"My prince, tempt me not. It is hard to refuse; but there are some
things no man may do with honour, and, believe me, honour is dearer to
me than life, dearer even than liberty; though Heaven alone knows how
dear that is to every free-born son of Cambria. I to leave my brother to
wear away his days in captivity whilst I escape under his name! Prince
Alphonso, I know not what you think my heart is made of. Am I to live in
freedom, whilst he whom I love best in the world bears the burden of my
fault, and lingers out his young life within the walls of the king's
prison?"
Alphonso looked searchingly in Wendot's face, and realized for the first
time the youth's absolute ignorance of his brother's state. No wonder he
refused with scorn the proffered boon! Yet it would be a hard task to
break the sad tidings to one who so deeply loved his gentle younger
brother, from childhood his chosen comrade.
Alphonso was lying on a couch in one of the smaller state apartments of
Windsor Castle, and the window, close to which he had bidden his
attendants wheel him, overlooked the beautiful valley of the Thames. The
first of the autumn tints were gilding the rich stretches of woodland,
whilst a faint blue haze hung over the distance, and the river ran like
a silver thread, glinting here and there into golden brightness as some
brighter ray of sunlight fell upon it.
Alphonso loved the view commanded by this window. He and Griffeth spent
many long happy hours here, looking out on the fair prospect, and
exchanging whispered thoughts and bright aspirations with regard to some
land even fairer than the one they now beheld.
But Wendot never looked at the beautiful valley without experiencing a
strange oppression of spirit. It reminded him of that wilder valley of
the Towy, and his eyes would grow dim and his heart sick with the
fruitless longing after home, which grew harder and harder to hear with
every week of captivity, now that his bodily health was restored.
Captivity was telling upon him, and he was pining as an eagle pines when
caught and shut up by man even in a gilded cage. He looked pale and wan
and wistful. Often he felt stifled by the warm, close air of the valley,
and felt that he must die did he not escape to the freer air of the
mountains.
But he seldom spoke of these feelings even to Griffeth, and strangely
enough his illness and these homesick longings produced upon his outer
man an effect which was wonderfully favourable to the plan fermenting in
the brains of the royal children and their immediate companions.
Wendot had lost the sturdiness of figure, the brown colouring, and the
strength of limb which had distinguished him in old days from Griffeth.
A striking likeness had always existed between the brothers, whose
features were almost identical, and whose height and contours were the
same. Now that illness had sharpened the outlines of Wendot's face, had
reduced his fine proportions, and had given to him something of the
hollow-eyed wistfulness of expression which Griffeth had so long worn,
this likeness became so remarkable that few in the castle knew one
brother from the other. Knowing this, they both answered indifferently
to the name of either, and any change of personality would be managed
without exciting the smallest fear of remark.
Wendot had been perplexed at times by the persistence with which he had
been addressed as Griffeth, even when he was certain that the speaker
was one of the few who knew him and his brother apart; but he had not
troubled his head much over the matter until this day, when Alphonso had
openly spoken to him of the plan that was in their minds, and had bidden
him prepare for a secret flight from the castle, promising that there
should be no ardent search after him, as Wendot, and not Griffeth, was
the culprit who had fallen under the royal displeasure, and the king
would care little for the escape of the younger brother so long as he
held the ex-Lord of Dynevor in his own safe keeping.
Wendot's indignant refusal to leave his brother and make good his own
escape showed Alphonso how little he realized Griffeth's condition, and
with gentle sympathy, but with candour and frankness, he explained to
the elder brother how short would be the period of Griffeth's captivity
-- how soon and how complete the release for which he was patiently and
happily waiting.
Wendot gave a great start as the meaning of Alphonso's words first broke
upon him, and then he buried his face in his hands, and sat motionless,
neither answering nor moving. Alphonso looked at him, and by-and-by put
out his own wasted hand and laid it upon Wendot's knee.
"Does it seem a sad thing to thee, Wendot? Believe me, there is no
sadness for Griffeth in the thought. Nay, is it not a blessed thing to
know that soon, very soon, we shall be free of this weary burden of pain
and sickness and weakness, and laying all aside will pass away to the
land of which the seer of old foretold that 'the wicked cease from
troubling, and the weary are at rest.' Thou knowest not, perhaps, the
sweetness of those words, but I know it well, and Griffeth likewise.
