THE LADY OF THE FOREST
“Behold how mercy softeneth still
The haughtiest heart that beats:
Pride with disdain may he answered again,
But pardon at once defeats!”—S. M.
THE so-called forest was in many parts mere open heath, thickly adorned
by the beautiful purple ling, blending into a rich carpet with the dwarf
furze, and backed by thickets of trees in the hollows of the ground.
Across this wild country the tall forester conducted his captives in
silence—moving along with a pace that evidently cost him so little
exertion, and was so steady and even, that his companions might have
supposed it slow, had they only watched it, and not been obliged to keep
up with it. Light of foot as the youth was, he was at times reduced to
an almost breathless run; and Adam plodded along, with strides that
worked his arms and shoulders in sympathy.
After about three miles, when the boy was beginning to feel as if he must
soon be in danger of lagging, they came into a dip of the ground where
stood a long, low, irregular building, partly wood and partly stone,
roofed with shingle in some parts, in others with heather. The last
addition, a deep porch, still retained the fresh tints of the bark on the
timber sides, and the purple of the ling that roofed it.
Sheds and out-houses surrounded it; dogs in couples, horses, grooms, and
foresters, were congregated in the background; but around this new porch
were gathered a troop of peasant women, children, and aged men. The fine
bald brow and profile of the old peasant, the eager face of the
curly-haired child, the worn countenance of the hard-tasked mother, were
all uplifted towards the doorway, in which stood, slightly above them, a
lady, with two long plaited flaxen tresses descending on her shoulders,
under a black silken veil, that disclosed a youthful countenance, full of
pure calm loveliness, of a simple but dignified and devotional
expression, that might have befitted an angel of charity. A priest and a
lady were dispensing loaves and warm garments to the throng around; but
each gift was accompanied by a gentle word from the lady, framed with
difficulty to their homely English tongue, but listened to even by
uncomprehending ears like a strain of Church music.
Adam had expected the forester to turn aside to the group of servants,
but in blank amazement saw him lead the way through the poor at the gate;
and advancing to the porch with a courteous bending of his head, he said
in the soft Provençal—far more familiar than English to Adam’s ears—“Hast
room for another suppliant, mi Dona?”
The sweet fair face lighted up with a sudden sunbeam of joy; and a
musical voice replied. “Welcome, my dearest Lord: much did I need thee
to hear the plaints of some of these thy lieges, which my ears can scarce
understand! But why art thou alone? or rather, why thus strangely
accompanied?”
“These are the captives won by my single arm, whom, according to all laws
of chivalry, thine own true knight thus lays at thy feet, fair lady mine,
to be disposed of at thine own gracious will and pleasure.”
And a smile of such sweetness lightened his features, that a murmur of
“Blessings on his comely face!” ran through the assembly; and Adam
indulged in a gruff startled murmur of “’Tis the Prince, or the devil
himself!” while his young master, comprehending the gesture of the
Prince, and overborne by the lovely winning graces of the Princess,
stepped forward, doffing his cap and bending his knee, and signing to
Adam to follow his example.
“Thou hast been daring peril again!” said the Princess, holding her
husband’s arm, and looking up into his face with lovingly reproachful yet
exulting eyes. “Yet I will not be troubled! Naught is danger to thee!
And yet alone and unarmed to encounter such a sturdy savage as I see
yonder! But there is blood on his brow! Let his hurt be looked to ere
we speak of his fate.”
“He is at thy disposal, mi Dona,” returned Edward: “thou art the judge of
both, and shall decide their lot when thou hast heard their tale.”
“It can scarce be a very dark one,” replied Eleanor, “or thou wouldst
never have led them to such a judge!” Then turning to the prisoners, she
began to say in her foreign English, “Follow the good father, friends—”
when she broke off at fuller sight of the boy’s countenance, and
exclaimed in Provençal, “I know the like of that face and mien!”
“Truly dost thou know it,” her husband replied; “but peace till thou hast
cleared thy present court, and we can be private.—Follow the priest,” he
added, “and await the Princess’s pleasure.”
