Now fare thee well, my master--if true service
Be guerdon'd with hard looks, e'en cut the tow-line,
And let our barks across the pathless flood
Hold different courses--THE SHIPWRECK.
Tressilian walked into the outer yard of the Castle scarce knowing what
to think of his late strange and most unexpected interview with Amy
Robsart, and dubious if he had done well, being entrusted with the
delegated authority of her father, to pass his word so solemnly to leave
her to her own guidance for so many hours. Yet how could he have denied
her request--dependent as she had too probably rendered herself upon
Varney? Such was his natural reasoning. The happiness of her future
life might depend upon his not driving her to extremities; and since no
authority of Tressilian's could extricate her from the power of Varney,
supposing he was to acknowledge Amy to be his wife, what title had he
to destroy the hope of domestic peace, which might yet remain to her,
by setting enmity betwixt them? Tressilian resolved, therefore,
scrupulously to observe his word pledged to Amy, both because it had
been given, and because, as he still thought, while he considered and
reconsidered that extraordinary interview, it could not with justice or
propriety have been refused.
In one respect, he had gained much towards securing effectual protection
for this unhappy and still beloved object of his early affection. Amy
was no longer mewed up in a distant and solitary retreat under the
charge of persons of doubtful reputation. She was in the Castle of
Kenilworth, within the verge of the Royal Court for the time, free from
all risk of violence, and liable to be produced before Elizabeth on
the first summons. These were circumstances which could not but assist
greatly the efforts which he might have occasion to use in her behalf.
While he was thus balancing the advantages and perils which attended her
unexpected presence in Kenilworth, Tressilian was hastily and anxiously
accosted by Wayland, who, after ejaculating, “Thank God, your worship is
found at last!” proceeded with breathless caution to pour into his ear
the intelligence that the lady had escaped from Cumnor Place.
“And is at present in this Castle,” said Tressilian. “I know it, and
I have seen her. Was it by her own choice she found refuge in my
apartment?”
“No,” answered Wayland; “but I could think of no other way of safely
bestowing her, and was but too happy to find a deputy-usher who knew
where you were quartered--in jolly society truly, the hall on the one
hand, and the kitchen on the other!”
“Peace, this is no time for jesting,” answered Tressilian sternly.
“I wot that but too well,” said the artist, “for I have felt these three
days as if I had a halter round my neck. This lady knows not her own
mind--she will have none of your aid--commands you not to be named to
her--and is about to put herself into the hands of my Lord Leicester.
I had never got her safe into your chamber, had she known the owner of
it.”
“Is it possible?” said Tressilian. “But she may have hopes the Earl will
exert his influence in her favour over his villainous dependant.”
“I know nothing of that,” said Wayland; “but I believe, if she is to
reconcile herself with either Leicester or Varney, the side of the
Castle of Kenilworth which will be safest for us will be the outside,
from which we can fastest fly away. It is not my purpose to abide an
instant after delivery of the letter to Leicester, which waits but your
commands to find its way to him. See, here it is--but no--a plague on
it--I must have left it in my dog-hole, in the hay-loft yonder, where I
am to sleep.”
“Death and fury!” said Tressilian, transported beyond his usual
patience; “thou hast not lost that on which may depend a stake more
important than a thousand such lives as thine?”
“Lost it!” answered Wayland readily; “that were a jest indeed! No, sir,
I have it carefully put up with my night-sack, and some matters I have
occasion to use; I will fetch it in an instant.”
“Do so,” said Tressilian; “be faithful, and thou shalt be well rewarded.
But if I have reason to suspect thee, a dead dog were in better case
than thou!”
Wayland bowed, and took his leave with seeming confidence and alacrity,
but, in fact, filled with the utmost dread and confusion. The letter was
lost, that was certain, notwithstanding the apology which he had made to
appease the impatient displeasure of Tressilian. It was lost--it might
fall into wrong hands--it would then certainly occasion a discovery
of the whole intrigue in which he had been engaged; nor, indeed, did
Wayland see much prospect of its remaining concealed, in any event. He
felt much hurt, besides, at Tressilian's burst of impatience.
“Nay, if I am to be paid in this coin for services where my neck is
concerned, it is time I should look to myself. Here have I offended, for
aught I know, to the death, the lord of this stately castle, whose word
were as powerful to take away my life as the breath which speaks it
to blow out a farthing candle. And all this for a mad lady, and a
melancholy gallant, who, on the loss of a four-nooked bit of paper, has
his hand on his poignado, and swears death and fury!--Then there is the
Doctor and Varney.--I will save myself from the whole mess of them. Life
is dearer than gold. I will fly this instant, though I leave my reward
behind me.”
