OF A VISION IN THE FOREST OF LAMMERMUIR
Now that he was no longer moving under the masterful influence of
Tyrrell, Sir Richard began to feel brave to throw aside the honors
that had been peremptorily thrust upon him. After the manner of an
ill-wrought suit of armor, they were galling and wearing upon his
unwilling shoulders.
Being innately modest and not desiring fame or power, Sir Richard
had always shirked positions in which any obligation of assuming the
initiative was concerned; and certainly now he felt no desire to leap
at once to the very pinnacle of such positions. Contrariwise, he felt a
deep and genuine yearning to be once again, to himself and those about
him, just plain Sir Richard Rohan, knight, free lance, and good fellow
welcome met to all of his friends. He was moved by no impulse to seek
revenge upon King Henry. "For," he argued with himself, "the King
did but attempt to do the thing which I, were I in his place, would
have been deficient of the courage to do; to render my sovereignty
unassailable. An such a momentous matter be at stake, of what slight
consequence becomes a life more, or a life less? and if, forsooth, it
chanced to be the life of a friend ... well, so much the worse for the
friend."
It never dawned upon Sir Richard in his youthful exuberance to consider
that there were two questions involved: the one of claiming the throne,
and the other of securing a seat thereon. His belief was genuine that
the fate of a great empire was suspended upon the slender thread of his
choice.
As to his breaking faith with Tyrrell and stealing away without first
journeying to the Red Tavern, he did not consider that for a moment.
Overburdened with a sense of the grave responsibility thus imposed
upon him, he rode straight through the Forest of Lammermuir without
once thinking to open the parcel that Isabel had given into his hand.
Had this not been so, Sir Richard would doubtless have suspected
a circumstance that was soon to burst upon him in the nature of a
wonderful surprise.
The Red Tavern, which, upon each previous occasion when Sir Richard
had approached it, had appeared so forbiddingly lonely, was now become
a veritable hive of buzzing industry. It was early evening when the
young knight arrived there; and, in the obscure twilight, he could just
make out the shadowy outlines of many horses tethered to the trees upon
both sides of the pass. Scores of blazing, smoking torches set upright
into the ground shed a weird illumination over this scene of strange
activity.
Guards were stationed closely round about. "Richard Rohan, knight
... and squire," the young knight passed word to a pair of them who
halted and challenged him. Plainly he could hear, then, his name passed
swiftly forward from lip to lip. When he rode within the circle of
yellow light and dismounted before the door above which swung the sign
of the vulture, his coming was greeted by an uproarious cheering, in
the midst of which he could distinguish loud cries of "_Long live King
Richard IV!_"
Lord Bishop Kennedy was even then awaiting the young knight's arrival,
welcoming him after a courteous, formal and dignified fashion. The Lord
Bishop laid command upon one of his lieutenants; after which, in almost
the flutter of an eyelid, the noise of talking hushed, the lighted
torches vanished, and, when the dwindling sound of hoofbeats had died
away, the tavern resumed its wonted somber and solitary aspect.
Zenas spread table in the cozy warmth of the chimney-side, where Bishop
Kennedy and Sir Richard took sup and drink together. Since his first
sight of the tavern the young knight had invested it within his mind
with an atmosphere of dark lugubriousness; thus was his surprise all
the more great when, upon Zenas clearing table, the dessert was borne
in by a silvery-haired woman of a most refined and motherly air, whom
Lord Kennedy introduced as grandam Sutherland.
"It doth astonish me," said Lord Kennedy, when she had gone from the
room, "how the good grandam hath preserved her sweetness of temper
throughout all these years of turmoil and dangers. It was the saddest
of haps to her when the young prince died--she was like the gentlest
of mothers to him withal."
"And the young maiden must e'en have been a sore burdensome care," Sir
Richard suggested.
"Why," quoth Lord Kennedy, "she, sire, is the most noble, amiable, and
pretty-mannered of all young maidens I have ever known."
It was the first scintilla of emotion Sir Richard had observed
displayed by Bishop Kennedy. His championship certainly appeared
genuine. The young knight gathered that the goodman was not
particularly well acquainted with her volatile tempers. He bethought
him also that it would ill become him to speak belittlingly of one who,
by now, was doubtless become his dearest friend's wife. He made shift,
therefore, to take up another subject, and one that for long had been a
sore weight upon his mind.
"My lord," said he; "an thou wouldst consent to enlighten my
understanding of the mysteries surrounding this tavern wherein we sit,
I would consider it right kind of thee."
"In respect of what, sire?" he asked, between sippings of his wine.
"An it be not a fantasy," said Sir Richard, "when I first tarried
beneath its roof it was surely three days' journey removed from where
it now stands."
Bishop Kennedy answered not by word of mouth, but, clapping together
his hands, summoned Zenas and bade him to fetch them a lighted torch.
