"Are you sincere now, Mary?--are you telling me the truth?" asked
Richard, still half inclined to doubt; but the moment after, he added,
"Yet I know you are, my Mary, without guile. Truth gives you half your
beauty, Mary; it lights your eyes, it smiles upon your lips. Yet this
is very strange; and I thought that I had discovered the key to a
mystery which must puzzle me still. But hear what has happened, and
you shall judge;" and he proceeded to relate the injunctions which had
been twice laid upon him the day before, by some unseen acquaintance
in the crowd.

Mary Markham was not less surprised and puzzled than himself,
especially as he persisted in asserting the words had been spoken by a
female voice. But they soon abandoned that topic, to turn to others of
deeper interest to their own two hearts--the cause of Sir Philip
Beauchamp's journey to the capital, and the future fate of his fair
companion.

"In truth, Richard," said Mary, in answer to some of his questions, "I
am well nigh as ignorant as yourself of what is about to happen. All I
know is, that Sir Philip told me I should probably soon see my father
again."

"And who is your father, my sweet Mary?" asked Woodville, with a
smile.

Mary gazed at him for an instant, with a look of touched and gratified
affection, and then asked, "And did Richard of Woodville really seek
poor Mary Markham's hand, then, without knowing aught of her state and
station?--was he willing to take her dowerless, friendless,
stationless, almost nameless?"

"Good faith, dear Mary," answered Woodville, "I should be right glad
to take you any way I could get you; and if dower, or station, or
friends, or aught else stand in the way, even down to this pretty robe
whose hem I kiss, I pray you, Mary, cast it off! I shall be right glad
to have you in your kirtle, if it be but of hodden grey."

Mary Markham smiled and blushed; and her bright, merry eyes acquired a
softer and more glistening light from the dew of happy emotion that
spangled her long eyelashes. "Well, Richard," she said, "I do not love
you the less for that. 'Tis a bold speech, perhaps, and one that I
should not make; but once having owned what I feel, why should I hide
it now?"

"Fie on those who would blame you, dearest lady," answered Woodville:
"who should feel shame for love? The brightest and the best of human
feelings, surely, is no cause of shame; but we may all say, with the
great poet--

      "'O sunn'is life! O Jov'is daughter dear,
       Pleasaunce of love! O godely debonaire
       In gentle hearts aye ready to repaire,
       O very cause of health and of gladnesse,
       Iheried be thy might and godenesse.'"

"I cannot answer why, Richard," replied Mary, "but I know it is so,
that all women feel some shame to own they love; and many affect more
shame than they really feel. But I will not do so, dear Richard; for I
think it is dishonesty to feign aught. I know I did feel shame, when
one day, as we sat beside the river under the green trees, you won me
to say more than I ever thought I could; and all that night, when I
thought upon it, my cheek burned. But yet, in the moment of trial, I
felt bold; and when your uncle asked me, I told him all. Nor do I see
why I should conceal it now, even if I could, when you are about to go
far, and that may be your only consolation in danger and in
difficulty."

"It will be my strength and my support, dear Mary," answered
Woodville; "and I do think that if I could but win a promise from you
to be mine, it would so nerve my heart and arm in the hour of strife,
that all men should own I had won you well--Say, will you promise, my
sweet lady?"

"I will promise that I will, if I may," replied Mary; "but alas!
Richard, the entire fulfilment of that promise must depend upon
another. We poor women have but little power, even over our own fate
and persons; but I will love none but you, Richard, wherever I go; and
you will not doubt that love, though it be spoken so freely?"

"Nay, Heaven forbid!" said Richard of Woodville; "and were it not that
you are my uncle's ward, I would put that love, dear Mary, to the
proof, by asking you to fly with me and seek out some friendly priest
who would bind our fate so fast together, that it would take greater
power than any one in the land can boast, to sever it again. But I
would not be ungrateful to one who has been a father to me."

"Nor must I be ungrateful, either to him or to my own father,
Richard," replied Mary Markham; "you would not love me long if I could
be so."

"I know you cannot, Mary," answered her lover; "but tell me who he is,
Mary, that I may try to win him to hear my suit. I knew not that your
father was alive--unless, indeed, the idle gossip--but no more of
that. Whoever he be, I will trust to merit his esteem, and surely his
daughter's love will be no bad commendation to him. I have hopes, too,
of advancement, if ambition be his passion, such, indeed, as I have
never had before. The King--he who was with us not a month ago as Hal
of Hadnock--"

"Ay, Dacre told us who he was," cried Mary Markham.

"The King, he shows me great favour," continued Woodville, "and has
given me letters to many at the court of Burgundy, promising to send
for me, too, as soon as he has service for me here. With a true heart,
and no unpractised hand, I do not fear that I shall fail of winning
honour; and though I be but a poor gentleman, yet, as I do know that
riches or poverty would make no difference in Mary Markham to me, so I
cannot believe that it will change me in her eyes."

"Oh no!" she answered, but then added, with a sigh, "but my father,
Richard! It is long since I have seen him, yet he was kind and noble,
just and true, if I remember right. I recollect him well, with his
grey hair, changed more by sorrow than time. I thought you knew the
whole, for Isabel does; but I promised faithfully not to speak of my
fate or his to any one, for reasons that he judged sufficient, when he
gave me into good Sir Philip's charge; and I must not break my word
even for you, Richard."

"Well, it matters not," answered Woodville; "certainly I would fain
know who he is, for then I might court him as a lover does his bride,
for Mary's sake: but yet you must keep your promise to him, and to me
too; and whenever you are free to speak, you must give me tidings,
dear girl; for in all the thousand chances of this world, I might mar
my own hopes, even while seeking to fulfil them."

"I will, I will," replied Mary Markham; "but hark! I hear your uncle's
step, Richard. I will but add one word more to cheer you. Perhaps, if
I judge right, we may not be so long ere we meet again, as you
suppose--and now, God prosper you, my own true squire."

As she spoke, the good old knight, Sir Philip Beauchamp, entered the
room, with a grave and somewhat perplexed air. It soon became evident,
however, that whatever annoyed or embarrassed him, it was not the
presence of his nephew; for he greeted him kindly, holding out his
hand to him, saying, "Ay, you here, foolish boy!--still the moth and
the candle! But if you needs must love, why, let it lead you to honour
and renown. What brought you to London? To buy arms?"

"No, sir; to see the King," replied his nephew. "He sent me a
messenger, bearing letters for me to the court of Burgundy, and gave
me to understand that I might come to visit him, if I would."

The old knight, in his meditative mood, seemed to catch some of
Woodville's words, and miss the others. "Letters to the court of
Burgundy," he said. "Well! from Harry of England, they should smooth
thy path, boy. Would to Heaven, you two were not lovers!--Not that I
would speak ill of love; 'tis the duty of every gentleman to vow his
service to some fair lady. At least, as it was so in my young day; but
we have sorely declined since then--sorely, sorely, nephew of mine;
and love was then quite a different affair from now--when it must
needs end in marriage, or worse. It was a high and ennobling passion
in those times, leading knights and gentlemen to seek praise, and do
high deeds; not for their own sakes, but for the honour of the ladies
whom they served, nor requiring reward even from them, but for pure
and high affection, and the pleasure of exalting them. Thus, many a
man loved a lady--either placed far above him, or removed from his
reach by being wedded to another--without sin, or shame, or
presumption; for love, as I have said, was a high and ennobling
feeling in those days, which taught men to do what is right, not what
is wrong."

"Well, my noble uncle," replied Richard of Woodville, "and so it may
be now; and it will have the same effect with me. But one thing I do
know, that I would rather do high deeds to exalt my own wife, than
another man's: I would rather serve a lady that I may win, than a lady
I have no right to seek. Methinks it is both more honest and more
safe; and, by God's blessing, I will win her, too, if I live long
enough, and have fair play."

The old knight smiled. "Thou art a jesting coystrel, Dickon," he said;
"and yet not a bad man at arms either. But times are changed, I tell
thee, and not for the better. Thou thinkest according to the day, and
cannot understand the past. When goest thou over seas, boy?"

"In a few days, sir," answered Richard of Woodville. "I think before a
week be out."

Mary Markham's cheek turned a little pale, and the old knight
meditated for a moment or two; after which he asked his nephew when he
intended to quit London? Richard replied, that he went on the
following morning; and Sir Philip, who had found a sad vacancy in the
hall since Richard had left them for a time, and poor Catherine for
ever, required that he should stay and keep them company for the rest
of the day.

"Heaven knows, my poor Mary," he said, "how long we may have to remain
in this place; and we shall soon find it dull enough. The people whom
I expected to meet, have not yet appeared, and no tidings of them have
come; so we may as well keep this idle boy to make us merry; and if he
must go buy arms or lace jerkins for the court of Burgundy, why we
will go with him to Gutherun's Lane and the Jury; and you shall ride
your white palfrey for once along Cheape, with your gay side-saddle
quilted with gold; though in my young days--before King Richard
married Anne of Bohemia--never a lady in the land saw so foolish a
contrivance."

It may well be supposed that neither Mary Markham nor Richard of
Woodville was very much averse to such a proposal; and the rest of the
day passed in that April-morn happiness which all must have felt, ere
parting with those we love; when the cloudy thought of the dreary
morrow comes hourly sweeping over the sunshine of the present, yet
making the light seem more bright for the passing shadow. More than
once, too, the lovers were left for awhile alone; and every moment
added to their sweet store of vows and promises. Much was also told
that they had not had time to tell before, though it was still spoken
in rambling and unconnected form--the one predominant feeling always
intruding, and calling their thoughts and words back to what was
passing in their own hearts.

How many bitter moments pay for our sweet ones in this life! and yet
how willing are we all to make the purchase, whatever be the price!
The ambitious spirit of enjoyment is upon us, and we must still
enlarge the sphere of our delight, though--as when a conqueror
stretches the bounds of his empire, and thereby only exposes a wider
frontier to attack--each new hope, each new pleasure, each new
possession, but lays us open to loss, regret, and disappointment. It
is a sad view of human life; but Richard of Woodville and Mary Markham
found its truth when they came to feel how much more bitter was their
parting, for the few sweet hours of happiness they had enjoyed.

                            CHAPTER XIII.

                              THE WRONG.

The sun, scarce a hand's breadth above the sky, was nevertheless
shining with beams as bright and warm as in the summer, when Richard
of Woodville mounted his horse in the court-yard of the inn at Charing,
and, followed by his two yeomen and his page, rode out, after
receiving the valedictory speeches of the host and hostess, who,
with a little crowd, composed of drawers and maidens, and some of
their other guests, watched his departure, and commented upon his
strong yet graceful limbs, and his easy management of his charger,
prognosticating that he would prove stout in battlefield, and
fortunate in hall and bower. Near the fine chaste cross at
Charing--which stood hard by the spot where the grand libel upon
British taste, called Trafalgar Square, now stands--Woodville paused
for a moment, and letting his eye run past its grey fretwork, gazed
down in the direction of the palace and the Abbey, hesitating whether
he should take the shorter road by the convent of St. James, or, once
more passing through Westminster, ride under the windows of fair Mary
Markham, for the chance of one parting glance. I need not tell the
reader how the question was decided; but as he turned his horse's head
towards the palace, he saw a female figure standing upon the lower
step of the cross, with the hood, then usually worn by women when out,
drawn far over the face. The beautiful form, however, the small foot
and ankle appearing from beneath the short kirtle, and the wild
peculiar grace of the attitude, taken together, showed him at once
that it was poor Ella Brune; and he was riding forward to speak with
her, when she herself advanced and laid her hand upon his horse's
neck.

"I have been watching for you, noble sir," she said, "to bid you adieu
before you part, and to give you thanks from a poor but true heart."

"Nay, you should not have waited here, Ella," he replied; "why did you
not come to the inn?"

"I did, yesterday at vespers," answered the girl; "but you were
abroad; and the people laughed, as if I had done a folly. Your men
told me, however, you were going this morning at daybreak, and so I
waited here; for I would fain ask you one boon."

"And what is that, Ella?" inquired Woodville; "if it be possible to
grant, it shall not be refused; for I have so little to give, that I
must be no niggard of what I have."

"You can grant it," replied the girl, with a bright smile; "and you
will be a niggard indeed if you do not; for it is what can do you no
harm, and may stead me much in case of need. It is but to tell me
whither you go, and when, and how."

"That is easily said, my fair maiden," answered Woodville. "I go first
to my own place at Meon; then to the Court of Burgundy, at the end of
six days; and, as I would not cross through France, I go by sea from
Dover to a town called Nieuport, on the coast of Flanders. But say, is
there aught I can do for you before I send the man I told you of, to
give you what little assistance I can?"

"Send him not, send him not," cried the girl; "I am now rich--almost
too rich, thanks to your generous interference with our good King. He
sent me a large sum, by the hands of the bad knight, who killed the
poor old man."

"Ay!" said Richard of Woodville; "and did you see this Sir Simeon of
Roydon, my poor Ella? Beware of him; for he is not one to understand
you rightly, I fear."

"I am aware of him," answered the minstrel's girl; "and I abhor him.
He is a dark fearful man--but no more of that; I shall never see him
more, I trust, for his eyes chill my blood. He looked at me as I love
not men should look--not as you do, kindly and pitifully; but I know
not how--it can be felt, not told."

"I understand you, Ella," replied Richard of Woodville; "and his acts
are like his looks. He has made more than one unhappy heart in many a
cottage that once was blithe. I grieve the King sent him to you."

