Lady de Vere and her Lovely Guest. Innocence and Purity endangered.
The King’s Confessor and the Franciscan Friar.
After the spectacle was over, and whilst the homeward procession was
forming, Sir Patrick Hepborne was surprised by the wave of a fair hand,
accompanied by a smiling bow of acknowledgment from a very beautiful
woman in one of the balconies close to that of the King. From the
richness of her attire, and the place that had been allotted to her,
she was evidently a lady of some consequence. He returned the
compliment, but, whilst he did so, he felt unconscious of having ever
spoken to her, although, upon re-perusing her face, he remembered her
as one whom he had seen at the King’s banquets, where he had observed
that she was particularly noticed by the Sovereign. Turning to Sir
Miles Stapleton, who stood by him, he besought him to tell her name.
“What,” exclaimed Sir Miles in reply, “hast thou been at our English
Court for so many days, Sir Patrick, and yet knowest thou not the Lady
de Vere? Depardieux, it doth much surprise me that she hath not sooner
sought thine acquaintance, for, by the Rood, she is a merry madam, and
fond of variety. She hath been married but a short space, yet she
already changeth her lovers as she doth her fancy robes.”
“Is it possible?” cried Hepborne, in astonishment.
“Possible, Sir Patrick!” returned the English knight; “perdie, I am
surprised at thy seeming wonder. Are Scottish ladies then so constant
to their lords that thou shouldst think this fickleness so great a
marvel in the Lady de Vere? She hath been for some time an especial
favourite of Majesty; that is, I would have thee to understand me, in
friendship, not par amours, though there be evil tongues that do say as
much.”
“Indeed?” cried Hepborne.
“Yea, they scruple not to say so,” continued Sir Miles; “but I, who
better know the King, do verily believe that, albeit he is much given
to idle dalliance with these free ladies of this licentious Court,
there be but little else to accuse him of. Thou needst have no fear,
therefore, Sir Patrick, that the dread of Majesty will interfere with
thy happiness, if it be her will to receive thee as a lover; so I wish
thee joy of thy conquest. Trust me, I do more envy thee than I do the
brave conqueror of the Lord Welles, much glory as he hath gained.”
Sir Patrick turned away, at once confounded and disgusted. What! the
Lady Eleanore de Selby, of whose excellence he had heard so much, the
friend of the Lady Beatrice—was it possible that the contamination of a
Court could have already rendered her a person of character so loose?
He was shocked at the thought. He turned again to watch her motions,
when he observed the King himself advance towards her as she was
preparing to get into her saddle, and a private conversation pass
between them, that drew the eyes of all the courtiers upon them; but
Sir Patrick being called away to join the Scottish party, lost the
opportunity of observing the conclusion of their conference.
Whilst the procession was dispersing in the court-yard of the Tower,
the Lady de Vere entered, riding on a piebald palfry, richly
caparisoned. She was surrounded by a group of gay chevaliers, with whom
she was talking and laughing loudly; but she no sooner espied Hepborne
than she broke from among them and advanced to meet him.
“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said she, smiling, “it erketh me that mine evil
fortune hath hitherto yielded me no better than public opportunity to
know him, who, by consent of all, is acknowledged to be the flower of
Scottish chivalry. Trust me, my private apartments shall be ever open
to so peerless a knight.”
“Nay, Lady,” replied Sir Patrick, “the title thou hast been pleased to
bestow on me belongeth not to me but to Sir David Lindsay and Sir
William Dalzel, who have this day so nobly supported the honour of
Scotland.”
“They are brave knights, ’tis true,” replied the lady; “yet be there
other qualifications in knighthood than mere brute strength or brute
courage. That thou hast enow of both of these to the full as well as
they, we who have heard of Otterbourne do well know. But in the graces
of knightly deportment there be few who admit them to be thine equal,
and of that few I do confess myself not to be one.”
Hepborne bowed; but, disgusted alike with her freedom and flattery, he
gave token of approval neither by manner nor words.
“These are my apartments, Sir Knight,” continued the lady, pointing to
a range of windows in a wing of the palace. “If thou canst quit the
banquet to spend some merry hours with me this evening, trust me, thou
shalt meet with no cold reception from the Lady de Vere.”
This invitation was seasoned by some warm glances, that spoke even more
than her words; but Sir Patrick received both the one and the other
with a silent and formal obeisance. The lady turned towards a flight of
steps, and being assisted to dismount by an esquire, she tripped up
stairs and along a covered terrace. A door opened at its farther
extremity, and a lady appeared for a moment. It was the Lady Beatrice;
he could not be mistaken; her image was now too deeply engraven on his
heart. The blood bounded for a moment within his bosom, rushed through
each artery with the heat and velocity of lightning, and then, as the
thought of the Lady de Vere’s character arose within his mind, it
returned cold as ice to its fountain-head, and froze up every warm
feeling there. He felt faint, and his head grew giddy. He looked
towards the door where the ladies were saluting each other with every
mark of kindness, and his eyes grew dim as they vanished within the
entrance.