They obeyed; and the priest led them through a side-door, through which
they could still hear Eleanor’s sweet Castillian voice laying before her
husband her difficulties in comprehending her various petitioners. The
priest being English, was hardly more easily understood than his flock;
and her lady spoke little but _langue d’oui_, the Northern French, which
was as little serviceable in dealing with her Spanish and Provençal as
with the rude West-Saxon-English. Edward’s deep manly tones were to be
heard, however, now interrogating the peasants in their own tongue, now
briefly interpreting to his wife in Provençal; and a listener could
easily gather that his hand was as bounteous, his heart as merciful, as
hers, save where attacks on the royal game had been requited by the
trouble complained of; and that in such cases she pleaded in vain.
The captives, whom her husband had surrendered to her mercy, had been led
into a great, long, low hall, with rudely-timbered sides, and rough beams
to the roof, with a stone floor, and great open fire, over which a
man-cook was chattering French to his bewildered English scullion. An
oak table, and settles on either side of it, ran the whole length of the
hall; and here the priest bade the two prisoners seat themselves. They
obeyed—the boy slouching his cap over his face, averting it, and keeping
as far as possible from the group of servants near the fire. The priest
called for bread, meat, and beer, to be set before them; and after a
moment’s examination of Adam’s bruise, applied the simple remedy that was
all it required, and left them to their meal. Adam took this opportunity
to growl in an undertone, “Does _he_ there know you?” The reply was a
nod of assent. “And you knew him?” Another nod; and then the boy,
looking heedfully round, added in a quick, undertone, “Not till you were
down. Then he helped me to restore you. You forgive me, Adam, now?” and
he held out his hand, and wrung the rugged one of the forester.
“What should I forgive! Poor lad! you could not have striven in the
Longshanks’ grasp! I was a fool not to guess how it was, when I saw you
not knowing which way to look!”
“Hush!” broke in the youth with uplifted hand, as a page of about his own
age came daintily into the hall, gathering his green robe about him as if
he disdained the neighbourhood, and holding his head high under his
jaunty tall feathered cap.
“Outlaws!” he said, speaking English, but with a strong foreign accent,
and as if it were a great condescension, “the gracious Princess summons
you to her presence. Follow me!”
The colour rushed to the boy’s temples, and a retort was on his lips, but
he struggled to withhold it; and likewise speaking English, said, “I
would we could have some water, and make ourselves meeter for her
presence.”
“Scarce worth the pains,” returned the page. “As if thou couldst ever be
meet for her presence! She had rather be rid of thee promptly, than wait
to be regaled with thy May-day braveries—honest lad!”
Again the answer was only restrained with exceeding difficulty; and there
was a scornful smile on the young prisoner’s cheek, that caused the page
to exclaim angrily, “What means that insolence, malapert boy?”
But there was no time for further strife; for the door was pushed open,
and the Prince’s voice called, “Hamlyn de Valence, why tarry the
prisoners?”
“Only, Sir,” returned Hamlyn, “that this young robber is offended that he
hath not time to deck himself out in his last stolen gold chain, to
gratify the Princess!”
“Peace, Hamlyn,” returned the Prince: “thou speakest thou knowest not
what.—Come hither, boy,” he added, laying his hand on his young captive’s
shoulder, and putting him through the door with a familiarity that
astonished Hamlyn—all the more, when he found that while both prisoners
were admitted, he himself was excluded!
Princess Eleanor was alone in another chamber of the sylvan lodge, hung
with tapestry representing hunting scenes, the floor laid with
deer-skins, and deer’s antlers projecting from the wall, to support the
feminine properties that marked it as her special abode. She was
standing when they entered; and was turning eagerly with outstretched
hand and face of recognition, when Prince Edward checked her by saying,
“Nay, the cause is not yet tried:” and placing her in a large carved
oaken chair, where she sat with a lily-like grace and dignity, half
wondering, but following his lead, he proceeded, “Sit thou there, fair
dame, and exercise thy right, as judge of the two captives whom I place
at thy feet.”
“And you, my Lord?” she asked.
“I stand as their accuser,” said Edward. “Advance, prisoners!—Now, most
fair judge, what dost thou decree for the doom of Adam de Gourdon, rebel
first, and since that the terror of our royal father’s lieges, the robber
of his treasurers, the rifler of our Cousin Pembroke’s jewellery, the
slayer of our deer?”
“Alas! my Lord, why put such questions to me,” said Eleanor imploringly,
“unless, as I would fain hope, thou dost but jest?”
