How frequently in real life, as upon the mimic stage, the most opposite
scenes that it is possible to conceive follow each other in quick
succession. Often, indeed, are they placed side by side, or only veiled
from the eye of the spectator by a thin partition, which falls with a
touch, and all is changed. While revelry haunts the saloons of life,
anguish writhes in the garret, and misery tenants the cellar. Pomp, and
pageantry, and splendour occupy the one day; sorrow, destitution, and
despair the next; and, as in some of our old tragedies, the laughter
and merriment of the buffoon, appear alternately with tears and agony.
If it be so with human life--if, in this fitful spring-day of our
being, the storms and the sunshine tread upon the heels of each
other, so must it be with everything that would truly represent
existence--even with a tale like this.
We must change the scene, then, and convey the reader far away from the
sad field of Evesham--without pausing to detail some of the barbarous
horrors there committed on the bodies of the dead--at once to the
splendid court of England, now triumphant over its enemies, and
revelling in uncontrolled power.
We may, indeed, stay for an instant to remark, that while joy and
satisfaction spread through the various partisans of the court, while
the foreign favourites of Henry III. displayed their rejoicing with
indecent ostentation, and even the calmer and wiser adherents of his
high-minded son could not refrain from triumphant exultation,
consternation, dismay, and mourning spread throughout the middle and
lower classes of the people, through the clergy of the real Anglican
church, and through the greater part of the barons who claimed a
genuine English descent. The barrier was thrown down which had
protected their rights and liberties; and most of those whose swords
had been so long unsheathed in the popular cause, now lay weltering in
their gore upon the field of Evesham, leaving none but outlaws, and
fugitives to mourn for them in secrecy and concealment, and poets and
minstrels to sing the deeds of the gone.
It was at the court of England,--not in the capital of the kingdom, but
in the palace of Eltham, then one of the most beautiful, if not most
splendid of the residences of our kings--in a small chamber in the left
wing of the building, rather more than a month after the scenes which
we have lately commemorated, that there lay upon a couch, covered with
a leopard's skin, a young knight, busily engaged in reading a
manuscript written in a somewhat cramped and difficult hand. He was
clad altogether in the garments of peace, but a deep gash upon his
brow, a scarf bound tight round his arm, and a certain uneasy
expression of countenance when he turned from side to side, showed that
it was not long since he had been engaged in the fierce and bloody
pursuits of war.
Hugh de Monthermer had not passed through the battle of Evesham
unwounded; and though, as a point of chivalrous, courage, he had
scorned to suffer the slightest sign of anguish to appear, yet the
injuries he had received were long in being healed, and even for some
days his life had been held in danger.
Asa prisoner taken by the Prince's own hand, he had been brought in the
train of the Court to London, and then to Eltham; and although no one
word had been spoken of his future fate--no proposal made in regard to
terms of liberation at the period when many other nobles were allowed
to submit and receive letters of remission, yet he had been treated
with constant care and kindness. Scarcely a day had passed without his
being visited by Edward himself; but the subject of his actual
situation had been studiously avoided by the Prince; and Hugh,
impatient of farther restraint, now lay in his chamber waiting his
coming, and resolved to make such inquiries as must lead to some
definite reply.
About half an hour later than his usual time, the firm step of Edward
was heard in the ante-room, and his voice bidding the page who followed
stop at the door. The next instant the Prince entered, bowing his lofty
head as he passed through the low arched doorway. His countenance was
somewhat grave; but his tone was full of kindness towards Hugh de
Monthermer, and he took him by the hand inquiring after his health.
"I am nearly well, my dear lord," replied Hugh; "and, like your Grace,
when I found you in the castle of Hereford, I only sigh for fresh air
and liberty to use my cramped limbs."
"But why do you not take exercise?" demanded the Prince. "You should
ride forth every day."
"I did not know I had permission," answered Hugh. "I fancied your Grace
might think that the lesson you gave upon the banks of the Wye might
not be lost upon your humble prisoner."
"Not after you had surrendered, rescue or no rescue, Monthermer," said
the Prince. "I put no fetters upon you, my friend, but the fetters of
your word. The great gates are as free to you as to myself; and, though
I give you not your liberty, it is for your sake, not my own. My
father's anger burns fierce against your house, Monthermer. It is the
only spark which I have not been able to quench. You, he will pardon,
after a time; but I fear towards your uncle we shall never soften
him.--He says that it was by his advice De Montfort acted."
Edward put the last words in the tone of a question, or, perhaps,
as an assertion which he wished to hear refuted; but Hugh replied,
gravely--"His majesty says true, my lord; it was by my uncle's advice.