These reflections naturally enough occurred to a mind like Wayland's,
who found himself engaged far deeper than he had expected in a train
of mysterious and unintelligible intrigues, in which the actors seemed
hardly to know their own course. And yet, to do him justice, his
personal fears were, in some degree, counterbalanced by his compassion
for the deserted state of the lady.
“I care not a groat for Master Tressilian,” he said; “I have done more
than bargain by him, and I have brought his errant-damosel within his
reach, so that he may look after her himself. But I fear the poor thing
is in much danger amongst these stormy spirits. I will to her chamber,
and tell her the fate which has befallen her letter, that she may write
another if she list. She cannot lack a messenger, I trow, where there
are so many lackeys that can carry a letter to their lord. And I will
tell her also that I leave the Castle, trusting her to God, her own
guidance, and Master Tressilian's care and looking after. Perhaps she
may remember the ring she offered me--it was well earned, I trow; but
she is a lovely creature, and--marry hang the ring! I will not bear
a base spirit for the matter. If I fare ill in this world for my
good-nature, I shall have better chance in the next. So now for the
lady, and then for the road.”
With the stealthy step and jealous eye of the cat that steals on her
prey, Wayland resumed the way to the Countess's chamber, sliding along
by the side of the courts and passages, alike observant of all around
him, and studious himself to escape observation. In this manner he
crossed the outward and inward Castle yard, and the great arched
passage, which, running betwixt the range of kitchen offices and the
hall, led to the bottom of the little winding-stair that gave access to
the chambers of Mervyn's Tower.
The artist congratulated himself on having escaped the various perils of
his journey, and was in the act of ascending by two steps at once, when
he observed that the shadow of a man, thrown from a door which stood
ajar, darkened the opposite wall of the staircase. Wayland drew back
cautiously, went down to the inner courtyard, spent about a quarter of
an hour, which seemed at least quadruple its usual duration, in walking
from place to place, and then returned to the tower, in hopes to find
that the lurker had disappeared. He ascended as high as the suspicious
spot--there was no shadow on the wall; he ascended a few yards
farther--the door was still ajar, and he was doubtful whether to advance
or retreat, when it was suddenly thrown wide open, and Michael Lambourne
bolted out upon the astonished Wayland. “Who the devil art thou? and
what seekest thou in this part of the Castle? march into that chamber,
and be hanged to thee!”
“I am no dog, to go at every man's whistle,” said the artist, affecting
a confidence which was belied by a timid shake in his voice.
“Sayest thou me so?--Come hither, Lawrence Staples.”
A huge, ill-made and ill-looked fellow, upwards of six feet high,
appeared at the door, and Lambourne proceeded: “If thou be'st so fond of
this tower, my friend, thou shalt see its foundations, good twelve feet
below the bed of the lake, and tenanted by certain jolly toads, snakes,
and so forth, which thou wilt find mighty good company. Therefore, once
more I ask you in fair play, who thou art, and what thou seekest here?”
“If the dungeon-grate once clashes behind me,” thought Wayland, “I am a
gone man.” He therefore answered submissively, “He was the poor juggler
whom his honour had met yesterday in Weatherly Bottom.”
“And what juggling trick art thou playing in this tower? Thy gang,” said
Lambourne, “lie over against Clinton's buildings.”
“I came here to see my sister,” said the juggler, “who is in Master
Tressilian's chamber, just above.”
“Aha!” said Lambourne, smiling, “here be truths! Upon my honour, for a
stranger, this same Master Tressilian makes himself at home among us,
and furnishes out his cell handsomely, with all sorts of commodities.
This will be a precious tale of the sainted Master Tressilian, and will
be welcome to some folks, as a purse of broad pieces to me.--Hark ye,
fellow,” he continued, addressing Wayland, “thou shalt not give Puss
a hint to steal away we must catch her in her form. So, back with that
pitiful sheep-biting visage of thine, or I will fling thee from the
window of the tower, and try if your juggling skill can save your
bones.”
“Your worship will not be so hardhearted, I trust,” said Wayland; “poor
folk must live. I trust your honour will allow me to speak with my
sister?”
“Sister on Adam's side, I warrant,” said Lambourne; “or, if otherwise,
the more knave thou. But sister or no sister, thou diest on point of
fox, if thou comest a-prying to this tower once more. And now I think of
it--uds daggers and death!--I will see thee out of the Castle, for this
is a more main concern than thy jugglery.”
“But, please your worship,” said Wayland, “I am to enact Arion in the
pageant upon the lake this very evening.”