“Do I speak jest, Gourdon?” said Edward, regarding Adam with a lion-like
glance.
“’Tis all true,” growled Adam.
“And,” proceeded the Prince, “if thy gentle lips refuse to utter the doom
merited by such deeds, what wilt thou say to hear that, not content with
these traitorous deeds of his own, he fosters the treason of others?
Here stands a young rebel, who would have perished at Evesham, but for
the care and protection of this Gourdon—who healed his wounds, guarded
him, robbed for him, for him spurned the offer of amnesty, and finally,
set on thine own husband in Alton Wood—all to shelter yonder young
traitor from the hands of justice! Speak the sentence he merits, most
just of judges!”
“The sentence he merits?” said Eleanor, with swimming eyes. “Oh! would
that I were indeed monarch, to dispense life or death! What he merits he
shall have, from my whole heart—mine own poor esteem for his fidelity,
and our joint entreaties to the King for his pardon! Brave man—thou
shalt come with me to seek thy pardon from King Henry!”
“Thanks, Lady,” said Adam with rude courtesy; “but it were better to seek
my young lord’s.”
“My own dear young cousin!” exclaimed Eleanor, laying aside her assumed
judicial power, and again holding out her hands to him, “we deemed you
slain!”
“Yes, come hither,” said Edward, “my jailer at Hereford—the rebel who
drew his maiden sword against his King and uncle—the outlaw who would try
whether Leicester fits as well as Huntingdon with a bandit life! What
hast thou to say for thyself, Richard de Montfort?”
“That my fate, be it what it may, must not stand in the way of Adam’s
pardon!” said Richard, standing still, without response to the Princess’s
invitation. “My Lord, you have spoken much of his noble devotion to me
for my father’s sake; but you know not the half of what he has done and
dared for me. Oh! plead for him, Lady!”
“Plead for him!” said Eleanor: “that will I do with all my heart; and
well do I know that the good old King will weep with gratitude to him for
having preserved the life of his young nephew. Yes, Richard, oft have we
grieved for thee, my husband’s kind young companion in his captivity, and
mourned that no tidings could be gained of thee!”
It was not Richard who replied to this winning address. He stood
flushed, irresolute, with eyes resolutely cast down, as if to avoid
seeing the Princess’s sweet face.
Adam, however, spoke: “Then, Lady, I am indeed beholden to you; provided
that the boy is safe.”
“He is safe,” said Prince Edward. “His age is protection sufficient.—My
young cousin, thou art no outlaw: thine uncle will welcome thee gladly;
and a career is open to thee where thou mayst redeem the honour of thy
name.”
The colour came with deeper crimson to the boy’s cheek, as he answered in
a choked voice, “My father’s name needs no redemption!”
Simultaneously a pleading interjection from the Princess, and a warning
growl from De Gourdon, admonished Richard that he was on perilous ground;
but the Prince responded in a tone of deep feeling, “Well said, Richard:
the term does not befit that worthy name. I should have said that I
would fain help thee to maintain its honour. My page once, wilt thou be
so again? and one day my knight—my trusty baron?”
“How can I?” said Richard, still in the same undertone, subdued but
determined: “it was you who slew him and my brothers!”
“Nay, nay!” exclaimed the Princess: “the poor boy thinks all his kindred
are slain!”
“And they are not!” cried Richard, raising his face with sudden
animation. “They are safe?”
“Thy brother Henry died with—with the Earl,” said Eleanor; “but all the
rest are safe, and in France.”
“And my mother and sister?” asked Richard.
“They are likewise abroad,” said the Prince. “And, Richard, thou art
free to join them if thou wilt. But listen first to me. We tarry yet
two days at this forest lodge: remain with us for that space—thy name and
rank unknown if thou wilt—and if thou shalt still look on me as guilty of
thy father’s death, and not as a loving kinsman, who honoured him deeply,
I will send thee safely to the coast, with letters to my uncle, the King
of France.”
Richard raised his head with a searching glance, to see whether this were
invitation or command.
“Thou art my captive,” said Eleanor softly, coming towards him with a
young matron’s caressing manner to a boy whom she would win and
encourage.
“Not captive, but guest,” said Edward; but Richard perceived in the tones
that no choice was left him, as far as these two days were concerned.