THE ASSASSIN
Traitor, what hast thou done? how ever may
Thy cursed hand so cruelly have swayed
Against that knight? Harrow and weal-away?
After so wicked deed, why liv'st thou longer day!
SPENSER.
When he had been dismissed by his royal master, Frion called aside the
esquire, and sent him on an errand, it would seem of some import and
distance; for the youth uttered a few forcible interjections, and with a
lowering brow drew on the riding-boots he had just doffed, muttering,
"I must treat my horse better than my lord treats me; so, master, seek a
fresh steed. By my fay! this is to become a squire of dames--a
love-token to the duchess, in good hour!"
Having got rid of this young gentleman, Frion's next care was to give
distant employment to the pages, saying he would wait their return. But
scarcely had they entered the most crowded part of the camp, before with
quick cautious steps the secretary took the same path which the prince
trod half an hour later--he crossed the dell, and arriving at the
little wood of larches, instead of traversing, he skirted it, till the
gentle eminence on which the English camp was pitched, grew higher and
more abrupt, the murmuring brook took the guise of a brawling torrent,
grey rocks peeped out from the soil, and the scene became wilder and
more mountainous: he walked on, till he arrived where a rustic bridge
spanned the stream; under its shadow were three horsemen, two of whom
dismounted, and a tall servitor held the bridles. One of these men Frion
knew at once to be him who called himself Lord Bothwell, King Henry's
spy, and Richard's fierce, motiveless, but ruthless enemy; the
other--his bonnet was drawn over his brow--a cloak obscured his
person. Frion's quick eyes scrutinized it vainly, for the moon, cloudy
at intervals, gave uncertain light; besides, the man had stationed
himself within the deepest shadow of the bridge.
"Good befall your watch," said Frion; "your worship is before your
time."
"Is not all ready?" asked Balmayne.
"That question is mine," replied the other. "You know our treaty--not a
hair of my lord's head must be injured."
"Tush! tush! fear not, good conscience-stickier," replied Bothwell, with
a contemptuous laugh; "no ill will befall the boy; we but ferry him over
the Tweed a few hours earlier than he dreamed of, and land him all
gently on the shore he seeks. As for thy reward, I have said, name it
thyself."
"Fair words are these, Sir John Ramsay," said Frion; "but I said before,
I must have surer pledge, both for my reward and my lord's safety. King
Henry will haggle about payment when the work is done, and the steel you
wear is a toper in its way."
"How now, sir knave?" cried Balmayne; "thinkest thou that I will turn
midnight stabber?"
The man in the cloak started at these words. He uttered some sound, but
again drew back; while the person who continued on horseback said, and
his voice was that of the bishop of Moray, King James's uncle, "A truce
to this contention, Master Good-fellow--whatever thy name be: I will
answer for thy pay, and here is earnest of my truth." He threw a purse
at Frion's feet. "The peace of two kingdoms--the honour of a royal, too
long dishonoured house are at stake. No time is this to squabble for
marks, or the paltry life of a base impostor. I, a prince of Scotland,
avouch the deed. It were more friendly, methinks; to unlock his life
with the steel key of our friend Wiatt, than to devote him to the
gallows. Let Scotland be rid of him, I reck not how."
Again Frion fixed his eyes on the other;--the clouds had fallen low in
the sky; the moon was clear; the western breeze murmured among the
bushes and the trees, and the beams of the silvery planet played upon
the unquiet waters. "We have no time for delay. Sir John," said Frion,
"prithee introduce me to our fellow-labourer--this is the king's
emissary? You call yourself Wiatt, Master Black Cloak?"
The other made a gesture of impatience as he stepped aside. Balmayne and
Moray discoursed aside, till the former bade the secretary lead on; as
they went, the Scotchman and Frion conversed in whispers concerning
their plans, while their companion followed as if doggedly. Once he cast
an impatient glance at the moon--Frion caught that look. "Have I found
you, good friend," he thought; "then by our lady of Embrun, you shall
acquit you of the debt I claim this night."
With quicker steps the Provençal proceeded, till they readied the
opening of the valley, and came opposite the slope on which the English
camp was pitched. Furthest off and far apart was the royal pavilion, the
banner of England flapping in the breeze, and this the only sign of
life; but for this, the white silent tents looked like vast Druidical
stones piled upon a wild moor. They paused. "I must go first," said
Frion; "we have wasted more time than I counted for--you will await me
here."
"Listen, Master Frion," said Balmayne. "I would hardly trust you, but
that I think you are a wise man; silver angels and golden marks, as a
wise man, you will love: one thing you will hardly seek, a shroud of
moonbeams, a grave in the vulture's maw. Look ye, one soars above even
now; he scents dainty fare: twenty true men are vowed that he shall sup
on thee, if thou art foresworn: thou wilt give some signal, when all is
ready."
