. I know him."

"Well, then, lady, bad news," answered the Arab. "Lord Stanley had
taken the place, and gone on to Atherston. His rear guard hold it
still, however."

"But was there strife?" asked Iola, in eager terror.

"No," answered the Arab. "They dealt in words it seems; and when they
found that this lord had two thousand men and they but three hundred,
they gave up the place, upon condition that they might have half an
hour to go whithersoever they would."

"But your lord, your lord?" asked Iola. "Had you no tidings of him?"

"God is good; I heard not of him," said Ibn Ayoub. "The woman of the
house is all for king Richard, and could talk of nought but what Lord
Stanley did, and told me how Lord Fulmer's force had marched out of
Tamworth, going to join the king, and now lay a few miles off at a
place they call Pondhead."

"What shall we do then?" demanded Iola, in a tone of fear and
bewilderment. "I know not where Pondhead is; and it may lie straight
in our way to Lichfield."

"You had better come to that house," said Ibn Ayoub, "and rest there
for the night. The woman has a heart, though as turned the wrong way;
and the lad, her son, seems a good youth. When I told her a lady was
here in the wood, she cried out at once to bring you there for
shelter, and offered all her house could afford, without asking
whether you were for the king or the earl. I told her afterwards,
indeed, that your uncle was at the court, and high in favour. I would
not tell a lie; but that was the truth and could do no harm."

"Much good," said the stranger, now joining in the conversation for
the first time. "I fear this storm will last all night; and you must
have shelter. So, indeed, must I, for I must not venture rashly to
Tamworth till I hear more. I will now seek a boon at your hands. Let
me go with you, as one of your attendants. Pass me as such on the good
woman of the house--"

"You, my lord--you!" cried Iola; "will you venture thither?"

"Even so," he answered, calmly, "if you will so far favour me as to
take me with you. I may return the kindness another day. If you have
any fear, however, that I may bring danger on you, I will not go."

"Oh no, 'twas not for that I feared," replied Iola. "'Twas the great
risk to yourself. I thought of."

"No great risk, I trust," answered the other. "My face will not betray
me in this part of the world: The night is too nigh for strangers to
come in; and what this good man has said will smooth the way for us. I
can talk deftly of the good Lord Calverly, and speak of Richard's
overwhelming force, and Richmond's little band, as calm and scornfully
as Lovell or Catesby, nor ever seem to think that right and justice,
and God's vengeful strength, can make head against a glittering army
and a kingly crown. Let us go on. I can play my part well. Do not
forget yours, however. Speak to me, order me as a gentleman of your
uncle's household, and, above all forget the words 'my lord.' This
night, at least, we will dry our garments by the fire.--To-morrow, my
resting place may be a damper one."

"But by what name shall I call you?" asked Iola.

"Call me Harry--Harry Vane," answered her companion; "but, I beseech
you, remember that all depends on care and prudence; and if I make any
mistake in my due service, rate me well. Be a mere shrew towards me
for this night, though you be gentle as a dove, to my good friend Lord
Chartley."

With many doubts and apprehensions, Iola yielded to the plan, and,
mounting her horse, rode through the still pouring rain, with the
stranger by her side and Ibn Ayoub directing them on the way. Many
things were arranged as they went, and the good Arab cautioned, which
indeed he did not require. They did not reach the door of the house,
to which he led them, before the sun had completely set; but as they
turned towards the west, they saw a golden gleam on the horizon's
edge, and showing that the storm was breaking away.

Timidly, Iola opened the door of the house, which was a large one for
the times and the class of people to which it belonged, while the Arab
gathered the bridles of the horses on his arm, and the stranger
followed a step behind the lady. The scene within alarmed her more
than ever; for it was not like the little quiet farm house she had
visited in the morning. The outer door opened at once into the
kitchen, a large dingy room well grimed with smoke; and round a table
sat three or four stout, heavy-looking, countrymen, together with a
handsome youth, somewhat better dressed, while two or three young
girls were working busily at various household matters, and a stout
dame, with gown tucked up, was taking off, with her own hands, a heavy
pot, from a hook that suspended it above the fire.

"Hey, mother, mother!" cried the young man, turning round his head,
"here's the lady the brown man told you of."

"Ha," said the good woman, setting down the pot and gazing at Iola
with a look of wonder, either at her beauty or the richness of her
apparel. "Well, I wot you are not fit, my lady, to pass the night in
woods and thunderstorms."

"No, indeed," answered Iola. "One of my attendants told me you would
kindly give me shelter for the night, and I will most gladly pay for
any accommodation I receive. I was making my way to Lichfield,
thinking to escape from all these scenes of strife; but it is too
late, I find, to go on."

"Ay, that it is," answered the bluff dame; and, at the same moment,
the stranger whispered--

"A prouder tone, a prouder tone."

"Set me a seat by the fire, Harry Vane," said Iola, with a somewhat
queenly manner; "and then call in the slave. He is wetter than we
are."

The stranger hastened to obey; and the good woman of the house laid
fresh wood upon the fire, aided to remove Iola's hood and cloak, and
offered all attention.

The loftier tone had its effect; for it is a sad truth, that nothing
is obtained in this world--not even respect--without exaction. Modest
merit! alack and a well-a-day, who seeks for it? and, if not sought,
it cannot be found. One's pretensions should ever be a little more
than one's right--not too much indeed, for then, we shock our great
chapman, the world--but always enough to allow for abatement. The
world will always make it; and such is worldly wisdom.

However that may be, there was no lack of kindness and hospitality.
The guests were entertained with the best which the house afforded;
the horses were fed and tended under Ibn Ayoub's own eye, for they
were to him as children; and the good dame and her daughters busied
themselves to provide for Iola's comfort, tendering dry garments of
their own, with many apologies for their coarseness, and admissions
that they were unfit for such a great lady to wear.

While she was absent from the room, submitting to these cares, her son
conversed with the stranger; and even the ploughmen joined in to ask
questions concerning the movements of the armies, and their probable
result. He played his part well, and with a shrug of the shoulders
said, nobody could tell what might be the event. Richmond's army was
but a pitiful handful, it was true; but it was increasing daily, and
if the king did not force him to a battle soon, the two hosts might be
nearly equal. Then again, he added, suspicions were entertained that
some of the great nobles were not well affected to the king.

"Why does not the earl of Northumberland bring up his forces?" he
asked. "It is well known that he could lead six or seven thousand men
into the field; and there they are, either lingering in the North, or
advancing by such slow marches, that a dozen battles might be fought
while they are on the way. For my part, I hold it better not to be
over zealous for any one. None can tell who may win at this rough game
of war; and the lower ones are always losers. If we take the luckless
side, then we have fines and confiscations for our pains, and if we
help the winner we get but cold thanks, when he has secured the game.
I will have nought to do with it, and was right glad when I was sent
to guard my young lady to Lichfield."

About an hour and a half was passed, in a hurried desultory kind of
way, and then Iola sought repose. The stranger was provided with a bed
in a room below, and a sleeping-place was offered to Ibn Ayoub in a
room over the stables. He would not use it, however; but, bringing in
some dry straw, he placed it across Iola's door, and there lay down to
rest. There might be a struggle in his mind, between her and the
horses; but duty won the day.

For the next six hours Iola rested indeed, but slept little; for the
spirit was busy if the body found repose. Whatever faith and trust in
God may do, we all know that there are sufferings to be endured, from
which our mortal nature shrinks, evils to be undergone that wring the
heart of clay; and though 'twere wiser never to dream they may be,
till they are, importunate experience will not let us rest in such
bright though fanciful security. If imagination be vivid, all
probable, all possible ills are called up to frighten us. If reason be
predominant, still we count the numbers of those enemies, to meet them
as we may. Iola's thoughts were of Chartley all the night long.
Waking, she tormented herself with doubt and apprehension for his
safety, and sleeping, she dreamed of him, and fancied he was in
captivity or dead. It was a relief to her when morning dawned; and she
rose. The house was soon in all the busy bustle of a country life, and
people were heard coming and going long before Iola had quitted her
room.