"Oh, 'twill do no harm," cried the girl. "I shall not long be here;
and I know him well. Would that I were not a woman!"

"What! would you avenge the wrong he did on that sad evening?" asked
Woodville, with a smile, to think how feeble that small hand would
prove in strife.

"No, not for that," she replied; "for I would try to forgive; but if I
were not what I am you would take me with you in your train, and then
I should be safe and happy."

"I trust you may be so still, even as a woman, poor girl," answered
Richard of Woodville; and, after a few more words of kindness and
comfort, he bade her adieu. Ella Brune's bright eyes glistened; and,
perhaps, she found it difficult to speak the parting words, for she
said no more, but, catching her young protector's hand, she pressed
her lips upon it, and drew back to let him pass.

It was impossible for Richard of Woodville not to feel touched and
interested; but he was not one to mistake her. He knew--not indeed by
the hard teaching of experience, but by the intuitive perception of a
feeling heart--how the unfortunate cling to those who show them
kindness, and could distinguish between the love of gratitude and that
of passion. He had purposely spoken gently and tenderly to her; and,
in proportion as he could do little to afford her substantial aid, had
tried to make his words and manner consoling and strengthening; and he
thought, "If any one had acted so to me, I should feel towards him as
this poor girl now feels in my case. Heaven guard her, poor thing, for
hers is a sad fate!"

In such meditations he rode on; but we will not at present follow him
on his way, turning rather to poor Ella Brune, who stood by the cross
gazing after him, till his horse taking a road to the right, about two
hundred yards before it reached the palace gate, was soon hidden by
the trees, just at the entrance of the town of Westminster.

With a deep sigh, she then bent her steps along the road leading by
the bank of the river towards the gate of the Temple, which was still
in a somewhat ruinous state from the attack made upon it in 1381. As
she went she looked not at the houses and gardens on either side--she
marked not the procession which came forth, with cross and banner,
from the convent on the right, nor the gay train that issued out of
the gates of a large embattled house on the left; but separating
herself from the people, who turned to gaze or hastened to follow, she
made her way on, seeking the little inn where she dwelt.

There were two other persons, however, who followed the same
course--men with swords by their side, and bucklers on their shoulder,
and a snake embroidered on the mourning habits that they wore. But
Ella saw them not--she was too deeply occupied with her own dark
thoughts. She seemed alone in the wide world--more alone than ever,
since Richard of Woodville had left the capital; and to be so is both
sad and perilous. How strange, how lamentable it is, that society,
that great wonderful confused institution, springing from man's
necessity for mutual aid and support, provides no prop, no stay for
those who are left alone in the midst of it; none to counsel, none to
help, none to defend against the worst of all evils--temptation to
vice. Of the body it takes some care; we must not cut, we must not
strike the flesh; we must not enthral it; we must not kill. But we may
wound, injure, destroy the spirit if we can, even at our pleasure. For
substantial things, we multiply regulations, safe-guards, penalties;
for the mind, on which all the rest so much depends, we provide none.
The philosophy of legislation has yet a great step to advance--a step,
perhaps, that may never--perhaps that can never--be taken; though of
one thing we may be sure--that, till the great Eutopian dream is
realized, and either by education, or some other means, a safeguard is
provided for the minds of men as well as their bodies and their
property, all the iron laws that can be enacted, will prove
insufficient for the protection of those more tangible things which we
think most easily defended. To regulate and guard the mind, especially
in youth, is to turn the river near its source, and to ensure that it
shall flow on in peace and bounty to the end; but to leave it
unguided, and yet by law to strive to restrain man's actions, is to
put weak floodgates against a torrent that we have suffered to
accumulate. But no more of this. Perhaps what has been already said is
too much, and out of place.

Yet, to return. It is strange and sad that society does afford no
stay, no support, to those who are left alone in the wide world; nay,
more, that to be so left, seems in a great degree to sever the bond
between us and society. "He must have some friends. Let him apply to
them," we are apt to say, whenever one of these solitary ones comes
before us, and whether it is advice, assistance, or defence, that is
needed. "He must have some friends!"--It is a phrase in constant use;
and, in our own hearts, we go on to say, "if he have not, he must have
lost them by his own fault;" and yet how many events may deprive man,
and much more frequently woman, of the only friends possessed!

Poor Ella Brune felt that she was indeed alone; that there was no one
to whom she could apply for anything that the heart and spirit of the
bereaved and desolate might need. She knew, that had she been a leper,
or halt, or blind, or fevered, she could have found those who would
have tended, cured, supported her; but there was no comfort, no aid,
for her loneliness; and scorn, or coldness, or selfish passion, or
greedy knavery, would have met her, had she asked any one, in the wide
crowd through which she passed, "Which way shall I turn my footsteps?
how shall I bend my course through life?"

She felt it deeply, bitterly, and, as I have said, walked on full of
her own sad thoughts, while the numbers round her grew less and less.
At length, in the sort of irregular street that, even then, began to
stretch out from the edge of Farringdon, without the walls, into the
country towards Charing, she was left with none near her but the two
men of whom we have spoken, and an old woman, walking slowly on
before. The men seemed to notice no one, and conversed with each other
in an under tone, till, in the midst of the highway, a little beyond
St. Clement's well, one or two small wooden houses appeared built in
the middle of the high road, with the end of a narrow lane leading up
to the Old Temple in Oldbourne, and the house of the Bishop of
Lincoln. There, however, one of them advanced a step, and spoke a word
to Ella Brune, over her shoulder.

"Whither away, pretty maiden?" he said. "Are you not going to see the
batch of country nobles who have come up to do homage?"

"I am going home," answered Ella Brune, gravely; "and want no
company;" and she hurried her pace to get rid of him. The next instant
the other man was by her side, and taking her arm roughly, he said,
"You must come with us first, our lord wishes to speak with you."

Ella Brune struggled to disengage herself, saying, "Let me go, sir; if
your lord wishes to speak with me, it must be at some other time. I
have people expecting me hard by. Let me go, I say."

"Ay, we know all about it," rejoined the man, still keeping his hold,
and drawing her towards the mouth of the lane. "You live at the
Falcon, pretty mistress; but you must go with us first."

The sounds behind her had caused the old woman to turn round the
moment before, and, seeing Ella struggling to free herself from the
man who held her, she turned to remonstrate, exclaiming, "What are you
about, sirs? Let the young woman go!"

"Get you gone, old beldame!" cried the other man, thrusting her back.
"What is it to you?" and at the same time he seized Ella by the other
arm, and hurried her on, in spite of her resistance.

"Beldame, indeed!" exclaimed the old woman, gazing after them. "Marry,
thou art not civil. If thou callest me so, I will call thee Davy.[2] I
will see whither they go, however;" and thus saying, at the utmost
speed she could master, she followed the men who were dragging poor
Ella Brune along, calling in vain for help--for the houses in that
part of the suburb were few, and principally consisted either of the
large gothic mansions of the nobility, shut in within their own gates
and surrounded by gardens, or the inns of prelates, isolated in the
same manner. Whither they were dragging her, the old woman could not
divine: for she thought it unlikely that any of the persons who dwelt
in that neighbourhood would sanction such a violent act. Ella herself,
however, knew right well, for she had taken the same road the day
before, on her brief visit to Sir Simeon of Roydon. Peril and
wandering, and sad chances of various kinds, such as seldom are the
lot of one so young, had taught her to remark every particular that
passed before her eyes with a precision which fixed things in her
memory that might have escaped the sight of others; and she had seen
the snake embroidered on the breast and back of the knight's servants,
and recognised the badge instantly on those who held her.

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

[Footnote 2: A common expression of the lower classes of Londoners in
old times.]

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

As she expected, the men stopped at the gates of the house, which were
open, and dragged her into the court; but her cries and her resistance
ceased the moment she had reached that place, for she knew that they
were both in vain, and made up her mind from that moment to the course
which she had to pursue.

"Ha, ha! pretty maiden," said the man who had first spoken to her.
"You are now willing to go, are you? Our lord is not lightly to be
refused a visit from any fair dame. Come, come, I can manage her now,
Pilcher; you stay at the foot of the stairs. Will you come willingly,
girl, or must we carry you?"

"I will come," answered Ella Brune; "not willingly, but because I
must;" and, with the man still holding her by the arm, she mounted one
of the flights of stairs which led straight from the court-yard to the
rooms above. Following a long corridor, or gallery, lighted by a large
window at the end, the man led her from the top of the stairs towards
the back part of the house, and, opening a door on the right, bade her
go in. After one hasty glance around, which showed her that it was
vacant, she entered the small cabinet which was before her, and the
door was immediately shut and locked. She now found herself in a dark
and gloomy chamber, which probably had been originally intended either
for secret conferences, or for a place of meditation and prayer, where
the eye could not distract the mind by catching any of the objects
without; for the only window which it possessed was so high up in the
wall, that the sill was above the eyes of any person of ordinary
height. There was but one door, too--that by which she had entered;
and the whole of the walls of the room was covered with black oak, of
which also the beams overhead were formed. A few chairs and a small
table composed the only furniture which it contained; and Ella paused
in the midst, leaning upon the table in deep thought. Her mind,
indeed, was bent only on one point. What were the purposes of Sir
Simeon of Roydon, she did not even ask herself; for she knew right
well that they were evil. Nor did she consider what she should answer,
or how she should act; for a strong and resolute mind judges and
decides with a rapidity marvellous in the eyes of the slow and
hesitating; and her determination was already formed. Her only inquiry
was, what were the means of escape from the chamber in which she had
been placed, what was its position in regard to the apartments which
she had visited on the previous day, and which had appeared to be
those usually occupied by Roydon himself.

After thinking for some moments, and retracing with the aid of memory
every step she had taken in the house, both on that morning and the
day before, she judged, and judged rightly, that the chamber in which
she had seen the knight must join that in which she now stood, though
she had reached it by another entrance. The sound of voices, which she
soon after heard speaking in a different direction from the gallery,
confirmed her in that belief; for, though she could not distinguish
any of the words, she felt convinced that the tones were those of Sir
Simeon of Roydon, and of the man who had brought her thither.

At length the speakers ceased, a door opened and shut, and then the
key was turned in the lock of that which gave entrance to the room
where she was confined. As she expected, the next moment Simeon of
Roydon stood before her, bearing a sort of laughing triumph in his
face, which only increased her abhorrence. He was advancing quickly,
as if to take her hand, but she drew back, with her eyes fixed upon
him, saying, "Come not too near, sir. I am somewhat dangerous at
times, when I am offended."

"Why, what folly is this, my sweet Ella!" said the knight; "my people
tell me that you have resisted like a young wolf."

"You may find me more of a wolf than you suppose," replied Ella Brune,
coldly.

"Nay," answered Sir Simeon, "we have ways of taming wolves--but I seek
nothing but your good and happiness, foolish girl. Is it not much
better for you to live in comfort and luxury, with rich garments, and
dainty food, and glowing wine, to lie soft, and have no task, but to
sing and play and please yourself, than to wander about over the wide
world, the sport of 'prentices, or the companion of ruffians?"

"There are ruffians in all stations." rejoined Ella Brune; "else had I
not been here."

The cheek of the knight glowed with an angry spot; but then again he
laughed the moment after, in a tone more of mockery than of merriment,
saying, "We will tame thee, pretty wolf, we will tame thee. Thou
showest thy white teeth; but thou wilt not bite."

"Be not sure of that," answered Ella Brune. "I know well how to defend
myself, should need be, and have done so before now."

"Well, we will see," replied Sir Simeon; "it takes some time to break
a horse or hound, or train a hawk; and you shall have space allowed
you. All soft and kindly entertainment shall you have. With me shall
you eat and drink, and talk and sing, if you will. You shall have
courtship, like a lady of the land, to try whether gentle means will
do. But mark me, pretty Ella, if they will not, we must try others. I
am resolved that you shall be mine by force, if not by kindness."

"You dare not use it," answered Ella Brune.

"And why not?" demanded the knight, with a haughty smile; "I have done
more daring things than vanquish a coy maiden."

"I know you have," said Ella Brune, in a grave and fearless tone; "but
I will tell you why not. First, because, whatever be your care, it
would come to the King's ears, and you would pay for it with your
head. Next, because I carry about me wherewithal to defend myself;"
and, putting her hand into her bosom, she drew forth a small short
broad-bladed knife, in a silver case. "This is my only friend left me
here," she continued; "and you may think, perchance, most gallant
knight, and warrior upon women, that this, in so weak a hand as mine,
is no very frightful weapon. But, let me tell you, that it was
tempered in distant lands--ay, and anointed too; and you had better
far give your heart to the bite of the most poisonous snake that
crawls the valley of Egypt, than receive the lightest scratch from
this. The hilt is always at hand--so, beware!"

"Oh, we have antidotes," replied the knight; "antidotes for everything
but love, sweet maid--and I swear, by your own bright eyes, that you
shall be mine--so 'tis vain to resist. You shall have three days of
tenderness; and then I may take a different tone."

As he spoke, some one knocked for the second time--the first had been
unheeded. The knight turned to the door, and opened it, demanding
impatiently, "What is it?"

"The Lord Combe and Sir Harry Alsover are in the court, desiring to
speak with you," replied the servant who appeared.

"Well, take them up to the other chamber," answered the knight; and,
without saying more to his fair captive, he quitted the room, and once
more locked the door.

