The hall of the old house at Dunbury--long swept away by the two great destroyers of man's works, Time and Change--was a spacious vaulted chamber, of about sixty feet in its entire length, by from thirty-five to forty in width; but, at the end next the court, a part of the pavement, of about nine feet broad, and some eighteen or twenty inches lower than the rest, was separated from the hall by two broad steps running all the way across. This inferior space presented three doors; the great one communicating at once with the court, and two others in the angles, at the right side and the left, leading to chambers in the rest of the building. At the further end of the hall, on the left, was another small door, opposite to which there appeared the first four steps of a staircase, which wound away with a turn to apartments above. There was a high window over the principal entrance, from which the room received, in the daytime, its only light; and about half way up the chamber, on the left hand, was the wide chimney and hearth, with seats on either side, and two vast bars of iron between them for burning wood. In the midst of the pavement stood a long table, with some benches, one or two stools and a great chair, in which the master of the mansion seated himself at the time of meals; but the hall presented no other ornament whatever, except a number of lances, bows, cross-bows, axes, maces, and other offensive arms, which were ranged with some taste against the walls. The armoury was in another part of the house, and these weapons seemed only admitted here to be ready in case of immediate need; for those were times in which men did not always know how soon the hand might be called upon to defend the head.
When Richard of Woodville and his companion entered, some six or seven large logs, I might almost call them trees, were blazing on the hearth; and, in addition to the glare they afforded, a sconce of seven burners above the chimney shed a full light upon the party assembled round the fire. That party was very numerous, for several maids and retainers, of whom it may not be necessary to speak more particularly, were scattered round the principal personages, busy with such occupations for the evening as were common in a rude age, when intellectual pursuits were very little cultivated.
The group in front, however, deserves more attention, consisting of seven persons, most of whom we shall have to speak of more than once in the course of these pages. In the seat within the chimney, just opposite the door, sat the master of the mansion, a tall powerful old man, who had seen many a battle-field in his day, during that and the preceding reign, and had borne away the marks of hard blows upon his face. He was spare and large boned in form, with his hair and beard1 very nearly white; but he was hale and florid withal, and his countenance, though strongly marked, had an expression of kindness and good humour, not at all incompatible with the indications of a quick and fiery temper, which were to be discovered in the sparkle of his undimmed blue eye, and the sudden contraction of his brow when anything surprised him. The seat on the other side of the fire was not visible from the door by which the two wayfarers entered; but beyond the angle of the chimney, protruded into the light, the arm, shoulder, and part of the head of another tall old man, apparently clothed in the grey gown of some monastic order.
On the left of Sir Philip Beauchamp was seated a young lady, perhaps eighteen or nineteen years of age, with her arm resting on his knee, and her head and figure bent gracefully towards him. Her hair was as black as jet, her skin soft and clear, and her complexion somewhat pale, though a slight tinge of the rose might be seen upon her cheek. Her eyes, like her father's, were of a deep clear blue, though the long black fringes that bordered her eyelids in a long sweeping line, made them, at a distance, look as dark as her hair. She seemed neither above nor below the ordinary height of woman; and her whole figure, though by no means thin, was slim and delicate. The small exquisite foot and rounded ancle inclining gracefully towards the fire, were displayed by the posture in which she had placed herself; and the hand that rested on her father's knee, with long fingers tapering to the point, showed in every line the high Norman blood of her race.
Next to Isabel Beauchamp, the only daughter of the old knight, was another lady, perhaps a year younger. She was in several respects strikingly contrasted to her fair companion, though hardly less beautiful. Her hair was of a light glossy brown, catching a warm gleam wherever the light fell upon it, as fine as silk new spun from the cone, yet curling in large bunches wherever it could escape from the bands that confined it. Her complexion was fair and glowing; her cheek warm with health, and her skin as soft and smooth as that of a child. To look upon her at a little distance, one would have expected to find the merry grey or blue eye, so often seen in the pretty village maid; but hers was dark brown, large, and full, and soft, yet with a laughing light therein, that seemed to speak a buoyant and a happy heart. In form she was somewhat taller than the other; but though her waist looked as if it would have required no giant's hand to span it round, yet there was that sort of full and graceful sweep in all the lines, which painters and statuaries, I believe, call contour. Nought but the tip of one foot was seen from beneath the long and flowing petticoat then in fashion; but even from that, one might judge that nothing much more neat and small ever beat the turf, except amongst the elves of fairy land. Her hand rested upon a frame of embroidery, at which she had been working, and her head was slightly bent forward, as if to hear something said by the good Abbot of the convent, who sat opposite to his brother, in the seat within the chimney. But between her and him was another group, consisting of three persons, which somewhat detached itself from the rest. Two were seated, a lady and a gentleman, and the third was standing with his arms folded on his chest a little behind the others.
The backs of these three were turned towards the door by which Woodville and his companions entered; and they were somewhat in the shade, being placed between the lower end of the hall and the light both of the fire and the sconce; but as we are now looking at the picture of the whole, we may as well examine the details before we proceed.
