Thy pity hath been balm to heal their wounds,
Thy mildness hath allayed their swelling griefs,
Thy mercy dried their ever flowing tears.
--SHAKESPEARE.
Early in the morning, while the wintry sun was struggling with mists,
and grass and leaves were dark with frost, the Prioress was in her
saddle. Perhaps the weather might have constrained a longer stay, but
that it was clear to her keen eyes that, however welcome Wenlock might
make his young lady, there was little provision and no welcome for
thorough-going Lancastrians like Sir Giles’s troop, who had besides a
doubtful Robin Hood-like reputation; and as neither she nor Anne wished
to ride forward without them, they decided to go on all together as
before.
And a very wet and slightly snowy journey they had, ‘meeting in snow
and parting in snow,’ as Hal said, as he marched by Anne’s bridle-rein,
leading her pony, so as to leave her hands free to hold cloak and hood
close about her.
She sighed, and put one hand on his, but a gust of wind took that
opportunity of getting under her cloak and sending it fluttering over
her back, so that he had to catch it and return it to her grasp.
‘Let us take that as a prophecy that storms shall not hinder our further
meeting! It may be! It may be! Who knows what my King may do for us?’
‘Only a storm can bring us together! But that may--’
Her breath was blown away again before the sentence was finished, if
it was meant to be finished, and Master Lorimer came to insist on the
ladies taking shelter in his covered waggon, where the Prioress was
already installed.
Through rain and sleet they reached Chipping Barnet in due time on the
third day’s journey, and here they were to part from the merchant’s
wains. He had sent forward, and ample cheer was provided at the handsome
timbered and gabled house at the porch of which stood his portly wife,
with son, daughter, and son-in-law, ready to welcome the party, bringing
them in to be warmed and dried before sitting down to the excellent
meal which it had been Mistress Lorimer’s pride and pleasure to provide.
There was a small nunnery at Barnet, but not very near, and the Prioress
Agnes did not think herself bound to make her way thither in the dark
and snow, so she remained, most devoutly waited on by her hostess, and
discussed the very last tidings, which had been brought that morning
by the foreman whom Mistress Lorimer had sent to bring the news to her
husband.
It was probable that the Lord of Bletso was with Warwick and the Queen,
as he had not been heard of at his home. The King was in the royal
apartments of the Tower, under the charge of the Chancellor. The Earl of
Oxford, a steady partisan of the Red Rose, was Constable of the Kingdom,
and was guarding the Tower.
On hearing this, Musgrave decided to repair at once to the Earl, one of
the few men in whom there was confidence, since he had never changed
his allegiance, and to take his counsel as to the recognition of young
Clifford. On the way to the Tower they would leave the Prioress and her
suite at the Sister Minoresses’, till news could be heard of the Baron
St. John.
So for the last time the travellers rode forth in slightly improved
weather. Harry’s heart beat high with the longing soon to be in the
presence of him who had opened so many doors of life to his young mind,
whom he so heartily loved, and who, it might be, could give him that
which he began to feel would be the joy of his life.
The archers, who had been lodged in the warehouses, were drawn up in a
compact body, and Master Lorimer, who had a shop in Cheapside, decided
on accompanying them, partly to be at the scene of action and partly to
facilitate their entrance.
So Hal walked by the side of Anne St. John’s bridle-rein, with a very
full heart, swelling with sensations he did not understand, and which
kept him absolutely silent, untrained as he was in the conventionalities
which would have made speech easier to him. Nor had Anne much more
command of tongue, and all she did was to keep her hand upon the
shoulder of her squire; but there was much involuntary meaning in the
yearning grasp of those fingers, and both fed on the hopes the Prioress
had given them.
Christmas was close at hand, and fatted cattle on their way to market
impeded the way, so that Hal’s time was a good deal taken up in steering
the pony along, and in preventing Watch from getting into a battle with
the savage dogs that guarded them. Penrith market, where once he had
been, had never shown him anything like such a concourse, and he could
hear muttered exclamations from the archers, who walked by Sir Giles’s
orders in a double line on each side the horses, their pikes keeping off
the blundering approach of bullocks or sheep. ‘By the halidome, if
the Scots were among them, they might victual their whole kingdom till
Domesday!’
The tall spire of old St. Paul’s and the four turrets of the Tower began
to rise on them, and were pointed out by Master Lorimer, for even Sir
Giles had only once in his life visited the City, and no one else of the
whole band from the north had ever been there. The road was bordered by
the high walls of monasteries, overshadowed by trees, and at the deep
gateway of one of these Lorimer called a halt. It was the house of the
Minoresses or Poor Clares, where the ladies were to remain. The six
weeks’ companionship would come to an end, and the Prioress was heartily
sorry for it. ‘I shall scarce meet such good company at the Clares’,’
she said, laughing, as she took leave of Lord Musgrave, ‘Mayhap when
I go back to my hills I shall remember your goodwife’s offer of
hospitality, Master Lorimer.’