Almost unconscious of what he was doing, Sir Patrick turned his horse
to go to his lodgings. As he recovered from the stunning effect of the
spectacle he beheld, his mind began to be agonized by the most
distressing thoughts. It was impossible that the Lady Beatrice, whom he
believed to be so pure, could be the willing guest of so vile a woman,
knowing her to be such. Yet, though such was his impression, he knew
not well what to think. It was most strange that the Lady de Vere
should have thus urged him to visit her while Beatrice was with her;
unless, indeed, the latter were privy to it, and that it was on her
account. But be this as it might, he liked not the complexion of
matters; and, in a state of great perplexity and unhappiness, he
reached the wine merchant’s, where, having given his horse to a groom,
he slowly sought his chamber, unwillingly to prepare for the banquet.
In going along the passage which led to his apartments, thinking of
what so much occupied him, he, in a fit of absence, opened a door,
believing it to be his own; and, to his great surprise, he found
himself in a room, where some dozen or twenty persons were seated at a
long table, on which lay some papers. His host was there among the
rest, and the appearance of the knight threw the whole party into
dismay and confusion. Hepborne drew back with an apology, and hastily
shut the door; but he had hardly reached his own, when he heard the
steps of his host coming hurrying after him.
“Sir Knight,” said Master Ratcliffe, “’twas but some of those with whom
I have had money dealings, come to settle interest with me.”
As Hepborne looked in his face, he was surprised to notice that it had
exchanged its generous ruby red for a deadly paleness; the wine
merchant was evidently disturbed; but neither this observation, nor the
confusion he had occasioned among the party whom he had seen
surrounding the table, could then find room in his mind for a moment’s
thought. He therefore hastily explained that the interruption had been
quite accidental on his part, and the wine merchant left him apparently
satisfied. It will be easily believed that Sir Patrick Hepborne was but
ill attuned for the revelry of the Royal banquet. He sat silent and
abstracted, ruminating on the monstrous and afflicting conjunction he
had that day witnessed, and perplexing himself with inventing
explanations of the cruel doubts that were perpetually arising in his
mind. The King broke up the feast at an earlier hour than usual, and
Sir Patrick, glad to escape from the crowd, stole away by himself.
As he was leaving the palace, he turned his eyes towards the casements
of the Lady de Vere. They were eminently conspicuous, for they were
open, and lighted up with great brilliancy, while the sound of the harp
came from them. He thought of the invitation he had received, and hung
about for some time, weighing circumstances, and hesitating whether he
should immediately avail himself of it, that he might ascertain the
truth, or whether he should, in the first place, endeavour to gather it
by some other means. Passion argued for the first, as the most decided
step, and prudence urged the second as the wisest plan; but whilst he
was tossed between them, he was gradually drawn towards the windows by
the unseen magnet within. As he got nearer, he ascertained that it was
a man’s voice that sung the melody and words, to which the instrument
was an accompaniment; and by the time he reached the bottom of the
flight of steps, he could catch the remaining verses of a ballad, part
of which had been already sung. They were nearly as follows:—
“And wilt thou break thy faith with me,
And dare our vows to rend?”
“Hence!” cried the angry sire; “with thee
My Eda ne’er shall wend.
“Her name doth prouder match demand;
Lord Henry comes to-night;
He comes to take her promised hand,
And claim a husband’s right.
“Then hence!”—The knight, in woful guise,
Turned from the perjured gate;
The maiden heard her lover’s sighs,
All weeping where she sate.
“Now up and run, my bonnie page,
Fly with the falcon’s wing,
Fly swiftly to Sir Armitage,
And give to him this ring.
“And tell him, when the rippling ford
Shall catch the moonbeams light,
I’ll leave the hated bridal board,
To meet him there to-night.”
The boy he found Sir Armitage
In greenwood all so sad;
But when he spied his lady’s page,
His weeping eyne grew glad.
And up leaped he for very joy,
And kissed his lady’s ring,
And much he praised the bonny boy
Who did such message bring.
“I’ll meet my lady by the stream,
So, boy, now hie thee home;
I’ll meet her when the moon’s broad beam
Comes dancing over the foam.”
And now to grace the wedding-feast
The demoiselles prepare;
There were the bridegroom, sire, and priest,
But Eda was not there.
She left her tyrant father’s tower,
To seek her own true knight;
She met him at the trysted hour,
Prepared to aid her flight.
“Sir Armitage, with thee I’ll ride
Through flood, o’er fell so steep;
Though destined for another’s bride,
My vow to thee I’ll keep.”
“Oh bless thee, bless thee, lady mine,
That true thy heart doth prove;
Before yon moon hath ceased to shine,
The priest shall bless our love.”
He raised her on his gallant steed,
And sprang him to his selle;
“Keep, keep thy seat, my love, with heed,
And grasp my baldrick well.”
Beneath the moon the wavelets flash’d,
Struck by the courser’s heel,
And through the ford he boldly dash’d,
Spurr’d by the pointed steel.
High up his sides the surges rose,
And washed the blood away;
They lav’d fair Eda’s bridal-clothes,
And fill’d her with dismay.
“Alas, the stream is strong,” she cried.
“Fear not, my love,” said he;
“’Tis here the waters deepest glide,
Anon we shall be free.”
Behind them rung a wild alarm,
And torches gleam’d on high;
Forth from the Castle came a swarm,
With yells that rent the sky.
Again the knight his iron heel
Dash’d in his courser’s side.
He plung’d—his powerful limbs did reel—
He yielded to the tide.