The lady bore a striking resemblance in features, complexion, and form, to Isabel Beauchamp, whom we have already described; and the Lady Catherine might well be taken, as was often the case, for her cousin's sister. She was taller, indeed, though not much; but the chief difference was in the expression of the two countenances. Catherine's wanted all the gentleness, the tenderness, the thoughtfulness, of Isabel's. It could assume a look of playful coquetry, it could seem grave, it could seem joyous; but with each expression there mingled a touch of pride, perhaps, too, of vanity; and a scornful turn of the lip and well-chiseled nostril, as well as a quick flash of the eye, spoke the rash and haughty spirit which too certainly dwelt within her breast.
We are the slaves of circumstances from our cradle; and the mother and the nurse form as much part of our fate as any of the other events which mould our character, guide our course, and lead us to high station, retain us in mediocrity, or plunge us into misfortune. Catherine Beauchamp, like her cousin, was an only child, and an heiress; but her mother had brought large possessions to her father, and with those large possessions an inexhaustible store of pride. She had looked upon herself, indeed, as her husband's benefactor, for he was a younger brother, of small estate; and, after his death, she and a foolish servant had rivalled each other in instilling into her daughter's mind high notions of her own importance. In this, as in many another thing, the mother had proved herself weak; and the spoilt child had early shown her the result of her own folly. She did not live long enough to correct her error, even if she had possessed sense enough to make the effort; and when Catherine came to the house of her uncle, as his ward, her character was too far fixed to render any lessons effectual, but the severe ones of the world. There, then, she sat, beautiful, rich, vain, and haughty, claiming all admiration as her due, and believing that even her faults ought to be admired for her loveliness and her wealth.
Beside her was placed her mother's nearest relation, a distant cousin, named Simeon of Roydon. He was a tall, robust, well-proportioned man, of two or three and thirty years of age, with a quantity of light hair close cut in front, and left long upon the back of the head and over the temples. His features were in general good; and what with youth and health, a florid complexion, fair skin, bright keen eyes, an aquiline nose, somewhat too much depressed, and an air of calm self-importance and courtly ease, he was the sort of man so often called handsome by those who little consider or know in what beauty really consists. Nothing, indeed, that dress could do, was left undone, according to the fashions of the day, to set off his person to the best of advantage. His long limbs were clothed in the light-coloured breeches and hose, without division from the waist to the foot, which were then generally worn by men of the higher class; but so tightly did they fit, that scarce a muscle of the leg might not be traced beneath; and his coat was also cut so close to his shape, that except on the chest, where, perhaps, some padding added to the appearance of breadth, the garment seemed to be but an outer skin. His shoes exhibited points of at least six inches in length beyond the toe; and the sleeves of his mantle, which he continued to wear even in the hall, hung down till they swept the floor. He wore a dagger in his girdle with a jewelled hilt, and a clasp upon his coat with a ruby set in gold; while on his thumb appeared a large signet-ring of a very peculiar fashion and device.
Notwithstanding dress, however, and good features, and a countenance under perfect command, there were certain minute, but very distinct signs, to be perceived by an eye practised in the study of the human character, which betrayed the fact, that his smooth exterior was but a shell containing a less pleasant core. There was a wandering of the eyes, which did not always seem to move in the same orbits; there was an occasional quiver of the lower lip, as if words which might be dangerous were restrained with difficulty; there was a look of keen, eager, almost fierce, inquiry, when anything was said, the meaning of which he did not at once comprehend; and then a sudden return to a bland and sweet expression almost of insipidity, which spoke of something false and hollow. He was talking to Catherine Beauchamp, when Richard of Woodville and Hal of Hadnock entered, in gay tones, often mingling a low laugh with his conversation, and eying his own foot and leg as it was stretched out towards the fire, with an air of great self-admiration and satisfaction.
The figure of the third person, who stood close behind the lady--as if he had come round thither and left vacant a stool which appeared on the other side, to take part in her conversation with Sir Simeon of Roydon--was as tall and finer in all its proportions than that of the knight who sat by her side. His chest was broader; his arms more muscular; the turn of his head, and the fall of his shoulders, more graceful and symmetrical. His dark hair curled short round his forehead, and on his neck; his straight-cut features, of a grave and somewhat stern cast, wore their least pleasing look when in repose; for they wanted but the fire of expression to light them up in a moment, and render them all bright and glowing. His eye, however, the feature which soonest receives that light, had in it a fixed melancholy, which scarcely even left it when he smiled; and now, though he had come round thither to interchange a few words with Catherine, his betrothed wife, and her gay kinsman, Sir Henry Dacre had fallen into thought again, and remained standing with his arms folded on his chest, and his look fixed upon Isabel Beauchamp, as she leaned upon her father's knee. His gaze was intense, thoughtful--I might call it inquiring; but yet it was not rude, for he knew not that his eyes were so firmly fixed upon her. He was buried in his own thoughts; and perhaps the peculiar investigating expression of that look might be accounted for by supposing that he was asking questions, difficult to solve, of his own heart.