When at length she went down, however, she found all the men absent on
their work; and the first greeting of the good dame was, "Ah, lady,
lucky you stopped here, or you might have been caught. The earl of
Richmond and his rabble are all in Tamworth and the villages round.
Fazely is full of his men; and Lord Stanley has retreated to
Atherston. However, if you go on the road you were travelling, you
will now get to Lichfield quite safe; for they march on quite orderly
'tis said; more so than our own people do, indeed."

"How many are there?" asked Iola. "Have you heard?"

"Well, nigh twenty thousand men, they say," replied the good woman;
"but there is never believing such tales. Now, I will help you to
break your fast in a minute, and send you on your way; for there is no
knowing whether we may not have some of the rebels here before long."

"Where are my servants?" asked Iola. "They must have some food too."

"Oh, they will come, they will come," said the dame. "They are looking
to the horses. Mag, go and call them."

The meal was soon despatched, the horses brought round, and Iola's
purse produced to make payment for her entertainment. Here it was not
refused; for the mistress of the house was a prudent and careful
person, who lost no opportunity of taking money where she could.

They rode away with many adieus and wishes for their fair journey, and
the morning was bright and clear. But as soon as they had reached the
public road again, Iola checked her horse, saying, "Ride on a few
yards, Ibn Ayoub;" and then, turning to the stranger, she added, "I
know not whether the information is to be depended on, my lord; but
the good woman told me just now, that the earl of Richmond's army is
at Tamworth, and the villages round, even at Fazely. All king
Richard's troops are withdrawn, she says. So, if you can trust her
report, your way is clear."

"I saw a peasant come in from the north with a load of wood," said the
stranger; "but I did not venture either to stay or ask any questions;
for the man eyed me strongly. Be the tale true or false, however, the
result must be risked. I can be no longer absent. To you, dear lady, I
have to return my most sincere thanks, for giving me what aid you
could in a very dangerous situation."

"Speak not of that, my lord," replied Iola; "but yet one word before
you go. I am terrified and apprehensive regarding Lord Chartley. I
know not what may have befallen him. I do beseech you, if you can find
time when you reach Tamworth, inquire into his fate, and should you
find him in difficulty, or danger, aid him to the best of your power.
It would quiet many a painful thought too, if I could have
intelligence at Lichfield."

"I promise you upon my faith and word, dear lady," said her companion,
riding closer and kissing her hand; "nought shall be left undone to
aid him to the best of my power. Ay, and I will send you news too. So,
now farewell; and God's protection be around you."

"And you," said Iola. Thus they parted.[5]


--------------------

[Footnote 5: This singular adventure of the earl of Richmond, when on
his way between Lichfield and Tamworth, and the fact of his passing
the night at a farm house, are not inventions of a romance writer, but
historical facts.]

--------------------




CHAPTER XLVII.


Come back with me, dear reader, come back with me both in time and
space; for we must return to the morning before, and to the little
hill-top--not far from the spot where the road to Tamworth and to
Fazely separates--over which, at that time, spread brown turf, green
gorse, and a few patches of stunted heath, with here and there a
hawthorn, rugged and thorny, like a cankered disposition. There is a
man on horseback at the top of the mound; and he looks, first eagerly
towards Tamworth, then at the sun, just rising over the distant
<DW72>s. Lo, two or three horsemen coming on the road from Tamworth!
All stop but one, and turn back. The one comes forward at fiery speed,
quits the road, gallops up the hill, and stands fronting the other.

"Good morrow, my Lord Fulmer," said Chartley. "I am here alone. No one
knows of my being here. You have brought men with you along the road."

"They have gone back to Tamworth," replied Lord Fulmer, with a look of
fierce satisfaction upon his brow. "I take no advantage, Lord
Chartley. It is quite satisfaction enough to me to have you here at my
sword's point, without my seeking to punish you otherwise. Come, draw,
my lord, and take your last look of earth; for either you or I quit
not this spot alive."

"On horseback, then?" said Chartley. "So be it;" and he drew his
sword.

Lord Fulmer wheeled his horse a little, to gain ground, and then
spurred furiously on his adversary, his strong charger coming forward
with tremendous force. Chartley's was a lighter horse, but far more
agile; and, knowing that it would not stand the shock, he drew the
right rein, and struck the beast's flank with the left spur. The horse
passaged suddenly to the right; and Lord Fulmer was borne past, aiming
a blow at Chartley's head as he went. The other, however, parried it
with a cool smile, and then wheeling suddenly upon him, in a manner he
had learned in other lands, met him, in the act of turning, and,
striking him in the throat with the pommel of his sword, hurled him
backwards out of the saddle.

The moment this was done, he sprang to the ground; but Fulmer was
already on his feet, and ready to attack his adversary sword in hand.

"A pitiful mountebank's trick," he cried, "unworthy of a knight and
gentleman."

"I would fain spare your life, boy," cried Chartley, somewhat angry at
his insulting words.

"I will not hold it at your pleasure," returned Fulmer, attacking him
furiously, with his dagger in one hand, and his sword in the other.
The combat was now somewhat more equal, though Chartley was the
stronger man, and the better swordsman; but, to use a common
expression, he gave many a chance away, unwilling that men should say
he had slain Lord Fulmer, to obtain his contracted bride. For several
minutes he stood upon the defensive, watching an opportunity to wound
or disarm his foe. But even a calm and patient spirit, which
Chartley's was not, will get heated under strife like that. Soon he
began to return the blows, and the contest waxed fierce and strong;
but, even in his heat. Chartley forgot not his skill; and Fulmer did.
A conviction, a dark and fearful conviction, which vanity had hidden
from him before, that he was no match for the man to whom he was
opposed, began to mingle with his anger. The blows that fell about him
like rain, the thrusts that he could hardly parry, confused his mind
and dazzled his sight. He was driven round and round, back upon the
side of the hill, where the footing was unsteady; and then suddenly he
felt his guard beat down; a strong grasp was laid upon his throat, and
once more he was hurled prostrate on the turf. His sword was lost, the
hand which held his dagger mastered, and, when he looked up, he saw
the blade of Chartley's _miséricorde_ raised high and gleaming above
his head. Chartley paused for an instant. The better spirit came to
his aid; and, still holding tight the fallen man's left wrist, with
his knee upon his chest, he brushed back the curls of hair from his
own forehead, with the hand that held the dagger. At that instant he
heard a sound behind him, which, in the eagerness of the strife, he
had not before noticed, and in an instant his arms were seized.

Shaking off the grasp laid upon him, as he started up, he turned
fiercely and indignantly round. Ten or twelve men on foot and
horseback were now around him; and, with a withering glance at Lord
Fulmer, who by this time had risen on his knee, Chartley exclaimed,
"Cowardly traitor, is this your good faith?"

"On my honour, on my soul!" exclaimed Lord Fulmer, rising and passing
his hand across his eyes, as if his sight were dim, "I have no share
in this. These people are none of mine."

"What would you, sirs?" exclaimed Chartley, as the men advanced towards
him again, "Keep back, for I am not to be laid hands on lightly."

"Stay, stay," cried one of the men on horseback, riding forward. "Your
name is Lord Chartley, or I much mistake--nay, I know it is; for I
have seen you often at the court. Yield to the king's officer. I am
commanded to apprehend you, and carry you to the nearest post of the
royal troops. We have pursued you hither from St. Clare, and have come
just in time, it seems. Do you yield, my lord, or must I use force?"

Resistance was in vain; and, with a heavy heart, Chartley replied, "I
yield, of course, to the king's pleasure. What have I done that should
cause his grace to treat me thus?"

"He was informed, my lord," replied the officer, "that you were
leading your men straight to the army of the rebel Richmond."

"Or rather, you should say, straight towards the forces of the good
Lord Stanley. Upon my life 'twill make a goodly tale, to hear that the
king imprisons those who go to meet his foes, and honours those who
run away before them."

"There are some other matters too against you, sir," replied the
officer. "Reports have come from a good man, lately the bailiff of the
abbey of St. Clare, tending to show that you have had schemes in hand,
contrary to the king's good pleasure. If you were going to Lord
Stanley, however, in that matter you can soon exculpate yourself, as
into his hands I shall deliver you, his being the nearest force at
this moment. Pray mount your horse, my lord. Some one take up his
sword and give it me."