But your Grace's words give relief to my mind. I have had no tidings of
my uncle since that fatal field; and though I had hopes that he had
escaped, yet those hopes were faint. I do beseech you, my good lord,
tell me what you know for never son loved father more than I love him,
under whose sword I have been brought up from youth."
"I know little more than yourself," answered the Prince; "all I can
say, is, neither his body nor his arms were found amongst the dead; and
so far is my father convinced of his having escaped, that he, with
seven others, who have not yet made submission, have had sentence of
outlawry proclaimed against them."
Hugh de Monthermer mused with feelings very much divided between
pleasure and pain; but the Prince laid his hand kindly on his shoulder,
saying--"Come, old playfellow, prepare yourself for a ride, and join me
in a minute in the court below. There are guests coming to the palace
to-day, and perchance we may meet them."
There was no slight delight to Hugh de Monthermer, as the reader may
very well imagine, in the thought of using his limbs in wholesome
exercise, and tasting again the free outward air; and dressing himself
hastily for the expedition, he was soon by the Prince's side. It often
happens, however, that when we have looked forward with bright
anticipations towards enjoyments from which we have been long debarred,
and have thought that nothing but pleasure and refreshment can await us
therein, a degree of melancholy falls upon us even in the very fruition
of our wishes--a memory, a regret, is poured out from the heart to
dilute the inebriating cup of joy.
It was so with Hugh de Monthermer. The first breath of the free air
felt to him like new life and the promises of hope; but, almost
instantly, the thought of the many high and noble, good and wise
companions, with whom not long before he had enjoyed the same gentle
breeze, the same warm sunshine, and who could now taste them no
more--the thought of his just and chivalrous uncle, wandering wounded
and alone, an exile or an outlaw--the thought of the gallant and the
brave who strewed the field of Evesham, came across his mind, and
dimmed all the happiness of the hour.
He was gloomy, then, as he rode forth from the palace gates, and the
merriment of many a young knight and gay esquire, who followed in
Edward's train, sounded harsh and unpleasant to his ear. They were
absent for some two hours; but, as they returned, the look of Hugh de
Monthermer was brightened, and his smile as cheerful as the rest.
If the reader would know why, it is easy to tell. Riding beside Prince
Edward, were the Earls of Gloucester and Ashby, and not far distant, a
train of fair ladies and attendants, amongst whom was one whose soft
dark eyes seemed ready to run over with bright drops whenever they
turned towards the young knight, who, for his part, was by her side as
often as the movements of the cavalcade would permit.
It is true, that more than one of the gentlemen around, proud of being
of the court party, and vain of any share they had taken in the late
struggle, deemed it almost an act of insolence on the part of a captive
and a rebel, as they chose to term him, to claim the attention of one
of the fair guests of their sovereign, Hugh de Monthermer's renown as a
knight, however, kept their saucy anger within due bounds; and, though
they so contrived that no private word could pass between Lucy de Ashby
and her lover, they could not cut him off from the enjoyment of her
society.
On arriving at the palace, more than one prepared himself to aid the
lady in dismounting from her horse; but Hugh de Monthermer, feeling a
title in her regard advanced as of right, and lifted the fair form of
Lucy from the saddle. In so doing, the only opportunity occurred of
uttering a word to each other, unheard by those around. But it was Lucy
herself who took advantage of it.
"I have something to say to you, Hugh," she, whispered; "something that
must be said."
Ere he could answer, however, the Earl of Ashby was by their side. He
had hitherto taken no notice of his former friend and confederate, and
perhaps might not have done so even now, had not his conversation with
the Prince been of a kind to show him that, in Edward's eyes, Hugh de
Monthermer was anything but a captive enemy. He held out his hand to
him, then, with kindly greeting, and asked him after his health,
adding--"Now that these contentions are happily at an end, my young
friend, let us forget any disputes in the past."
Hugh, as may be supposed, was not backward to accept his proferred
hand, and good care did he take, not even by a look, to shew that he
knew himself to be rather the injured than the injurer, in the
dissensions which had taken place. A few brief questions and replies
followed, while Edward spoke in a low tone with the Earl of Gloucester,
whose eyes, Hugh de Monthermer remarked, were fixed earnestly and
somewhat sternly upon himself. At length the Prince turned, and bending
gracefully to Lucy de Ashby, and another lady who was with the party,
told them that, though the Queen was still absent in France, the
Princess Eleanor waited for them in the hall.
"She is a cousin of yours, you know, fair lady," he added, addressing
Lucy, and then turning to his prisoner, he said "We have a grand
banquet to-night, Monthermer, at which you must find strength to be
present.--I have my father's commands to invite you."