Isabel herself did not remark that he was gazing at her, for she was listening to some anecdote of other days which her father was telling. But the old knight did observe the glance of his young friend, and he observed it with pain, yet "more in sorrow than in anger;" for there were some things for which he bitterly grieved, but which could not be amended. He broke off his story for a moment to mutter to himself, "Poor fellow!" and just at that instant his eye lighted upon Richard of Woodville, as the young traveller opened the great door of the hall. His brow contracted while perhaps one might count ten, but was speedily clear again, and he exclaimed, laughing aloud--"Ha! here is Dickon again! I thought he would not go far."
Every one turned round suddenly; and all laughed gaily, except one. But the fair girl with the rich brown hair, sitting next to Isabel Beauchamp, gazed down the hall, with a smile indeed, but with a kindly look gleaming forth through her half-closed, merry eyes.
"Ah, run-away!" cried Isabel Beauchamp, still laughing; "so you have come back?"
"Yes, sweet cousin," replied Richard of Woodville, advancing up the hall with his companion; "but I have a cause--I should have been half way to Winchester else.--Here is a gentleman, sir," he continued, addressing his uncle, "whom I have met seeking the right way, and finding the wrong; and I failed not in promising him your hospitality for the night."
"Right, Richard--you did right!" replied the old knight, raising his tall form from the seat by the fire. "Sir, you are most welcome. Quick, Hugh of Clatford, leave cutting that bow, and speed to the buttery and the kitchen. Bid them bring wine and meat. I pray you, sir, take the seat by the fire."
"Nay, not so, noble sir," replied Hal of Hadnock, in a courteous tone. "I am not one to take the place of venerable years and high renown. Thanks for your welcome, and good fortune to your roof-tree. I beseech you, let me make no confusion. I will place me here;" and he drew a stool from the table somewhat nearer to the fire, and seated himself, while all eyes were fixed upon him.
Richard of Woodville, too, took a better view of his companion than he had hitherto obtained, and that view satisfied him that he had not introduced to his uncle's hall a guest, who, in point of rank and station, at least, was not well deserving of a place therein.
The stranger was, as I have already said, a tall and somewhat slim young man, perhaps four or five and twenty years of age, with black hair and close-shaved beard, keen dark eyes, long and sinewy limbs, and a chest of great width and depth. His features were remarkably fine, his brow wide and expansive, his forehead high, and the whole expression of his countenance noble and commanding. His dress was rich and costly, without being gaudy. His coat of deep brown, covering the hips, like that of a crossbowman, was of the finest cloth, and ornamented with small lines of gold, in a quaint but not ungraceful pattern. Instead of the hood then commonly worn, his head was covered with a small cap of velvet, and one long pennache, or feather, clasped with a large jewel; his dagger and the hilt of his sword were both studded with rubies, and though his riding-boots of untanned leather were cut square off at the toe, instead of being encumbered with the long points still in fashion, over them were buckled, with a broad strap and flap, a pair of gilt spurs, showing that he had seen service in arms, and had won knightly rank. His tight-fitting hose were of a light philimot, or brownish yellow colour, and round the leg, below the knee, was a mark, as if the impression of a thong, seeming to prove that when not in riding attire, he was accustomed to wear shoes so long, that the horns points were obliged to be fastened up by a gilt chain, as was then not unusual. His manner was highly courteous; but it was remarked, that at first he committed what has, in most ages, been considered an act of rudeness, remaining with his head covered some minutes after he entered the hall. But, at length, seeming suddenly to remember that such was the case, he took off his cap, and laid it on the table.
Sir Philip Beauchamp, without asking any question of his guest, proceeded at once to name to him the different persons assembled round the fire; but as we have already heard who they were, it is needless to give a recapitulation here. Richard of Woodville, however, marked or fancied, that as the old knight pronounced the name of Sir Simeon of Roydon, a brief glance of recognition passed between that personage and his companion of the road; but neither claimed the other as an acquaintance, and Woodville said nothing to call attention to what he had observed.
"It will seem scarcely courteous, sir," said the guest, as Sir Philip ended, "not to give you my own name, though you in your hospitality will not ask it; but yet, for the present, I will beg you to call me simply Hal of Hadnock; and ere I go, Sir Philip, to your own ear I will tell more. And now, pray let me not kill mirth, or break off a pleasant tale, or stop a sweet lay; for doubtless you pass the long eves of March as did the knights and dames in our old friend Chaucer's dreams--
'Some to rede old romances,
Them occupied for ther pleasances,
Some to make verèlaies and laies,
And some to other diverse plaies.'"
"Nay, sir," answered the old knight, who had glanced with a smile at his guest's gilded spurs, as he gave himself the name of Hal of Hadnock, "we were but talking of some old deeds of arms, which, doubtless, you in your career have often heard of. As to lays, when my nephew Richard is away, we have but little poesy in the house, except when this sweet ward of mine, Mary Markham, will sing us a gay ditty."
"Not to-night--not to-night!" cried the lady on Isabel Beauchamp's left; "I am not in tune to-night."
Isabel bent her head to her fair companion, and whispered a word which made the blood come warm into Mary Markham's cheek; but Catherine, with a gay toss of her head, and a glance of her blue eye at the handsome stranger, exclaimed--"I love neither lay nor ballad; they are but plain English twisted out of form, and set to a dull tune."