The moment he was in the corridor, however, he stopped, saying, in a
meditative tone, "Stay, Easton." He hesitated for an instant, asking
himself whether it were worth his while to pursue this course any
farther, for a low minstrel girl, against such unexpected resistance.

The hand of Heaven almost always, in its great mercy, casts obstacles
in the way of the gratification of our baser passions, which give us
time for thought and for repentance; so that, in almost every case, if
we commit sin or crime, it is with the perverse determination of
conquering both impediments and conviction. Conscience is seldom, if
ever, left unaided by circumstances. But the wicked find, in those
very circumstances which oppose their course, motives for pursuing it
more fiercely.

"No!" said Sir Simeon of Roydon, to himself--"By--! she shall not
conquer me!--Tell the King!--She shall never have the means; for I
will either tame her, till she be but my bird, to sing what note I
please, or I will silence her tongue effectually. To be conquered by a
woman!--No, no! She is very lovely; and her very lion look is worth
all the soft simpering smiles on earth. Hark ye, Easton: there is a
druggist, down by the Vintry, with whom I have had some dealings in
days of yore. This girl has a poisoned dagger about her, which must be
got from her. 'Tis a marvel she used it not on you, as you brought her
along, for she drew it forth on me but now. The man's name is Tyler;
and he would sell his soul for gold. Tell him that I have need of some
cunning drug to make men sleep--to sleep, I say--understand me, not to
die: to sleep so sound, however, that a light touch, or a low tone,
would not awaken them. It must have as little taste as may be, that we
may put it in her drink, or in her food; and then, while she sleeps,
we'll draw the lion's teeth. He will give you anything for a noble;"
and, after these innocent directions, the knight betook himself to the
chamber whither he had directed his friends to be brought, and was
soon in full tide of laughter and merriment at all the idle stories of
the Court.

                             CHAPTER XIV.

                             THE REMEDY.

Nearly opposite to the old, half ruined gate of the Temple, there
commenced, in the days I speak of, a very narrow lane, which wound up
northward, till it joined the place now called Holborn, passing, in
its course, under the walls of the inn, or house, of the Bishop of
Lincoln, round his garden wall, and through the grounds of the Old
Temple house, inhabited by the Knights Templars, before they built a
dwelling for themselves, by the banks of the Thames. This Temple
house, still called the Old Temple in the reign of Henry V., had been
abandoned by the brethren in the year 1184, or thereabout. For some
time it was used to lodge any of the fraternity who might visit
England from foreign countries, when the new building was too full to
afford them accommodation; but gradually this custom ceased, even
before the suppression of the Order, and at its dissolution the Old
Temple fell into sore decay. When the lands of the Templars were
afterwards granted to the Knights of St. John, certain portions of the
building, and several of the out-buildings, were granted by them to
various artisans, who found it more convenient to carry on their
several pursuits beyond the actual precincts of the city of London.
One large antique gate, of heavy architecture, with immense walls, and
with rooms in either of the two towers which flanked the lane I have
mentioned, was tenanted by an armourer, who had erected his stithy
behind, and who stored his various completed arms in the chamber on
the right of the gate, where the porter had formerly lodged. Over the
window of this room was suspended, under a rude penthouse of straw, to
keep it from the rain, a huge casque, indicative of the tenant's
profession; and, at about eight o'clock of the same morning on which
Richard of Woodville quitted London, a little cavalcade, consisting of
a tall gaunt old man on a strong black horse, a young lady on a white
genet, and three stout yeomen, rode slowly up to the gate-house, and
drew their bridles there, pausing to gaze for a moment or two through
the deep arch at the forge beyond, where the flame glowed and the
anvil rang, throwing a red glare into the shadowy doorway, and
drowning the sound of the horses' feet.

"Halloo! Launcelot Plasse!" cried old Sir Philip Beauchamp, in as loud
a tone as he thought needful to call the attention of the person he
wanted--"halloo!"

But the cyclops within went on with their hammering; and, after
another ineffectual effort to make them hear, the good knight called
up his men to hold the horses, and lifting Mary Markham as lightly to
the ground as if she had been but the weight of a feather, he said,
"We must go in and bellow in this deaf man's ear, till we outdo his
own noise. Stay here, Mary, I will rouse him;" and, advancing through
the open gate, he seized the bare arm of the armourer, exclaiming,
"What, Launcelot! wouldst thou brain me?--Why, how now, man! has the
roaring of thine own forge deafened thee?"

The elderly white-headed man to whom he spoke turned round and gazed
at him, leaning his strong muscular arm upon his hammer, and wiping
the drops from his brow. "By St. Jude!" he cried, after a moment's
consideration, "I think it is Sir Philip Beauchamp. Yet your head is
as white as the ashes, and when I knew him it was a grizzled black,
like pauldrons traced with silver lines; and you are mighty thin and
bony for stout Sir Philip, whose right hand would have knocked down an
ox!"

"Fifteen years, Launcelot! fifteen years!" answered the knight; "they
bend a stout frame, as thou beatest out a bit of iron; and, if my head
be white, thy black hairs are more easy to be counted than found. Yet
both our arms might do some service in their own way yet."

"Well, I am glad to see you again, noble knight," replied the
armourer; "though I thought that it would be no more, before you and I
went our ways to dust. But, what lack you? There must be some wars
toward, to bring an old knight to the stithy; for well I wot, you are
not going to buy a tilting suit, or do battle for a fair lady. God
send us some good wholesome wars right soon! We have had nothing
lately, but the emprise of the Duke of Clarence. King Harry the Fourth
got tired of his armour; pray Heaven, his son love the weight better,
or I must let the forge cool, and that were a shame."

"Nay, 'tis not for myself," replied Sir Philip. "I have more arms,
Launcelot, than ever I shall don in life again. My next suit--unless
the King make haste--will be in the chancel of the church at Abbot's
Ann. What I want is for my nephew, Dickon of Woodville; he is going to
foreign lands, in search of renown; and I would fain choose him a suit
myself, for you know I am somewhat of a judge in steel."

"You were always accounted so, noble sir," replied the armourer, with
a grave and important face; "and, if you had not been a knight, might
have taken my trade out of my hands. But whither does Childe Richard
go? We must know that, for every land has its own arms; and it would
not do to give him for Italy what is good for France, nor for
Palestine what would suit Italy."

The old knight informed him that his nephew was first to visit
Burgundy; and the armourer exclaimed, with a well satisfied air, "Then
I can provide him to a point; for I have Burgundian arms all ready,
even to flaming swords, if he must have them; but 'tis a foolish and
fanciful weapon, far less serviceable than the good straight edge and
point. But come, Sir Philip, let us go into the armoury. 'Tis well
nigh crammed full, for gentlemen buy little; and yet I go on hammering
with my men, till I have put all the money that I got in the wars,
into arms."

Thus saying, he covered himself with the leathern jerkin, which he had
cast off while at work, and returned with his old acquaintance to the
room in which the various pieces of armour, that he kept ready, were
preserved. Sir Philip called Mary Markham to assist in the choice; but
it soon became evident to both, that no selection could be made in
good Launcelot Plasse's armoury--for not only was the room, to their
eyes, as dark as the pit of Acheron, but the armour was piled up in
such confused heaps, that it was hardly possible to take a step
therein without stumbling over breast-plate or bascinet, pauldrons or
brassières.

"Fie, Launcelot, fie!" cried Sir Philip; "this is a sad deranged show.
Why, a stout man-at-arms always keeps his armour in array."

"When he has room and time, Sir Philip," answered the man; "but here I
have neither. However, you and the fair lady go forth under the arch,
and I will bring you out what is wanted. Here, knave Martin," he
continued, calling one of his men from the forge, "bring out the great
bench, and set it under the gate, quick!--What is your nephew's
height, Sir Philip?"

"What my own used to be," replied the old knight; "six feet and half
an inch--and there is his measure round the waist."

The bench was soon brought forward, being nothing else than a large
solid table of some six inches thick; and by it Sir Philip Beauchamp
and fair Mary Markham took their station, while Launcelot Plasse, with
the aid of one of his men, dug out from the piles within, various
pieces of armour which he thought might suit the taste of his old
customer, laying them down at the door, to be brought forward as
required. The first article, however, that he carried to the bench,
was a cuirass of one piece, evidently old--for not only was it
somewhat rusty about the angles, but in the centre there was a large
rough-edged hole.

"Why, what is this?" exclaimed Sir Philip; "this will never do--"

"Nay, it has done, and left undone enough," replied the armourer. "I
brought it but to show you. In that placcate was killed Harry Hotspur.
I do not say that was the hole that let death in; for men aver that it
was a stab in the throat with a coustel, when he was down, that slew
him; but the blow that made _that_ bore him to the ground, other wise
Shrewsbury field might have gone differently. Now I will fetch the
rest. You see, fairest lady, what gentlemen undergo for the love of
praise, and your bright eyes."

Thus saying, he took back the breast-plate, and brought forward,
supported on his arm, one of the bascinets or casques worn in the
field, which were lighter and considerably smaller than the jousting
helmets. It was of a round or globular shape, with a small elevation
at the top, in which to fix the feathers then usually displayed; and
on the forehead was a plate, or band of white enamel, inscribed with
the words, "Ave Maria." Sir Philip Beauchamp made some objections to
the form; but Mary Markham, after she had read the inscription,
pronounced in favour of the bascinet; and the armourer himself had so
much to say of its defensive qualities, of the excellent invention of
making the ventaille rise by plates from below, and of the temper of
the steel, that Sir Philip, after having examined it minutely, waived
his objections. The price being fixed, the body armour to match was
brought forward, piece by piece, and laid upon the bench. It was of
complete plate, as was now the custom of the day, but yet many pieces
of the old chain hauberk were retained to cover the joinings of the
different parts. Thus beneath the gorget, or camail, which covered the
throat, was a sort of tippet formed of interlaced rings of steel, to
hang down over the cuirass and afford additional protection; while, at
the same time, from the tassets which terminated the cuirass, hung a
broad edge of the same, to complete their junction with the cuissards,
or thigh pieces.

This arrangement pleased the old knight very much; for it was a
remnant of the customs of ancient times, when he himself was young,
and which totally disappeared before many years were over; but with
the cuirass he quarrelled very much, exclaiming, "What, will men never
have done with their idle fancies? 'Tis bad enough to divide the
breast-plate into two, and hang the lower part to the upper by that
red strap and buckle; but what is the use of sticking out the breast,
like that of a fat-cropped pigeon?"

"It gives greater use to the arms, noble sir," replied Launcelot
Plasse, "and turns a lance much easier, from being quite round.
Besides, it is the fashion of the court of Burgundy: and no noble
gentleman could appear there well without. The palettes, too, you see,
are shaped like a fan, and gilt with quaint figures at the corners. It
cost me nine days to make these palettes alone, and the genouillières,
which have the same work upon them. Then the pauldrons--see how they
are artfully turned over at the top of the shoulder with a gilt
bordure."

"And pray, what may that be for?" demanded the old knight; "we had no
such tricks in my days to make a man look like a cray-fish."

"That is to give the arm fuller sweep and sway, either with axe or
sword," answered the armourer. "You can thus raise your hand quite up
to your very crest, which you could never do before, since pauldrons
were invented."

"We used to give good stout strokes in the year eighty," rejoined Sir
Philip Beauchamp, "as you well know, Master Launcelot. But boys must
have boys' things--so let it pass; but, what between one piece and
another, it will take a man an hour to get into his harness, with all
these buckles and straps. But I will tell you what, Master Launcelot,
I will have no tuilles over the cuissards; they were a barbarous and
unnatural custom, and very inconvenient too. I was once nearly thrown
to the ground in Gascony, by the point catching the saddle as I
mounted."

"Oh! they are quite gone out of use," replied the armourer; "and we
now either make the tassets long, or add a guipon of mail, coming down
to the thighs."

The jambes or steel boots, the sollerets or coverings for the feet,
the brassards, gauntlets, and vambraces were then discussed and
purchased, not without some chaffering on the part of the old knight,
who was a connoisseur in the price as well as in the fashion of
armour; but Launcelot Plasse had so much to say in favour of his
commodities, that he obtained very nearly the sum he demanded.

He then proceeded to prove to Sir Philip Beauchamp, that the suit
would not be complete without the testière, the chanfron, and the
manefaire and poitral of, the horse to correspond; and, though his
customer was not inclined to spend anymore money, yet a soft word or
two from Mary Markham won the day for the armourer, and he was
directed to bring forth the horse armour for inspection.

While he and his men were busy fulfilling this command, the old knight
turned, hearing some one speaking eagerly, and apparently imploringly,
to his attendants; and, seeing an old woman poorly dressed conversing
with them, he inquired, "What does the woman want, Hugh?"

"Ah! noble sir," replied the old dame, "if you would but interfere, it
might save sin and wrong. I have just seen a poor girl dragged away by
two men up to a house in the lane, called Burwash-house, where they
have taken her in against her will."

"Ha!" cried Sir Philip Beauchamp; "why, he is an old and reverend man,
my good Lord of Burwash, and will not suffer such things in his
mansion. I will send up one of the men to tell him."

"The noble lord is not there, fair sir," replied the woman; "but he
has lent his house to some gay knight, whose men do what they please
with the poor people. 'Tis but yesterday my own child was struck by
one of them."