Down went both mailed horse and knight;
The maid was borne away,
And flash’d the moonbeam’s silver light
Amid the sparkling spray.
His daughter’s shriek the father heard,
Far on the moonlit wave;
A moment Eda’s form appear’d,
Then sunk in watery grave.
Peace never blest the sire again;
He curst ambitious pride,
That made him hold his promise vain,
And sacred oaths deride.
Still in his eye his sinking child,
Her shriek still in his ear,
Reft of his mind, he wanders wild
Midst rocks and forests drear.
But where that cross in yonder shade
Oft bends the pilgrim’s knee,
There sleep the gentle knight and maid
Beneath their trysting tree.
When the musician had finished, Sir Patrick Hepborne still continued to
loiter with his arm on the balustrade of the stair, when the door
opened, and he heard a feeble step on the terrace above. He looked
upwards, and the light of a lamp that was burning in a niche fell on
the aged countenance of a man who was descending. It was Adam of
Gordon.
“Adam of Gordon!” exclaimed Sir Patrick.
“And who is he, I pray, who doth know Adam of Gordon so far from home?”
demanded the minstrel. “Ah, Sir Patrick Hepborne; holy St. Cuthbert, I
do rejoice to see thee. Trust me, the ready help thou didst yield me at
Forres hath not been forgotten; though thou didst sorely mar my verses
by thine interruption. Full many sithes have I tried to awaken that
noble subject, but the witchery of inspiration is past, and——”
“But how camest thou here?” demanded Hepborne, impatiently interrupting
him.
“Sir Knight, I came hither with a lady from the Borders,” said Adam,
hesitatingly; “a lady that——”
“Nay, speak not so mystically, old man,” replied Hepborne; “I am
already well aware of the story of the Lady Beatrice, and heartily do I
curse mine own folly for permitting jealousy so to hoodwink mine eyes
as to make me run blindly away from mine own happiness. I already guess
that it was she whom thou didst accompany hither, and I know that she
is now an inmate of those apartments, with the Lady de Vere, the
daughter of the late Sir Walter de Selby.”
“Nay, nay, so far thou art wrong, Sir Knight,” replied the Minstrel.
“She to whom these apartments do belong is not the daughter of Sir
Walter de Selby. True it is, indeed, that when the Lady Eleanore did
leave Norham Castle, she did call the companion of her flight by the
name of Sir Hans de Vere, a Zealand knight, kinsman to the Duke of
Ireland; but some strange mystery doth yet hang over this affair, for
he who doth own these gay lodgings, and who is the husband of this gay
madam, is the identical Sir Hans de Vere I have just described, and yet
he knoweth nought of the Lady Eleanore de Selby.”
“Thy speech is one continued riddle, good Adam,” said Hepborne; “canst
thou not explain to me?”
“Nay, of a truth, Sir Knight, thou dost know as much as I do,” said the
minstrel. “What hath become of the Lady Eleanore de Selby no one can
tell. If he that she married be indeed a De Vere, he is at least no kin
to the Duke of Ireland, as he or she would have us believe. There have
been De Veres enow about the English Court since this King Richard
began his reign, albeit that the day may be gone by with many of them,
sith that their chief, the Duke of Ireland, hath been forced to flee
into Zealand, where his race had its origin. But of all the De Veres,
none doth answer the description of him whom the Lady Beatrice and I
did see carry off the Lady Eleanore de Selby from Norham.”
“Strange, most strange,” said Sir Patrick Hepborne; “but knowest thou
aught of this Lady de Vere? Men’s tongues do talk but lightly of her.”
“Nay, in good truth, I have begun to entertain strange notions of her
myself,” replied Adam. “By’r Lady, she would have had me sing some
virelays to-night that were light and warm enow, I promise thee, had I
not feigned that I knew them not; and, by my troth, she spared not to
chide me for my sober minstrelsy, the which she did tauntingly compare
to the chanting of monks. My Lady, quoth I, consider I am but a rude
Border——”
“But say, old man,” cried Hepborne, impatiently interrupting him, “how
did the Lady Beatrice seek shelter with such a woman? Quick, tell me, I
beseech thee, for I must hasten to rescue the poor and spotless dove
from the clutch of this foul howlet.”
“In the name of the Virgin, then, let us lose no time in thinking how
it may best be done,” said Adam of Gordon earnestly; “St. Andrew be
praised that thou, Sir Knight, art so willing to become the protector
of an angel, who——Yet I dare not say how much thou art beloved. But,
hush! we may be overheard here in the open air. Let us retreat to my
garret yonder, where I will tell thee all I can, and then we may, with
secrecy and expedition, concert what steps thou hadst best take.”
Hepborne readily followed the minstrel to his small chamber, and there
he learned the following particulars.
The Lady Beatrice had no sooner recovered from the swoon into which she
had been thrown by the appearance of the Franciscan at Sir Walter de
Selby’s funeral, than she sent for the Minstrel, of whose attachment
and fidelity she had already had many a proof, and imparted to him her
design of quitting Norham Castle immediately. Without communicating her
intention to any one else, she mounted that milk-white palfrey which
had been the gift of Hepborne, and travelled with all speed to
Newcastle, where she sought shelter in the house of a widowed sister of
Sir Walter de Selby. There she lived for a short time in retirement,
until at last she adopted the resolution of visiting London in search
of her friend the Lady Eleanore, whom she believed now to be the Lady
de Vere, that she might communicate to her the death of her father, if
she had not already heard of that event, and entreat from her a
continuance of that protection which she had so long afforded her. She
and the Minstrel, therefore, went on board a ship sailing for the
Thames; but having been tossed about by contrary winds, and even
compelled to seek safety more than once in harbours by the way, they
had only arrived in the metropolis three days before that of which we
are now speaking.