Hugh bowed low, and as the guests passed on, he retired thoughtfully to
his own chamber.
It was still early in the day; the hour appointed for the banquet was
late, and his first reveries were full of joy and love, but a
discomfort of a trifling, yet annoying kind, crossed the young knight's
thoughts from time to time. Separated from all his attendants, kept a
close prisoner up to that period, both by his wounds, and by his
situation--he was totally without the means of appearing at the table
of the King with that splendour which the customs of the day
required.--The only suit he had was that which he then wore, the
pourpoint, namely, over which at Evesham he had borne his armour. Some
other necessaries had been supplied to him, as a kindness, by one of
Edward's attendants; but still--though resolved, at all events, not to
be absent from the banquet--how could he appear in garments soiled and
rent, where all the pomp and pageantry of England were sure to be
displayed!
"I will send to the Prince," he thought, "and let him know the
situation in which I am placed; but still, though doubtless, he will
now give me means of sending to my own friends, both for money and
apparel, the supply will come too late, for this day's necessities at
least, and even if he himself furnishes me with gold for present need,
where can I buy, in this lonely situation, any thing that I want?"
While he was thus thinking, the sound of steps in his ante-room showed
him that some one was approaching; and in a moment after, two of the
inferior attendants of the court entered, bringing in between them, one
of the long heavy cases of leather stretched upon a frame of wood,
which were then used for carrying arms and clothing in the train of an
army.
"This was brought here last night, my lord, and left for you," said one
of the servants. "The chief sewer opened it by mistake, and finding
that it contained apparel, sent us with it."
Hugh smiled, thinking that it was a kindly stratagem of the Prince to
furnish him with what he needed; but ere the two men had quitted the
ante-room, Edward himself re-entered it, coming to offer the assistance
of his purse or wardrobe, and taking blame to himself for not having
thought before of his friend's need.
Hugh laughed, and pointing to the coffer, thanked him for what he had
already sent; but the Prince denied all knowledge of it, and on opening
the case, which Edward insisted on his doing before his eyes, he found
that it was filled with apparel of his own, nearly new, which had been
left behind him in Yorkshire, in the early part of the year.
"This must be the doings of the fairies, my lord," he said; "but as I
cannot always count upon these nimble gentry thus attending to my
wants, I will beseech your Grace to let me send a messenger to enquire
after my own poor friends and attendants who were scattered at Evesham,
and to bring me such a number of men and horses as I may be permitted
to maintain while a prisoner, as well as some small supply of money."
"If you will write," said Edward, in reply, "I will send immediately.
But let us understand each other completely, Monthermer. I think on
many accounts that it may be better for you to reside some few months
at the Court of England, and I believe, at all events, that you
yourself will not be eager to quit it, while a certain bright lady
remains with the Princess. Your being my captive is the only excuse
that can be given for your prolonging your stay, where it is very
needful you should remain; and this is the reason why I do not publicly
set you free. But as in this changeful world," he continued, in a
marked and significant manner, "one never can tell what the next day
may bring forth, and as it may be necessary, either for your happiness
or your safety, under some circumstances, to fly at a moment's
notice--for I can neither trust the fierce Mortimer, nor the cruel
Pembroke--I promise to fix your ransom whenever you require it; and,
should need be, you may act upon this promise as if I had already given
you liberty--I will justify you whenever it takes place. In the
meantime, however, you must play the part of captive demurely, and make
the best of your opportunities, my young friend; for I have learned
from one of your enemies the state of your affections, and I doubt not
that your lady love will willingly listen to your tale if you choose a
fair hour for telling it.--Nay, no thanks, Monthermer! Take what money
you want from my purse till your own arrives; and now, adieu."
Hugh conducted the Prince to the door of his ante-room, and then
returned, proposing to examine more fully the wardrobe which had been
so unexpectedly sent to him, thinking that perhaps he might find
something to indicate from what hand it came. But before he did so, he
sat down thoughtfully, and gazed out of the small casement of his
chamber, while, strange to say, his spirit seemed oppressed. In every
point his situation was happier and better than it had been a few hours
previous; the storm cloud which had obscured his hopes was clearing
away; his mind had been made more easy in regard to his uncle's safety;
liberty appeared before him, and he was near to her he loved; but,
nevertheless, he felt a sadness that he could not account for. As the
first impression of the fresh air upon a person going out after a long
sickness will give them a sensation of faintness, even while it revives
them, so will the return to hope and happiness, after a long period of
despair and sorrow, bring with it a touch of melancholy even on the
wings of joy.