"If there be wrong done, you must go to the officers of the duchy,
good woman," answered the knight, whose blood was cold with age, and
who could be prudent till he was chafed. "I will send one of the
yeomen with you, to get you a hearing. These things should be amended;
but when Kings' sons will beat the citizens, and brawl in Cheape,
there is no great hope."

"Good faith, Sir Philip!" cried the armourer, who had just come forth,
bearing the manefaire upon his arm, "if it be the Duke of Clarence you
speak of, and his brother John, 'twas they got beaten, and did not
beat. We Londoners are sturdy knaves, and take not drubbings
patiently, whether from lord or prince."

"And you are right, too," replied the old knight; "men are not made to
be the sport of other men. But what's to be done about this girl,
Launcelot? You know the customs here better than I do. The good woman
says they have carried a girl off against her will to Burwash-house
here, hard by."

"Why, that's the back of it," cried Launcelot Plasse. "The old lord is
not there, but in his stead one Sir Simeon of Roydon, who, if I
mistake not, will never win much renown by stroke of lance. Wait a
minute, my good woman, till I have sold my goods, and then I and my
men will go up with you, and set the girl free, or it shall go hard,
if you are certain she was taken against her will."

"She shrieked loud enough to make you all hear," replied the old
woman.

"I thought there was a noise when we were hammering at the back
piece," observed one of the men.

"I heard nothing," said Launcelot Plasse.

"Oh, go at once, go at once," cried Mary Markham; "you know not how
she may be treated. We can wait till you return. Send the men with
them, dear Sir Philip."

"I will go myself, Mary," replied the knight. "Come along, my men,
leave one with the horses, and the rest follow."

"I am with you, Sir Philip," cried the armourer. "Bring your hammers,
lads, we will make short work of oaken doors."

But ere Sir Philip Beauchamp had taken two steps up the lane, the
casement of a large window in the house which had been pointed out,
was thrown suddenly open, and a woman's head appeared. The sill of the
window was some twelve or fourteen feet from the ground; but, to the
surprise of all, without seeming to pause for a moment, the girl whom
they beheld set her foot upon it, caught the iron bar which ran down
the middle of the casement, seemed to twist something round it, and
then suffered herself to drop, hanging by her hands, first from the
bar, and then from a scarf.

She was still some five or six feet from the ground, however; and Mary
Markham, who had been watching eagerly, clasped her hands, and turned
away her head. Sir Philip Beauchamp, and the men who accompanied him
paused, and they could hear a voice from within exclaim, "Follow her
like light, by the back door! She will to the King, and that were
ruin. What fear you, fool? She has broken the dagger in the lock, do
you not see?"

As he spoke, the girl, after a momentary hesitation, during which she
hung suspended by the hands, wavering with the motion which she had
given herself in dropping from above, let go her hold, and sank to the
ground. Fortunately the lane was soft and sandy; and she fell light,
coming down, indeed, upon one knee, but instantly starting up again
unhurt.

She then gazed wildly round her for an instant, and put her hand to
her head, as if asking herself whither she should fly; but the sight
of the old knight and his companions, and the sound of an opening door
on the other side, brought her indecision quickly to an end, and
running rapidly forward, she cast herself at Sir Philip Beauchamp's
feet, embracing his knee, and crying, "Save me!--save me, noble sir!"

At the moment she reached the good old man, two stout fellows, who had
rushed from a door in the wall, and followed her at full speed, were
within two paces of her; and one of them caught her by the arm, even
at the knight's feet, as he was in the act of commanding him to keep
aloof.

"Stand back, fellow!" thundered Sir Philip Beauchamp, with the blood
coming up into his withered cheek; and the next moment, in the midst
of an insolent reply, he struck the knave in the face with his
clenched fist, knocking him backwards all bloody on the ground.

The other man, who had more than once accompanied Sir Simeon of Roydon
to Dunbury, and recognised its lord, slunk back to the house, stopped
some others who were following, and then hastened in, to tell his
master in whom Ella Brune had found a protector.

The man who had been knocked down, rose, gazed fiercely at the knight,
and then looked behind him for support; but seeing his companions
retreating, he too retrod his steps, not without muttering some
threats of vengeance; while the old armourer cried after him, "Never
show your faces again in the lane, knaves, or we will hide you back
like hounds, or pound you like strayed swine."

In the meanwhile, Sir Philip had raised up the poor girl; and Mary
Markham was soothing her tenderly, as Ella, finding herself safe, gave
way to the tears which her strong resolution had repressed in the
actual moment of difficulty and danger.

"Come, come, do not weep, poor thing," said the knight, laying his
large, bony hand upon her shoulder. "We will take care of you. Who is
it that has done this?"

"A bad man, called Simeon of Roydon," replied Ella Brune, wiping away
the tears.

"We know him," said Mary Markham, in a kindly tone; "and do not love
him, my poor girl."

"And I have cause to love him less, noble lady," replied Ella Brune,
waving her head mournfully. "'Tis but two nights ago he killed the
last friend I had; and now he would have wronged me shamefully."

"Killed him!" exclaimed Mary; "what! murdered him?"

"'Twas the same as murder," replied the girl; "he rode him down in a
mad frolic--a poor blind man. He is not yet in his grave."

"Come, come--be comforted," said Sir Philip. "Let us hear how all this
chanced."

"We will be your friends, poor girl," added Mary Markham; and then,
turning to the old knight, she asked, in a low tone, "can we not take
her home with us?"

Sir Philip gazed at the minstrel's girl from head to foot, and then
shrugged his shoulders slightly, with a significant look, as he
remarked her somewhat singular dress.

"Nay, nay," said Mary Markham, in the same low tone; "do not let that
stop you, noble friend. There may be some good amongst even them."

"Well, be it as you will, Mary," answered the old knight; "she must be
better than she looks, to do as she has done. Come, poor thing--you
shall go home with us, and there tell us more. Wait till I have
finished the purchase of this harness, and we will go along back to
Westminster; though how to take you through the streets in that guise,
I do not well know."

"Get a boat, sir, at a landing by the Temple," said Launcelot Plasse,
"and send the horses by land."

"A good thought," replied the knight; and thus it was arranged, the
whole party returning to the armourer's shop, and thence, after the
bargain was made, and all directions were given, proceeding to the
water-side, where a boat was soon procured, which bore them speedily
to the landing-place at Westminster.

                             CHAPTER XV.

                             THE PILGRIM.

One morning, while the events which I have lately detailed were
passing in the city of London, a man in a long brown gown, with a
staff in his hand, a cross upon his shoulder, and a cockle-shell in
his hat, walked slowly, and apparently wearily, into the little
village of Abbot's Ann, and sat himself down on a stone bench before
the reeve's door.

Recognising the pilgrim from some far distant land as she looked out
of her casement window, the good dame, with the charitable spirit of
the age, took him forth some broken victuals and a cup of ale, and
inquired what news he brought from over sea. The wanderer, however,
seemed more inclined to ask than answer questions, and was apparently
full of wonder and amazement at the tragic story--which he had just
heard, he said--of the death of the Lady Catherine Beauchamp. He
prayed the good woman, for love and for charity's sake, to tell him
all about it; and she, very willing to gratify him--for every country
gossip gains dignity while telling a horrible tale--began at the
beginning of the affair, as far as she knew it; and related how, just
on the night after the last Glutton mass, as Childe Richard of
Woodville, their lord's nephew, was riding down the road with a
friend, he heard a shriek, and, on hurrying to the water, found the
body of the poor young lady floating down the stream; how the two
gentlemen bore her to the chanter's cottage; and how marks were found
upon her person, which seemed to prove that she had come to her death
by unfair means.

"And has the murderer been discovered, sister?" inquired the old
pilgrim.

"Alas, no!" replied the reeve's wife; "there have been whispers about,
but nothing certain."

"Ay, murder will out, sooner or later," answered the pilgrim. "And
whom did the whispers point at?"

"Nay," replied Dame Julian, "I know not that I ought to say; but, to a
reverend man like you, who have visited the shrine of St. James, there
can be no harm in speaking of these things, especially as we all know
that the whispers are false. Well, then--but you must tell nobody what
I say--the lady's own lover--husband, indeed, I might call him, for
they were betrothed by holy church--has been accused of having done
the deed; but every one who knows Sir Harry Dacre is right sure that
he would have sooner cut off both his hands; and, besides, the miller
of Clatford Mill told me--'twas but yesterday morning--that, half an
hour before sunset, on that very day when all this happened, he saw
Sir Harry at his own place, and opened the gate for him to go through.
He remembered it, he said, because the knight had torn his hand with a
nail in the gate, by trying to open it without dismounting; and as
soon as he was through, he rode on towards Wey Hill, which is quite
away from here."

"Might he not have come back again by some other road?" asked the
pilgrim.

"No," answered Dame Julian, "not without going four miles round; and,
besides, the miller told me that his man Job saw the knight, half an
hour after, at the top of Wey Hill, halting his horse, and gazing at
the sun setting. Now that's a good way off, and this deed was done
just after close of day."

"Then that clears him," replied the pilgrim; "but is there no one else
suspected?"

The good woman shook her head, and he added--"Was nobody seen about
here who might have had cause to wish the lady ill?"

"None," said Dame Julian, with a low laugh, "but one who might perhaps
wish her dead; for he got all her wealth, which was prodigious, they
say."

"Ay, was he seen about, then?" demanded the pilgrim; "there might be
suspicion there."

"Why," said the reeve's wife, "he was staying up at the Hall, and
passed homeward about three. It might be a little later, but not much.
What became of him afterwards I do not know; and yet, now I think of
it, he must have remained in the place some time, for he was seen an
hour after, or more, by a girl, who asked me who he was."

"Tis a wonder she did not know him," said the pilgrim, "if she lives
in this place."

"But that she does not," answered Dame Julian. "She dwells a good way
off, and was here by chance."

"Ay, 'tis a sad tale, indeed," rejoined her companion; "but I must go,
good dame. Gramercy for your bounty. But tell me,--I saw an abbey as I
came along; have they any famous relics there?"

"Ay, that they have," rejoined the reeve's wife, with a look of pride.
"Our abbey is as rich in relics as any other in England;" and she
began an enumeration of all the valuable things that it contained;
amongst which, the objects that she seemed to set the greatest store
by, was a finger of St. Luke the Evangelist, the veil of the blessed
Virgin, and one of the ribs of St. Ursula.

The pilgrim declared that he must positively go and visit them, as he
never passed any holy relics without sanctifying himself by their
touch.

He accordingly took his way towards the abbey direct, and visited and
prayed at the several shrines which the church contained, having
secured the company and guidance of one of the monks, who were always
extremely civil and kind to pilgrims and palmers, when they did not
come exactly in the guise of beggars. The present pilgrim was of a
very different quality; and he completely won the good graces and
admiration of the attendant monk, not so much, indeed, by the devotion
with which he told his beads and repeated his prayers, as by his
generosity in laying down a large piece of silver before the rib of
St. Ursula, another at the shrine of St. Luke, and a small piece of
gold opposite to the veil of the blessed Virgin.

Having thus prepared the way, the stranger proceeded to open a
conversation with the monk, somewhat similar to that which he had held
with Dame Julian, the reeve's wife; and now a torrent of information
flowed in upon him; for his companion had been one of the brethren who
accompanied the abbot to the cottage whither the body of Catherine
Beauchamp had been carried. The tale, however, though told with much
loquacity, furnished but few particulars beyond those which the
pilgrim had already gained; for the monk appeared a meek, good man,
who took everything as he found it, and deduced but little from
anything that he heard. All that he knew, indeed, he was ready to
tell; but he had neither readiness nor penetration sufficient to
gather much information, or to sift the corn from the chaff.

The pilgrim seemed somewhat disappointed, for he was certainly anxious
to hear more; and he was on the eve of leaving the church unsatisfied,
when he beheld another monk pacing the opposite aisle, with a grave,
and even dull air. He was an old man, with a short, thin, white beard,
and heavy features, which, till one examined closely, gave an
expression of stupidity to his whole countenance, only relieved by the
small, elephant-like eye, which sparkled brightly under its shaggy
eyebrow.

"What brother is that?" demanded the pilgrim, looking across the
church.

"Oh, that is brother Martin," replied the monk; "a dull and silent
man, from whom you will get nothing. He is skilled in drugs and
medicines, it is true. His cell is like an alchymist's shop; but we
all think he must have committed some great sin in days of old, for
half his time is spent in prayers and penances, and the other half in
distilling liquors, or roasting lumps of clay and other stuffs in
crucibles and furnaces. 'Tis rather hard, the lord abbot favours him
so much, and has granted him two cells, the best in the whole
monastery, to follow these vain studies, which, in my mind, come near
to magic and sorcery. I saw him once, with my own eyes, make a piece
of paper, cut in the shape of a man, dance upright, as if it had
life."

"I will speak to him," said the pilgrim, "and will soon let you know
if there be anything forbidden in his studies; for I have been in
lands full of witches and sorcerers, and have learnt to discover them
in an instant."

"'Tis a marvel if he answers you at all," replied the monk; "for he's
as silent as a frog; but, I pray you, let me hear what you think of
him."

"Ay, that I will," rejoined the stranger; "but you must keep away
while we talk together, lest the presence of another might close his
lips. I will seek you out afterwards, brother; I think your name is
Clement? so the porter told me."

