Two years had passed since the fight of Navaretta, when Sir Eustace
Lynwood received, by the hands of a Knight newly arrived from England,
a letter from Father Cyril, praying him to return home as soon as
possible, since his sister-in-law, Dame Eleanor, was very sick, and
desired to see him upon matters on which more could not be disclosed by
letter.
Easily obtaining permission to leave Bordeaux, he travelled safely
through France, and crossing from Brittany, at length found himself
once more in Somersetshire. It was late, and fast growing dark, when
he rode through Bruton; but, eager to arrive, he pushed on, though
twilight had fast faded into night, and heavy clouds, laden with brief
but violent showers, were drifting across the face of the moon. On
they rode, in silence, save for Gaston's execrations of the English
climate, and the plashing of the horses' feet in the miry tracks, along
which, in many places, the water was rushing in torrents.
At length they were descending the long low hill, or rather undulation,
leading to the wooded vale of Lynwood, and the bright lights of the
Keep began to gleam like stars in the darkness--stars indeed to the
eager eyes of the young Knight, who gazed upon them long and
affectionately, as he felt himself once more at home. "I wonder," said
he, "to see the light strongest towards the east end of the Castle! I
knew not that the altar lights in the chapel could be seen so far!"
Then riding on more quickly, and approaching more nearly, he soon lost
sight of them behind the walls, and descending the last little rising
ground, the lofty mass of building rose huge and black before him.
He wound his bugle and rode towards the gate, but at the moment he
expected to cross the drawbridge, Ferragus suddenly backed, and he
perceived that it was raised. "This is some strange chance!" said he,
renewing the summons, but in vain, for the echoes of the surrounding
woods were the only reply. "Ralph must indeed be deaf!" said he.
"Let him be stone deaf," said Gaston; "he is not the sole inhabitant of
the Castle. Try them again, Sir Eustace."
"Hark!--methought I heard the opening of the hall door!" said Eustace.
"No! What can have befallen them?"
"My teeth are chattering with cold," said Gaston, "and the horses will
be ruined with standing still in the driving rain. Cannot we betake
ourselves to the village hostel, and in the morning reproach them with
their churlishness?"
"I must be certified that there is nothing amiss," said Sir Eustace,
springing from his saddle; "I can cross the moat on one of the supports
of the bridge."
"Have with you then, Sir Knight," said Gaston, also leaping to the
ground, while Eustace cautiously advanced along the narrow frame of
wood on which the drawbridge had rested, slippery with the wet, and
rendered still more perilous by the darkness. Gaston followed,
balancing himself with some difficulty, and at last they safely reached
the other side. Eustace tried the heavy gates, but found them fastened
on the inside with a ponderous wooden bar. "Most strange!" muttered
he; "yet come on, Gaston, I can find an entrance, unless old Ralph be
more on the alert than I expect."
Creeping along between the walls and the moat, till they had reached
the opposite side of the Keep, Eustace stopped at a low doorway; a
slight click was heard, as of a latch yielding to his hand, the door
opened, and he led the way up a stone staircase in the thickness of the
wall, warning his follower now and then of a broken step. After a long
steep ascent, Gaston heard another door open, and though still in total
darkness, perceived that they had gained a wider space. "The passage
from the hall to the chapel," whispered the Knight, and feeling by the
wall, they crept along, until a buzz of voices reached their ears, and
light gleamed beneath a heavy dark curtain which closed the passage.
Pausing for an instant, they heard a voice tremulous with fear and
eagerness: "It was himself! tall plume, bright armour! the very
crosslet on his breast could be seen in the moonlight! Oh! it was Sir
Reginald himself, and the wild young French Squire that fell with him
in Spain!"
There was a suppressed exclamation of horror, and a sound of crowding
together, and at that moment, Eustace, drawing aside the curtain,
advanced into the light, and was greeted by a frightful shriek, which
made him at first repent of having alarmed his sister, but the next
glance showed him that her place was empty, and a thrill of dismay made
him stand speechless and motionless, as he perceived that the curtain
he grasped was black, and the hall completely hung with the same colour.
The servants remained huddled in terror round the hearth, and the pause
was first broken by a fair-faced boy, who, breaking from the trembling
circle, came forward, and in a quivering tone said, "Sir, are you my
father's spirit?"
Gaston's laugh came strangely on the scene, but Eustace, bending down,
and holding out his hand, said, "I am your uncle Eustace, Arthur.
Where is your mother?"
Arthur, with a wild cry of joy, sprung to his neck, and hid his face on
his shoulder; and at the same moment old Ralph, with uplifted hands,
cried, "Blessing on the Saints that my young Lord is safe, and that
mine eyes have seen you once again."