The Minstrel was immediately employed by the Lady Beatrice to make
inquiry for the Lady de Vere, and he was readily directed to the
lodgings of the lady of that name in the Tower. But he was no sooner
introduced into her presence and that of her husband, Sir Hans de Vere,
than he discovered that there was some strange mistake. To exculpate
himself for his seeming intrusion on a knight and lady to whom he was
an utter stranger, he explained the cause of his coming, and told whom
he sought for, when, to his great dismay, he learned that no such
persons as those he described were known about the Court. Filled with
chagrin, he returned to the Lady Beatrice, whose vexation may be more
easily conceived than described. She was a stranger in London, in a
wretched hostel, without a friend but old Adam to advise her, and
severed for ever, as she feared, from the only human being on whom she
could say that she had the least claim for protection. Despair came
upon her, and hiding her face in her hands, she gave full way to her
grief.
Whilst she sat in this wretched situation, in which Adam in vain
exerted himself to comfort her, a page arrived, with a kind message
from Sir Hans and Lady de Vere, in which they offered her their house
as a home, until she should have time to determine as to her future
conduct. So friendly, so seasonable a proposal, was not to be rejected
in her circumstances, even coming as it did from strangers, and the
Lady Beatrice gladly became the guest of the Lady de Vere.
So far went the Minstrel’s knowledge; but leaving Sir Patrick to
question him as he pleases, we shall ourselves more deeply investigate
the circumstances, as well as the secret springs of action which
produced this event. It happened that just after the Minstrel’s
interview with the Lady de Vere, King Richard came to idle an hour with
her as he was often wont to do to gather the gossip of the Court. The
lady told him what had passed, and the Monarch joined with her in the
laugh it occasioned. The Lady de Vere had extracted enough of
Beatrice’s history from the Minstrel to be able to answer the King’s
questions.
“And who may this Beatrice be?” demanded Richard.
“A damsel, I believe, whom old De Selby picked up at the door of a
Scottish peasant, and whom he fancied to educate as a companion to his
daughter Eleanore,” replied Lady de Vere; “doubtless, now that he is
dead, she seeks to hang herself about the neck of the heiress of her
patron.”
“And sith that she hath so come, might we not find some other neck for
her to hang about?” said the King laughing. “Pr’ythee, send for her
hither; we should be well contented to see this stray bird.”
The Lady de Vere well knew her advantage in humouring all the wild
fancies that entered the King’s head, and accordingly gave immediate
obedience to his wishes, by sending to Beatrice the message we have
already noticed. Fatigued to death by her voyage, Beatrice had no
sooner complied with the invitation she had received, than she was
compelled to retire to the apartment the Lady de Vere had prepared for
her; and she continued so long indisposed that she was unable to be
present at the tilting.
Towards the evening of that day, however, she was so far recovered as
to quit her room; and, accordingly, when the procession returned from
London Bridge, she hastened to pour out her gratitude to the Lady de
Vere for the hospitable reception she had given her.
Sir Hans went to the King’s banquet, but his lady remained with
Beatrice; and the Minstrel was sent for to amuse them with his ballads.
There was something free and bold in the manner of the Lady de Vere
that was by no means agreeable to Beatrice; but believing that there
was nothing worse in it than an unfortunate manner, she endeavoured to
reconcile herself to it, in one who had shown her so much apparent
friendship.
They were seated in a luxuriously-furnished apartment, hung with
tapestry of the richest hues, and lighted up by silver lamps, when the
door opened, and Sir Hans de Vere entered, ushering in a young man,
whom he introduced as the Earl of Westminster. The Lady de Vere smiled
on the young nobleman, and Beatrice, though she had never heard of such
a title, was aware that new lords were created so frequently, that
there was little wonder she should be ignorant of it. The young Earl,
who was very handsome, seemed to be on habits of great intimacy with
Sir Hans de Vere and his lady. He seated himself by the Lady Beatrice,
and began to trifle pleasantly with her, mixing up a thousand courtly
compliments with the agreeable nothings that he uttered. Spiced wine
and sweetmeats were handed round, and soon afterwards a small, but very
tasteful and exquisitely cooked supper appeared, with wines of the
richest flavour. The Lady Beatrice ate little, and refused to touch
wine. The night wore apace. The young Earl of Westminster became more
and more earnest in his endeavours to make himself agreeable to
Beatrice, who began to find considerable amusement in his conversation,
and insensibly permitted him to absorb her whole attention. Suddenly he
began, in a sort of half-serious manner, to address her in a strain of
tenderness that by no means pleased her. She prepared to shift her
place; but what was her astonishment, when, on looking up, she saw that
she and the young Earl were alone. Sir Hans de Vere and his lady had
stolen unnoticed from the apartment. Beatrice started up to follow
them.
“Nay, stay to hear me, lovely Beatrice,” cried the Earl, endeavouring
to detain her.
