NIGHT IN THE WOODS (CONCLUDED): DICK AND JOAN
The horses had by this time finished the small store of provender, and
fully breathed from their fatigues. At Dick’s command, the fire was
smothered in snow; and while his men got once more wearily to saddle, he
himself, remembering, somewhat late, true woodland caution, chose a tall
oak and nimbly clambered to the topmost fork. Hence he could look far
abroad on the moonlit and snow-paven forest. On the south-west, dark
against the horizon, stood those upland, heathy quarters where he and
Joanna had met with the terrifying misadventure of the leper. And there
his eye was caught by a spot of ruddy brightness no bigger than a
needle’s eye.
He blamed himself sharply for his previous neglect. Were that, as it
appeared to be, the shining of Sir Daniel’s camp-fire, he should long
ago have seen and marched for it; above all, he should, for no
consideration, have announced his neighbourhood by lighting a fire of
his own. But now he must no longer squander valuable hours. The direct
way to the uplands was about two miles in length; but it was crossed by
a very deep, precipitous dingle, impassable to mounted men; and for the
sake of speed, it seemed to Dick advisable to desert the horses and
attempt the adventure on foot.
Ten men were left to guard the horses; signals were agreed upon by which
they could communicate in case of need; and Dick set forth at the head
of the remainder, Alicia Risingham walking stoutly by his side.
The men had freed themselves of heavy armour, and left behind their
lances; and they now marched with a very good spirit in the frozen snow,
and under the exhilarating lustre of the moon. The descent into the
dingle, where a stream strained sobbing through the snow and ice, was
effected with silence and order; and on the farther side, being then
within a short half-mile of where Dick had seen the glimmer of the fire,
the party halted to breathe before the attack.
In the vast silence of the wood, the lightest sounds were audible from
far; and Alicia, who was keen of hearing, held up her finger warningly
and stooped to listen. All followed her example; but besides the groans
of the choked brook in the dingle close behind, and the barking of a fox
at a distance of many miles among the forest, to Dick’s acutest
hearkening, not a breath was audible.
“But yet, for sure, I heard the clash of harness,” whispered Alicia.
“Madam,” returned Dick, who was more afraid of that young lady than of
ten stout warriors, “I would not hint ye were mistaken; but it might
well have come from either of the camps.”
“It came not thence. It came from westward,” she declared.
“It may be what it will,” returned Dick; “and it must be as Heaven
please. Reck we not a jot, but push on the livelier, and put it to the
touch. Up, friends--enough breathed.”
As they advanced, the snow became more and more trampled with
hoof-marks, and it was plain that they were drawing near to the
encampment of a considerable force of mounted men. Presently they could
see the smoke pouring from among the trees, ruddily coloured on its
lower edge and scattering bright sparks.
And here, pursuant to Dick’s orders, his men began to open out, creeping
stealthily in the covert, to surround on every side the camp of their
opponents. He himself, placing Alicia in the shelter of a bulky oak,
stole straight forth in the direction of the fire.
At last, through an opening of the wood, his eye embraced the scene of
the encampment. The fire had been built upon a heathy hummock of the
ground, surrounded on three sides by thicket, and it now burned very
strong, roaring aloud and brandishing flames. Around it there sat not
quite a dozen people, warmly cloaked; but though the neighbouring snow
was trampled down as by a regiment, Dick looked in vain for any horse.
He began to have a terrible misgiving that he was out-manœuvred. At the
same time, in a tall man with a steel salet, who was spreading his hands
before the blaze, he recognised his old friend and still kindly enemy,
Bennet Hatch; and in two others, sitting a little back, he made out,
even in their male disguise, Joanna Sedley and Sir Daniel’s wife.
“Well,” thought he to himself, “even if I lose my horses, let me get my
Joanna, and why should I complain?”
And then, from the farther side of the encampment, there came a little
whistle, announcing that his men had joined, and the investment was
complete.