"The same, the same," replied the monk. "I will go to the refectory."
But, before he went, he paused for a minute or two, and watched the
pilgrim crossing the nave, and addressing brother Martin. At first, he
seemed to receive no answer but a monosyllable. The next instant,
however, much to his surprise, Clement saw the silent brother turn
round, gaze intently upon the pilgrim's face, and then enter into an
eager conversation with him. What was the subject of which they spoke
he could not divine, or, rather, what was the secret by which the
pilgrim had contrived to break the charmed taciturnity of silent
brother Martin; and his curiosity was so much excited, that he thought
fit to cross over also, though with a slow and solemn step, in order
to benefit by this rare accident. The small, clear, grey eye of
brother Martin, however, caught Clement's movements in a moment, and
laying his hand upon the sleeve of the pilgrim's gown, he led him,
with a quick step, through a small side door that opened into the
cloister, and thence to his own cell, leaving the inquisitive monk,
who did not choose to discompose his dignity, or shake his fat sides
by rapid motion, behind them in the church.

What turn their communications took, and whether the pilgrim
discovered or not that brother Martin was addicted to the black art,
Clement never learned--for the faithless visitor of the abbey totally
forgot to fulfil his promise; and when, at the end of about two hours,
he took his departure, it was by the back door leading from the
cloister over the fields. The high road was at no great distance, and
along it he trudged with a much more light and active step than that
which had borne him into the village on his first appearance; so that,
had good Dame Julian, the reeve's wife, seen him as he went back, she
might have been inclined to think that brother Martin had employed
upon him some magical device, to change age into youth.

About half a mile from Andover, the pilgrim turned a little from the
road, and, sitting down in a neighbouring field, took out of his
wallet a large kerchief, and an ordinary hood,--then stripped off his
brown gown and hat, laying them deliberately in the kerchief, and next
divested himself of a quantity of white hair, which left him with a
shock head of a lightish brown hue, a short tabard of blue cloth, a
stout pair of riding boots, and a dagger at his girdle.

"So ends my pilgrimage!" said Ned Dyram, as he packed up his disguise
in the napkin; "and, by my faith, I have brought home my wallet well
stored. Out upon it!--am I to labour thus always for others? No, by my
faith! I will at least keep some of the crusts I have got for myself;
and if others want them they must pay for them. Let me see;--we will
divide them fairly. Dame Julian and brother Clement in one lot;
brother Martin in the other. That will do; and if aught be said about
it hereafter, I will speak the truth, and avow that, had I been paid,
I would have spoken. Alchemy is a great thing;--without its aid I
could never have transmuted brother Martin's leaden silence into such
golden loquacity. Why, I have taught the old man more in an hour than
he has learned in his life before; and he has given wheat for rye; so
that we are even."

With these sage reflections, Ned Dyram put his packet under his arm
and walked on to Andover--where, at a little hostelry by the side of
the river, he paused and called for his horse, which was soon brought.
A cup of ale sufficed him for refreshment, and after he had drained it
to the dregs, he trotted off upon the road to London, still meditating
over all that he had learned at Abbot's Ann and Dunbury Abbey, and
somewhat hesitating as to the course which he had to pursue.

It would afford little either of instruction or amusement, were I to
trace all the reflections of a cunning but wayward mind--for such was
that of Edward Dyram. Naturally possessed of considerable abilities,
quick in acquirements, retentive in memory, keen, observing,
dexterous, he might have risen to wealth, and perhaps distinction; for
his were not talents of that kind which led some of the best scholars
of that day to beg from door to door, with a certificate of their
profound science from the chancellors of their universities, but of a
much more serviceable and worthy kind. A certain degree of waywardness
of mind and inconstancy of disposition--often approaching that touch
of insanity, which affected, or was affected by, those wise men the
court fools of almost all epochs--and an unscrupulousness in matters
of principle, which left his conduct often in very doubtful balance
between honesty and knavery, had barred his advancement in all the
many walks he had tried. He had strong, and even ungovernable animal
impulses also, which had more than once led him into situations of
difficulty, and between which and his natural ambition, there was the
same struggle that frequently took place between his good sense and
his folly. He laboured hard, not perhaps to govern his passions, but
rather to keep their gratification within safe limits; and he felt a
sort of ill-will towards himself when they overcame him, which
generated a cynical bitterness towards others. That bitterness was
also increased by a consciousness of not having succeeded in any
course as much as the talents he knew himself to possess might have
ensured; but it must not be supposed for one moment that Ned Dyram
ever attributed the failure of his efforts for advancement to himself.
The injustice or folly of others, he thought, or the concurrence of
untoward circumstances, had alone kept him in an inferior situation.
Though the King, on his accession to the throne, had extended to him
greater favour than to any other of those who had participated in the
wild exploits of his youth, simply because Ned Dyram had never
prompted or led in any unjustifiable act, and had not withheld the
bitterness of his tongue even from the youthful follies of the Prince,
yet he felt a rankling disappointment at not having been promoted and
honoured, without ever suspecting that Henry might have seen in him
faults or failings that would have rendered him a more dangerous
servant to a sovereign than to a private individual. Yet such was the
case; for that great prince's eyes were clear-sighted and keen; and
though he had not troubled himself to study all the intricacies of the
man's character, he had perceived many qualities which he believed
might be amended by mingling with the world in an inferior station,
but which unfitted the possessor at the time for close attendance upon
a monarch.

Ned Dyram, however, though affecting that bluntness which is so often
mistaken for sincerity, was not without sufficient pliancy to conceal
his mortification, and to perform eagerly whatever task the King
imposed upon him. I do not say, indeed, that he proposed to perform it
well, unless it suited his own views and wishes. He did the monarch's
bidding with alacrity, because on that he thought his future fortune
might depend; but he did not make up his mind to ensure success by
diligence, activity, and zeal--satisfying himself by saying, that "the
result must ever depend upon circumstances;" and one of those
circumstances was always, in this case, Ned Dyram's own good will.

He had some hesitation, however, and some fear; for there was but one
man in England whose displeasure he dreaded, and that man was the
King. But yet I would not imply that it was his power he feared alone:
he feared offending the man rather than the monarch, for Henry had
acquired over him that influence which can be obtained only by a great
and superior mind over one less large and comprehensive. It was the
majesty of that great prince's intellect of which he stood in awe, not
the splendour of his throne; and perhaps he might have yielded to the
impression in the present instance, and done all that he ought to have
done, had he not perceived too clearly the feelings which prompted him
to do so; for as soon as he was conscious that dread of the King was
operating to drive him in a certain direction, the dogged perversity
of his nature rose up and dragged him to the contrary side. He called
himself "a cowed hound;" and, with all the obstinate vanity of a
wrong-headed man, he resolved to prove to himself that he had no fear,
by acting in direct opposition to the dread of which he was conscious.

As the best way of conquering all scruples, he treated them lightly
from that moment; quickened his horse's pace, stopped to sup and sleep
about fifteen miles from London, and presented himself at the gates of
the palace at an early hour next morning. There he was kept waiting
for some time, as the King was at council; but at length he was
admitted to the monarch's presence, and, in answer to questions, which
evidently showed that he had been sent into Hampshire to collect
information of a more definite character than had previously reached
Henry's ears, in regard to the death of Catherine Beauchamp, he gave
his sovereign at full all the tidings he had gained from Dame Julian,
the reeve's wife, from brother Clement, and from two or three other
persons, whom he had seen before he met with those I have mentioned.
Of brother Martin, however, he said not a word; and Henry mused for
several minutes without observation.

"Well," he said at length, "refresh yourself and your horse, Ned; and
then go back and join your new lord. Here is largess for your service,
though I am sorry you have been able to gain no more clear
intelligence;" and at the same moment he poured the contents of a
small leathern purse, which had been lying on the table, into his
hand.

The amount was far larger than Ned Dyram had expected;--for Henry was
one of the most open-handed men on earth--and he paused, looked from
the gold to the monarch, and seemed about to speak. At that moment,
however, the door of the room opened, and a young gentleman entered in
haste. By the stern and somewhat contracted, but high forehead--by the
quick, keen eye, and by the compressed lips, Ned Dyram instantly
recognised Prince John of Lancaster; and, at a sign from the King, he
bowed low and quitted the presence.

                             CHAPTER XVI.

                           THE NEW FRIENDS.

Ella Brune sat on a stool at the feet of Mary Markham, on the day
after Richard of Woodville's departure from London, and certainly a
more beautiful contrast was seldom seen than between the fair lady and
the minstrel girl, as the one told and the other listened to, the tale
of the old man's death, and all that had since occurred. The eyes of
both were full of tears, which did not run over, indeed, but hung
trembling on the eyelid, like drops of summer dew in the cup of a
flower; and Mary Markham, with the kind, familiar impulse of sympathy,
stretched forth her fair hand twice, and pressed that of her less
fortunate companion, as she told the tale of her sorrows, and her
sufferings. The poor girl's heart yearned towards her gentle friend,
as she remarked her sympathy for all she felt,--her grief at the death
of the poor old man, her pleasure at the conduct of Ella's generous
protector, her indignation at the persecution she had suffered from a
man whom she herself scorned and despised. But one thing is to be
remarked. The name of Sir Simeon of Roydon, Ella spoke plainly, and
repeated often, during her narrative; but that of Richard of
Woodville, from some latent feeling in her own heart, she shrunk from
pronouncing. It might be, that the meaning looks and smiles of the
people of the inn where she had visited him, made her believe that
others would entertain the suspicions or fancies which she imagined
that those looks implied. It might be that she doubted her own heart,
or that she knew there really were therein sensations which she
dreaded to acknowledge to herself, and still more to expose to the
eyes of others. Thus she gave him any other designation than his own
name. She called him "the noble gentleman who had befriended her,"
"her protector," "her benefactor,"--everything, in short, but Richard
of Woodville.

Mary Markham observed this reserve; and, as woman's heart, even in the
most simple and single-minded, is always learned in woman's secrets,
Mary judged, and judged rightly, that gratitude was growing up in
Ella's bosom into love. She could very well understand that it should
be so; she thought it natural--so natural, that it could scarce be
otherwise; and what she felt within herself would have made her very
lenient to passion in others, even had she been more harsh and severe
than she was. She took a deep interest in the poor girl and her whole
history, and not less in her grateful love than in any other part
thereof; so that she was anxious to learn who and what this unnamed
benefactor was, in order that she might judge whether there was the
least hope or chance of Ella's tenderness meeting due return.

"He was a generous and noble-hearted knight, indeed," she said; "more
like the ancient chivalry, my poor girl, than the heartless nobility
of the present day."

"He is not a knight," answered Ella, timidly; "but I am sure he soon
will be, for he well deserves his spurs."

"And he is young and handsome, of course, Ella?" said Mary Markham,
with a smile.

The minstrel girl coloured, but answered nothing; and Mary went on,
saying, "But you must tell me his name, Ella; I would fain know who is
this noble gentleman."

Thus plainly asked, Ella Brune could not refuse to answer; and,
bending down her bright eyes upon the ground, she said, "His name is
Richard of Woodville, lady."

She spoke in a tone so low, that the words might have been inaudible
to any other ear than that of Mary Markham. The well-known sound,
however, was instantly caught by her, producing emotions in her heart
such as she had never felt before. Her very breath seemed stopped; her
bosom fluttered, as if there had been a caged bird within; her cheek
turned very pale, and then flushed warm again with the blood spreading
in a brighter glow over her fair forehead and her blue-veined temples.
Hers was not indeed a jealous disposition; her nature was too generous
and frank to be suspicious or distrustful; but it is difficult for any
woman's ear to hear that he to whom her whole affections are given is
loved by another, and her heart not beat with emotions far from
pleasurable.

Yet Mary schooled herself for what she felt--for the slight touch of
doubt towards Woodville, and of anger towards Ella, which crossed her
bosom for a moment. "It is not his fault," she thought, "if the girl
loves him; nor hers either to love him for acts of generous kindness.
She is no more to blame for such feelings than myself; the same high
qualities that won my regard might well gain hers. He is too noble,
too--too true and faithful to trifle with her, or to forget me. Yet,
would this had not happened! It is strange, too, that he did not
mention all this to me!"

But then she remembered how every hour he had spent with her had
passed, how little time they had found to say all that two warm and
tender hearts could prompt; how often they had been interrupted in the
half-finished tale of love; how constantly it had been renewed
whenever they were alone; and then she thought it not extraordinary at
all that he had spoken of nothing else.

Such thoughts, however, kept her mute, with her eyes gazing on the
tapestry at the other side of the room; and she saw not that Ella,
surprised at her silence, had now raised her look, and was reading in
the countenance--with the skill which peril and misfortune soon
acquire in this hard world--all that was passing in the heart beneath.
The poor girl's face was very pale, for she had her emotions too; but
yet she was calmer than Mary Markham, for one of the chief sources of
agitation was wanting in her bosom. She was without hope. She might
love, but it was love with no expectation. The future, which to Mary's
eyes was like the garden of the Hesperides, all hanging with golden
fruit, was a desert to poor Ella Brune. She had no fear, because she
had no hope. She had no doubts, because she had no trust. She was
externally calm, for though there were painful sensations, there was
no internal contention. She, therefore, it was who spoke first.

"You know him, lady," she said, in a sweet, gentle, humble tone; "and
if you know him, you love him."

"I do know him," answered Mary Markham, with a trembling voice and
glowing cheek--"I have known him well for years."