Then, leading the way through the rear door, he depressed the blazing
rush-light till it revealed a great hole in that which had appeared to
be a solid foundation of stone. Its rays discovered to Sir Richard a
pair of broad and heavy wheels set firmly beneath the tavern sill.
"Let these clear away that mystery, sire," Kennedy said. "There are
seven more similarly disposed beneath the building, which is parlous
lightly set up. By the dual aid of long, dark nights, and a multitude
of tugging horses, the Red Tavern became soon a weird and haunted
thing; moving magically from place to place, discussed in lowered
whispers by the yeomanry, and shunned by passing wayfarers. Thus, not
alone was the lamented prince afforded a safe asylum, comparatively
free from the dangers of discovery, but we were provided as well with a
meeting place for the captains of our gathering hosts. It has served
right happily its purpose, sire; and I would that my life had been as
useful to those about me. Now its work is done. Eftsoons its blazing
timbers shall proclaim a new light to a tyrant-darkened people."
After that he took his leave to join the army, which was stationed some
nine miles to the eastward upon the shores of the sea.
By now the moon, a pallid disc, was sailing high in the greenish-blue
heavens. Feeling the need of an hour or two of solitude wherein to
meditate upon the wonders by which Sir Richard discovered himself to be
surrounded, and, if possible, to reconcile his vacillating mind with
the new complexion which the face of the world had turned upon him,
he gathered his cloak about his shoulders and walked alone into the
forest. Once there, he laid himself down upon the soft, dry carpet of
pine needles, and resigned his thoughts to the ineffable delights of
fantastical castle-building.
How long Sir Richard lay thus, with his face upturned to the sky, he
had no means of knowing. It seemed that his eyes began playing a kind
of game with the interwoven branches of the trees and the moon. Then
he fell into a sort of doze, where everything withdrew into a haze of
oblivion till the moment he became suddenly conscious that his ears
were being ravished by the strains of a charming melody. For quite a
space he remained like one dreaming; passively drinking in each sweet,
pure and quivering note. He was dimly aware that this same glorious
voice had been for days and days singing its wonderful song of love to
him.
Then, like a flashing of intense light, it came upon Sir Richard that
this was the voice which he had heard steal out upon the night at the
moment when Tyrrell, Zenas, and he were burying the dead hound.
Cautiously getting to his feet, and dodging warily from tree to tree,
he made his way in the direction whence the voice seemed to be coming.
As he ever after regarded it, all of the adventures through which
he had passed, and which are here set down, were but the prelude to
the vision of fair loveliness which suddenly presented itself to his
dazzled eyes.
With her arm linked within that of the silvery-haired old lady, she
was walking slowly along the forest road, her head uplifted in song. It
seemed to Sir Richard that the soft moonlight enveloped her lovingly,
imparting to her wondrous beauty an essence of unreality. The golden
nimbus encompassing her head added immeasurably to the impression that
he was but gazing upon an ephemeral picture,--fairy-painted--the which
must become soon a floating radiance above the roadway and then blend
insensibly with the air before his captive eyes.
Silently the young knight stood there, with the better part of him
going out to vie with the silvery moonbeams in tenderly caressing her.
That grosser portion of him stationed beneath the tree remained, as
though hewn in stone and clutching deep into the rough bark, till the
maiden turned to retrace her way into the tavern. When she had gone he
rushed madly back, stealing furtively to the rear of the building, and
tremblingly tore open the covering of Isabel's packet.
In it was the cutting of saffron velvet.
Then, impatiently biding his time till they should again draw nigh, he
sauntered around the corner of the building with his gaze fastened
upon the moon. He could have made oath that he saw, first, a dozen of
them, and then none at all.
"Give thee a fair good-night, dame Sutherland," Sir Richard said in an
agitated voice, "art thou, too, enjoying the moon?"
The grandam dropped him a pretty curtsy, the while the other stood with
drooping and averted head.
"Thank thee much, sire; I am," the old lady gave him answer.
"'Tis a bonnie night, i' faith."
"Yes, sire, 'tis," curtsying again.
"And the moon--'tis extraordinary bright?"
"Yes, sire, 'tis," curtsying once more.
"I trust the ... young lady--may not suffer an indisposition from the
dank airs?"
"We have grown accustomed, sire," with another curtsy.
Sir Richard noted for the first time that the aged grandam's head, as
well as that of her beautiful young companion, was uncovered.
"Yet ... 'tis parlous dank," said he, edging between them and the door.
"I have the honor to present to thy august notice, sire, my beloved
granddaughter--Rocelia Tyrrell," dame Sutherland yielded.
Sir Richard knew not what he answered. He took her hand, he remembered
afterward, turned instantly light-headed, and made out to salute it
rather awkwardly with his lips.
When the young knight came to himself he was intently watching the door
through which Rocelia had disappeared.
"I wonder whether her robe was of a color saffron?" he kept mentally
repeating over and over again.