Bennet, at the sound, started to his feet; but ere he had time to spring
upon his arms, Dick hailed him.
“Bennet,” he said--“Bennet, old friend, yield ye. Ye will but spill
men’s lives in vain, if ye resist.”
“’Tis Master Shelton, by St. Barbary!” cried Hatch. “Yield me? Ye ask
much. What force have ye?”
“I tell you, Bennet, ye are both outnumbered and begirt,” said Dick.
“Cæsar and Charlemagne would cry for quarter. I have two-score men at my
whistle, and with one shoot of arrows I could answer for you all.”
“Master Dick,” said Bennet, “it goes against my heart; but I must do my
duty. The saints help you!” And therewith he raised a little tucket to
his mouth and wound a rousing call.
Then followed a moment of confusion; for while Dick, fearing for the
ladies, still hesitated to give the word to shoot, Hatch’s little band
sprang to their weapons and formed back to back as for a fierce
resistance. In the hurry of their change of place, Joanna sprang from
her seat and ran like an arrow to her lover’s side.
“Here, Dick!” she cried, as she clasped his hand in hers.
But Dick still stood irresolute; he was yet young to the more deplorable
necessities of war, and the thought of old Lady Brackley checked the
command upon his tongue. His own men became restive. Some of them cried
on him by name; others, of their own accord, began to shoot; and at the
first discharge poor Bennet bit the dust. Then Dick awoke.
“On!” he cried. “Shoot, boys, and keep to cover. England and York!”
But just then the dull beat of many horses on the snow suddenly arose in
the hollow ear of the night, and, with incredible swiftness, drew nearer
and swelled louder. At the same time, answering tuckets repeated and
repeated Hatch’s call.
“Rally, rally!” cried Dick. “Rally upon me! Rally for your lives!”
But his men--afoot, scattered, taken in the hour when they had counted
on an easy triumph--began instead to give ground severally, and either
stood wavering or dispersed into the thickets. And when the first of the
horsemen came charging through the open avenues and fiercely riding
their steeds into the underwood, a few stragglers were overthrown or
speared among the brush, but the bulk of Dick’s command had simply
melted at the rumour of their coming.
Dick stood for a moment, bitterly recognising the fruits of his
precipitate and unwise valour. Sir Daniel had seen the fire; he had
moved out with his main force, whether to attack his pursuers or to take
them in the rear if they should venture the assault. His had been
throughout the part of a sagacious captain; Dick’s the conduct of an
eager boy. And here was the young knight, his sweetheart, indeed,
holding him tightly by the hand, but otherwise alone, his whole command
of men and horses dispersed in the night and the wide forest, like a
paper of pins in a hay barn.
“The saints enlighten me!” he thought. “It is well I was knighted for
this morning’s matter; this doth me little honour.”
And thereupon, still holding Joanna, he began to run.
The silence of the night was now shattered by the shouts of the men of
Tunstall, as they galloped hither and thither, hunting fugitives; and
Dick broke boldly through the underwood and ran straight before him like
a deer. The silver clearness of the moon upon the open snow increased,
by contrast, the obscurity of the thickets; and the extreme dispersion
of the vanquished led the pursuers into widely divergent paths. Hence,
in but a little while, Dick and Joanna paused, in a close covert, and
heard the sounds of the pursuit, scattering abroad, indeed, in all
directions, but yet fainting already in the distance.
“An I had but kept a reserve of them together,” Dick cried, bitterly, “I
could have turned the tables yet! Well, we live and learn; next time it
shall go better, by the rood.”
“Nay, Dick,” said Joanna, “what matters it? Here we are together once
again.”
He looked at her, and there she was--John Matcham, as of yore, in hose
and doublet. But now he knew her; now, even in that ungainly dress, she
smiled upon him, bright with love; and his heart was transported with
joy.