She paused there; but the moment after, she thought, with that
generous confidence so often misplaced, but which was not so in this
instance, "It were better to tell her all, for her sake and for mine.
If she be good and virtuous, as I think, it cannot but lead to good to
let her know the whole truth."

"Ay, Ella," she continued aloud, "and you are right. I do love him,
and he loves me. We have plighted our faith to each other, and wait
but the consent of others to be more happy than we are."

A tear trembled in the eye of Ella Brune; but what were the thoughts
that flashed like lightning through her mind? "The lady loves him,
and she sees I love him too. Jealousy is a strange thing, and a sad
pang!--She may doubt him, even with such a friendless being as I am--I
will sweep that doubt away;" and with a resigned, but gentle smile,
looking in Mary's face, she said--"I was sure of it."

"Of what, Ella?" asked Mary Markham, with some surprise.

"That he loved some one, and was beloved again," replied the poor
girl; and she repeated "I was sure of it."

"What could make you sure?" asked the lady, gazing at her with a less
embarrassed look. "He did not tell you, did he?"

"Oh, no," answered Ella Brune. "All he told me was, that he was going
afar to Burgundy, and that as he could not give me any further
protection himself, he would send one of his men to inquire after me,
that he might hear I was safe, and as happy as fate would let me be,
but--" and she paused, as if she doubted whether to proceed or not.

"But what, Ella?" demanded Mary.

"Why, I was foolish, lady," said the girl; "and perhaps you may think
me wrong too, and bold. But when I heard that he was going to
Burgundy, I cried, 'Oh, that I were going with you!' And I told him
that I had kinsfolk both in Liege and in Peronne; and then I knew by
his look, and what he said, that there was some lady whom he loved,
and who loved him."

"How did that enlighten you?" inquired Mary Markham. "Did he refuse
you?--That were not courteous, I think."

"No, he did not actually refuse," answered Ella Brune, "but he said,
that it might hardly be; and I saw, he thought that his lady might be
jealous--might suspect--"

Mary Markham put her hand on Ella's, with a warm smile, and said, "I
will neither suspect him, nor be jealous of you, Ella--though perhaps
I might have been," she added; "yes, perhaps I might, if I had heard
you were with him, and I had not known why. Yet I should have been
very wrong. Out upon such doubts I say, if they can prevent a
true-hearted gentleman from doing an act of kindness to a poor girl in
her need, lest a jealous heart should suspect him. But I will write to
him, Ella: and yet it is now in vain; for he has left Westminster."

Ella gazed at her, smiling. "We know not our own hearts," she said;
"and, perhaps, dear lady, you might be jealous yet."

"No, no!" cried Mary, with one of her own joyous laughs again. "Never,
now. I am of a confiding nature, my poor girl; and I soon conquer
those bitter enemies of peace, called doubts."

Ella Brune gazed round the room. "If I had some instrument, I could
sing to you on that theme," she said.

"Nay, you can sing without, Ella," replied the lady. "I have none
here, alas!"

"Well, I will sing it, then," answered Ella Brune; "'tis an old ditty,
and a simple one;" and, leaning her hand on Mary Markham's knee, she
sang:--

                                SONG.

             "Trust! trust! sweet lady, trust!
                'Tis a shield of seven-fold steel.
              Cares and sorrows come they must;
                But sharper far is doubt to feel.
                  Trust! trust! sweet lady, trust!

             "If deceit must vex the heart--
                Who can pass through life without?--
              Better far to bear the smart
                Than to grind the soul with doubt.
                  Trust! trust! sweet lady, trust!

             "Trust the lover, trust the friend;
                Heed not what old rhymers tell.
              Trust to God: and in the end
                Doubt not all will still be well.
                  Trust! trust! sweet lady, trust!

             "Love's best guide, and friendship's stay--
                Trust, to innocence was given;
              'Tis doubt that paves the downward way,
                But trust unlocks the gates of heaven.
                  Trust! trust! sweet lady, trust!"

"And so I will, Ella," cried the lady; "so have I ever done, and will
do still; but methinks you have made the song to suit my ear."

"Nay, in truth, dear lady, it is an ancient one," replied Ella Brune;
but ere she could add more, old Sir Philip Beauchamp strode into the
room, with an air hurried, yet not dissatisfied.

"I have seen the King, Mary," he said; "and, on my life, he is a noble
youth--right kingly in his port and in his words. His brother John,
who won his spurs under my pennon when but a boy, soon got me speech
of him; and you are to go with me at once to his presence, pretty
maid. Nay, do not look downcast; he is no frightful tyrant, but a man
that lady's eyes may look upon well pleased; and 'tis needful for your
safety you should go."

"Must she go alone, dear knight?" asked Mary Markham, with kind
consideration for the girl's fears.

"Alone! no. I am to go with her, to be sure," answered Sir Philip.
"How, my fair Mary, you would fain go visit Henry, too! What would
Richard of Woodville say?"

"He would trust," answered Mary Markham, giving a gay look to Ella.
"However, I seek not to go, noble sir; but it would be better for this
poor girl to have my maid, Maude, with her--for decency's sake," she
continued, in a laughing tone; "you old knights are sometimes too
light and gallant; and I must protect her from your courteous speeches
by the way. Come with me, Ella. I have a cloak in my chamber that will
suit well with your hood, and cover you all, so that nothing will be
seen but the edge of your wimple. Then will you and Sir Philip escape
scandal, if you both walk softly, and look demure, while Maude trips
along beside you."

Though Mary Markham said no word of the minstrel girl's attire, and
did not even glance her eye to the gold fringe upon her gown, yet Ella
understood, and was thankful for, her kind care, and mentally promised
herself, that, before that day was but, she would provide herself with
plainer weeds. In less than five minutes she and the maid were ready
to depart; and, accompanied by Sir Philip, they soon crossed the open
ground before the Abbey and the Sanctuary, and entered the gates of
the palace yard. At the private door of the royal residence they
received immediate admission; for a page was waiting Sir Philip's
return; but he led them, not to the small chamber where Henry had
received Ned Dyram in the morning, and Sir Philip shortly after.
Following, on the contrary, the larger staircase, the boy conducted
the little party to a hall, then used as an audience chamber; and when
they entered they at once perceived the King at the farther end,
surrounded by a gay and glittering throng, and listening, apparently
with deep attention, to an old man, dressed as a prelate of the
Church, who, with slow and measured accents, was delivering what
seemed a somewhat long oration. Whatever was the subject on which he
spoke, it seemed to be one of much interest; for, ever and anon, the
King bowed his head with a grave, approving motion, and a murmur of
satisfaction rose from those around.

Slowly and quietly the old knight and his companions drew near, and
then found that the good Bishop was arguing the King's title, not
alone to the Duchies of Normandy, Aquitaine, and Anjou, which
undoubtedly belonged of right to the English Crown, but also to the
whole of France, which as certainly belonged to another. Sir Philip
Beauchamp marked well the monarch's countenance as he listened, and
perceived that, when the subject was the recovery of those territories
which had descended to the race of Plantagenet from William the
Conqueror, Fulke of Anjou, and Eleanor of Aquitaine, one of those
grave inclinations of the head which marked his approbation followed;
but that, when the claim of all France was considered, Henry paused,
and seemed to meditate more on thoughts suggested by his own mind than
on the mere words that struck his ear. The surrounding nobles,
however, applauded all; and bright and beaming eyes were turned upon
the prelate when he concluded his oration with the words--strange
ones, indeed, in the mouth of a Christian bishop: "Wherefore, Oh my
Lord, the King! advance your banner, fight for your right, conquer
your inheritance; spare not sword, blood, or fire; for your war is
just, your cause is good, your claim is true!"[3]

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

[Footnote 3: The recorded words of Henry Chicheley, Archbishop of
Canterbury.]

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

"Many thanks, my good lord," replied the King; "we will with our
council consider duly what you have advanced; and we beseech you to
pray God on our behalf, that we be advised wisely. Pity it were,
indeed, to shed Christian blood without due cause; and, therefore, we
shall first fairly and courteously require of our cousin the
restitution of those territories undeniably appertaining to our crown;
with the which we may content ourselves, if granted frankly; but if
they be refused, a greater claim may perchance grow out of the denial
of the smaller one; and, at all events, we shall know how, with the
sword, to do ourselves right when driven to draw it. We will then
beseech farther communion with you on these weighty matters, and, for
the present, thank you much."

The Bishop retired from the spot immediately facing the King; and
Henry's eye lighting on Sir Philip Beauchamp, he bowed his head to
him, saying, "Advance, my noble friend. Ha! you have brought the girl
with you, as I said;" and his look fixed upon the countenance of poor
Ella Brune, with a calm and scrutinizing gaze, not altogether free
from wonder and admiration, to see such delicate beauty in one of her
degree, but without a touch of that coarse and gloating expression
which had offended her in the stare of Sir Simeon Roydon.

"Is the knight I sent for, here?" demanded the King, turning towards
the page.

"Not yet, Sire," answered the boy.

"Well, then," said Henry, "though it is but fair that a man accused
should hear the charge against him, we must proceed; and you lords
will witness what this young woman says, that it may be repeated to
him hereafter. Now, maiden, what is this which the worthy knight, Sir
Philip Beauchamp, has reported concerning you and Sir Simeon of
Roydon?"

To say that Ella Brune was not somewhat abashed would be false; for
she did feel that she was in the presence of the most powerful King,
and the most chivalrous court in Europe; she did feel that all eyes
were turned upon her, every ear bent to catch her words. But there
were truth and innocence at her heart, the strongest of all supports.
There was the sense of having been wronged also; and, perhaps, some
feeling of scorn rather than shame was roused by the light smiles and
busy whisper that ran round the lordly circle before which she stood;
for there is nothing so contemptible in the eyes, even of the humble,
if they be wise and firm of heart, as the light and causeless, but
oppressive sneer of pride--whether that pride be based in station,
fortune, courtliness, or aught else on earth; for the true nobility of
mind, which sometimes impresses even pride with a faint mark of its
own dignity, never treads upon the humble.

Henry, however, heard the buzz, and felt offended at the light looks
he saw. "My lords!" he said, in a tone of surprise and displeasure; "I
beseech you, my good uncle of Exeter, warn those gentlemen of that
which the King would not speak harshly. This is no jesting matter.
Wrong has been done--I may say almost in our presence, so near has it
been to our palace gates; and, by the Queen of Heaven, such things
shall not escape punishment, while I wear the crown or bear the sword.
When I am powerless to defend the meanest of my subjects, may death
give my sceptre to more mighty hands; when I am unwilling to do
justice to any in the land, may my enemies take from me the power I
have borne unworthily. Go on with your tale, maiden."

Ella Brune obeyed the King's order, with a voice that faltered at
first, but the rich sweet tone of which soon called the attention of
all to what she said; and, taking up her story from the beginning, she
related the death of her old companion, the interview which she had
first had with Sir Simeon of Roydon, and the violent manner in which
she had been carried off, as she was returning to the hostelry where
she lodged. As she spoke she gained confidence; and though, ere she
had proceeded far, the base knight himself entered the presence, and
placed himself exactly opposite to her, glaring at her with fierce and
menacing eyes, her tongue faltered no more; and she went on to speak
of her second interview with him, telling how she had forced back the
lock of the door with her dagger--how the servants of the knight had
not ventured to seize her, under the belief that the weapon was
poisoned--and how she had dropped from the great window at the end of
the corridor into the lane below.

As soon as she had done, Roydon stepped forward, as if to reply; but
old Sir Philip Beauchamp, who stood by Ella's side to give her
support, waved his hand, saying, "Silence, boy! till all be said
against you--then speak if you list. As far as the carrying off of
this poor little maid is concerned, a good woman of the neighbourhood
saw the deed done, and can bear witness respecting it, if farther
testimony is required. I saw the manner of her escape as she has told
it, and knocked down one of this knight's knaves just as he clutched
her. So far her story is confirmed. What passed between him and her in
private, they only know; but I would take her word against his in any
town; for I know him to be a wondrous liar."

A laugh ran round the royal circle; and Sir Simeon of Roydon put his
hand to his dagger; but the King turned towards him, saying, "Now,
sir, have you aught to answer?--Is this story true or false?"

"Somewhat mixed, Sire;" answered Simeon of Roydon, with a sneer upon
his lip. "The young woman is rather fanciful. I will own, that because
she has a pretty face, as you may see, and bright eyes, and a small
foot, and rounded ankle, she pleased my fancy; and, although of
somewhat low degree for such an honour, I thought to make her my
paramour for a time, as many another man might do. Minstrel girls and
tomblesteres are not generally famed for chastity; and, by my faith! I
thought I showed her favour when I told my servants to find her out
and bring her to my lodging. If they used any violence, 'twas not my
fault, for I bade them treat her gently; and, as to her confinement at
my house, that is pure fancy--she might have gone whenever she chose."

"'Tis strange, then," said the King, with a scornful smile, "that she
should take such means of going. People do not usually leap out of a
window, when they can walk through a door."

"What made you bellow after her, like a wild bull?" demanded Sir
Philip Beauchamp, turning to the culprit: "I heard you with my ears,
and so did many more, shout to your knaves to follow her, lest she
should to the King. I know your voice right well, sir knight, and will
vouch for its sweet sounds."

"Doting fool!" murmured Simeon of Roydon.

"Doting!" cried the old knight; "take care you don't feel my gauntlet
in your face, lest I send you home as toothless as I sent your
serviceable man. You will find that there is strength enough left to
crush such a worm as you."