"Indeed, lady!" said the stranger, gazing upon her with an incredulous smile. "I have ever thought that music and verse made sweet things sweeter; and, methinks, even now, were it some tender lay addressed to your bright looks, you would not find the sounds so rude."
A smile passed round the little circle, but did not visit the lip of Sir Henry Dacre; and though Catherine Beauchamp laughed with a scornful smile, it seemed as if she knew not well whether to look upon the stranger's words as kind or uncourteous.
"Ha, Kate! he touched you there," said the old knight. "What think you, Abbot? has not our guest judged our niece aright?"
"I believe it is so with all ladies," answered the Abbot, gravely; "they find the words of praise sweet, and the words of blame bitter, whether it be in song or saying. You men of the world nurture them in such folly. You flatter them too much; so that, like the tongue of a wine-bibber, they can taste nothing but what is high-seasoned."
"Faith, not a whit, reverend lord," cried Hal of Hadnock, gaily; "craving your forgiveness, we deal with them as heaven intended. Fair and delicate in mind and frame, we shelter their persons from all rough winds and storms, as far as may be, and their ears from all harsh sounds. They were not made to cope with the rough things of life; and if they find wholesome exercise for body and soul, good father, in the chase and in the confessional, it is as much as is needed. The Church has the staple trade for truth, especially with ladies; and for any laymen to make it their merchandise would be against the laws of Cupid's realm."
"I fear you speak lightly, my son," said the Abbot, with a good-humoured smile; "but here comes your meal, and I will give it my blessing."
By such words as these, the ice of new acquaintance was soon broken, and, as the guest sat down at the side of the long table, to partake of such viands as his entertainer's hospitality provided for him, the party round the fire separated into various groups. The good master of the mansion approached to do the honours of his board, and press the stranger to his food. Catherine seemed smitten with a sudden fit of affection for her uncle, and placed herself near him, where, with no small spice of coquetry, she sought to engage the attention of the visitor to herself. Sir Henry Dacre remained talking by the fire with Isabel Beauchamp; and, whatever was the subject of their discourse, the faces of both remained grave, almost sad; while, at a little distance, Richard of Woodville conversed in low tones with fair Mary Markham, and their faces presented the aspect of an April sky, with its clouds and its sunshine, being sometimes overshadowed by a look of care and anxiety, sometimes smiling gaily, as if the inextinguishable hopes of youth blazed suddenly up into a flame, after burning low and dimly for a while, under some cold blast from the outward world.
The Abbot had resumed his seat by the fire, and Sir Simeon of Roydon had not quitted his; but the latter, though the good monk spoke to him from time to time, seemed buried in his own thoughts, answered briefly, and often vaguely, and then fell into a reverie again, turning occasionally his eyes upon his fair kinswoman and the stranger with an expression of no great pleasure.
With the old knight and Catherine Beauchamp, in the meanwhile, Hal of Hadnock kept up the conversation gaily, seeming to find a pleasure in so mingling sweet and bitter things together, in his language to the lady, as sometimes to flatter, sometimes to pique her; and thus, without her knowing it, he contrived to put her through all her paces, like a managed horse, till every little weakness and fault in her character was displayed, one after another.
At first, Sir Philip Beauchamp was amused, and laughed at the stranger's merry jests, thinking, "It will do Kate good to hear some wholesome truth from an impartial tongue;" but as he saw that, whether intentionally or not, the words of Hal of Hadnock had the effect of bringing out all the evil points in her disposition to the eyes of his guest, he grew uneasy for his brother's child, and felt all her faults more keenly from seeing her thus expose them, in mere vanity, to the acquaintance of an hour. He saw, then, with satisfaction, his guest's meal draw towards a close, and, as soon as it was done, proposed that they should all retire to rest.
There was some consideration required as to what chamber should be assigned to Hal of Hadnock,--for small pieces of ceremony were, in those days, matters of importance,--but Sir Philip Beauchamp decided the matter, by telling Richard of Woodville to lead the visitor to the rose-tapestry room, and to place a good yeoman to sleep across his door. It was one of the principal guest-chambers of the house; and its selection showed that the good knight judged his nephew's fellow-traveller to be of higher rank than he assumed.
Lighted by a page, Richard of Woodville led the way, and entered with his companion, when they reached the apartment to which they had been directed. Although it was now late, he remained there more than an hour, in conversation deeply interesting to himself, at least.
Clouds had again come over the heavens as day declined, and the light had nearly faded from the sky; but yet the horses of Hal of Hadnock and Richard of Woodville had not appeared in the court-yard, and the former showed great anxiety to proceed at once. His gaiety was gone; and he stood, either playing, in deep thought, with the hilt of his dagger, the sheath of which hung from a ring in the centre of his belt, or listening for the horses, with his ear turned towards the door of the hall.
"I fear, sir, the news you have received are bad," said old Sir Philip Beauchamp, who, with the rest of the party, had by this time risen from table.
"A father's perilous sickness, noble Sir Philip," answered Hal of Hadnock; "one who might have been kinder, indeed; but still the tidings must ever be sad ones to a son's heart. I wonder that the horses be not ready."