During all this time, Lord Fulmer had stood by, with his eyes bent
down and his arms folded; but now, as if with a sudden emotion, he
started forward to Chartley's side, exclaiming, "Upon my honour and my
conscience, I have had nought to do with this."

Chartley sprang into the saddle, and gave him a look of scorn, saying,
"My noble lord, it is mighty strange they should know the day, and
hour, and place where to fall on me, many against one. Had I not come
hither to meet you, they would have found me with good three hundred
spears, and might have bethought them once or twice, before they
judged it fit to tell me such a tale. Now, sir, which way? I am your
humble varlet."

"To the right," said the officer; and the whole party moved on upon
the road to Atherston.

Chartley was in no mood for conversation; but with his head bent, and
his heart full of bitter disappointment, he rode slowly forward with
the soldiers, half inclined, at the turning of every road they passed,
to put spurs to his horse, and see whether he could not distance his
captors. But, as if judging that such an attempt was likely, wherever
an opportunity presented itself, one of the soldiers rode forward to
his right hand or his left; and he saw that several of the footmen,
who were archers, kept their bows bent and their arrows on the string.

At length there was a sound of horse, coming at a quick pace behind;
and a party of some two hundred men, all clad in glittering armour,
and bearing a banner at their head, rode by at a rapid trot, going in
the same direction as themselves, and only turning their heads to look
at the small party as they passed by.

The officer, however, who rode by Chartley's side, instantly shouted
loudly, "Lord Stanley, Lord Stanley!" and then spurred on. Chartley
saw him speak to a gentleman at the head of the other troop, who
seemed to wait and to listen with impatience; for his gestures were
quick and sharp, and he soon rode on again. The officer immediately
returned, and, ordering the archers to follow as speedily as they
might, he said, "Now, my lord, we must gallop forward to Atherston."

He then put his troop at once into a more rapid pace, and rode after
the body of horse which had gone on.

"Did Lord Stanley say aught regarding me?" asked Chartley, when they
had nearly overtaken the others.

"Ay, my lord, he did," replied the officer, in a gruff tone. "He said
your men opposed the passage of his force through Fazely this morning,
but that he had driven them out, and let them go, for, friends or
enemies, 'twas no matter, they were but a handful."

"'Twas by no orders of mine," answered Chartley. "Had I been there, it
would not have happened."

"That you must explain yourself, my lord," answered the officer. "I
only do my duty, and that with no good will."

At the pace they went, a very short space of time brought them to
Atherston; and at the door of an old-fashioned inn, which then stood
there, and in which Chartley had lodged for some weeks, Lord Stanley
sprang to the ground, saluted by a number of gentlemen and soldiers,
by whom the little town was already occupied. He spoke for a moment or
two to one of them, and then entered the inn, saying aloud, "That will
do--only set a guard;" and the gentleman whom he addressed immediately
advanced to the spot where Chartley still sat upon his horse, saying,
"Your lordship must follow me. I am sorry that I must place a guard
over you."

"Can I not speak with Lord Stanley?" demanded Chartley.

"Not at present, my good lord," replied the gentleman. "He is full of
business. The king marches from Leicester to-morrow; and we must not
be tardy."

Chartley made no reply, but followed in bitter silence, passing
through the groups of gazing idlers round the inn-door, to a room up
one flight of stairs, where some of his own servants used to sleep.
There he was left alone, with the door locked and barred upon him. A
moment after, he heard the tread of a sentry, and then the voice of
some one speaking from a window to a person in the street, and saying,
"Hie away to the king, and tell him you have caught him. Beseech his
grace to send me orders what I am to do with him, for I have no
instructions. Add that I will send in our muster-roll to-night."

Chartley mused over what he heard. The words evidently applied to him;
and he asked himself what would be the result of the message. The fate
of Gray, Vaughan, Hastings, Rivers, Buckingham, warned him of what was
likely to befall him; short shrift and speedy death. All the bright
visions had vanished; the gay and sparkling hopes that danced in his
bosom on the preceding night were still. If death is terrible, how
much more terrible when he comes to put his icy barrier between us and
near anticipated joys. Chartley could have died in the field with
hardly a regret, but the cold unhonoured death of the headsman's axe,
the inglorious unresisting fall, it was full of horrors to him. Yet he
nerved his spirit to bear it as became him; and he communed with and
schooled his own heart for many a live-long hour. The minutes crept on
minutes, the shadow wandered along the wall, a thunderstorm closed the
day, and the rain poured down in torrents. Chartley marked not the
minutes, saw not the shadow, hardly heard the storm that raged
without. He thought of Iola; and he asked his heart, "What will become
of her?"

They brought him food; but he hardly tasted it, and wine, but he knew
there was no consolation there; and when the sun went down, he crossed
his arms upon his chest, and, gazing forth from the window, said to
himself, "Perchance it is the last that will ever set for me."

Shortly after, alight was brought him; and he asked if he could get
paper and pen and ink; but the man went away, saying he would see, and
did not return.

The whole night passed. There was no bed in the room; and though once
or twice his eyes closed in sleep for a few minutes, with his arms
leaning on the table, yet it was but to wake up again with a start.
The next morning, dawned fair, but for some hours no one came near
him. At length food was again brought, but the man who carried it
either would not or could not answer any questions, and the day rolled
on, chequered by sounds and sights in the streets, such as commonly
are heard and seen in a small town filled with soldiery.

It was a long and weary day, however; and Chartley's heart fell under
the most wearing of all things--unoccupied solitude; but, at length,
the sky grew grey, and night and darkness came on.

Nearly an hour then passed in utter silence; and the whole house
seemed so quiet that Chartley could hardly imagine that Lord Stanley
and his train still remained there. But at the end of that time he
heard a quick step, the challenge of the sentry at his door, and then
the pass-word, "The Crown." The next instant the door opened, and Lord
Stanley himself appeared.

There was but slight acquaintance between him and Chartley; and his
brow was thoughtful and anxious, boding no good, the young nobleman
thought.

"I grieve, my lord," he said, closing the door behind him, "that it
has not been in my power to see you sooner, and grieve still more to
be your jailer; but I have no choice, and better perhaps it is that
you should fall into my hands than those of an enemy."

"Much better," answered Chartley, courteously; "but imprisonment is
hard at any time; and now I have a pass under your own hand sent me by
a mutual friend. I beseech you to think of this circumstance, and not
to detain me here, to my peril and great loss of time."

Lord Stanley seemed a good deal agitated, by feelings he did not
explain; for he walked once or twice up and down the room without
reply; and Chartley went on to say, "I have not mentioned this pass,
or the letter which accompanied it, to any one, lest by so doing I
might injure you much, and a cause I have much at heart."

Stanley approached close to him, and laid his hand upon his arm,
replying with great earnestness, but in a very low tone, "My dear
lord, I freely tell you, that I would let you escape within half an
hour, were the danger only to myself; but the truth is, my son's life
is in peril. The king keeps him as a hostage at the court. He is never
for a moment out of some one's sight, and if I but trip in the
hazardous path I have to tread, I am made childless in an hour. But
tell me, my good lord, how happened it that your men refused me a
passage through Fazely yesterday?"

"I know not," answered Chartley; "some foolish mistake, I suppose, for
I myself was not present;" and he proceeded to relate all that had
occurred to him since he left Fazely.

"'Tis most unfortunate," said Stanley; "but still, till the very last
moment, I must either obey the orders of the king, whatever they may
be, or be the murderer of my own child. If he should bid me put you in
still stricter confinement, or send you on at once to him--which were
indeed ruin to my hopes for you--yet I must obey. The mere confinement
here is no great evil. Your men have by this time joined the earl of
Richmond; and though, doubtless, you would wish to lead them yourself,
yet, if you lose glory, you will escape some danger and hard blows."

"Ay, my good lord," said Chartley, "but there are other perils too.
What if Richard orders you to put me to death?"