“Unhand me, my Lord,” cried she boldly, and at the same time tearing
herself from him.
“Hear me, only hear me,” cried the Earl, springing to the door, so as
to cut off her retreat.
This action still more alarmed her. She screamed aloud for help, and
flying to the casement, threw it open; but the Earl dragged her from it
by gentle force, and having shut it, he was vainly endeavouring to
compose her, when the chamber door was burst open by a furious kick,
and Sir Patrick Hepborne appeared, with his drawn sword in his hand.
“King Richard!” cried the knight, starting back with astonishment:
“Doth England’s King so far forget the duty of the high office he doth
hold, as to become the destroyer instead of the protector of innocence?
Yet, by St. Andrew, wert thou fifty times a king, thou shouldst answer
to me for thine insult to that lady. Defend thyself.”
The cool presence of mind exhibited by Richard whilst yet a stripling,
on the memorable occasion of Wat Tyler being struck down by Walworth
the Lord Mayor, showed that he was not constitutionally deficient in
courage; but in this, as in everything else, he was wavering and
uncertain, and no one was more liable than he to yield to sudden panic.
Seeing Hepborne about to spring on him, he darted into an inner room,
the door of which stood ajar.
“Sir Patrick Hepborne!” cried the Lady Beatrice, her lovely face
flushing with the mingled emotions of surprise, joy, gratitude, and
love.
“Yes,” cried the knight, throwing himself on one knee before her, “yes,
Lady Beatrice, he who may now dare to call himself thine own faithful
and true knight—he who hath now had his eyes cleared from the errors
which blinded him—he who, whilst deeply smitten by those matchless
charms, believed that in his adoration of them he was worshipping the
Lady Eleanore de Selby—he who thus believing himself to be deceived and
rejected, did yet continue to nourish the pure and enduring flame in
his bosom after all hope had fled, and who now feels it glow with
tenfold warmth, sith that hope’s gentle gales have again sprung up to
fan it—he who will——But whither is my passion leading me?” cried he,
starting up, and taking Beatrice’s hand; “this is no time for indulging
myself in such a theme, dear as it may be to me. Lady, thou art
betrayed. This is no fit place of sojournance for spotless virtue such
as thine. The false Lady de Vere is one who doth foully minister to the
King’s pleasures. Lose not a moment, I beseech you. I have seen Adam of
Gordon, who waits for us without. Fly then,” cried he, leading her
towards the door, “fly with me; I will be thy protector. Let us haste
from the impure den of this wicked woman, who would have——”
Sir Patrick threw open the door as he pronounced these words, and in an
instant he was prostrated on the floor by the blow of a halbert.
“Seize him and drag him to a dungeon,” cried the Lady de Vere, with
eyes flashing like those of an enraged tigress; “I accuse him of a
treasonable attack on the sacred person of the King of England. He
shall die the death of traitor.” The guards obeyed her, and lifting up
the inanimate body of the knight, bore him away.
“So,” cried the fury, “so perish those who shall dare to insult the
love of the Lady de Vere; and as for thee, minion,” she said, turning
round, “thou art a prisoner there during my pleasure.” And saying so,
she pushed Beatrice into the room, and locked and bolted the door on
the wretched damsel, who fell from her violence, and instantly swooned
away.
When the Lady Beatrice recovered, and began to recollect what had
passed, she arose in a tremor, and tottering to a seat, rested herself
for some moments, throwing her eyes fearfully around the apartment.
Everything in it remained as it was. No one seemed to have entered
since. The lamps had begun to burn so faintly, that they appeared to
tell of the approach of midnight, and this idea was strengthened by the
silence that prevailed everywhere both without and within the palace.
She tried the bolts of the door, but, to her great horror, she found
them fast. A faint hope of escape arose, when she remembered that the
King had disappeared by the inner apartment, whence there might be a
passage leading to other chambers. She snatched up an expiring hand
lamp, and hastened to explore it. But there was no visible mode of exit
from the room, and she now became convinced that the King must have
returned through the apartment whilst she lay insensible, and that some
one had liberated him from without. The recollection of the cruel
wound, which she almost feared might have been Sir Patrick’s death
blow, together with the certainty of his captivity, and the probable
issue of it, now filled her mind with horror; and this, added to the
perplexity of her present situation, so overcame her, that she sat down
and wept bitterly.
The lamps now, one after another, expired, until she was left in total
darkness. She groped her way into the inner apartment, and, having
fastened the door within, threw herself upon the couch, and abandoned
herself to all her wretchedness.
Whilst the Lady Beatrice was lying in this distressing situation, she
was startled by a noise. Suddenly a glare of light flashed upon her
eyes; she rubbed them, and looked towards the spot whence it proceeded.
A man in a friar’s habit stood near the wall; he held a lamp high, that
its light might the better fill the room. Immediately behind him was an
opening in the tapestry, the folds of which being held aside by a hand
and arm, admitted the entrance of another shaven crowned head. To the
terror of the Lady Beatrice, she recognized in this second monk the
piercing eyes and powerful features of the very Franciscan whose dagger
had so alarmed her at Lochyndorbe, and the sight of whom had so
affected her at Sir Walter de Selby’s funeral. She attempted to scream,
but fear so overcame her, that, like one who labours under a nightmare,
her lips moved, but her tongue refused to do its office, and she lay
with her eyes wide open, staring on the object of her dread, in mute
expectation of immediate murder.