"That were difficult," said Frion; "I will return anon if there be any
let to your enterprise; else, when the shadow of that tall larch
blackens the white stone at your feet, come up without fear: have ye
bonds ready for your prisoner?"
"An adamantine chain--away!" Frion cast one more glance at him called
Wiatt. "It is even he, I know him, by that trick of his neck; his face
was ever looking sideways:" thus assured, the Frenchman ascended the
hill. Balmayne watched him, now visible, and now half-hid by the
deceptive light, till he entered the folds of the pavilion; and then he
glanced his eyes upon the shadow of the tree, yet far from the white
stone; and then paced the sward, as if disdaining to hold commune with
Wiatt. Whatever thoughts possessed this hireling's breast he made no
sign, but stood motionless as a statue; his arms folded, his head
declined upon his breast. He was short, even slight in make, his
motionless, half-shrinking attitude contrasted with the striding pace
and the huge, erect form of the borderer. Who that had looked down upon
these two figures, sole animations visible on the green earth beneath
the moon's bright eye, would have read villany and murder in their
appearance; the soft sweet night seemed an antidote to savageness, yet
neither moon nor the sleeping face of beauteous earth imparted any
gentleness to the Scot; he saw neither, except when impatiently he
glanced at the slow-crawling shadow, and the moonlight sleeping on the
signal-stone. Many minutes passed--Bothwell gave one impatient look
more--how slowly the dusky line proceeded! He walked to the edge of the
brook; there was no movement about the pavilion: tranquil as an infant's
sleep was the whole encampment. Suddenly a cry made him start, it was
from Wiatt; the man, heretofore so statue-like, had thrown his arms
upward with a passionate gesture, and then recalled by Bothwell's
imprecation, shrunk back into his former quiet, pointing only with a
trembling finger to the stone, now deep imbedded in the black shadow of
the larch. The Scot gave a short shrill laugh, and crying "Follow!"
began the ascent, taking advantage of such broken ground and shrubs, as
blotted the brightness of the rays that lit up the acclivity. Bothwell
strode on with the activity of a mosstrooper; Wiatt was scarce able to
walk; he stumbled several times. At length they reached the pavilion;
the Frenchman stood just within, lifting the heavy cloth; they entered.
Frion whispered, "I have cleared the coast; my lord sleeps; we need but
cast a cloak around him, to blind him, and so bear him off without more
ado on his forced journey."
"There is wisdom in your speech," said Balmayne, with something of a
grin. "My friend Wiatt has a cloak large and dark enough for the nonce."
Frion drew back the silken lining of the inner tent, saying, "Tread
soft, my lord ever sleeps lightly; he must not be waked too soon."
"_Never_ were the better word," muttered Bothwell: the dimmest twilight
reigned in the tent. The prince's couch was in shadow; the men drew
near; the sleeper was wrapt in his silken coverlid, with his face buried
in his pillow: his light-brown hair, lying in large clusters on his
cheek, veiled him completely. Ramsay bent over him; his breathing was
heavy and regular; he put out his large bony hand, and, as gently as he
might, removed the quilt, uncovering the sleeper's right side; then
turning to Wiatt, who had not yet advanced, he pointed to the heaving
heart of his victim with such a glance of murderous callousness, that
the very assassin shrunk beneath it; yet he approached; his hand held an
unsheathed dagger, but it shook even to impotence; he raised it over his
prey, but had no power to strike. Frion had crept round behind; a sound
just then, and tramp of feet was heard in the outer tent; as by magic,
in one brief second of time the mute dread scene changed its every
characteristic. The assassin cried aloud, "It is not he!" Frion had
seized his arm--the dagger fell--the pretended sleeper (one of York's
pages) leaped from the couch; and the muffling cloak, dropping from the
murderer's shoulders, disclosed the wretched, degraded Clifford. Ramsay
drew his sword, and rushed towards the outer tent, when at the same
moment Richard of York and Sir Patrick Hamilton showed themselves from
beneath the hangings, which their attendants had raised. This sight
startled Frion, and Clifford, restored to life and energy, tore himself
from his grasp, and in a moment had rushed from beneath the pavilion; he
was forgotten; all eyes were turned on Bothwell; the dagger at his feet,
his drawn sword, his appearance in the retirement of the prince of
England, all accused him. He saw at once his danger, drew himself
proudly up, and returned Hamilton's look with a fierce, haughty glare.