"Go, Hugh, and see," replied Richard of Woodville; but a serving man, who had entered the moment before, stopped the messenger, saying--
"They will be here in a minute, sir. A shoe was found loose on the gentleman's steed, and John the smith has had to fasten it."
"Well, Dick, thou goest in good earnest at last," said the old knight, turning to his nephew; "and on my life I think it is the best thing thou canst do. Thou art a good soldier, and wilt raise thyself to renown. I need not tell thee what thy duties are; but thou must take a horse and arms of thine old uncle, whom thou mayest never see again, perchance. Choose them for thyself, boy. Thou wilt find wherewithal in that purse," and he placed a full one in his nephew's hand. "As my good brother, the Abbot, is not here, thou must content thyself with my benison. Be it upon thee, Richard! Love thy king, thy country, and thine honour. But, above all things, love God, fear his anger, hope in his mercy, trust in his promises, and submit thine own reason in all things to his word. So shalt thou prosper in this world; so shalt thou be meet for another."
The young man caught his uncle's hand and kissed it; and the old knight pressed him for a moment in his arms.
"Here, Richard, take this gift of me," said Isabel: "'tis but a jewel for your baldrick."
Mary Markham did not speak; but after he had pressed his lips on Isabel's cheek, she offered hers silently, placing a ring in his hand.
"I will bear it to honour, and win you yet, Mary," said Woodville, in a low voice, as he took his parting kiss; and he felt that her cheek was wet with tears.
"Hark! there are the horses, noble sir," exclaimed Hal of Hadnock, turning to Sir Philip. "Once more, farewell! Your nephew shall give you further news of me; and may one day clear me in your eyes for somewhat you have thought amiss."
Then bidding the ladies adieu, he turned to the hall door, and mounted, with a princely largesse to the servants of the house. Richard of Woodville followed, sprang on his horse's back, and, giving one look back, rode through the gates after his companion.
The wood was dark and sombre, as they proceeded amidst its thick coverts; but when they issued forth, a faint glimmer of twilight served to guide them on the way, and they quickened their pace. There were lights in the windows of the cottages, too, as they passed through the village; and when they reached the other side, they caught a pale line of yellow light, peeping out from beneath the dark clouds upon the edge of the western sky, and gilding the water of the stream. Riding on quickly, they had not left the last house behind them five minutes, when Hal of Hadnock pulled up his horse short, exclaiming, "Hark! there is a scream!"
"'Tis but a screech-owl," answered Richard of Woodville; "they come forth in spring."
But as he spoke, there was another shriek, apparently before them; and each struck his horse with the spur, and dashed on. No other sound met their ear, however, except what seemed the distant galloping of a horse, which might be but the echo of their own beasts' feet. When they reached the spot where, on the preceding night, they had seen the wild fire over the moor, Hal of Hadnock again drew in his rein, saying, "It came from somewhere here."
"It seemed to me near where we then were," replied Richard of Woodville. "Perchance 'twas but some villagers got drunk at that Glutton mass. See, there is the otter again!"
"It was a shriek of pain or terror," answered his companion. "Otter!--that is no otter! Here, hold my horse," and springing from the saddle in a moment, he dashed down the bank, and plunged into the river. Though shallow in most places, it there formed a deep pool; but Hal of Hadnock, expert in all exercises alike, struck out at once, and caught the object he had seen, just as it was sinking. A feeling of horror and alarm seized him, as his hand grasped the long hair of a woman; but raising her head above the water again, he held it gently on his left arm, and with his right swam in towards the shore.
"Here, help, Richard," he cried, "set the horses free, and take her. 'Tis a woman!"
Woodville was down the bank in a moment, exclaiming, "Who is it?--who is it?"
"I know not," answered Hal of Hadnock, raising her so far above the water, that his companion could grasp her in his arms and lift her out; but as he himself followed, placing one knee on the shore, with a sad heart, he heard his companion exclaim, in the accents of deep grief--
"Good Heaven! it is Catherine!"
"Quick! bear her to the nearest house!" cried Hal of Hadnock; "the spark of life may be still there. I will follow with the horses."
"Up the short path to the right, lies the chanter's," cried Richard, raising the unhappy girl in his stout arms, and running along the road.
The horses were easily caught, and mounting one, and leading the other, Hal of Hadnock followed, obtaining a glance of his companion just as he turned from the highway, towards a spot where the thatch of a small house peeped up above some trees. He was at the door as soon as Woodville; and, lifting the latch, they both went in.
An old man and woman were sitting before the fire; but the sudden entrance of two men roused them in fear; and, when they saw who it was, and what they bore, all was eager hurry and lamentation. The inanimate body of Catherine Beauchamp, however, was speedily laid in the old chanter's bed, in the neighbouring chamber; and such simple means as first suggested themselves were employed to ascertain if life were still within that fair and silent frame. But she lay calm and still as if asleep, with her features full of a sweet placidity, such as they had seldom worn in life.
"It is past!" said Richard of Woodville; "it is past'. Poor girl! how has this happened? Ha! there is the mark of a grasp upon her throat!"
