THE INCIDENT OF THE CUTTING OF SAFFRON VELVET
The walls of the room adjoining that in which Sir Richard was now
sleeping framed a scene that provided a singular and pleasing contrast
to the bleak and uninviting rooms within the tavern with which the
reader is already somewhat familiar. So beautifully, and in such
exquisite taste were its rich trappings disposed, that a princess might
have found comfort and contentment within its cosy precincts. Indeed,
not anything seemed to be missing that could have been demanded in the
surroundings of the most refined and fastidious of royal personages.
Upon one of the pillowed couches two young maidens were reclining
gracefully at their ease. One was lying at full length and resting upon
her elbows, with her chin pressed against her interlocked fingers; the
other was engaged with needles and some bright colored silk in weaving
a design upon a piece of linen cloth. Without risking hyperbole it may
be said of them that the jewels they wore were scarce an adornment to
their distinguished setting, for it would have offered a difficult task
to have set out to discover two lovelier types of young womanhood. It
was unusual in that between them there existed no conflict of beauty;
rather did the bewitching charms of the one serve the complimentary
purpose of enhancing the pure and almost ethereal comeliness of the
other.
"It would surely be a famous prank, Rocelia," said the one who was
lounging upon her elbows. "I cannot understand why you should oppose
me. Are we not come to an age, my over-discreet cousin, where a
champion should be ours by right?"
"By right of what, pray, madcap Isabel?" queried Rocelia, laying aside
her needlework upon a table that stood near the couch.
"Why--by right of conquest, little dunce," returned Isabel with a
gay laugh. "Here does my stern guardian--and by the same token your
implacable father--see fit to keep us mewed within this dismal,
fly-by-night prison, deprived of every pleasure and innocent pastime
that other maids, similarly stationed, are permitted to enjoy. I tell
you, sweet Rocelia, 'tis nothing less than downright cruel."
"Say not so, ungracious maid," observed Rocelia in mild disapproval.
"Are we not surrounded with everything, my dear, that heart of maid
could wish?"
"Everything, say you? Why--far, far from everything," demurred Isabel,
tossing back a strand of raven black hair that persisted in straying
over her shoulder. "A champion! Give to me a champion!" she cried with
a mock seriousness, raising on high her right arm, from which her
loose robe fell, displaying a dazzling array of captivating curves and
dimples.
Rocelia smiled in a gentle toleration of the other's extravagance of
manner.
"Your wondrous beauty, my dear cousin," she said, "will win for you a
champion all in good time."
"Time?" retorted Isabel, gathering her lips in a pretty pout and
arching her brows. "Time, say you? And what, I pray you, have _we_ to
do with time? Does not time fade and wither that beauty by which, but
a moment ago, you have recommended to me a champion? Is not time our
mortal and deadly foe?"
"Too much of it, mayhap, would be," admitted Rocelia; "but a little
of it should serve well in rounding out our minds, and in providing
us with that sane discretion which, as you remember, Lord Bishop
Kennedy, our kind tutor, has taught us is the most precious of earthly
perquisites."
"Bah! a murrain upon Bishop Kennedy and his dry pedantries. An I had
that old prate-apace inside an oven, right well would I warm his
icy blood for him. Look not upon me, sweet coz, with such wideopen
eyes of ravished virtue! I declare to you, Rocelia, I'll have me a
champion--and before this very night is over. You could never divine,
I'm sure, why I begged you awhile ago to sing without yon open window.
Of a truth, you knew not, or your voice would never have left your
throat. It was vicariously to beguile my brave champion's ears that you
were singing so sweetly, dear. He was then outside with your father and
Zenas burying the hound. Ah! you should have seen him fell the savage
brute, Rocelia. A single mighty blow of his mailed fist and 'twas all
over."
"Were you not afraid? 'Twould have fared ill with you, an Father had
seen you standing at the tap-room door."
"Nay--I was not afraid. Your father was in another room with the men.