"You must have form of trial," said Stanley.

"None was granted to Buckingham, nor to many another I could name,"
answered the young nobleman.

"Now God forfend," cried his companion; "but yet, my lord, think what
a son's life is to a father; and judge in my situation what I could
do. Hark!" he added, "there is a horse's feet below. Perchance it is
the messenger returned. We shall soon know."

An interval of gloomy silence succeeded, each listening with anxious
and attentive ear. They could hear some words spoken, but could not
distinguish what they were. Then came a step upon the somewhat distant
stairs, and then in the passage. The sentry gave the challenge; and
some one, in a rough loud tone, demanded to speak with Lord Stanley,
adding, "They say he is up here."

Stanley instantly rose and went out, and Chartley could hear him
demand, though in a low voice, "Well, what says the king?"

"As to the musters, my lord, he says that noon to-morrow will be time
enough," replied the same rough tone; "and as to the prisoner, he
says, 'Strike off his head before breakfast; there are proofs of
treason against him.'"

Stanley muttered something to himself which Chartley did not hear, and
then came a pause; but at length the steps were heard receding, and
Lord Stanley did not again appear.

"It is determined," said Chartley to himself. "Well, death can come
but once. What matters it, the axe, or the spear point? but yet, poor
Iola! This room is very hot, I shall be stifled here, and disappoint
them;" and, walking to the window, he threw it open and looked out.

The room was a considerable height above the street, and to leap or
drop from it might have risked the breaking of a leg or of a neck.
Nevertheless, Chartley perhaps might have tried it, but there was a
still more serious impediment. Two sentinels were stationed at the
door, and walked up and down before the house, passing and repassing
beneath his window. There were numerous groups, too, talking together
in the narrow road, notwithstanding the darkness of the night, which,
though fair and starlit, was quite moonless. A lantern passed along
from time to time, and Chartley easily conceived that there would not
be much repose in Atherston till dawn. The hope of escape faded.

In a few minutes the sound of horses' feet was heard at some distance.
They came nearer and nearer, and Chartley could just see the figures
of three mounted men ride up to the house, and there draw in the rein.

The foremost, without dismounting, asked the sentry, "Is the Lord
Stanley quartered here?"

"Yes," replied the man; "but he is gone to repose, I think."

"Tell him I am a messenger from his brother, bringing news of
importance, which must be delivered to himself alone," said the other.

As he spoke he began to dismount slowly; and while one of the two men
who accompanied him took the bridle, the third sprang with great
alacrity to hold the stirrup, showing, as Chartley thought, reverence
somewhat extraordinary for a mere messenger. The soldier at the door
called out somebody from within, who seemed to be a domestic servant
of Lord Stanley's; and the moment the man beheld the messenger's face,
he said, "Oh, come in, sir, come in. My lord will see you instantly."
The stranger followed him into the house, while his two companions
walked his horse up and down the road.

About half an hour elapsed ere the messenger came out again; and then,
springing on his horse at once, he rode away at a quick pace.

A few minutes after this, Chartley's dark reveries were interrupted by
two men bringing in a truckle bed, for there had been none in the room
before. One of them was a servant of the inn, whom the young lord knew
well by sight, and had been kind to. The man, however, took not the
least notice of him, any more than if he had been a stranger; and,
saying to himself, "Fortune changes favour," the young nobleman turned
to the window again.

A minute or two sufficed to set up the bed in its place; and then the
servant of the inn said to the other man, "Go fetch the blankets and
the pillow; they are at the end of the passage, I think."

The moment he was gone and the door closed, the man started forward
and kissed Lord Chartley's hand.

"Comfort, comfort, my lord," he said. "The headsman may sharpen his
axe, but it is not for you. Look under the pillow when I am gone; keep
your window open, and watch. But do not be rash nor in haste. Wait
till you have a signal;" and then, starting back to his place, he
began to stretch the cross bars of the bed out a little farther.

A minute or two after, the other man returned loaded with bedding,
which was soon disposed in order; but just as they were retiring
again, the servant of the inn seemed to see something amiss about the
pillow, and returned for an instant to put it straight, after which
the two left the room together. The key was turned, the bolt was shot,
and Chartley, putting his hand under the pillow, drew forth a billet,
folded and sealed. It bore no address, and contained but few words.
They were as follows:

"The sentinels at the gate will be removed at midnight. Blankets and
sheets have made ropes before now; and a grey horse, whose speed you
know, stands half a mile down the road. Turn to the right after your
descent. Before you go, in justice to others, burn the pass and the
letter which came with it; and, if you understand these directions,
extinguish your light at eleven."

"Who could the letter come from?" Chartley asked himself. "It was
neither the handwriting nor the composition of an inn chamberlain,
that was clear," and, taking out the pass, he compared the writing of
the two. There was a very great similarity.

Chartley's heart beat high again, but, as he gazed upon the two
papers, the clock struck ten. "Two long hours!" he thought, "two long
hours!" How wearisome seemed the passing of the time. But it did pass;
and when he calculated that eleven o'clock was drawing near, he
approached the pass to the flame of the lamp. It caught and burned;
but ere the whole was consumed, there came across the prisoner's mind
a doubt--a suspicion. It was the only hold he had upon Lord Stanley; a
paper which proved that nobleman had connived at his march to join the
earl of Richmond; a paper which he dared not order to be taken from
him by force lest it should discover its own secret. The next instant,
however, nobler thoughts succeeded. "Away, injurious suspicions!" he
said, and, casting the paper down upon the floor, he suffered it to
consume, and then trampled out the sparks with his foot. The letter
from Richmond, which had accompanied it, shared the same fate; and
then he waited and watched for the stroke of eleven. It was longer
than he had thought it would be; and at length he began to fancy that
the clock had stopped.

Presently after there was a stroke of the hammer on the bell; another,
and another, and another. The tale was complete, and he blew out the
light. Then, placing himself at the window, he watched. The road was
now nearly deserted. In a house opposite there was a candle burning,
but it was extinguished in a few minutes. A small body of soldiers
passed along with measured tramp. Next came a drunken man, brawling
and shouting till his voice was lost in the distance. A deep silent
pause succeeded. Chartley could have counted the beatings of his own
heart. Then a man passed by, singing a low plaintive air in a sweet
voice, and his footfalls sounded as if he were somewhat lame. After
that there was another longer pause, and all was still again. Then
came a little noise in a distant part of the inn, which soon subsided,
and silence reigned supreme. It lasted long; and Chartley, thinking
the hour must be near, tied the clothing of the bed together, and
fastened the end to a hook and bar fixed into the wall for the purpose
of suspending a sconce. It was but a frail support for the weight of a
strong man; but he thought, "It will break the fall at least." When
that was done, he sat down in the window seat again, and watched. Oh,
the slow minutes, how they dragged along. At length the clock struck
twelve, and still the sentinels paced up and down. Three minutes had
perhaps elapsed, though to him they seemed many; and then the great
door of the inn opened, and a voice said, "Guard dismissed! quarters,
twenty-two. Roll call at dawn!"

There was a clatter of arms, and then side by side the soldiers
marched up the town. He waited till their tramp could no more be
heard, then put his head to the door of the room, and listened. Some
one was breathing heavily without, as if in sleep. Approaching the
window softly, he drew forward the end of the sort of rope he had
formed, cast it over, and mounted on the window seat. Then, holding
fast with both hands, he contrived to grasp one of the knots with his
feet, and slid part of the way down. He loosened one hand, then the
other, and then freed his feet. Still the hook and bar held firm, and
a moment after his feet touched the ground.

There was a light burning in a room below, but no one stirred; and,
passing quietly all along the front of the house, he soon accelerated
his pace, and, almost at a run, reached the verge of the little town.

The moon peeped up above the edge of the <DW72>, and Chartley looked
eagerly forward. There seemed some dark object under a group of trees
about three hundred yards in advance. He thought it looked like a
horse, but as he came nearer he saw two, and paused for an instant;
but the moment after came a low sweet whistle, like the note of a
bird, and he went on.