"See there, too!" cried Hal of Hadnock; and he pointed with his hand to where, upon the fine lawn that covered her bosom, was a faint red stain, half washed out by the water of the stream, as if blood had been spilt. No wound, however, was to be discovered; and while the two gentlemen stood and gazed, the old chanter's sister continued, ineffectually, to employ every effort to reawaken the inanimate frame, and the old man himself ran off to the Abbey to procure farther aid.
"Go into the other room, sirs--go into the other room," said the good dame, at length; "I will take off her wet clothes. 'Tis that keeps her from coming to."
Hal of Hadnock shook his head; for he could not see that pale countenance, those immovable lips, those sightless eyes, without feeling sure--too sure--that life had departed for ever. He would not say anything, however, to discourage the zeal of the poor woman; and he accordingly accompanied Richard of Woodville into the chamber which they had first entered, and stood with him in silent thought before the fire. Neither spoke; for the mind of each was busy with sad and dark inquiries, regarding the event which had just taken place; yet neither could arrive at anything like a conclusion. Was it her own act? was it accident? was it the deed of another? and if so, of whom? Such were the questions which both asked themselves. Both, too, entertained suspicions; but yet they did not like even to admit those suspicions to their own hearts, for how often does the first conclusion of guilt do injustice to the innocent! but while they were still in thought, the voice of the chanter's sister was heard exclaiming--
"Come hither, Master Richard!--come hither! See here!" and as they entered, she pointed to the poor girl's arm, which now lay uncovered on the bed-clothes, adding, "there is the grasp of a hand, clear enough! Look, all the fingers and the thumb!"
"Stay," said Hal of Hadnock; "that might be mine, Richard, or yours in raising her out of the stream."
"I took her by the other arm," answered Richard of Woodville.
"And I do not remember having touched her arm at all," said Hal of Hadnock, after thinking for a moment.
"Oh, no, sirs," cried the old woman; "that hand must have grasped her in life, else it would not have brought the blood to the skin. Hark! there are the people coming," and, in another minute, the good old Abbot, and four or five of his monks, ran in breathless and scared.
"Alas! alas! Richard, what is this?" cried the Abbot.
"A sad and dark affair, father," replied Richard of Woodville, while one of the monks, famed for his skill in leechcraft, advanced to the bed-side, and put his hand upon the heart; "I fear life is extinct."
The Abbot gazed at the monk as he knelt; but the good brother slowly waved his head, with a melancholy look, saying, "Yet leave me and the old woman alone with her."
"I will stay and aid," replied the Abbot. "I am her uncle."
All the rest withdrew; and many were the eager questions of the monks, as to how the accident had happened. Richard of Woodville told the tale simply as it was--the two shrieks that they had heard, the discovery of the body in the water, and its recovery from the stream.
"Ay, she screamed when she fell in, and when she first rose," said one of the monks; "drowning people always do."
Woodville made no reply; for he would not give his own suspicions to others; but Hal of Hadnock asked him, in a low voice, "Did you not hear the galloping of a horse, on the other side, as we came near?"
"I did," answered Richard, in the same tone; "I did, too plainly."
In about a quarter of an hour, the Abbot came forth, and all made way for him.
"What hope?" asked Woodville, looking into his uncle's face for speedier information.
"None!" replied the Abbot. "How has this chanced, my son? there are marks of violence."
The same tale was told over again; but this time Richard of Woodville added the fact of a horse's feet having been heard; and the Abbot mused profoundly.
"I will have the body carried down to the Abbey," he said, at length. "You, Richard, speed to my brother, and break the tidings there. Come down with him to the Abbey, and we will consult. Bring Dacre, too.
"Dacre has been gone more than two hours," answered Richard of Woodville; "but I will seek my uncle Philip," and he turned towards the door.
Hal of Hadnock stayed him for a moment, however, saying, "I must ride on, Richard. You know that my call hence admits of no delay. But let every one remark and remember, for this matter must be inquired into, that I heard and saw all that this good friend of mine did; the shrieks, the galloping of a horse, the body in the water. You shall have means of finding me, too, should it be needful; and now, my Lord Abbot, a sad good night. Farewell, Richard; you shall hear from me soon." Thus saying, he quitted the cottage, mounted his horse, and rode away at a quick pace.
Crossing through the great Hall of the palace of Westminster, where so many a varied scene has been enacted in the course of English history, where joy and sorrow, mirth, merriment, pageantry, fear, despair, and the words of death, have passed for well nigh a thousand years, and do pass still, Richard of Woodville followed the page amidst tables and benches, serving-men, servers, guards, and ushers, till they reached a small door at the left angle, which, when opened, displayed the first steps of a small stone staircase. Up these they took their way, and then, through a corridor thronged with attendants, past the open door of a large room on the right, in which mitres and robes, crosses and swords of state, met the young gentleman's eye, to a door at the end, which the page opened. Within was a small antechamber containing several squires and pages in their tabards, waiting either in silence, or at most talking to each other in whispers. They made way for their comrade, and the gentleman he brought with him, to pass, and, approaching an opposite door, the boy knocked. No one answered; but the door was immediately opened; and Richard of Woodville was ushered into a bedchamber, where, seated in a large chair, he found the King, attended by two men dressed in their habits of state. One of these had just given the visitor admission; but the other was engaged in pulling off the boots in which the monarch had walked to and from the Abbey, and in placing a pair of embroidered shoes upon his feet instead.