Zenas had gone outside. I heard him go muttering through the door as
I crept softly down the steps. I peeped through the split panel--my
champion was there ... sleeping. But, already have I told you the
story. Ah! how brave was he. Not once did he flinch the battle, or look
about him, or call for help. And he is handsome; marry, sweet coz, but
he is handsome! All girded up in shining, inlaid armor. His brown-gold
hair flowing almost to his shoulders. His health-bronzed cheeks smooth
and shapely. And his mouth! Um-m-m! Well----"
"Why, cousin! some wicked witch has cast a spell above you, I fear."
"Nay--'tis not witchery, sweetest Rocelia," said Isabel, seating
herself beside her fair-haired cousin and lovingly entwining her arms
about her slender form. "I am but filled to overflowing with the joy
of living. A something of excitement is both sup and drink to me. Now
listen. Bear with your madcap cousin whilst she discourses with you in
deepest earnest. A champion I must and will have. But he need not know
me, or even look upon my face."
"I cannot understand. You are speaking in riddles, Isabel."
"Nay, give ear till I've finished and you shall see it plain enough.
My knight of the brown-gold curls, an I mistake me not, is even at
this moment slumbering within the next chamber. With a bodkin a cleft
in the wall can be used as a slight avenue of secret communication.
Then a missive, and a bit of cloth clipped from my--no yours, 'tis of
a more enticing color--your saffron gown, I'll say, dear cousin; and
thus I have my champion and no soul but you and I the wiser. Do not say
me nay, good, generous Rocelia. It will be a right merry and harmless
frolic, think you not?"
"'Twould be a sorry one for you, I fear, an my father found you out,"
replied Rocelia, half in jest, half earnestly.
"Enough. Let the hazard be mine, sweet. And now to business. Whilst
I am at work with the bodkin, do you shear me a strip from off your
saffron velvet kirtle."
* * * * *
Sir Richard, sleeping soundly, was all unconscious of the widely
varying activities of which he was now become the center. Beneath the
room in which Isabel, now singing, now laughing, was engaged upon
the wall, Friar Diomed had finished brewing and mixing the herbs and
chemicals of his narcotic.
"My oath on 't, Friar Diomed," Tyrrell was saying from his seat beside
the fire, "your cloth shall not save your shaven pate, an this potion
bring one jot of harm to the young noble."
"An it be administered with your usual skill and caution, Sir James,"
returned the monk, elevating a phial filled with the liquid between
his squinting eyes and the light of the fire, "'twill bring no more
harm than so much _aqua pura_. But, by my church! 'tis beside my
understanding why you must observe all of these dark ceremonies. Let
the young knight but read the King's warrant in his slop pouch, an he
were a long-eared ass not to embrace our cause."
"Have I not already said, my stupid friend, that he would at once
charge us with substitution and false writing? Think you not that the
young noble hath heard a many an evil tale of this tavern along the
way? Marry, an he had not, all our trouble and precaution to shield
the young prince from discovery and harm would have been but of
slight avail. But only once again, good friar, need this phantom inn
disappear, and then 'twill serve as a blazing torch to light the start
of our movement southward."
"Pity 'tis that the young prince died," observed the monk, giving the
phial into Tyrrell's hand and standing with his broad back to the
blaze. "And just at the point, too, when you had gathered a sufficient
power to hurl effectively against Henry. So fire shall consume our
refuge, you say? Well, Sir James, _ab igne ignem_, say I."
"Yea, and I. But regarding the young prince, regret not that which
is beyond mending. In truth, Friar Diomed, I like this young Earl
of Warwick mightily. He's a right goodly youth to look upon, and
brave--aye, as fearless as a lion cub. Nay--let us not regret, but
rather return thanks to a generous God for having thus dropped down
upon us a proper and legal substitute."
"An you'll be good enough to bid Zenas to bring out the flagons, Sir
James, I'll e'en now down a measure or twain to the health of the
new. Which is more to my liking, by my Faith, than the uplifting of
mere dry thanks. _Ad majorem Dei gloriam!_ 'Twill be a good hour ere
de Claverlok and his band return, and I am grievously athirst and,
ah-ha-ha, ho-e-e, sleepy."