“Is she there, Friar Rushak?” said he whom we have known by the name of
the Franciscan.
“She is here,” said the first monk, who bore the lamp; “all is quiet
too—thou mayest safely enter.”
The Franciscan who followed now stepped into the apartment, and came
stealing forward with soft, barefooted tread.
“Give me the light, Friar Rushak, that there may be no mistake,” said
he, taking the lamp from his companion.
The blood grew chill in the Lady Beatrice’s veins as the Franciscan
approached the couch where she lay. He held the lamp so as to throw its
light strongly upon her face.
“It is she indeed,” said he, in a muttering voice, while his features
were lighted up by a grim smile of satisfaction, which gradually faded
away, leaving a severe expression in his lightning eye.
“She trembles,” said Friar Rushak, advancing towards the couch with a
terrible look; “conscious of her own depravity, she is guilt-stricken.”
“Ay, she may well be guilt-stricken,” said the Franciscan.
“Alas, of what am I accused, mysterious man?” cried the Lady Beatrice,
clasping her hands together, and throwing herself on her knees before
them. “Murder me not—murder me not. Let not the holy garments you wear
be stained with the blood of innocence.”
“Innocence!” cried Friar Rushak, “talk not thou of innocence! Why art
thou in these apartments if thou be’st innocent?”
“So help me the pure and immaculate Virgin, I am not here by mine own
consent,” said the unhappy lady. “Murder me not without inquiry—I am a
prisoner here—I was eager to escape—I should have escaped with Sir
Patrick Hepborne, had not——”
“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said the Franciscan, with a ferocious look.
“Ay, so! The curse of St. Francis be upon him!”
“Nay, nay, curse him not—oh, curse him not!” cried Beatrice, embracing
the Franciscan’s knees. “Murder me if thou wilt, but, oh, curse not
him, who at peril of his noble life would have rescued me from these
hated walls.”
“Yea, again I do say, may he be accursed,” cried the Franciscan, with
increased energy and ferocity of aspect. “Full well do we know thy love
for this infamous knight—full well do we know why he would have
liberated thee.”
“But to find thee here as a toil spread by the Devil to catch the
tottering virtue of King Richard!” cried Friar Rushak.
“Yea,” said the Franciscan, striking his forehead with the semblance of
intense inward feeling, “to find thee a monster so utterly depraved, is
indeed even more than my worst suspicions.”
“What couldst thou hope, minion!” said Friar Rushak sternly; “what
couldst thou hope from fixing thine impure affections on the Royal
Richard.”
“Blessed Virgin,” cried the tortured Beatrice, clasping her hands and
throwing her eyes solemnly upwards, “Holy Mother of God, thou who art
truth itself, and who canst well search out the truth in others, if I
do speak aught else than truth now, let thy just indignation strike me
down an inanimate corpse. I am here as an innocent victim to the
treachery of the Lady de Vere. She it was who inveigled me into these
apartments by pretended friendship, that she might make a sacrifice of
me. I knew not even the person of King Richard; and had it not been for
Sir Patrick Hepborne, who so bravely rescued me from his hand——”
“Um,” said Friar Rushak, somewhat moved by what she had uttered; “thine
appeal is so solemn, and it must be confessed that the evidence of
those who did accuse thee of plotting against the King’s heart is
indeed but questionable. It may be—But, be it as it may, it mattereth
not, for thou shalt soon be put beyond the reach of weaving snares for
Richard. Yet shall we try thee anon, for thou shalt see the King, and
if by word or look thou dost betray thyself, this dagger shall search
thy heart, yea, even in the presence of Richard himself.”
“King Richard!” cried Beatrice, with distraction in her looks. “Take me
not before the King; let me not again behold the King. Where have they
carried Sir Patrick Hepborne? In charity let me fly to him; he may now
want that aid which I am bound to yield him.”
“Nay, thou shalt never see him more.” said the Franciscan.
“Oh, say not so, say not so—tell me not that he is dead,” cried the
Lady Beatrice, forgetting everything else in her apprehension for Sir
Patrick; “oh, if a spark of charity burns within your bosoms, let me
hasten to him. I saw him bleeding, and on the ground—I heard him
cruelly condemned to a dungeon—oh, let me be the companion of his
captivity—let me watch by his pillow—let me soothe his sorrows—let me
be his physician. If my warm life’s-blood were a healing balm, this
gushing heart would yield it all for his minutest wound.” Her feelings
overcame her, and she fell back, half fainting, on the floor.
“Raise her head,” said Friar Rushak to the Franciscan, who was bending
over her with some anxiety; and he applied to her nostrils a small
golden box, containing some refreshing odour, which speedily began to
revive her.
“Alas!” said the Franciscan, “however innocently she may be here, as
affects the King, her abandoned love for her seducer hath been too
clearly confessed.”
“She reviveth,” said Friar Rushak; “raise her to her feet. And now let
us hasten, brother; the moments fly fast, and we have yet to effect our
perilous passage through the——”
“Is there no other way?” demanded the Franciscan.
“None,” replied the Friar Rushak; “and if the King should——”
“The King!” repeated Beatrice, with a thrill of dread.