"Silence, Sir Philip!" said the King. "Sir Simeon of Roydon, according
to your own account, you have committed an offence for which, if it
had been done within the gates of our good city of London, the sober
citizens would, methinks, have set you on a horse's back, with your
face to the tail, and marched you in no pleasant procession. But, I
must add, I do not believe your account; it seems to me to bear no
character of truth about it. Yet, that you may not stand upon my
judgment alone, if there be one of these good lords here present, who
will say they do, upon their honour, believe that this poor maiden
speaks falsely, and you tell the simple truth, you shall go free. What
say you, lords--is the girl true, or he?"

"The girl!--the girl!" cried all the voices round.

"However men may love leaping," said John of Lancaster, "they seek not
to break their necks by springing from a window, when they can help
it."

"Well, then," continued Henry, "you must carry your amorous violence
to other lands, Sir Simeon of Roydon. You have committed a
discourteous and unknightly act, and must give us time to forget it.
We will not touch you in person or in purse, in goods or lands; but we
banish you for two years from the realm of England. Bestow yourself
where you will, but be not found within these shores after one month
from this day, which space we give you to prepare. Is this a just
award, my lords?"

The gentlemen round bowed their heads; and Henry, turning to the good
old knight, added, with a gracious smile, "I thank you much, Sir
Philip Beauchamp, for bringing this matter to my knowledge. These are
deeds that I am resolved to check, with all the power that God
entrusts to me."

"Heaven bless your Grace, and ever send us such a King!" replied the
old knight; and, taking Ella by the hand, with a lowly reverence to
the monarch, he led her from the hall.

Henry, it would seem, dismissed his court at once; for before the
minstrel girl and her companion had reached the bottom of the stairs,
they were surrounded by several of the younger nobles, who were all
somewhat eager to say soft and flattering things to the fair object of
the day's interest, notwithstanding some rough reproof from good Sir
Philip Beauchamp. But as he and his young charge were passing out with
Mary Markham's maiden, a low deep voice whispered in Ella's ear, "I
swear, by Christ's sepulchre, I will have revenge!"--and the next
moment Sir Simeon of Roydon passed them, mounted his horse in the
palace-yard, and rode furiously away.

                            CHAPTER XVII.

                           THE PREPARATION.

It was late in the evening of the same day of which we have just been
speaking, when Ella Brune returned to her hostelry. She had gone back
to thank fair Mary Markham for her kindness, intending only to stay
for a few moments; but her new friend detained her till the sun was
near his setting, and then only let her depart under the escort of
Hugh of Clatford and another yeoman, after extracting a promise from
her that she would return on the following morning, after the sad
ceremony of her grandsire's funeral was over. And now Ella sat in her
lonely little chamber, with the tears filling her bright eyes, which
seemed fixed upon a spot of sunshine on the opposite wall of the
court, but, in reality, saw nothing, or, at least, conveyed no
impression to the mind. Why was it Ella wept? To say truth, Ella
herself could not, or would not tell. It was, perhaps, the crowding
upon her of many sad sensations, the torrent swelled by many smaller
rills, which caused those tears; and yet there was one predominant
feeling--one that she wished not to acknowledge even to her own heart.
What can I call it? How shall I explain it? It was not disappointment;
for, as I have said before, she did not, she had never hoped. No, the
best term for it is, love without hope; and oh! what a bitter thing
that is!

During the whole of that morning she had had no time to dwell upon it;
she had been occupied while she remained with Mary Markham in
struggling against her own sensations--not examining them. But now she
paused and pondered: in solitude and in silence, she gave way to
bitter thought; but it was not with the weak and wavering irresolution
of a feeble mind. On the contrary, though the anguish would have its
tear, she regarded her present fate and future conduct with the firm
and energetic purposes of a heart inured to suffer and to decide. Her
mind rested upon Richard of Woodville, upon his kindness, his
generosity, his chivalrous protection of her who had never met with
such protection before; and the first strong determination of her mind
expressed itself, in the words she murmured to herself, "I will repay
it!"

Then, again, she asked herself, "Why should I feel shame, or fear, or
hesitation now, at the thought of following him through the world--of
watching for the hour, for the moment, when God may grant me the grace
to serve him? He loves another, and is loved by another! He can never
be anything to me, but the friend who stood forward to help me in the
hour of need. What has sex, or station, to do with it? Why should I
care more than if I were a man? and how often do the meanest, by
watchful love, find an opportunity to deliver or to support the
highest and the mightiest! Why should I think of what men may say or
believe? True in my own heart, and conscious of my truth, I may well
laugh at suspicion, which follows such as I am, whatever course they
take. How often have I been thought a ribald and a losel, when I have
guarded my words, and looks, and actions, most carefully! and now I
will dare to do boldly what my heart tells me, knowing that it is
right. Yet, poor thing," she added, after a moment, "thou art beggar
enough, I fear! thou must husband thy little store well. Let me see; I
will count my treasure. There are the fifty half nobles sent me by the
King, and those my dear protector gave me. Now for the little store of
the poor old man;" and, drawing a key from her bosom, she crossed the
room to where, upon a window-seat, there stood a small oaken coffer,
containing her apparel and that of the poor old minstrel. After
opening the box, and taking out one or two instruments of music which
lay at the top, she thrust her hand further down, and brought forth a
small leathern pouch, fastened by a thong bound round it several
times. It cost her some trouble to unloose it; but at length she
spread out the mouth, and poured the contents upon the top of the
clothes in the coffer. She had expected to see nothing but silver and
copper; but amongst the rest were several pieces of gold; and besides
these, was a piece of parchment, tied up, with some writing upon it,
and a gold ring, set with a large precious stone. The former she
examined closely, and read the words with some difficulty; for they
were written by no very practised hand, in rough and scattered
characters. She made it out at length, however, to be merely "My
Ella's dowry;" and a tear fell upon it as she read. She thought that
the handwriting was her father's.

She then looked at the ring, and saw by its lustre that it must be of
some value; but a strip of leather which was sewn round the gold
caught her eye, and she found it, too, traced with some rude
characters. They only expressed a date, however, which was 21 July,
1403, and what it meant she knew not. Opening the parchment packet,
she then proceeded to examine of what her little dowry consisted; and,
to her surprise and joy, she found forty broad pieces of gold. "Nay,"
she exclaimed, "this is, indeed, wealth; why, I am endowed like a
knight's daughter." And well might she say so; for when we remember
the difference between the value of gold in that day and at present,
the amount she now possessed,--what with the sum she had just found,
and the penalty imposed by the King on Simeon of Roydon,--was equal to
some six or seven hundred pounds.

"I shall have enough to follow him for ten years," said Ella Brune,
gazing on the gold, "without being a charge to any one; and then there
may still remain sufficient to gain me admission to a nunnery. But I
will lay it by carefully:" and placing all the gold she had, except
the few pieces that had been loose in the pouch, into the parchment
which had contained her dowry, she tied it up again carefully, and
restored it to its place.

"Yet I will be avaricious," she said. "I will disencumber myself of
everything I do not want, and change it into coin.--Shall I sell this
ring? No; it may mean something I do not know. 'Tis easily carried,
and might create suspicion if I disposed of it here. Perhaps my cousin
at Peronne can tell me more about it. How shall I sell the other
things? Nay, I will ask the hostess to do it for me. She will think of
her own payment, and will do it well!"

After carefully putting back the ring and the money, she opened the
door of the room, and called down the stairs, "Hostess, hostess!
Mistress Trenchard!"

"Coming, coming, little maid," said the good dame, from below. "Do not
be in haste; I am with you in a minute;" and, after keeping Ella
waiting for a short time, more to make herself of importance than
because she had anything else to do, she came panting up the stairs,
closed the door, and seated herself on the side of the low bed.

"Well, my poor Ella," she said, "what want you with me? Yours is a sad
case, indeed, poor thing. My husband and I both said, when you and
poor old Murdock Brune went away to foreign lands, leaving your own
good country behind you, that harm would come of it."

"And yet he died in England," replied Ella, with a sigh; "but what you
say is very true, hostess; no good has come of it; and we returned
poorer than we went--I have wherewithal to pay my score," she added,
seeing a slight cloud come over good Mistress Trenchard's face; "but
yet I shall want more for my necessity; and I would fain ask you a
great favour."

"What is that?" asked the hostess, somewhat drily.

"It is simply, that you would sell for me a good many of these things
that I do not want," answered Ella. "Here are several instruments of
music, which I know cost much, and must produce something."

"Oh, that I will, right willingly!" replied the hostess; "and 'tis but
right and fitting that you should trust such matters to one who is
accustomed to buy and sell, than to do it yourself, who know nothing
of trade, God wot. I will have them to Westcheape, where there are
plenty of fripperies; or carry them to the Lombards, who, perhaps,
know more about such matters."

"I should think that the Lombards would purchase them best," answered
Ella; "for one of these instruments, the viol, was purchased out of
Italy, when my grandfather was chief minstrel to the great Earl of
Northumberland."

"Ay, I remember the time well," said Mistress Trenchard. "Murdock
Brune was a great man in those days, and rode upon a grey horse, fit
for a knight. He used to pinch my cheek, and call me pretty Dolly
Trenchard, till my husband was somewhat crusty;--and so the viol is
valuable, you think?"

"Yes, and the ribible, too," answered Ella Brune; "for they were cut
by a great maker in Italy, and such are not to be found in England."

"I will take care, I will take care," rejoined the hostess. "Gather
them all together, and I will send up Tom, the drawer, for them,
presently. To-morrow I will take them to the Lombards; for it is
somewhat late this evening."

"Nay, but I have other favours to ask of you, dame," said Ella Brune.
"To-morrow they bury the poor old man, and I must have a black gown of
serge, and a white wimple; and I would fain that you went with me to
the burial, if you could steal away for an hour; for it will be a sad
day for me."

"That will I do, poor maiden," replied the hostess, readily; not alone
because she took a sincere interest in her fair guest, but because in
those days, as in almost all others, people of inferior minds found a
strange pleasure in bearing part in any impressive ceremony, however
melancholy. As so much of her spare time was likely to be occupied on
the morrow, she agreed to run up to Cheape that very night, before the
watch was set, and to purchase for Ella Brune the mourning garments
which she required. The latter commission she performed fully to the
poor girl's satisfaction, returning with a loose gown of fine black
serge, ready made, and a wimple and hood of clear lawn, little
differing from that of a nun.

Ella gazed on the dress with some emotion, murmuring to
herself,--"Ay, the cloister; it must end there, at last!--Well, prayer
and peace!--'tis the calmest fate, after all."

But the sale of the instruments of music, and several other small
articles, was not executed quite as well. Men were rogues in those
times, as at present, though, perhaps, in the improvement of all
things, roguery has not been neglected, and the good Lombards took
care not to give more than half the value of the goods they purchased.
Neither Ella nor good Mistress Trenchard herself knew any better,
however; so that the latter thought she had made a very good bargain,
and the former was content. Her store was by this means considerably
increased; and, a short time before the appointed hour, Ella, with the
hostess, set out towards the hospital of St. James, for the sad task
that was to be performed that day.

I will not pause upon the hours that followed. Dark and sorrowful such
hours must ever be; for the dim eyes of mortality see the lamp of
faith but faintly, and there is nought else to light our gaze through
the obscure vault of death to the bright world of re-union. Put the
holy promises to our heart as eagerly, as fondly as we will, how
difficult is it to obtain a warm and living image of life beyond this
life! How the clay clings to the clay! How the spirit cleaveth to the
dust with which it hath borne companionship so long! Strange, too, to
say, that we can better realize in our own case the idea of renewed
existence, than in the case of those we love. It is comparatively easy
to fancy that we who have lived to-day, shall live to-morrow;--that
we, who lie down to rest ourselves in sleep and to rise refreshed,
shall sleep in death, and wake again renewed. There is in every man's
own heart a sentiment of his immortality, which nothing can blot out,
but the vain pride of human intellect--the bitterest ashes of the
forbidden fruit. But when we see the dearly loved, the bright, the
beautiful, the wise, the good, fall, like a withered leaf, into the
dark corruption of the tomb--the light go out like an extinguished
lamp--and all that is left, all that has been familiar to our living
senses, drop into dust and mingle with its earth again, the Saduceean
demon seizes on us; and it requires a mighty struggle of the spirit,
prayer, patience, resignation, hope, and faith, to win our belief from
the dark actuality before us, and fix it on the distant splendour of a
promised world to come.

They were sad hours for poor Ella Brune; and when they were over, the
chambers of the heart felt too dark and lonely for her to admit any
thoughts but those of the dead. She sent, therefore, to Mary Markham,
to tell her that she was too wobegone to come that day; and, returning
to her little chamber at the inn, she sat down to weep, and pass the
evening with her memories.

On the following morning early, she once more set out for Westminster,
and passed quietly along the road till she reached Charing; but near
the hermitage and chapel of St. Catherine, just opposite the cross,
she perceived a man standing gazing up the Strand, with the serpent
embroidered on the black ground, which distinguished the followers of
Sir Simeon of Roydon. Her fears might have betrayed her; for she
forgot for a moment the complete change of her dress, and fancied that
she must be instantly recognised; but the instant after, recovering
her presence of mind, she drew the hood far over her face, and passed
the man boldly, without his even turning to look at her. She then made
her way on towards Tote-hill, and soon came to the gates of the house
in which Sir Philip Beauchamp had taken up his temporary abode.