"Then why not call your drink night-cup and betake yourself to your
couch? 'Tis not necessary that you should remain abroad to await their
coming. Zenas, the flagon of wine," Tyrrell then called. "Drink, and to
your rest, my good friar. Yea--the blessed pair of you."
Whereupon, with a loud smacking of his lips, the rotund friar
introduced his red and bulbous nose within his tipped cup and made for
his couch. Zenas followed him, leaving Tyrrell to keep solitary vigil
by the side of the crackling fire, and all unaware of the little comedy
which, at that very moment, was being enacted above his head.
* * * * *
For the second time that night Sir Richard awakened with a violent
start. Upon doing so he raised his head from off his pillow. Hearing no
sound, however, he attributed this second awakening to a fanciful dream
of a ponderous battle-ax striking upon his helm, and had just composed
himself for the purpose of resuming his interrupted rest when he became
aware of a distinct rapping upon the headboard of his bed. As he threw
aside the covering and sat erect the strange tapping ceased. With every
sense upon the alert he listened for a repetition of the sound. It came
soon again, distinct, deliberate, unmistakable. He passed his hand
carefully over the smooth headboard, but went altogether unrewarded for
his pains. Concluding, therefore, that the sounds emanated from between
the wall and the bed, he sprang to the floor and pulled aside the heavy
piece of furniture.
The inexplicable rapping was then followed by a dry, scraping noise,
which seemed almost impossible to locate. The room being cast in utter
darkness, his sense of touch was required to answer for his useless
sense of sight. In the passing of his hand along the wall it met with
a slight protuberance. This he instantly grasped, and a part of it
came away within his clutched fingers. He discovered it to be a wisp
of paper, neatly rolled, and surmised it to be a written message. By
the side of the basin upon the floor he found tinder, flint, and steel.
Contriving speedily to have a light, he thereupon read the following
message:
"Whoever or whatever thou art, an semblance of heart of man beats
within thy brave bosom, rescue a maiden from a living death."
This was the message from Isabel. She had been careful to sign no name,
and Sir Richard had no means of knowing by whom it had been inscribed.
But, even so, he was entirely equal to the occasion, and felt his heart
leaping in deepest sympathy with the unknown maiden in distress. So,
then and there, upon the cross of his sword, he made a sacred vow to
adventure her rescue, repeating in a solemn manner the usual form of
oath: "So may God and St. George prosper me at my need, as I will do
my devoir as thy champion, fair maid, knightly, truly, and manfully."
This ceremony concluded, he hurried again to the wall. Protruding from
a narrow aperture in the mortar he noted a thin piece of steel, such
as he fancied was used by women in the shaping of their apparel. Upon
withdrawing it, he discovered it to be of about a length with his
forearm.
Then, placing his lips to the opening thus disclosed, "Courage, fair
maiden," he whispered. "An wilt thou grant the boon of sending a most
willing champion thy colors?"
"Yea, gladly," came back the answer, sweet and low; "and a kiss, too,
my brave knight."
"Ye gods of Love!" exclaimed Sir Richard beneath his breath. "The very
yearnings of Tantalus are at this moment put to the blush! Was ever a
champion avowed under like romantic circumstances? Was ever a maiden
wooed through a two-foot, key-cold wall?"
He then sent the pliant steel back through the wall, which he
erroneously supposed to be constructed out of solid stone. In another
moment there came to his impatiently waiting hand a very small cutting
of saffron velvet, the which he touched reverently to his lips, as was
becoming in a loyal champion, and then placed devoutly next his heart.
He whispered again, and again he whispered, but no answer came.
Observing the precaution of scraping away a bit of mortar from another
wall, he carefully concealed the opening. Upon which he replaced the
bed in its former position, secured the note within the fillet of his
helmet and once more sought his pillow, where he fell asleep presently
in the midst of meditating as to the means through which he might, in
safety to her, effect the deliverance of the fair unknown.
Yet not half so fair, nor yet half so lovely, was the vision that he
materialized from the scrap of saffron velvet as was its beautiful
owner, whom an unkind Fate decreed he should not set eyes upon till
many days crowded with many misadventures had passed away.