“I will act it myself by Saint Christopher!” said Lambourne. “Orion,
callest thou him?--I will act Orion, his belt and his seven stars
to boot. Come along, for a rascal knave as thou art--follow me! Or
stay--Lawrence, do thou bring him along.”
Lawrence seized by the collar of the cloak the unresisting juggler;
while Lambourne, with hasty steps, led the way to that same sallyport,
or secret postern, by which Tressilian had returned to the Castle, and
which opened in the western wall at no great distance from Mervyn's
Tower.
While traversing with a rapid foot the space betwixt the tower and the
sallyport, Wayland in vain racked his brain for some device which might
avail the poor lady, for whom, notwithstanding his own imminent danger,
he felt deep interest. But when he was thrust out of the Castle, and
informed by Lambourne, with a tremendous oath, that instant death would
be the consequence of his again approaching it, he cast up his hands
and eyes to heaven, as if to call God to witness he had stood to the
uttermost in defence of the oppressed; then turned his back on the proud
towers of Kenilworth, and went his way to seek a humbler and safer place
of refuge.
Lawrence and Lambourne gazed a little while after Wayland, and then
turned to go back to their tower, when the former thus addressed his
companion: “Never credit me, Master Lambourne, if I can guess why thou
hast driven this poor caitiff from the Castle, just when he was to bear
a part in the show that was beginning, and all this about a wench.”
“Ah, Lawrence,” replied Lambourne, “thou art thinking of Black Joan
Jugges of Slingdon, and hast sympathy with human frailty. But, corragio,
most noble Duke of the Dungeon and Lord of Limbo, for thou art as dark
in this matter as thine own dominions of Little-ease. My most reverend
Signior of the Low Countries of Kenilworth, know that our most notable
master, Richard Varney, would give as much to have a hole in this same
Tressilian's coat, as would make us some fifty midnight carousals, with
the full leave of bidding the steward go snick up, if he came to startle
us too soon from our goblets.”
“Nay, an that be the case, thou hast right,” said Lawrence Staples,
the upper-warder, or, in common phrase, the first jailer, of Kenilworth
Castle, and of the Liberty and Honour belonging thereto. “But how
will you manage when you are absent at the Queen's entrance, Master
Lambourne; for methinks thou must attend thy master there?”
“Why thou, mine honest prince of prisons, must keep ward in my absence.
Let Tressilian enter if he will, but see thou let no one come out. If
the damsel herself would make a break, as 'tis not unlike she may, scare
her back with rough words; she is but a paltry player's wench after
all.”
“Nay for that matter,” said Lawrence, “I might shut the iron wicket upon
her that stands without the double door, and so force per force she will
be bound to her answer without more trouble.”
“Then Tressilian will not get access to her,” said Lambourne, reflecting
a moment. “But 'tis no matter; she will be detected in his chamber, and
that is all one. But confess, thou old bat's-eyed dungeon-keeper, that
you fear to keep awake by yourself in that Mervyn's Tower of thine?”
“Why, as to fear, Master Lambourne,” said the fellow, “I mind it not the
turning of a key; but strange things have been heard and seen in that
tower. You must have heard, for as short time as you have been in
Kenilworth, that it is haunted by the spirit of Arthur ap Mervyn, a
wild chief taken by fierce Lord Mortimer when he was one of the Lords
Marchers of Wales, and murdered, as they say, in that same tower which
bears his name.”
“Oh, I have heard the tale five hundred times,” said Lambourne, “and how
the ghost is always most vociferous when they boil leeks and stirabout,
or fry toasted cheese, in the culinary regions. Santo Diavolo, man, hold
thy tongue, I know all about it!”
“Ay, but thou dost not, though,” said the turnkey, “for as wise as thou
wouldst make thyself. Ah, it is an awful thing to murder a prisoner in
his ward!--you that may have given a man a stab in a dark street know
nothing of it. To give a mutinous fellow a knock on the head with the
keys, and bid him be quiet, that's what I call keeping order in the
ward; but to draw weapon and slay him, as was done to this Welsh lord,
THAT raises you a ghost that will render your prison-house untenantable
by any decent captive for some hundred years. And I have that regard
for my prisoners, poor things, that I have put good squires and men of
worship, that have taken a ride on the highway, or slandered my Lord of
Leicester, or the like, fifty feet under ground, rather than I would
put them into that upper chamber yonder that they call Mervyn's Bower.
Indeed, by good Saint Peter of the Fetters, I marvel my noble lord, or
Master Varney, could think of lodging guests there; and if this Master
Tressilian could get any one to keep him company, and in especial a
pretty wench, why, truly, I think he was in the right on't.”