“Ay, Lady, the King,” replied the Friar Rushak, with a strong emphasis
and a desperate expression; “but thou must wear this disguise to
conceal thee,” continued he, opening out a bundle containing a
Franciscan’s habit. “Draw the cowl over thy head and face; follow me
with caution; and whatever thou mayest see, utter no word, or give no
sign, else——Nay, let not thy breath he heard, or——Come on.”
The Friar Rushak now led the way with the lamp, and the Lady Beatrice,
shaking from a dread that even her loose disguise could not conceal,
stepped after him through a spring door behind the tapestry, that led
into a passage in the centre of the wall. The Franciscan followed, and
shut the door behind him. The passage was so narrow, that one person
only could advance at a time. It was strangely crooked also, frequently
bending at right angles, so as to defy all Beatrice’s speculation as to
where they might be leading her. A dead silence was preserved by both
her attendants, and they moved with a caution that allowed not a step
to be heard. Friar Rushak halted suddenly, and turned round; the lamp
flashed upon his face, and showed his angry eye; the Lady Beatrice fell
back in terror into the arms of the Franciscan behind her. Friar Rushak
put his finger to his open mouth, and then told her, in a whisper, to
suppress the high breathing which her fears had created. The Lady
Beatrice endeavoured to obey. Friar Rushak motioned to her and the
Franciscan to remain where they were; he advanced three or four paces
with great caution, and, slowly opening a concealed door, listened for
a moment; then gently pushing aside the tapestry within, he thrust
forward his head, and again withdrawing it, motioned to Beatrice and
the Franciscan to advance.
“They sleep,” whispered he. “Follow me—but no word, sign, or breath, as
thou dost value thy life.”
Friar Rushak entered within the tapestry, and the Lady Beatrice
followed him into a magnificent chamber, lighted by a single lamp. A
gorgeous bed occupied one end of the apartment. Over it, attached to
the heavy Gothic ceiling, was a gilded crown, whence descended a
crimson drapery, richly emblazoned with the Royal Arms of England,
under which lay a young man, his head only appearing above the
bed-clothes. She hastily glanced at his features, which the lamp but
dimly illuminated. It was King Richard. His dark eye-lashes were
closed, but she trembled lest he should awaken. Around the room were
several couches, where his pages ought to have watched, but where they
lay as sound as their Royal master.
They had hardly stepped into the room, when a little dog came growling
from under the King’s bed. The Lady Beatrice had nearly sunk on the
floor, but the little favourite of the monarch instantly recognized
Friar Rushak as a well-known friend, and quietly retreated to his place
of repose. The pages showed no symptom of alarm, but the King turned in
bed, and exposed his head more fully to view. The Lady Beatrice shook
from head to foot as she looked towards him; but her apprehension was
excited yet more immediately, when she beheld Friar Rushak at her side,
with a menacing eye, and a dagger in his grasp. A sign at once conveyed
to her that it was silence he wanted; and though she ventured not to
breathe, her heart beat so against her side as she stood, that she felt
as if the very sound of its pulsations would break the slumbers of all
around her. Again the King was quiet, and Friar Rushak moved on towards
the opposite door. The Lady Beatrice drew the cowl more over her face,
and, without daring to repeat her glance at the King, followed with as
much caution as her sinking knees would permit her to use.
The door was opened by Friar Rushak with the utmost gentleness, and
they found themselves at one extremity of a suite of apartments, the
long perspective of which was seen running onwards from one to another,
and where they could perceive groups of dozing domestics lying on
chairs, and stretched on benches, in every possible position. Through
one of these rooms they passed, and then retreated by a side-door into
a narrow circular stair, by which they descended to the hall of
entrance, where they found about a dozen archers sitting slumbering by
a great fire. These men roused themselves on their approach, and,
starting up, sprang forward to bar their passage with their halberts.
The Lady Beatrice became alarmed, and, in the trepidation that seized
her, dropped the friar’s habit that had hitherto concealed her.
“Ha!” exclaimed one of the soldiers, “a woman and two monks! Who may
that considerate lord have been who hath thus taken the shrift with the
sin?”
“Silence, Barnaby,” cried another man; “that is the holy Father Rushak,
the King’s Confessor.”
“Let me pass, knaves,” cried Rushak.
“Ay, ay, let him pass,” said another man; “he hath right of entrance
and outgoing at all hours. I would not have thee try to stop him, an
thou wouldst sleep in a whole skin to-morrow night.”
The passage was cleared in a moment. The Lady Beatrice, overpowered
with apprehension, was supported by the Franciscan.
“Come on, brother,” cried Friar Rushak.
“She faints,” cried the Franciscan.
“Lift her in thine arms, then,” cried Rushak.
The Franciscan raised her from the ground, and carried her half
senseless to the door. At that moment a man entered, and brushed by
them in breathless haste. He looked behind him at the group.
“The Lady Beatrice!” cried he. “Ha, whither do ye carry her, villains?”
“Answer him not, but run,” said Rushak, flying off at full speed across
the court, followed by the sturdy Franciscan, who carried his fair
burden as if he felt not her weight. The steps of many people were
heard following them. All at once the noise of a desperate scuffle
ensued behind them, and the two monks, who stayed not to inquire the
nature of it, pressed on towards a low archway that ran under the
river-wall. The air blew fresh from the river on Beatrice’s cheek. She
revived, and found that he who carried her was standing near an iron
gate of ponderous strength, which Friar Rushak was making vain attempts
to open.