“Sweetheart,” he said, “if ye forgive this blunderer, what care I? Make
we direct for Holywood; there lieth your good guardian and my better
friend, Lord Foxham. There shall we be wed; and whether poor or wealthy,
famous or unknown, what matters it? This day, dear love, I won my spurs;
I was commended by great men for my valour; I thought myself the
goodliest man of war in all broad England. Then, first, I fell out of my
favour with the great; and now have I been well thrashed, and clean lost
my soldiers. There was a downfall for conceit! But, dear, I care
not--dear, if ye still love me and will wed, I would have my knighthood
done away, and mind it not a jot.”
“My Dick!” she cried. “And did they knight you?”
“Ay, dear, ye are my lady now,” he answered, fondly; “or ye shall, ere
noon to-morrow--will ye not?”
“That will I, Dick, with a glad heart,” she answered.
“Ay, sir? Methought ye were to be a monk!” said a voice in their ears.
“Alicia!” cried Joanna.
“Even so,” replied the young lady, coming forward. “Alicia, whom ye left
for dead, and whom your lion-driver found, and brought to life again,
and, by my sooth, made love to, if ye want to know!”
“I’ll not believe it,” cried Joanna. “Dick!”
“Dick!” mimicked Alicia. “Dick, indeed! Ay, fair sir, and ye desert poor
damsels in distress,” she continued, turning to the young knight. “Ye
leave them planted behind oaks. But they say true--the age of chivalry
is dead.”
“Madam,” cried Dick, in despair, “upon my soul I had forgotten you
outright. Madam, ye must try to pardon me. Ye see, I had new found
Joanna!”
“I did not suppose that ye had done it o’ purpose,” she retorted. “But I
will be cruelly avenged. I will tell a secret to my Lady Shelton--she
that is to be,” she added, curtseying. “Joanna,” she continued, “I
believe, upon my soul, your sweetheart is a bold fellow in a fight, but
he is, let me tell you plainly, the softest-hearted simpleton in
England. Go to--ye may do your pleasure with him! And now, fool
children, first kiss me, either one of you, for luck and kindness; and
then kiss each other just one minute by the glass, and not one second
longer; and then let us all three set forth for Holywood as fast as we
can stir; for these woods, methinks, are full of peril and exceeding
cold.”
“But did my Dick make love to you?” asked Joanna, clinging to her
sweetheart’s side.
“Nay, fool girl,” returned Alicia; “It was I made love to him. I offered
to marry him, indeed; but he bade me go marry with my likes. These were
his words. Nay, that I will say: he is more plain than pleasant. But
now, children, for the sake of sense, set forward. Shall we go once more
over the dingle, or push straight for Holywood?”
“Why,” said Dick, “I would like dearly to get upon a horse; for I have
been sore mauled and beaten, one way and another, these last days, and
my poor body is one bruise. But how think ye? If the men, upon the alarm
of the fighting, had fled away, we should have gone about for nothing.
’Tis but some three short miles to Holywood direct; the bell hath not
beat nine; the snow is pretty firm to walk upon, the moon clear; how if
we went even as we are?”
“Agreed,” cried Alicia; but Joanna only pressed upon Dick’s arm.
Forth, then, they went, through open leafless groves and down snow-clad
alleys, under the white face of the winter moon; Dick and Joanna walking
hand in hand and in a heaven of pleasure; and their light-minded
companion, her own bereavements heartily forgotten, followed a pace or
two behind, now rallying them upon their silence, and now drawing happy
pictures of their future and united lives.
Still, indeed, in the distance of the wood, the riders of Tunstall might
be heard urging their pursuit; and from time to time cries or the clash
of steel announced the shock of enemies. But in these young folk, bred
among the alarms of war, and fresh from such a multiplicity of dangers,
neither fear nor pity could be lightly wakened. Content to find the
sounds still drawing farther and farther away, they gave up their hearts
to the enjoyment of the hour, walking already, as Alicia put it, in a
wedding procession; and neither the rude solitude of the forest, nor the
cold of the freezing night, had any force to shadow or distract their
happiness.