“I tell thee,” said Lambourne, leading the way into the turnkey's
apartment, “thou art an ass. Go bolt the wicket on the stair, and
trouble not thy noddle about ghosts. Give me the wine stoup, man; I am
somewhat heated with chafing with yonder rascal.”
While Lambourne drew a long draught from a pitcher of claret, which he
made use of without any cup, the warder went on, vindicating his own
belief in the supernatural.
“Thou hast been few hours in this Castle, and hast been for the whole
space so drunk, Lambourne, that thou art deaf, dumb, and blind. But we
should hear less of your bragging were you to pass a night with us at
full moon; for then the ghost is busiest, and more especially when a
rattling wind sets in from the north-west, with some sprinkling of rain,
and now and then a growl of thunder. Body o' me, what crackings and
clashings, what groanings and what howlings, will there be at such times
in Mervyn's Bower, right as it were over our heads, till the matter of
two quarts of distilled waters has not been enough to keep my lads and
me in some heart!”
“Pshaw, man!” replied Lambourne, on whom his last draught, joined to
repeated visitations of the pitcher upon former occasions, began to make
some innovation, “thou speakest thou knowest not what about spirits. No
one knows justly what to say about them; and, in short, least said may
in that matter be soonest amended. Some men believe in one thing, some
in another--it is all matter of fancy. I have known them of all sorts,
my dear Lawrence Lock-the-door, and sensible men too. There's a great
lord--we'll pass his name, Lawrence--he believes in the stars and the
moon, the planets and their courses, and so forth, and that they twinkle
exclusively for his benefit, when in sober, or rather in drunken truth,
Lawrence, they are only shining to keep honest fellows like me out
of the kennel. Well, sir, let his humour pass; he is great enough to
indulge it. Then, look ye, there is another--a very learned man, I
promise you, and can vent Greek and Hebrew as fast as I can Thieves'
Latin he has an humour of sympathies and antipathies--of changing lead
into gold, and the like; why, via, let that pass too, and let him pay
those in transmigrated coin who are fools enough to let it be current
with them. Then here comest thou thyself, another great man, though
neither learned nor noble, yet full six feet high, and thou, like a
purblind mole, must needs believe in ghosts and goblins, and such like.
Now, there is, besides, a great man--that is, a great little man, or a
little great man, my dear Lawrence--and his name begins with V, and what
believes he? Why, nothing, honest Lawrence--nothing in earth, heaven, or
hell; and for my part, if I believe there is a devil, it is only because
I think there must be some one to catch our aforesaid friend by the back
'when soul and body sever,' as the ballad says; for your antecedent will
have a consequent--RARO ANTECEDENTEM, as Doctor Bircham was wont to say.
But this is Greek to you now, honest Lawrence, and in sooth learning is
dry work. Hand me the pitcher once more.”
“In faith, if you drink more, Michael,” said the warder, “you will be
in sorry case either to play Arion or to wait on your master on such a
solemn night; and I expect each moment to hear the great bell toll for
the muster at Mortimer's Tower, to receive the Queen.”
While Staples remonstrated, Lambourne drank; and then setting down the
pitcher, which was nearly emptied, with a deep sigh, he said, in an
undertone, which soon rose to a high one as his speech proceeded, “Never
mind, Lawrence; if I be drunk, I know that shall make Varney uphold
me sober. But, as I said, never mind; I can carry my drink discreetly.
Moreover, I am to go on the water as Orion, and shall take cold unless
I take something comfortable beforehand. Not play Orion? Let us see the
best roarer that ever strained his lungs for twelve pence out-mouth
me! What if they see me a little disguised? Wherefore should any man be
sober to-night? answer me that. It is matter of loyalty to be merry;
and I tell thee there are those in the Castle who, if they are not merry
when drunk, have little chance to be merry when sober--I name no names,
Lawrence. But your pottle of sack is a fine shoeing-horn to pull on a
loyal humour, and a merry one. Huzza for Queen Elizabeth!--for the
noble Leicester!--for the worshipful Master Varney!--and for Michael
Lambourne, that can turn them all round his finger!”
So saying, he walked downstairs, and across the inner court.
The warder looked after him, shook his head, and while he drew close and
locked a wicket, which, crossing the staircase, rendered it impossible
for any one to ascend higher than the story immediately beneath Mervyn's
Bower, as Tressilian's chamber was named, he thus soliloquized with
himself--“It's a good thing to be a favourite. I well-nigh lost mine
office, because one frosty morning Master Varney thought I smelled of
aqua vitae; and this fellow can appear before him drunk as a wineskin,
and yet meet no rebuke. But then he is a pestilent clever fellow withal,
and no one can understand above one half of what he says.”