"Thy act is worse than thy enemies' speech," said Sir Patrick, sternly;
"thou wilt answer this, recreant, to thy royal master."
"To him, to any, to you," said Balmayne; "there is my glove. Now, on the
hill's side, or in the lists anon, I will avouch my deed."
Hamilton answered with a look of sovereign contempt; he bade his men
seize the traitor. "Before I sleep," he cried, "the king hears this
treason."
Richard had looked on in silence and wonder; he placed his hand on
Hamilton's arm, stopping him, "Pardon me, valiant knight," he said;
"but, I do beseech you, disturb not the king to-night, nor ever, with
this ill tale. Too roughly already has the English prince broken
Scotland's rest. No blood is shed; and, strange as appearances are, I
take Sir John Ramsay's word, and believe that, as a cavalier, he may
maintain his cause, nor stain by it his knightly cognizance. I take up
your glove, fair sir, but only to restore it; without one slightest
accusation attaching itself to you therewith. Nay, myself will take up
the quarrel, if any blame you. Sir Patrick will not call me to the
trial, I am sure. Frion, conduct the gallant gentleman beyond our
lines."
Shame for the first time flushed Ramsay's brow as he left the tent. The
prince drew up to let him pass, with a mien so dignified and yet so
tranquil, with a smile so bland, that thus it seemed an angelic essence,
incapable of wound, might have gazed on a mere mortal, armed to injure
him.
"Is this recklessness or nobility of soul?" Sir Patrick thought. He did
not doubt, when Richard, changing his look to one of anxious appeal,
besought him to omit utterly to report this strange scene. "I much
fear," he said, "my wily secretary to be most in fault; and I caught a
glance of one, whose appearance here proves that Ramsay is not alone
guilty. Let me inquire, let me learn--punish, if need be. English gold
and English steel were the weapons here, and I alone have power over
England. You will pledge me your word. Sir Patrick, not to disquiet our
royal cousin by our domestic brawls. We must not put in opposing scales
our paltry anger against ruffians like these, and the disquiet of the
generous-hearted James. Ramsay was his father's favourite; for his sake
he bears with him; and more easily may I. I indeed, who am most in
fault, for spending the precious minutes wandering, like a shepherd of
Arcadia, in a listless foolishness, instead of acting the general, and
guarding my tents from such visitors. The brawl last night might have
forewarned me."
"Does it not shame Scotland," cried Hamilton, warmly, "that you should
need any guard but our true hearts, while you tread our soil?"
"Were this true," answered York, yet more earnestly, "remember, what
shames Scotland, shames her king. Be assured, dear cousin, I speak
advisedly. Were this examined, worse might appear; and I and your liege
must be the sufferers: I to excite this treason in his subjects' hearts;
he to prove that some near him are not true as they seem."
Hamilton yielded to these many pleas; but his heart warmed with
admiration and love for the noble being who urged the cause of pardon
for his enemies. "Be it as your highness pleases," he exclaimed. "This I
the more readily yield, since any new attempt kills Hamilton ere it
reach you. I will be your guard, your sentinel, your wide, invulnerable
shield; you will not refuse me this post of honour."
"Or let us both fulfil it," cried York, "one to the other; let us be
brothers in arms, noble Hamilton. And yet, how can I, a fugitive, almost
a tainted man, seek the alliance of one who stands as you do, fair and
free in all men's eyes?"
As he spoke, the prince held out his hand; the Scottish knight raised it
respectfully to his lips. But now Frion returned; and the clash of arms
and trumpets' sound spoke of the advance of night, and change of guard:
the noble friends took leave of each other, and Sir Patrick departed. As
soon as they were private, the prince questioned his secretary closely
and sternly as to the events of the night. Frion had a plausible and
ready tale, of artifice and guile, of how he had a pledge even from the
king's uncle that York's life was not to be attempted; and that he had
but wished to balk and vex them, by causing the page to be carried off:
the discovery of their mistake would shame them from any second
enterprise against the prince of England.
York was but half satisfied; he had caught a transient glimpse of the
fugitive. Was it indeed Clifford, who came a hired murderer to his
bedside? A man who had partaken his heart's counsels, long his
companion, once his friend? It was frightful, it was humiliating but to
imagine how deep the man may fall, who once gives himself over to evil
thoughts, and unlawful deeds. Frion here protested his ignorance and
surprise. It was almost day before his master dismissed him: and even
then, how could Richard repose? That couch, Clifford had marked as his
bier--it were a bed of thorns; he threw himself on the bare hard
ground, and innocence had more power than his angelic pity for the vice
of others; it shed poppy influence on his lids; and the beams of the
morning sun stole softly over, but did not disturb his slumbers.