"Welcome, Richard of Woodville," said Henry, as soon as he beheld him; "so you have come to see Hal of Hadnock before you depart?"
"I have come to see my gracious Sovereign, Sire," replied Woodville, advancing, and bending the knee to kiss his hand, "and to wish him health and long life to wear his crown, for his own honour and the happiness of his people."
"Nay, rise, Richard, rise," said Henry, smiling kindly; "no court ceremonies here. And I will tell you, my good friend, that I do really believe, there is not one of all those who have shouted on my path to-day, or sworn to support my throne, who more sincerely wishes my prosperity than yourself. But say, did you guess, that Hal of Hadnock was the Prince of Wales?"
"I knew it, Sire," replied Woodville, "from the first moment you entered my uncle's hall. I had served under your Grace's command in Wales."
"I suspected as much," replied the monarch, "from some words you let fall."
"I do beseech you, Sire, to pardon me," continued Richard, "if I judged my duty wrongly; but I thought that so long as it was not your pleasure to give yourself your own state, it was my part, to know you only as you seemed."
"And you did right, my friend," replied the King; "but were you not tempted to breathe the secret to any one--not even to Mary Markham?"
"To no one, Sire," answered Woodville, boldly; "not for my right hand, would I have said one word to the best friend I had."
"You are wise and faithful, Richard of Woodville," said Henry, gravely; "God send me many such."
"Here is the other mantle, Sire," said the attendant who was dressing him, "will you permit me to unclasp that?"
Henry rose, and the man disengaged the royal mantle from his shoulders, replacing it with one less heavy, while the King continued his conversation with Woodville, after a momentary interruption, repeating, "God send me many such; for if I judge rightly, I shall have need of strong arms, and wise heads, and noble hearts about me. Nor shall I fail to call for yours when I have need, my friend."
"Ah, Sire," answered Woodville, with a smile, "as far as a true heart and a strong arm may go, I can, perhaps, serve you; but for wise heads, I fear you must look elsewhere. I am but a singer of songs, you know, and a lover of old ballads."
"Like myself, Richard," replied Henry; "but none the worse for that. I know not why, but I always doubt the man that is not fond of music 'Tis, perhaps, that I love it so well myself, that I cannot but think he who does not has some discordant principle in his heart that jars with sweet sounds. 'Tis to me a great refreshment also; and when I have been sad or tired with all this world's business, when my thoughts have grown misty, or my brain turned giddy, I have sat me down to the organ and played for a few moments till all has become clear again; and I have risen as a man does from a calm sleep. As for poesy, indeed, I love it well enough, but I am no poet:--and yet I think that a truly great poet is more powerful, and has a wider empire, than a king. We monarchs rule men's bodies while we live; but their minds are beyond that sceptre, and death ends all our power. The poet rules their hearts, moulds their minds to his will, and stretches his arm over the wide future. He arrays the thoughts of countless multitudes for battle on the grand field of the world, and extends his empire to the end of time. Look at Homer,--has not the song of the blind Greek its influence yet? and so shall the verse of Chaucer be heard in years to come, long after the brow they have this day crowned shall have mouldered in the grave."
The thoughts which he had himself called up, seemed to take entire possession of the King, and he remained gazing in deep meditation for a few minutes upon the glittering emblems of royalty which lay upon the table before him, while Richard of Woodville stood silent by his side, not venturing to interrupt his reverie.
"Well, Richard," continued the King, at length rousing himself, "so you go to Burgundy? but hold yourself ready to join me when I have need."
"I am always ready, now or henceforward, Sire," answered the young gentleman, "to serve you with the best of my poor ability; and the day will be a happy one that calls me to you. I only go to seek honour in another land, because I had so resolved before I met your Highness, and because you yourself pronounced it best for me."
"And so I think it still," replied Henry. "I would myself advance you, Woodville, but for two reasons; first, I find every office near my person filled with old and faithful servants of the crown; and, as they fall vacant, I would place in them men who have themselves won renown. Next, I think it better that your own arm and your own judgment should be your prop, rather than a King's favour; and, as yet, there is here no opportunity. Besides, there are many other reasons why you will do well to go, in which I have not forgotten your own best interests. But keep yourself clear of long engagement to a foreign Prince, lest your own should need you."
"That I most assuredly w ill, Sire," answered Richard of Woodville. "I go but to take service as a volunteer, holding myself free to quit it when I see meet. I ask no pay from any one; and if I gain honour or reward, it shall be for what I have done, not for what I am to do."
"You are right, you are right," said Henry; "but have you anything to ask of me?"
"Nothing, Sire," replied the young gentleman. "I did but wish to pay reverence to your state, and thank you for the gracious letters you have given me, before I went;" and he took a step back as if to retire. But Henry made a sign, saying--
"Stop! yet a moment; I have something to ask you.--Lay the gloves down there, Surtis. Tighten this point a little, and then retire with Baynard."