Beneath the shade of the trees he found his own horse and another
standing, and a man holding the bridles of both. With a wild feeling
of liberty Chartley, without putting foot in stirrup, vaulted on the
noble beast's back; and it gave a neigh of joy, as if it felt that its
lord was free again.

Then, drawing forth his purse, the young nobleman would have rewarded
the man who held the charger; but, in a voice Chartley seemed to know,
he said, "Wait, my lord, wait, I go with you to guide you. You go to
Tamworth, is it not?"

"To Lichfield, to Lichfield," said Chartley; and he spurred on upon
the road which he knew right well. They rode on, the man following
some way behind, till Atherston was left afar, and the chance of
pursuit became less and less. At the distance of about four miles from
the little town, Chartley was overtaken by his follower, who had put
his horse into a gallop, to catch the fleeter beast which the young
nobleman was riding.

"To the left, my lord," he said, "to the left, if you must needs to
Lichfield, though the earl's army is at Tamworth. The small bridle
paths save us a mile and a half, and will not be bad now."

"Who are you?" asked Chartley, turning his horse into a narrow lane,
to which the man pointed. "I know your voice, surely."

"Poor Sam the piper," answered the man, "though now rich, and no
longer the piper. Now you marvel how I should have been pitched upon
to guide you; but that is soon explained. I was sent over by one you
know well, to bear some news to the Lord Stanley, and there I heard
what was likely to befall you. I would have found means to get you
out, if Heaven had not put it in the good lord's mind to be kindly
himself; but as I was recommended to him as a man of discretion, who
could be trusted, and as I caught a glance of the good earl of
Richmond going in, and told the Lord Stanley so, he might think that
it would be well to employ me in what would put me out of the way."

"The good earl of Richmond!" exclaimed Chartley; "has he been with the
Lord Stanley?"

"Ay, this very night," replied the other, "with nought but two grooms
in company, which shows that he knows his game is very sure."

Chartley mused as he sped onward; for though few doubted, except the
one who might have been expected to doubt most, that secret
intelligence existed between Richmond and his step-father, yet the
young nobleman had not imagined so bold a step as a personal
conference would be ventured by either.

It was still dark when he arrived at Lichfield; and Chartley spent
more than half an hour in awakening the sleepy ostlers from their
beds, and obtaining some accommodation at the principal inn, for there
were, at that time, two in the good town. No information could he
procure either regarding Iola or his men; for there had been so many
persons passing to and fro within the last eight-and-forty hours, that
no description served to distinguish one from another. There was no
lady lodging in the inn, however, one of the ostler's assured him,
except "the fat canoness of Salisbury;" and as to the troops, they had
all marched out of the town, and gone to Tamworth. Forced to be
satisfied with this small intelligence, Chantey gave orders that his
good guide should be well taken care of, and that he himself should be
awakened at sunrise; and he then cast himself down upon a bed. For the
greater part of two nights and two days he had not closed an eye; and,
notwithstanding much love and some anxiety, drowsiness overpowered him
in a moment; the many busy thoughts which were whirling through his
brain grew confused and indistinct, and he slept.

From a deep, dead, heavy slumber, he woke with a start, and gazed
around. The room was full of light. Sounds of busy life made
themselves heard on all sides. There was a girl crying water-cresses
in the street, and people laughing and talking in the full-day bustle
of the world, while a creaking wood-cart wended slowly along, singing
its complaining song. It was evident that he had been forgotten; and,
going to the door, he called loudly for the chamberlain.

The man declared that he knew not any one was sleeping in that room,
but informed him it was well nigh ten o'clock, which was confirmed the
moment after by the church clock striking. No other information could
he afford, but that no lady was in the house, except the fat canoness;
and Chartley instantly set out to inquire at the other inn. There he
was likewise disappointed; and to every place where he was likely to
gain intelligence he went in vain. We all know how much time may be
occupied in such searches; and at that period Lichfield was full of
monasteries and convents, at each of which Chartley applied. At only
one of them did he gain any indication of the course of the fair
fugitive. It was a small community of hospitable nuns, where the
withered portress informed him that three ladies had slept there the
night before, and she did think that one of them had come up to the
gates with an odd-looking brown man.

"We do not lodge men," she said, "and so he went somewhere else; but
the lady we took in; and she, and the servant, for so he seemed, went
away at ten this morning."

Chartley demanded eagerly whither they had gone; and the old sister
replied, "To Coventry, I believe. All the three ladies went to
Coventry, to get out of the way of the war; for they said there would
be a battle to-day. Have you heard of such a thing, young gentlemen?"

Chartley replied he had not; but the good woman's words threw his mind
upon another train of thought, and he hurried back to the inn.

He leaned his head upon his hand, and meditated. "A battle, and I not
present? That must never be. Yet Richmond was at Tamworth last night,
and Stanley at Atherston. It can hardly have been fought. Yet it may
be ere nightfall. It is now near four; and many a field has been
fought and won, in the hours of daylight that are left." Thus he
thought, and then, starting up, he called aloud, "Drawer Drawer! Bring
me some wine and bread. Bid them prepare my horse instantly, and call
the man who came with me hither."

The wine and bread were brought, and Sam was soon in the young lord's
presence.

"Here, my good friend," said Chartley, giving him some gold. "You have
served me well, on this and other occasions, as I learn. I will reward
you further if I live. Now I must away to Tamworth; for I hear there
will be a battle soon, if it be not already fought; and I would not,
for one half a world, be absent."

"Nor I either, my good lord," replied Sam. "I have always prayed to
see another battle, ere I died; and now I've a good chance, which I
will not lose. So, with your leave, I'll ride with you."

"Be it as you like," replied Chartley. "But keep me not; for I depart
as soon as I have quitted my score."

One cannot always get out of an inn, however, as soon as one likes;
and in those days all things moved more slowly than they do now. There
is nothing in which the advance of society is seen so much as in
facilities; and there were few of them in Europe at that period. Men
were often a month going the distance they would now travel in two
days; and at every step of the road some drag or another was put upon
the wheels of progress. The score was five minutes in reckoning,
although the items were but few. The horse was not ready when this was
done, and more time elapsed. Both the ostlers had gone out to see a
procession of grey friars; and the bit and bridle were not to be
found. In all, half an hour was consumed; and then Chartley set off,
and rode to Tamworth with speed.

When he entered the little town, all seemed solitary. The setting sun
shone quietly through the deserted street. Not a cart, not a waggon
was to be seen; and a dog that came out of one of the houses, and
barked at the heels of the horses, was all the indication of life
within the place.

"They have marched out, sir," said Sam, who followed him close behind;
"and all the good folks have gone after them to see the sport."

"Then there has been no battle yet," answered Chartley; "but we must
find out which way they have gone. There is a man talking with some
women down that road. Ride down and gather news, while I go on to the
inn, the Green Dragon, there, and order some provender for the
horses."

Before Sam returned, Chartley learned that Richmond, with his small
army, had marched towards Market Bosworth. "He won't get there without
a fight," said the elderly host, who had come out at his call, "for
King Richard is at the Abbey of Merrival. God help the right!"

"Did you chance, mine host," demanded Chartley, without dismounting,
"to see with the earl's army the bands of the Lord Chartley?"

"To be sure, to be sure," answered the host. "They are joined with Sir
John Savage's men. They marched in the rearguard."

Chartley asked their colours and ensigns; and the old man answered
readily, showing that in reality he knew nothing about them, and,
after feeding his horses, Chartley rode on towards Bosworth.

As the young nobleman advanced, he met numerous groups of Tamworth
people returning to the town at nightfall; and from them he obtained
information sufficient for his guidance. The two armies, he found,
were in presence, and a battle on the following day was certain.
Richard's head-quarters were at the Abbey of Merrival; but Richmond
had pitched his tent in the field. The number of the king's army was
greatly exaggerated, and many of the men shrugged their shoulders, as
they spoke of Richmond's force, evidently judging that his cause was
hopeless.

"He had better have waited a day or two," said an elderly man, riding
on a cart, which had apparently conveyed some of the baggage of the
army; "for people were flocking to him very fast; but, fighting now,
he will be overwhelmed; and, if I were you, young gentleman, I would
keep myself from others' ill-luck."