“Holy St. Francis assist us!” cried he, “I fear that my hands have
erred, and that I have unluckily possessed myself of the wrong key.”
“Hush,” said the Franciscan, “and keep close. The step of the sentinel
on the wall above falls louder. He cometh this way.”
They drew themselves closer to the wall. The sentinel’s step passed
onward to the extremity of his walk, and then slowly returning, it
again moved by, and the sound of it sank along the wall.
“Try the key again, brother,” said the Franciscan; “the man is beyond
hearing.”
Friar Rushak again applied the key; the great bolt yielded before it;
the gate creaked upon its hinges, and the Franciscan deposited his
trembling burden, more dead than alive, in a little skiff that lay in
the creek of the river running under the vault.
“Thanks, kind brother,” said the Franciscan in a low tone of voice, to
Friar Rushak; “a thousand thanks for thy friendly aid.”
“Hush! the sentinel comes again,” whispered Friar Rushak.
They remained perfectly still until the man had completed his turn, and
was gone beyond hearing.
“Now thou mayest venture to depart,” said Friar Rushak—“away, and St.
Francis be with thee!” And so saying, he waved his hand, shut the gate,
and quickly disappeared.
The Franciscan got into the boat. A little crooked man, who had
hitherto lain like a bundle of clothes in the bottom of it, started up,
and began pushing it along by putting his hands against the side-walls
until he got beyond the vault. Then he sat down and pulled the oars.
“Who goes there?” cried the sentinel, “who goes there?—Answer me, an
thou wouldst not have a quarrel-bolt in thy brain.”
The Franciscan minded not, and the little figure went on, pulling with
all his might. Beatrice sat trembling with affright. It was dark, but
she heard the sentinel’s step running along the wall, as if following
the sound of the oars. He halted; the click of the spring of his
arbaleste reached her ear, and the bolt that it gave wings to had
nearly reached her too, for it struck with great force on the inside of
the boat that was opposite to the man who shot it. The rower pulled off
farther into the stream. The sentinel’s cry for raising the guard was
heard; but the tide was now running down, and it bore the little boat
on its bosom with so much swiftness that they soon lost all sound of
the alarm.
“Tell me, oh, tell me who art thou, and whither dost thou carry me?”
cried Beatrice, her heart sinking with alarm as she beheld the walls of
the city left behind them.
“Daughter, this is neither the time nor the place for the explanation
thou dost lack,” replied the Franciscan; “methinks I do hear the sound
of oars behind us. Let me aid thee, Bobbin,” cried he, taking one of
the oars, and beginning to pull desperately.
The united strength of the two rowers now made the little boat fly like
an arrow, and in a short time the eyes of the Lady Beatrice were
attracted by five lights that burned bright in the middle of the river,
and hung in the form of St. Andrew’s cross.
“St. Francis be praised,” cried the Franciscan; “we are now near the
bark that is to give us safety. Pull, Bobbin, my brave heart.”
The lights grew in magnitude in the Lady Beatrice’s eyes, and the water
beneath the shadowy hull blazed with the bright reflection.
“Hoy, the skiff!” cried a stern voice in a north-country accent.
“St. Andrew!” replied the Franciscan.
“Welcome, St. Andrew,” said the voice from the vessel. “Hast thou sped,
holy father?”
“Yea, by the blessing of St. Francis and the Virgin,” replied the
Franciscan.
The lights, which were suspended to a frame attached to the round top
of the short thick mast, were at once extinguished. The skiff came
alongside, and the Lady Beatrice was lifted, unresisting, into the
vessel, and carried directly into the cabin, and in a few minutes the
anchor was weighed.
“So, my brave men,” cried the master to his sailors, after they had got
the anchor on board, “now, hoise up the mainsail. Take the helm,
Bobbin; we shall drop slowly down till daylight doth appear.”
“Art thou sure of shaping thy course safely through all these intricate
windings?” demanded the Franciscan.
“Yea,” replied the commander, “as sure as thou hast thyself seen me
when running between the Bass and the May. What, dost thou think that I
have been herrying these English loons so long without gathering
sea-craft as well as plunder? And then, have I not crooked Bobbin here
as my pilot, who was bred and born in this serpent of a river? By St.
Rule, but he knoweth every sweep and turn, yea, and every sand and
shoal bank, blindfold. Had I not had some such hands on board, how dost
thou think I could have carried off that spice-ship so cunningly,
having to steer her through so many villainous eel-knots?”
“I see thou art not a whit less daring than thy sire,” said the
Franciscan.
“Nay, an I were, I should ill deserve the gallant name of Mercer,”
replied the other. “Thou didst witness enow of his exploits, I ween,
the while that thou wert aboard of him, to remember thee well that he
did neither want head to conceive, boldness to dare, nor coolness to
execute. Trust me, I lack not my father’s spirit; and though I have not
the fortune to sail with a fleet of stout barks at my back, as he was
wont to do, yet, while the timbers of the tough old Trueman do hold
together beneath me, I shall work these Southrons some cruel evil, to
revenge the loss of my father and his ships. Haul from the land,
Bobbin; haul off, to weather that point. Climb the forecastle and look
out there, he who hath the watch.”