"But where, oh! where is my sister?" again demanded Eustace, as his eye
met that of Father Cyril, who, summoned by the screams of the servants,
had just entered the hall.
"My son," replied the good Father, solemnly, "your sister is where the
wicked may trouble her no more. It is three days now since she
departed from this world of sorrow."
"Oh, had she but lived to see this day," said Ralph Penrose, "her cares
would have been over!"
"Her prayers are answered," said Father Cyril. "Come with me, my son
Eustace, if you would take a last look of her who loved and trusted you
so well."
Eustace followed him to the chamber where the Lady Eleanor Lynwood lay
extended on her bed. Her features were pinched and sharpened, and bore
traces of her long, wasting sufferings, but they still looked lovely,
though awful in their perfect calmness. Eustace knelt and recited the
accustomed prayers, and then stood gazing on the serene face, with a
full heart, and gathering tears in his eyes, for he had loved the
gentle Eleanor with the trusting affection of a younger brother. He
thought of that joyous time, the first brilliant day of his lonely
childhood, when the gay bridal cavalcade came sweeping down the hill,
and he, half in pleasure, half in shyness, was led forth by his mother
to greet the fair young bride of his brother. How had she brightened
the dull old Keep, and given, as it were, a new existence to himself, a
dreamy, solitary boy--how patiently and affectionately had she tended
his mother, and how pleasant were the long evenings when she had
unwearily listened to his beloved romances, and his visions of
surpassing achievements of his own! No wonder that he wept for her as
a brother would weep for an elder sister.
Father Cyril, well pleased to perceive that the kindly tenderness of
his heart was still untouched by his intercourse with the world, let
him gaze on for some time in silence, then laying his hand on his arm
said, "She is in peace. Mourn not that her sorrows are at an end, her
tears wiped away, but prepare to fulfil her last wishes, those prayers
in answer to which, as I fully believe, the Saints have sent you at the
very moment of greatest need."
"Her last wishes?" said Eustace. "They shall be fulfilled to the
utmost as long as I have life or breath! Oh! had I but come in time to
hear them from herself, and give her my own pledge."
"Grieve not that her trust was not brought down to aught of earth,"
said Father Cyril. "She trusted in Heaven, and died in the sure belief
that her child would be guarded; and lo, his protector is come, if, as
I well believe, my son Eustace, you are not changed from the boy who
bade us farewell three years ago."
"If I am changed, it is not in my love for home, and for all who dwell
there," said Eustace, "or rather, I love them better than before.
Little did I dream what a meeting awaited me!" Again there was a long
pause, which Eustace at length broke by saying, "What is the need you
spoke of? What danger do you fear?"
"This is no scene for dwelling on the evil deeds of wicked men
otherwise than to pray for them," said the Priest; "but return with me
to the hall, and you shall hear."
Eustace lingered a few moments longer, before, heaving a deep sigh he
returned to the hall, where he found Gaston and Ingram, just come in
from attending to the horses, and Ralph hurrying the servants in
setting out an ample meal for the travellers.
"My good old friend," said Eustace, holding out his hand as he entered,
"I have not greeted you aright. You must throw the blame on the
tidings that took from me all other thought, Ralph; for never was there
face which I was more rejoiced to see.
"It was the blame of our own reception of you, Sir Eustace," said old
Penrose. "I could tear my hair to think that you should have met with
no better welcome than barred gates and owlet shrieks; but did you but
know how wildly your bugle-blast rose upon our ear, while we sat over
the fire well-nigh distraught with sorrow, you would not marvel that we
deemed that the spirit of our good Knight might be borne upon the
moaning wind."
"Yet," said Arthur, "I knew the note, and would have gone to the turret
window, but that Mistress Cicely held me fast; and when they sent
Jocelyn to look, the cowardly knave brought back the tale which you
broke short."
"Boast not, Master Arthur," said Gaston; "you believed in our ghostship
as fully as any of them."
"But met us manfully," said Eustace. "But why all these precautions?
Why the drawbridge raised? That could scarce be against a ghost."
"Alas! Sir Eustace, there are bodily foes abroad!" said Ralph. "By
your leave, Master d'Aubricour," as Gaston was about to assist his
Knight in unfastening his armour, "none shall lay a hand near Sir
Eustace but myself on this first night of his return; thanks be to St.
Dunstan that he has come!" Eustace stood patiently for several minutes
while the old man fumbled with his armour, and presently came the
exclamation, "A plague on these new-fangled clasps which a man cannot
undo for his life! 'Twas this low corselet that was the death of good
Sir Reginald. I always said that no good would come of these fashions!"