"I should deserve bad luck myself if I did," replied Chartley, and
rode on.

Night now fell heavily; but soon after a noise began to be heard.
First came a murmur, like that of the distant sea; and then, as the
young nobleman spurred forward, louder sounds separated themselves
from the indistinct buzz. Voices shouting, ringing laughter, and the
clang of arms were heard. Twice, too, there was the blast of a
trumpet, but that was more distant; and Chartley found that he must be
approaching the rear of Richmond's host.

Small as was the force with which the earl had landed in England, and
small as it was still, when he encamped on Bosworth field, it had not
failed to attract, as it marched on, a number of the idle, the
dissolute, and the greedy, in even a greater proportion than is
usually the case. The camp was kept clear by sentinels; but, for full
half a mile before he could see a tent, Chartley passed through
innumerable groups of men and women, and even children, from Tamworth
and Lichfield, and as far as Shrewsbury. He had no difficulty in
passing the sentinels, however, though he had not the word; for, to
say truth, they kept no very strict watch, and his appearance was
passport sufficient.

When he had entered the little camp he inquired for his own men in
vain for nearly an hour. It was too dark to see the colours, or the
ensigns of the different leaders, though most of them had a banner or
a pennon pitched before his tent; and along the whole of the left wing
of the army he passed without gaining any intelligence. At length some
one told him that a body of horse, which had joined the earl at
Tamworth, was encamped on the extreme right, near a morass. "There
where you see those fires," said the man; "for they brought no tents
with them, and have cut down the apple trees in a goodman's orchard to
keep themselves warm."

Chartley turned his horse thither, and rode on quickly; but at the
first fire he came to, he found no faces round it which he knew; and
the men took little notice of him. As he drew near the second,
however, a man who was sitting by it turned his head, and then,
starting on his feet, waved his steel cap in the air, crying out
aloud, "Here is my lord!"

Instantly the whole body sprang up, with a shout of gratulation; and
in a minute after the master of the young lord's household, and
several of the leaders of his bands, had gathered round his horse.

Chartley's first inquiries were with regard to Iola; but the account
of the master of his household satisfied him that she had taken her
way to Lichfield, accompanied by Ibn Ayoub alone. He thought it
strange, indeed, that she should have gone on to Coventry; but he
doubted not that something had occurred which he knew not of, to make
her decide upon such a course. The old man went on to explain that,
following the directions contained in the letter which his lord had
left with him, the soldiers, on being expelled from Fazely by the
troops of Lord Stanley, had immediately gone to join the forces of the
earl of Richmond.

"We were in sad alarm about you, my lord," he continued; "but, thank
God, here you are safe. Would it were so with good Sir William Arden
too."

"Ha, have you news of him?" demanded Chartley.

"Ay, my lord, sad news," replied the old man. "Two men, who came over
to join us from the enemy, about an hour ago, tell me that he was
caught upon the road, stealing a nun from a convent; that he and his
men turned and fought like tigers, while she and a woman who was with
her made their escape. I said it was nonsense, for Sir William was
always a very sober and discreet gentleman, rather rough with his
tongue, but a good man at heart. One of the men, however, swears it is
true, declares that he kept guard over him himself, in the king's camp
out there, and that his head is to be struck off to-morrow morning,
between the two armies."

"Are the men here?" demanded Chartley.

"Yes, my noble lord," replied the other.

"Then bring them to me," said Chartley; and, dismounting from his
horse, he seated himself by the fire.




CHAPTER XLVIII.


Shakspeare made a mistake. The morning was bright and clear, and the
sun shone strong and powerfully, drawing up a light mist from a marsh
which lay between a part of the earl of Richmond's forces, and the
much larger army of the king. At an early hour in the morning, all was
bustle and preparation; and, notwithstanding a great inferiority in
point of numbers, a calm and steady cheerfulness reigned in Richmond's
army, which was not the case in the royal host. There each man looked
upon his neighbour with doubt; and rumours were current of emissaries,
from the enemy's camp, having been seen busily passing from tent to
tent, amongst the king's troops, which was evinced by the doggerel
lines fixed on the duke of Norfolk's pavilion, as well as by several
other circumstances which made a noise for a moment or two, but were
soon forgotten. The impression, however, existed and gained strength,
that much dissatisfaction reigned amongst the leaders; and when the
forces of Lord Stanley appeared on the one wing, and those of his
brother on the other, without advancing nearer than half a mile, fresh
doubts and suspicions arose.

The man[oe]uvres on both parts, before the action began, were few and
simple. A tardy sort of lethargy seemed to have fallen upon Richard;
and though he rode forth with a crown upon his helmet, as if desirous
of courting personal danger, he moved his men but little, till the day
was considerably advanced.

Richmond rode over the whole field in person accompanied by the earl
of Oxford, Sir William Brandon, Sir Gilbert Talbot, and Sir John
Savage, and caused the marsh to be examined and its depth tried with a
lance. He then commanded a considerable movement to the left, with a
slight advance of the right wing, so as to allow the extreme of the
line to rest upon the edge of the morass, with the position which he
thus took up fronting the north west. He was observed to smile when he
saw the position assumed by Lord Stanley, in front of the morass and
to his own right, commanding the whole of the open field, between the
two armies; and, immediately after, the earl of Oxford pointed out to
him another considerable body of troops, advanced to a spot exactly
facing those of Stanley; so that the ground enclosed between the four
lines appeared very like a tilt yard on a large scale.

Richmond nodded his head, merely saying, "They are Sir William's men."
Then, turning round, he demanded, "Which are Lord Chartley's troops?"

"Here, my lord," said a man from the ranks.

"I fear poor Chartley is not here to head them," said the earl of
Oxford, in a low tone, running his eye along the line.

"He was here last night," said Richmond, "and sent me a strange note,
saying he would be with me betimes this morning; but he has not come."

"My lord, the enemy is moving in two lines," said a horseman, riding
up; and, cantering back to the centre of his force, the rest of
Richmond's arrangements were soon made. His disposition in some
respects resembled that of his adversary. In two lines also his men
were ranged, having somewhat the advantage of the ground, but the
great advantage of the sun behind them, while the fierce rays shone
strong in the face of Richard's soldiers.

The earl of Oxford commanded the first division, Richmond himself the
second, Talbot one wing, and Sir John Savage the other; and all the
leaders knew that death awaited them if they were taken.

In what are called pitched battles, not brought on by skirmishing or
any accidental circumstance, but where parties meet with the full
determination of casting all upon the stake, there is generally a
short pause before the strife begins. For, perhaps, a minute, or a
minute and a half, after the troops were within less than a bow shot
distance of each other, and each could see the long line of faces
under the steel caps of the archers in the opposite ranks, there was a
dead silence; the trumpets ceased to sound; each bowman stood with his
arm and foot extended; the fiery cavalry reined in their horses; and
one might have heard a drop of rain, had it fallen upon the dry grass.
Then a baton was thrown up into the air on Richard's side; and every
man of the centre front line drew his bow string to his ear and sent
an arrow into the ranks of the enemy. Nor was this flight of missiles
without reply; for closer and faster still, though not so numerous,
fell the shafts from Richmond's little host amongst the adverse
troops. Their aim was truer too; for the eyes of his men were not
dazzled by the bright beams which poured into the faces of the enemy;
and many of the foe were seen to fall, while a good deal of confusion
spread along the line. Mounted on a tall horse, on the summit of a
little mound, towards the centre of the second line, Richmond could
see over the whole field; and, marking the disarray of the centre of
Richard's army, he said aloud, "Now, had we men enough for a charge on
that point, we might win the day at once."

"You and yours were lost, did you attempt it," said a deep voice near;
and, looking round, the earl saw a tall figure, mounted on a strong
black horse, with armour not the best polished in the world, though of
fine quality and workmanship, and bearing in his hand a sharp stout
lance, which, in addition to the long tapering point, carried the
blade of an axe, like that of a woodman, forming altogether a weapon
somewhat resembling an ordinary halbert. His horse was totally
without armour; even the saddle was of common leather but the stranger
bore the spurs of knighthood; and over his neck hung a gold collar,
and a star.