The attendants did as they were bid; and Henry then inquired, "What of Sir Henry Dacre, and of that dark evening's work at which we were present?"
"Dacre goes with me, Sire," replied Richard of Woodville.
"Ha!" exclaimed the King; "then were we wrong in thinking he loved the other?"
"Not so," answered Woodville; "'tis a sad tale, Sire. He does love Isabel, I am sure--has long loved her, though struggling hard against such thoughts. But, as if to mar his whole happiness, that scoundrel, Roydon, whom you saw, when informed of poor Kate's death, wrote, though he did not come, raising doubts as to whether her fate had been accidental."
"Doubts!" cried the King. "Do you entertain no doubts, Richard?"
"Many, Sire," answered the young gentleman; "but I never mention doubts that I cannot justify by proof, and will not support with my arm. But he did more; he pointed suspicion at one he knew too well to be innocent. He called up some accidental circumstances affecting Dacre--not as charges, indeed, but as matters of inquiry; made the wound and left the venom, but shrunk from the result."
"And what did Dacre?" asked the King.
"Gave him the lie, Sire," replied Woodville; "called upon him to come boldly forward, make his accusation, and support it in the lists."
"He avoided that, I'll warrant," replied Henry; "I know him, Richard."
"He did so, Sire," answered the young gentleman; "he declared he had no accusation to bring--held Dacre to be good knight and true; but still kept his vague insinuations forward in view, as things that he mentions solely because it would be satisfactory to the knight himself to clear up whatever is obscure."
"And does the Lady Isabel give any credence, then, to these cowardly charges?" inquired the King.
"Oh! no, Sire," replied Woodville, warmly. "She has known Harry Dacre from her infancy; and those who have, are well aware that, though quick in temper, he is as kind as the May wind--as true and pure as light. But Dacre is miserable. He thinks, that, henceforth, the finger of suspicion will be pointed at him for ever; he sees imaginary doubts and dreads in every one's heart towards him; he feels the mere insinuation, as the first stain upon a high and noble name. It weighs upon him like a captive's chain; he cannot break it or get free--it binds his very heart and soul; and, casting all hope and happiness behind him, he is resolved to go and peril life itself in any rash enterprise that fortune may present."
"Poor man!" exclaimed Henry, "I can well understand his feelings: but God will bring all things to light. Yet, tell me, Richard of Woodville, do your own suspicions point in no particular direction?--have you no doubts of any one?"
"Perhaps I have, Sire," answered Woodville; "but I will beseech your Highness to grant me one of two things--either, to appoint a day and hour where, in fit lists and with arms at outrance, I may sustain my words to the death; or do not ask me to make a charge which I can support with no other proof than my right hand."
"I understand you, Richard," said the King, "and I will ask no farther. Your course is a just one; but I trust, and am sure, that heaven will not witness such deeds as have been done, without sending punishment. We both think of the same person, I know; and my eye is upon him. Tell me, however, one thing,--does not Sir Simeon of Roydon inherit the estates of this poor Lady Catherine?"
"He does, Sire, and is already in possession," replied Woodville.
"He is here at the court," rejoined the King, "and I shall show him favour for her sake."
Richard of Woodville gazed at the monarch in surprise, but a slight smile curled Henry's lip; and, although he gave no explanation of the words which he had spoken in a grave tone, his young companion was satisfied.
"I always love to get at the heart of a mystery," continued the King, seeing that Richard remained silent; "and I should much like to know, if you can tell me, what was the cause of that furious quarrel which took place between Sir Henry Dacre and this unhappy lady, just before he went? I fear I had some share in it."
"You were but the drop, Sire, that overflowed the cup," replied Woodville; "it had been near the brim for several days before; but what was said I know not. Remonstrance upon his part, and cutting sneers on hers, as usual, I suppose; but he has never told me."
Henry mused for a moment at this reply; and then, changing the subject, he inquired, "Is good Ned Dyram with you here in Westminster?"
"He is in the Hall below, Sire," answered Woodville; "and a most useful gift has he been to me already."
"A loan, Richard, a loan!" cried the King; "I shall claim him back one of these days, after he has served you in Burgundy. You will find he has faults as well as virtues; so have an eye to correct them. But even now, as the country folk say, I have a mind to borrow my own horse. I want his services for three days, if you will lend him to me--You are not yet ready to set out?"
"Not yet, Sire," replied Woodville; "but, in one week more, I hope to be on the sea."
"Well, then, send the man up to me, and he shall rejoin you in four days," answered Henry; "but let me see you tomorrow, my good friend, before you go home, for I would fain talk farther with you. It is seldom that a King can meet one with whom he can speak his thoughts plainly; and I find already a difference that makes me sad. Command and obedience, arguments of state and policy, flattering acquiescence in my opinion, whether right or wrong, praise, broad and coarse, or neat and half concealed,--of these I can have plenty, and to surfeit; but a friend, into whose bosom one can pour forth one's ideas without restraint, whether they be sad or gay, is a rare thing in a court. So, for the present, fare-you-well, Richard. You will stay here for the banquet in the Hall, of course; and let me see you to-morrow morning, towards the hour of eight."