In process of time, Eustace was disencumbered of his heavy armour; but
when he stood before him in his plain dress of chamois leather, old
Ralph shook his head, disappointed that he had not attained the height
or the breadth of the stalwart figures of his father and brother, but
was still slight and delicate looking. The golden spurs and the sword
of Du Guesclin, however, rejoiced the old man's heart, and touching
them almost reverentially, he placed the large arm-chair at the head of
the table, and began eagerly to invite him to eat.
Eustace was too sorrowful and too anxious to be inclined for food, and
long before his followers had finished their meal, he turned from the
table, and asked for an account of what had befallen in his absence;
for there was at that time no more idea of privacy in conversation than
such as was afforded by the comparative seclusion of the party round
the hearth, consisting of the Knight, his arm around his little nephew,
who was leaning fondly against him; of Father Cyril, of Gaston, and old
Ralph, in his wonted nook, his elbow on his knee, and his chin on his
hand, feasting his eyes with the features of his beloved pupil. In
answer to the query, "Who is the enemy you fear?" there was but one
answer, given in different tones, "The Lord de Clarenham!"
"Ha!" cried Eustace, "it was justly then that your father, Arthur, bade
me beware of him when he committed you to my charge on the battle-field
of Navaretta."
"Did he so?" exclaimed Father Cyril. "Did he commit the boy to your
guardianship? Formally and before witnesses?"
"I can testify to it, good Father," said Gaston. "Ay! and you, Ingram,
must have been within hearing--to say nothing of Du Guesclin."
"And Leonard Ashton," said Ingram.
"It is well," said Father Cyril; "he will be here to-morrow to be
confronted with Clarenham. It is the personal wardship that is of
chief importance, and dwelt most on my Lady's mind."
"Clarenham lays claim then to the guardianship?" asked Eustace.
Father Cyril proceeded with a narrative, the substance of which was as
follows:--Simon de Clarenham, as has been mentioned, had obtained from
King Edward, in the days of the power of Isabel and Mortimer, a grant
of the manor of Lynwood, but on the fall of the wicked Queen, the
rightful owner had been reinstated, without, however, any formal
revocation of the unjust grant. Knowing it would cost but a word of
Sir Reginald to obtain its recall, both Simon and Fulk de Clarenham had
done their best to make him forget its existence; but no sooner did the
news of his death reach England, than Fulk began to take an ungenerous
advantage of the weakness of his heir. He sent a summons for the dues
paid by vassals to their Lord on a new succession, and on Eleanor's
indignant refusal, followed it up by a further claim to the wardship of
the person of Arthur himself, both in right of his alleged feudal
superiority, and as the next of kin who was of full age. Again was his
demand refused, and shortly after Lady Lynwood's alarms were brought to
a height by an attempt on his part to waylay her son and carry him off
by force, whilst riding in the neighbourhood of the Castle. The plot
had failed, by the fidelity of the villagers of Lynwood, but the shock
to the lady had increased the progress of the decay of her health,
already undermined by grief. She never again trusted her son beyond
the Castle walls; she trembled whenever he was out of her sight, and
many an hour did she spend kneeling before the altar in the chapel. On
her brother-in-law, Sir Eustace, her chief hope was fixed; on him she
depended for bringing Arthur's case before the King, and, above all,
for protecting him from the attacks of the enemy of his family,
rendered so much more dangerous by his relationship. She did not
believe that actual violence to Arthur's person was intended, but
Fulk's house had of late become such an abode of misrule, that his
mother and sister had been obliged to leave it for a Convent, and the
tales of the lawlessness which there prevailed were such that she would
have dreaded nothing more for her son than a residence there, even if
Fulk had no interest in oppressing him.
That Eustace should return to take charge of his nephew before her
death was her chief earthly wish, and when she found herself rapidly
sinking, and the hope of its fulfilment lessening, she obtained a
promise from Father Cyril that he would conduct the boy to the Abbey of
Glastonbury, and there obtain from the Abbot protection for him until
his uncle should return, or the machinations of Fulk be defeated by an
appeal to the King.
This was accordingly Father Cyril's intention. It was unavoidable that
Fulk, the near kinsman of the deceased, should be present at the
funeral, but Father Cyril had intended to keep Arthur within the
sanctuary of the chapel until he could depart under the care of twelve
monks of Glastonbury, who were coming in the stead of the Abbot--he
being, unfortunately, indisposed. Sir Philip Ashton had likewise been
invited, in the hope that his presence might prove a check upon
Clarenham.