"Why say you so, sir knight?" demanded Richmond.

"Look to the right," replied the stranger; and, turning his eyes in
that direction, the earl beheld a horseman galloping at full speed
towards the centre of Richard's line, where the king evidently was in
person, while the large body of horse, commanded by the duke of
Norfolk, was seen gliding down between the marsh and the troops of
Lord Stanley. It was a moment of intense anxiety; but at the same
instant Chartley's squadrons of horse were seen to fall back a little,
in good order, so as to face the road leading round the morass; and
Stanley's whole force wheeled suddenly on its right, so as to join the
earl's line, and nearly hem in the duke of Norfolk, between it and the
marsh.

Richard's cavalry instantly halted and retreated in perfect array,
just in time to save themselves from destruction. They did not escape
without a charge however; and at the same time, the two front lines of
the armies advancing upon each other, the battle raged hand to hand
all along the field.

It was just at this moment, that coming up from the rear, a little to
the left of the spot where the earl of Richmond stood, rode forward a
young knight in splendid armour, mounted on a beautiful grey horse. By
his side was a man no longer young, though still in the prime of life,
totally unarmed, even without sword or dagger; and behind came ten
spears wearing the colours of Lord Chartley. The young nobleman paused
for an instant, gazing over the field, and the strange confused sight
presented by a battle, at a period when cannon were little used and no
clouds of smoke obscured the view, extending over a line of more than
half a mile. Here squadrons of horse were seen charging the enemy's
line; there two cavaliers seemed to have sought each other out in
single combat; in one place a company of foot was pushing on with the
levelled pike; in another, the archers with their short swords were
striving hand to hand; the banners and pennons waved in the wind,
fluttered, and rose and fell; and long and repeated blasts of the
trumpet sounded to the charge, and animated the soldiers to the fight.

It was a wild, a sad, a savage, but an exciting scene; and Chartley's
face, as he gazed with his visor up, looked like that of an eager
young horse, furious to start upon a course.

"There is the earl, Chartley," said Sir William Arden. "That is his
standard. The taller one in front must be the man."

Chartley instantly turned his horse, and rode up to Richmond's side.

"I am late upon the field, my lord," he said, "but I will make up for
lost time. I went to save my noble friend, Sir William Arden here,
from the headsman's axe. I beseech you keep him with you; for you will
find his counsel good, and he is unarmed. Whither shall I go?"

"Lord Chartley, I presume," said Richmond; "a gallant soldier never
comes too late to be of glorious use. There, straight forward on your
path is your noble friend, the earl of Oxford. I beseech you give him
help. He is sore pressed and terribly outnumbered."

"Follow!" cried Chartley, turning to his men and raising his arm; and
down he dashed into the thickest of the fight.

Small though the aid was, the effect was soon apparent. Some ground
which had been lost was regained in a instant; the first line of
Richard's troops was pressed back in the centre. The banner of Lord
Oxford made way in advance; but just then Sir William Brandon
exclaimed, "Richard is coming down with all his power, my lord."

"Then must we not be behind," replied Richmond. "Advance the banner,
Brandon! Good men and true, keep your men back yet a while, till you
receive command. Then down upon the boar, and pin him to the earth;
for I will leave my bones upon the field or win this day." Thus saying,
he rode on towards a spot which had been left vacant in the struggle
which was going on; and those who were above could see that a group of
some twenty or thirty persons from the enemy's side moved down as if
to meet him. The greater part, however, paused where the two lines
were still striving man to man, some engaging in the combat, some
gazing idly forward.

One, man, however, with two or three pages running by his side, burst
from the rest like the lightning from a cloud. He was covered with
gorgeous armour; his mighty horse was sheathed in steel; and circling
round his helmet, beneath the waving plume, appeared the royal crown
of England. Straight towards Richmond he dashed, trampling down a foot
soldier in his way, and rising the gentle <DW72>, with his lance in the
rest, without the slightest relaxation of his horse's speed.

"Mine, mine!" cried Sir William Brandon. "Mine to win a coronet!" and,
giving the standard to another, he couched his lance and bore down to
meet the king. But that unerring hand failed not. The eye was but too
keen. Straight in the throat, the point of Richard's spear struck the
standard-bearer, and hurled him dead upon the plain, while the
knight's own lance shivered on the king's corslet. Brandon's horse
also rolled upon the ground, but Richard leaped his charger over it
with a shout, and spurred on.

Without asking leave, Sir John Cheney darted forth to meet him. His
fate, however, was but little better; for, though not slain, he was
hurled wounded from the saddle in an instant. But at that moment
Richard was met by a new adversary; for, as he was rapidly approaching
the spot where Richmond stood, the tall knight, whom I have mentioned,
sprang from his unarmed horse and threw himself on foot in the king's
way. Richard checked up his horse for an instant at the unexpected
sight, and dropped the point of his lance, to strike this new
adversary in the face; but ere he could accomplish it, with a
tremendous sweep of both his arms, the knight struck him on the side
of the helmet. The lacings gave way. The casque and crown fell off;
and a deep stream of gore flowed down the pale face, which was seen,
as he hung for a moment in the stirrups. The horse rushed on, but the
king soon dropped upon the field; and three or four footmen, springing
on him, dispatched him with their daggers.

The tall knight leaned for an instant on the staff of his weapon, and
looked up and down the field; and then, as if he had gathered all in
that brief glance, he exclaimed, in a loud and vehement voice. "Now,
earl of Richmond, gaze not on the dead, but on to support the living!
Sir William Stanley is charging the enemy in the flank. On with your
whole force, and the day is yours. If not, it may be lost still. Give
me my horse, boy."

The order was instantly given; the whole force of Richmond moved down
the hill; and though the struggle was protracted for some twenty
minutes longer, it was no longer doubtful. All was confusion indeed,
in the ranks of Richard; but Norfolk and many other noble gentlemen
struggled to the last, and died without yielding an inch of ground.
Northumberland took no part in the fight; and others fled soon, while
others again remained to be made prisoners; but steadily the earl of
Richmond's line advanced, till the whole of Richard's host either lay
on Bosworth field, or were in full flight across the country.

At the end of two hours from the commencement of the battle the
trumpet sounded the recall, and Richmond's tent was set up, on the
spot where Richard had commanded at the beginning of the day. The
curtains were drawn up, and knights and noblemen crowded round, while
the field was searched, to ascertain the numbers and the quality of
the slain. Litters, formed hastily of lances laid across, were seen
moving about the plain, bearing the wounded from the field of carnage;
and many a group might be observed, in distant parts of the prospect,
engaged probably in less pious offices.

Richmond, now on foot, and with his casque laid aside, stood for
several minutes gazing silently on the scene before him; and, oh, who
shall tell what passed through his mind at that moment? How often has
the flood of success a petrifying effect upon the heart! and,
doubtless, it was so with him; but he had then just stepped into those
Lethe waters, which so often drown in dull oblivion all the nobler and
more generous feelings of the soul.

Nobody ventured to break upon his silence; for it was evident to all
that strong emotions were busy at his heart, till, at length, a voice
without, said--

"Lord Stanley!" and many others took it up, repeating, "Stanley,
Stanley!"

Richmond took a step forward; but ere he reached the verge of the tent
Stanley himself appeared. He bore in his hands the royal croft, which
Richard had carried on his helmet, and, without a word, he advanced
straight to Richmond, and placed it on his brows. Then, bending the
knee, he said, aloud--

"Hail, king of England! Long live our sovereign lord, King Henry the
Seventh!"

Richmond embraced him warmly, while a shout rent the air, and some
words passed between the two which no ear heard. Then advancing, with
the crown upon his head, Henry graciously thanked those around him for
their aid and service, adding a few words upon the glorious event of
the day.