Few but the higher nobility, or persons immediately attached to the
Court, indulged in those days in the luxury of a dwelling in London or
the neighbouring city; and when business or pleasure called inferior
personages to the capital, they either took up their dwelling at a
hostel, or found lodging in the mansions of some of the great families
to whom they were attached by friendship or relationship. Nor was such
hospitality ever refused, so long as the house could contain more
guests; for each man's consequence, and sometimes his safety, depended
upon the number of those whom he entertained; and even when the lord
was absent from his own dwelling, the doors were always open to those
who were known to be connected with him. Thus Sir Philip Beauchamp had
found ready lodging in the house of one of the numerous family of that
name, the head of which was then the Earl of Warwick, though, ere many
years had passed, an only daughter bore that glorious title into the
house of Neville.

When Ella reached the mansion, the porter, distinguished by the
cognizance of the bear, was standing before the gates, talking with a
young man, who seemed to have just dismounted from a tired horse, and
held the bridle-rein cast over his arm.

In answer to Ella's inquiry for the Lady Mary Markham, the old servant
laughed, saying, "Here is another!--if it goes on thus all day, there
will be nothing else but the opening of gates for a pretty lady who is
not here. She departed last night with Sir Philip, fair maid. They
went in great haste, good sooth I know not why; for 'twas but two
hours before, the sturdy old knight told me he should stay three days;
but they had letters by a messenger from the country, so perchance his
daughter is ill."

"The blessed Virgin give her deliverance!" said Ella, turning away
with a disappointed look; and, bending her steps back towards the city
of London, she walked slowly on along the dusty road, absorbed in no
very cheerful thoughts, and marking little of what passed around her.
But few people were yet abroad between the two towns--the Strand was
almost solitary; and she had nearly reached the wall of the garden of
Durham House, which ran along to the Temple, when she heard a voice
behind her exclaim, in a sharp tone, "Why do you follow her, master
knave?"

"What is that to you, blue tabard!" replied another tongue.

"I will let you know right soon, if you do not desist," answered the
first.

"Whom do you serve?" asked the second.

"The King!" was the reply; "so away with you."

Ella looked round, and beheld the man whom she had found speaking with
the porter a moment before, bending his brows sternly upon the servant
of Sir Simeon Roydon, whom she had seen watching near the hermitage of
St. Catherine, as she passed up the Strand. The latter, however,
seemed to be animated by no very pugnacious spirit, for he merely
replied, "Methinks one man has a right to walk the high road to London
as well as another."

But he did not proceed to enforce this right by following the course
he had been pursuing; and, crossing over from the south to the north
side of the way, he was soon lost amongst the low shops and small
houses which there occupied the middle of the road.

"I will ride along beside you, fair maiden," said Ned Dyram, for he it
was who had come up, "though I should not wonder, from what the porter
told me just now, if you were the person I am looking for."

He spoke civilly and gravely; and Ella replied, with a bright smile,
"Ha! perhaps it is so; for he said he would send. Whom do you come
from?"

"I come from Richard of Woodville," answered the man; "and I am sent
to a maiden named Ella Brune, living not far up the new street
somewhat beyond the Old Temple, in an hostelry called the Falcon."

"'Tis I--'tis I!" cried Ella. "Oh! I am glad to see you."

Her bright eyes lighted up, and her fair face glowed with an
expression of joy and satisfaction, which added in no small degree to
its loveliness; for, though we hear much of beauty in distress being
heightened by tears, yet there is an inherent harmony between man's
heart and joy, which makes the expression thereof always more pleasant
to the eye than that of any other emotion.

Ned Dyram gazed at her with admiration, but withdrew his eyes the
moment after, and resumed a more sober look. "I will give you all his
messages by and by," he said, "for I shall lodge at the Falcon
to-night, and have much to say. But yet I may as well tell you a part
as we go along," he continued, dismounting from his horse, and taking
the bridle on his arm. "First, fair maiden, I was to ask how you
fared, and what you intended to do?"

"I have fared ill and well," answered Ella Brune; "but that is a long
story, and I will relate it to you afterwards; for that I can talk of,
though the people of the house should be present; but what I am to do
is a deeper question, and I know not well how to answer it. I have
friends at the court of Burgundy--"

"What, then, are you of noble race, lady?" asked Ned Dyram, in an
altered tone.

"Oh, no!" replied Ella Brune, with a faint smile. "The cousin of whom
I speak is but a goldsmith to the Count of Charolois; but, 'tis a long
journey for a woman to take alone, through foreign lands, and amongst
a people somewhat unruly."

"Why not come with us?" inquired Ned Dyram; "we sail from Dover in
three days, and our company will be your protection. Did not Childe
Richard tell you he was going?"

"Yes," answered Ella Brune, casting down her eyes, "but he did not
seem to like the thought of having a woman in his company."

"Faith! that is courteous of the good youth," cried Ned Dyram, with a
low sharp laugh. "He may win his spurs, but will not merit them, if he
refuses protection to a lady."

"That, I am sure, he would not do," replied Ella, gravely. "He has
given me the noblest protection at my need; but he may not think it
right."

"No, no; you have mistaken him," said Ned Dyram. "He is courteous and
kind, without a doubt. He might think it better for yourself to go to
York, as he bade me tell you, and to see your friends there, and to
claim your rights; but if you judge fit to turn your steps to Burgundy
instead, depend upon it he will freely give you aid and comfort on the
way. If he did doubt," added the man, "'twas but that he thought his
lady-love might be jealous, if she heard that he had so fair a maiden
in his company--for you know he is a lover!"--and he fixed his eyes
inquiringly on Ella's face.

"I know he is," she answered, calmly, and without a change of feature.
"I know the lady, too; but she is not unwilling that I should go; and
I dread much to show myself in York."

"Why so?" demanded Ned Dyram. But Ella Brune was not sufficiently won
by his countenance or manner to grant him the same confidence that she
had reposed in Richard of Woodville; and she replied, "For many
reasons; but the first and strongest is, that there are persons there
who have seized on that which should be mine. They are powerful; I am
weak; and 'tis likely, as in such case often happens, that they would
be willing to add wrong to wrong."

"Not only often, but always," replied Ned Dyram; "therefore I say,
fair maiden, you had better come with us. Here's one arm will strike a
stroke for you, should need be; and there are plenty more amongst us
who will do the like."

Ella answered him with a bright smile; but at that moment they were
turning up the lane opposite the gate of the Temple, and she paused in
her reply, willing to think farther and see more of her companion
before she decided.

"Stay, fair maiden!" continued Ned Dyram, who well knew where the
hostelry of the Falcon was situate--"It may be as well to keep our
counsel, whatever it be, from host and hostess. Gossip is a part of
their trade; and it is wise to avoid giving them occasion. I will give
you, when we are within, a letter from my young lord, and read it to
you, too, as perchance you cannot do that yourself; but it will let
the people see that I am not without authority to hold converse with
you, which may be needful."

"Nay," answered Ella, "I can read it myself; for I have not been
without such training."

"Ay, I forgot," rejoined Ned Dyram, with one of his light sneers;
"had you been a princess, you would not have been able to read. Such
clerk-craft is only fit for citizens and monks. I wonder how Childe
Richard learned to read and write. I fear it will spoil him for a
soldier."

The satire was not altogether just; for, though it did not
unfrequently happen that high nobles and celebrated warriors and
statesmen were as illiterate as the merest boors, and in some
instances (especially after the wars of the Roses had deluged the land
with blood, and interrupted all the peaceful arts of life) the barons
affected to treat with sovereign contempt the cultivation of the mind,
yet such was not by any means so generally the case, as the pride of
modern civilization has been eager to show. We have proofs
incontestable, that, in the reigns of Richard II., Henry IV., and
Henry V., men were by no means so generally ignorant as has been
supposed. The House of Lancaster was proud of its patronage of
literature; and, though more than one valiant nobleman could not sign
his own name, or could do so with difficulty, there is much reason to
believe that the exceptions have been pointed out as the rule; for we
know that many a citizen of London could not only maintain, without
the aid of another hand, long and intricate correspondence with
foreign merchants, but also took delight in the reading during
winter's nights of Chaucer and Gower, if not in studying secretly the
writings of Wickliffe and his disciples.

Ella Brune replied not, but walked on into the house, calling the good
hostess, who, in that day as in others, often supplied the place of
both master and mistress in a house of public entertainment. Ned Dyram
followed her with his eyes into the house, scrutinizing with keen and
wondering glance the beauties of form which even the long loose robe
of serge could not fully conceal. He marvelled at the grace he beheld,
even more rare at that day amongst the sons and daughters of toil than
at present; and, although the pride of rank and station could not, in
his case, suggest the bold disregard of all law and decency in seeking
the gratification of passion, his feelings towards Ella Brune were not
very far different from those of Sir Simeon of Roydon. He might have
more respect for the opinion of the world, by which he hoped to rise;
he might even have more respect for, and more belief in, virtue, for
he was a wiser man; he might seek to obtain his ends by other means;
he was even not incapable of love,--strong, passionate, overpowering
love; but the moving power was the same. It was all animal; for,
strange to say, though his intellect was far superior to that of most
men of his day; though he had far more mind than was needful, or even
advantageous, in his commerce with the world of that age, his impulses
were all animal towards others. That which he cared for little in
himself, he admired, he almost worshipped, in woman. It was beauty of
form and feature only that attracted him. Mind he cared not for--he
thought not of; nay, up to that moment, he perhaps either doubted
whether it existed in the other sex, or thought it a disadvantage if
it did. Even more, the heart itself he valued little; or, rather, that
strange and complex tissue of emotions, springing from what source we
know not, entwined with our mortal nature--by what delicate threads
who can say?--which we are accustomed to ascribe to the heart, he
regarded but as an almost worthless adjunct. His was the eager
love--forgive me, if I profane what should be a holy name, rather than
use a coarser term--of the wild beast; the appetite of the tiger, only
tempered by the shrewdness of the fox. I mean not to say it always
remained so; for, under the power of passion and circumstances, the
human heart is tutored as a child. Neither would I say that aught like
love had yet touched his bosom for Ella Brune. I speak but of his
ordinary feeling towards woman; but feelings of that sort are sooner
roused than those of a higher nature. He saw that she was very
beautiful--more beautiful, he thought, than any woman of his own
station that ever he had beheld; and that was enough to make him
determine upon counteracting his master's wishes and counsel, and
persuading Ella to turn her steps in the same course in which his
own were directed. He knew not how willing she was to be persuaded;
he knew not that she was at heart already resolved: but he
managed skilfully, he watched shrewdly, through the whole of his
after-communications with her during the day. He discovered much--he
discovered all, indeed, but one deep secret, which might have been
penetrated by a woman's eyes, but which was hid from his, with all
their keenness--the motive, the feeling, that led her so strongly in
the very path he wished. He saw, indeed, that she was so inclined; he
saw that there was a voice always seconding him in her heart, and he
took especial care to furnish that voice with arguments which seemed
irresistible. He contrived, too, to win upon her much; for there was
in his conversation that mingling of frankness and flattering
courtesy, of apparent carelessness of pleasing, with all the arts of
giving pleasure, and that range of desultory knowledge and tone of
superior mind, with apparent simplicity of manner, and contempt for
assumption, which of all things are the most calculated to dazzle and
impress for a time. 'Tis the lighter qualities that catch, the deeper
ones that bind; and though, had there been a comparison drawn between
him, who was her companion for a great part of that evening, and
Richard of Woodville, Ella Brune would have laughed in scorn; yet she
listened, well pleased, to the varied conversation with which he
whiled away the hours, when she could wean her thoughts from dearer,
though more painful themes; yielded to his arguments when they
seconded the purposes of her own heart, and readily accepted his
offered service to aid her in executing the plan she adopted.

                            CHAPTER XVIII.

                     THE JOURNEY AND THE VOYAGE.

The sun rose behind some light grey clouds, and the blue sky was
veiled; but the birds made the welkin ring from amongst the young
leaves of the April trees, and told of the coming brightness of the
day. Why, or wherefore, let men of science say; but one thing is
certain, the seasons at that time were different from those at
present; they were earlier; they were more distinct; spring was
spring, and summer was summer; and winter, content with holding his
own right stiffly, did not attempt to invade the rights of his
brethren. Far in the north of England we had vines growing and bearing
fruit in the open air. At Hexham there was a vineyard; and wine was
made in more than one English county--not very good, it is to be
supposed, but still good enough to be drunk, and to prove the longer
and more genial reign of summer in our island. Thus, though the
morning was grey, as I have said, and April had not yet come to an
end, the air was as warm as it is often now in June, and every bank
was already covered with flowers.

There were horses before the gate of Richard of Woodville's house, and
men busily preparing them for a journey. There was the heavy charger,
or battle horse, with tall and bony limbs, well fitted to bear up
under the weight of a steel-covered rider; and the lighter, but still
powerful palfrey, somewhat of the size and make of a hunter of the
present day, to carry the master along the road. Besides these,
appeared many another beast; horses for the yeomen and servants, and
horses and mules for the baggage: the load of armour for himself and
for his men which the young adventurer carried with him, requiring not
a few of those serviceable brutes who bow their heads to man's will,
in order to carry it to the sea-shore. At length all was prepared; the
packs were put upon the beasts, the drivers were at their heads, the
yeomen by their saddles; and with ten stout men and two boys, fourteen