Master Lorimer bowed low, expressed his delight in the prospect, and
kissed the Prioress’s hand, but the heavy door was already being opened,
and with an expressive look of drollery and resignation, the good lady
withdrew her hand, hastily brought her Benedictine hood and veil closely
over her face, and rode into the court, followed by her suite. Anne had
time to let her hand be kissed by Sir Giles and Hal, who felt as if a
world had closed on him as the heavy doors clanged together behind the
Sisters. But the previous affection of his young life lay before him as
Sir Giles rode on to the fortified Aldgate, and after a challenge from
the guard, answered by a watchword from Lorimer, and an inquiry for whom
the knight held, they were admitted, and went on through an increasing
crowd trailing boughs of holly and mistletoe, to the north gateway of
the Tower. Here they parted with Lorimer, with friendly greetings and
promises to come and see his stall at Cheapside.
There was a man-at-arms with the star of the De Veres emblazoned on his
breast, and a red rosette on his steel cap, but he would not admit the
new-comers till Sir Giles had given his name, and it had been sent in by
another of the garrison to the Earl of Oxford.
Presently, after some waiting in the rain, and looking up with awe at
the massive defences, two knights appeared with outstretched hands of
welcome. Down went the drawbridge, up went the portcullis, the horses
clattered over the moat, and the reception was hearty indeed. ‘Well met,
my Lord of Musgrave! I knew you would soon be where Red Roses grew.’
‘Welcome, Sir Giles! Methought you had escaped after the fight at
Hexham.’
‘Glad indeed to meet you, brave Sir John, and you, good Lord of
Holmdale! Is all well with the King?’
‘As well as ever it will be. The Constable is nigh at hand! You have
brought us a stout band of archers, I see! We will find a use for them
if March chooses to show his presumptuous nose here again!’
‘And hither comes my Lord Constable! It rejoices his heart to hear of
such staunch following.’
The Earl of Oxford, a stern, grave man of early middle age, was coming
across the court-yard, and received Sir Giles with the heartiness that
became the welcome of a proved and trustworthy ally. After a few words,
Musgrave turned and beckoned to Hal, who advanced, shy and colouring.
‘Ha! young Lord Clifford! I am glad to see you! I knew your father well,
rest his soul! The King spoke to me of the son of a loyal house living
among the moors.’
‘The King was very good to me,’ faltered Hal, crimson with eagerness.
‘Ay, ay! I sent not after you, having enough to do here; and besides,
till we have the strong hand, and can do without that heady kinsman
of Warwick, it will be ill for you to disturb the rogue--what’s his
name--to whom your lands have been granted, and who might turn against
the cause and maybe make a speedy end of you if he knew you present.
Be known for the present as Sir Giles counsels. Better not put his name
forward,’ he added to Musgrave.
‘I care not for lands,’ said Hal, ‘only to see the King.’
‘See him you shall, my young lord, and if he be not in one of his
trances, he will be right glad to see you and remember you. But he is
scarce half a man,’ added Oxford, turning to Musgrave. ‘Cares for nought
but his prayers! Keeps his Hours like a monk! We can hardly bring him to
sit in the Council, and when he is there he sits scarce knowing what we
say. ‘Tis my belief, when the Queen and Prince come, that we shall have
to make the Prince rule in his name, and let him alone to his prayers!
He will be in the church. ‘Tis nones, or some hour as they call it, and
he makes one stretch out to another.’
They entered the low archway of St. Peter ad Vincula, and there Hal
perceived a figure in a dark mantle just touched with gold, kneeling
near the chancel step, almost crouching. Did he not know the attitude,
though the back was broader than of old? He paused, as did his
companions; but there was one who did not pause, and would not be left
outside. Watch unseen had pattered up, and was rearing up, jumping and
fawning. There was a call of ‘Watch! here sirrah!’ but ‘Watch! Watch!
Good dog! Is it thou indeed?’ was exclaimed at the same moment, and with
Watch springing up, King Henry stood on his feet looking round with his
dazed glance.
‘My King! my hermit father! Forgive! Down, Watch!’ cried Hal, falling
down at his feet, with one arm holding down Watch, who tried to lick his
face and the King’s hand by turns.
‘Is it thou, my child, my shepherd?’ said Henry, his hands on the lad’s
head. ‘Bless thee! Oh, bless thee, much loved child of my wanderings! I
have longed after thee, and prayed for thee, and now God hath given thee
to me at this shrine! Kneel and give the Lord thy best thanks, my
lad! Ah! how tall thou art! I should not have known thee, Hal, but for
Watch.’
‘It is well,’ muttered Oxford to Musgrave. ‘I have not seen him so well
nor so cheery all this day. The lad will waken him up and do him good.’