"There is one, however," he continued "whom I see not here, and to
whom double thanks are due. I cannot name him, for I know him not; but
his hand defended my life when two gallant gentlemen had fallen before
my enemy, and his hand slew the usurper of the crown I now bear. He
wore round his neck the collar and star of some foreign order, and--"

"He is fearfully wounded, sire," said Lord Chartley, who had just come
up. "That litter, which you see yonder, is bearing him, at his own
request, to the abbey of St. Clare. He earnestly besought me to
entreat your grace, if your time would permit, to pass thither for a
brief space, on your march. He is a man of high and noble birth,
allied to a royal house; but I must say no more. The rest he will tell
you, if he live till you arrive."

"Noble Lord Chartley, to you too I owe great thanks," said Henry; "and
they shall be paid in coin that you will like full well. But this
noble gentleman has taken strong possession of my mind. How did he
fall?--I saw him late in the battle, safe and foremost."

"True, sire," replied Chartley; "he was before Sir George Talbot and
myself, as we followed the last troops of the enemy which kept
together, to disperse them. Then, however, just on the brow of the
hill, the young Lord Fulmer turned with his band, and bore my noble
friend down with his lance while he was contending with two men in
front."

"But you avenged him, Chartley," said Sir George Talbot; "for you
carried the young serpent back on your lance's point, like an eel on
an eel-spear. He will never take odds against a gallant knight more."

"I know not that," said Chartley; "for I saw him remounted and led
away between two servants. But, if your grace will visit the noble
gentleman of whom you spoke, I will forward at once and bear the
tidings after him."

"I will not fail," replied Henry; "'tis but a mile or two about, I
believe; and, as soon as we have taken some order here, I ride thither
ere I go to Leicester."

Chartley thanked him and retired; and the king, calling a page,
whispered to him some brief words, adding aloud, "To Tamworth then,
with all speed. Say, there must be no delay--no, not a moment."




CHAPTER XLIX.


In a small room, in the stranger's lodging at the abbey of St. Clare
of Atherston, lay the form of a wounded man, upon a low bed. A lady
sat by the pillow weeping; and the abbess was near the head of the
bed, with her eyes overflowing too, while the priest stood near, with
a boy in white garments behind him.

"Not yet, not yet, good father," said the wounded man; "I am still
very strong--too strong. Nay, weep not, Mary, you have shed tears
enough for me already in your life; and in good sooth thus would I
die. My heart is light and happy, my dear wife, and I look up in trust
and hope. Knightly in my harness have I met my fate; and I am cheered
by my lady's love. I trust Richmond will come before I go; for, as my
journey is long, we might not meet again for many years; and I would
fain insure all, that there be no shade on my departure."

"Lord Chartley expects him instantly, my noble son," replied the
abbess; "he is waiting his arrival now under the gateway. Oh, had I
known your rank, and dear ties to my poor brother St. Leger, when I
but thought you a poor woodman, you should have had every tenant of
the abbey to lead to fight for the house of Lancaster."

"The king!" said Chartley, opening the door; and, with a slow step,
and look of sympathy, Henry entered and approached the dying man's
bed-side.

"How can I enough thank you, sir?" he said; "and how can I enough
regret the fate of such a knight?"

"Regret it not, sir," replied the other, gazing firmly in Henry's
face; "for I regret it not. Nor do I need thanks. I have fought for
that side on which I fought and bled in years gone by. I am content to
die in arms. I wish no better. But I have a boon to crave, not for
ought done in this day's field, but for a service rendered months ago,
when Bishop Morton bore to Henry of Richmond the proof of a plot to
yield him to the hands of his fell enemy."

"I remember well," replied Henry; "but he told me he had those proofs
from a poor woodman, who was called Boyd."

"He told you true," replied the other; "the woodman lies before you,
but, none the less, Thomas Boyd, earl of Arran."

Henry started, and his politic mind ran on into the future; but he
replied, almost at once--

"I vowed that I would grant whatever boon was in my power to grant to
that same woodman, and I will not break my oath. Name your request, my
noble friend."

"It is but this," answered the earl, "that by your royal will and
prerogative, passing over all opposition and obstacles, you will at
once, and without delay, unite in marriage a lady, called the Lady
Iola St. Leger, to that young lord standing behind you now."

"But," cried the abbess, "there is a contract--"

"Cease, cease, good mother," said the wounded man; "such contracts
must be thrown in the fire. There is a better contract between her and
Chartley."

"Nay, but my brother, her uncle," said the abbess, "he signed the
contract on her behalf with the Lord Fulmer."

"A better than her uncle signed the contract with that young lord,"
replied the dying earl; "her father, lady abbess--her father, whom
this Lord Fulmer slew. Ay, marvel not, lady! Your brother's daughter
died, in his sad flight, when dark misfortune overwhelmed the house of
Lancaster. There were then dangers and miseries as dark, over my
hapless race; and that generous friend took my dear child, to save her
and me from greater difficulties still, and passed her for his own.
Slain by the foe, he had not time to tell his weaker but more
prosperous brother, or yourself; but the proofs are in my hands. Did I
not visit her here, more than ten years ago, and gaze at her, through
my closed visor, lest the tears that washed my cheek should betray the
secret? Have I not watched over her ever since that hour, when I fell
wounded for the house of Lancaster? But here are the proofs, my lord.
Take them, and grant my boon. I would fain have seen them wedded
before I die; but that cannot be, for I am waning fast; and now, let
no vain mourning for the dead impede their union--no, not an hour. Do
you grant my boon, Henry of England?"

"I do, and willingly," replied Henry; "were that contract even valid,
I would cast it to the winds, sooner than see the child wed the
slaughterer of her father. But it cannot be valid. Nay, my good lord,
I will do more. With these proofs in my hand, I will o'erstep all
ceremonies. You said but now, that you would fain see this union ere
your death. If you do really so will--if it will be comfort to you on
your bed of pain, from which I trust you will yet rise to health--let
the marriage take place at once, and I will justify it with my
sanction. My first act of royalty shall be to bring a satisfaction to
a friend who has served me."

"Alas, it cannot be, sir," replied the earl of Arran; "my child is far
away--at Coventry, they tell me; and my race is well nigh run. I
shall, indeed, rise from this bed to health, but it will be to health
immortal, I do trust; but never more can I behold my child."

Sobs from the side of his pillow interrupted him, and, taking Mary's
hand, he said, "Nay, Mary, nay!--My lord, the king, you were about to
speak."

"'Twas but to say," replied Henry, "that this may not be so impossible
as you think. I trust your hour is still far off. Your voice is
strong."

"Because my will is strong; but I interrupt you rudely," said the
earl.

"However that may be--if to see your child safe, guarded by a marriage
bond with one who can protect her strongly, and will love her truly,
or I am no judge of men," replied Henry, "can bring comfort to you,
even in this hour, 'tis not impossible--All wait here a moment."

He left the room, and in a few minutes returned, leading in Iola
herself.

"Now calmly, my good lord," he said, as the earl raised himself
quickly to catch her in his arms, "I sent for her from Lichfield to
Tamworth yesterday, thinking this good lord would meet her there.
Three hours ago I sent for her on Bosworth field, bidding her join me
here, and purposing to unite her to my noble friend at once. Thus your
boon was granted, ere it was asked, and you must seek another. She
has brought a bridesmaid with her, too, from Tamworth. The Lady
Constance, too, I think they called her."

"Let it be quick," said the earl of Arran, in an altered voice,
unclasping his arms from the fair form they held; "let it be quick!"

A few moments passed in explanation to Iola, and for a time she bent
down her eyes and wept. But the earl repeated, "Let it be quick! Iola,
lose no time;" and, drying her eyes, she said, sadly but sweetly,

"I will obey you to the last, my father."

There was a group ranged round the bedside of the dying man, some five
minutes after. The princess Mary held his hand in hers, and leaned her
head upon his shoulder. Iola's hand was clasped in that of Chartley;
and the priest, with an open book, read hurriedly the binding words,
while the low answer gave assent.

As he ended, the wounded man said, in a voice as strong as ever,
"Amen!" and then placed his hand over his eyes.

It rested there.

They gazed upon him anxiously. He stirred not.

The priest hurried to his side, and removed the hand. He looked upon
the face of the dead.



THE END.









End of Project Gutenberg's The Woodman, by George Payne Rainsford James

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