At length, from a rising hill, they looked below them on the dell of
Holywood. The great windows of the forest abbey shone with torch and
candle; its high pinnacles and spires arose very clear and silent, and
the gold rood upon the topmost summit glittered brightly in the moon.
All about it, in the open glade, camp-fires were burning, and the ground
was thick with huts; and across the midst of the picture the frozen
river curved.
“By the mass,” said Richard, “there are Lord Foxham’s fellows still
encamped. The messenger hath certainly miscarried. Well, then, so
better. We have power at hand to face Sir Daniel.”
But if Lord Foxham’s men still lay encamped in the long holm at
Holywood, it was from a different reason from the one supposed by Dick.
They had marched, indeed, for Shoreby; but ere they were half-way
thither, a second messenger met them, and bade them return to their
morning’s camp, to bar the road against Lancastrian fugitives, and to be
so much nearer to the main army of York. For Richard of Gloucester,
having finished the battle and stamped out his foes in that district,
was already on the march to rejoin his brother; and not long after the
return of my Lord Foxham’s retainers, Crookback himself drew rein before
the abbey door. It was in honour of this august visitor that the windows
shone with lights; and at the hour of Dick’s arrival with his sweetheart
and her friend, the whole ducal party was being entertained in the
refectory with the splendour of that powerful and luxurious monastery.
Dick, not quite with his good-will, was brought before them. Gloucester,
sick with fatigue, sat leaning upon one hand his white and terrifying
countenance; Lord Foxham, half recovered from his wound, was in a place
of honour on his left.
“How, sir?” asked Richard. “Have ye brought me Sir Daniel’s head?”
“My lord duke,” replied Dick, stoutly enough, but with a qualm at heart,
“I have not even the good fortune to return with my command. I have
been, so please your grace, well beaten.”
Gloucester looked upon him with a formidable frown.
“I gave you fifty lances,[3] sir,” he said.
[3] Technically, the term “lance” included a not quite certain
number of foot soldiers attached to the man-at-arms.
“My lord duke, I had but fifty men-at-arms,” replied the young knight.
“How is this?” said Gloucester. “He did ask me fifty lances.”
“May it please your grace,” replied Catesby, smoothly, “for a pursuit we
gave him but the horsemen.”
“It is well,” replied Richard, adding, “Shelton, ye may go.”
“Stay!” said Lord Foxham. “This young man likewise had a charge from me.
It may be he hath better sped. Say, Master Shelton, have ye found the
maid?”
“I praise the saints, my lord,” said Dick, “she is in this house.”
“Is it even so? Well, then, my lord the duke,” resumed Lord Foxham,
“with your good-will, to-morrow, before the army march, I do propose a
marriage. This young squire----”
“Young knight,” interrupted Catesby.
“Say ye so, Sir William?” cried Lord Foxham.
“I did myself, and for good service, dub him knight,” said Gloucester.
“He hath twice manfully served me. It is not valour of hands, it is a
man’s mind of iron, that he lacks. He will not rise, Lord Foxham. ’Tis a
fellow that will fight indeed bravely in a mellay, but hath a capon’s
heart. Howbeit, if he is to marry, marry him in the name of Mary, and be
done!”
“Nay, he is a brave lad--I know it,” said Lord Foxham. “Content ye,
then, Sir Richard. I have compounded this affair with Master Hamley, and
to-morrow ye shall wed.”
Whereupon Dick judged it prudent to withdraw; but he was not yet clear
of the refectory, when a man, but newly alighted at the gate, came
running four stairs at a bound, and, brushing through the abbey
servants, threw himself on one knee before the duke.
“Victory, my lord,” he cried.
And before Dick had got to the chamber set apart for him as Lord
Foxham’s guest, the troops in the holm were cheering around their fires;
for upon that same day, not twenty miles away, a second crushing blow
had been dealt to the power of Lancaster.