"Nay, Wendot, thou must learn not to grudge him the rest and the bliss
of yon bright land. In this world he could look for nothing save wearing
weakness and lingering pain. Thou shouldst be glad that the fiat has
gone forth, and that the end may not be far off -- the end of trouble
and sorrow; for of the glory that shall follow there shall be no end."
But Wendot broke in hoarsely and impetuously.
"If he must die, let him at least die in freedom, with the old hills
around him; let him be laid to rest beneath their shadow. You say that
he might well escape; that no cry would be made after him so long as I
were in the king's safe keeping. Let him then fly. Let him fly to
Llewelyn and Arthyn. They will give him tendance and a home. He shall
not die in prison, away from all that he holds dear. I cannot brook the
thought!"
"Nay, Wendot," answered Alphonso with a kindling smile, "thou needest
not grieve for thy brother because that he is here. Ask him -- take it
not from my lips; but I will tell thee this, that where thou art and
where I am is the place where Griffeth would fain end his days. Ah! thou
canst not understand, good youth, how when the great and wonderful call
comes for the human soul, how lightly press the fetters of the flesh;
how small these things of time and place appear that erst have been of
such moment. Griffeth and I are treading the same path at the same time,
and I think not even the offer of a free pardon and unfettered liberty
would draw him from my side.
"Moreover, Wendot, he could not take the journey of which thou speakest.
The keen autumn air, which will give thee strength and vigour, would but
lay him low on the bed from which he would never rise. His heart is here
with me. Think not that thou art wronging him in taking his name. The
one load lying now upon his heart is the thought that he is leaving thee
in captivity. Let him but know that thou art free -- that he has been
thy helper in thy flight -- and he will have nought left to wish for in
this world. His soul will be at peace."
Wendot rose and paced through the chamber, and then returned to the side
of the prince. His face betrayed many conflicting emotions. He spoke
with bitterness and impetuosity.
"And what good is life to me if I take you at your word and fly this
spot? Have I not lost all that makes life worth living? My lands given
to my traitorous kinsman; the brother who has been more to me than life
lying in a foreign grave. What use is life to one so lonely and bereft?
Where should I fly? what should I do? I have never lived alone. I have
always had another to live for and to love. Methinks death would be the
better thing than such a loveless life."
"And why should thy life be loveless, Wendot?" asked Alphonso, with
kindling eyes and a brightening smile. "Dost not thou know? -- does not
thine own heart tell thee that one faithful heart beats for thee and
thee alone? Have I not seen thee with her times and again? Have not your
eyes told eloquent secrets -- though I know not what your lips have said --"
Wendot's face was all in a glow, but he broke in hastily:
"Prince, prince, speak not of her. If I have been beguiled, if I have
betrayed the feelings which I cannot help, but which I must hold sternly
in check -- be not thou the one to taunt me with my weakness. There is
none like her in the world. I have known it for long. But even because I
know it so well I may not even dream of her. It is not with me as of
old, when her father spoke to me of troth plight. I am a beggar, an
outcast, a prisoner. She is rich, honoured, courted. She is the
brightest star of the court --"
"And she loveth thee, Wendot," interposed Alphonso firmly. "She has
loved thee from childhood with a faithful and true love which merits
better things than to be cast aside as if it were but dross. What are
lands and gold to a woman if her lover share them not? Is it meet that
she should suffer so cruelly simply because her father has left her well
endowed? Wendot, on Lord Montacute's dying bed this daughter of his
avowed her love for thee, and he gave her his blessing and bade her act
as she would. Art thou, then, to be the one to break her heart, ay, and
thine own, too, because thou art too proud to take more than thou canst
give?
"Fie, man! the world is wide and thou art young. Thou hast time to win
thy spurs and bring home noble spoil to lay at thy lady's feet. Only let
not pride stand in the way of her happiness and thine own. Thou hast
said that life is dark and drear unless it be shared with some loved
one. Then how canst thou hold back, when thou hast confessed thine own
love and learned that hers is thine? Take it, and be grateful for the
treasure thou hast won, and fear not but that thou wilt bring as much as
thou wilt receive. There are strange chances in the fate of each one of
us. Who knows but that thou and she will not yet reign again in the
halls of Dynevor?"
Wendot started and flushed, and again paced down the whole length of the
room. When he returned to the window Alphonso had gone, and in his place
stood Gertrude herself, her sweet face dyed rosy red with blushes, her
hands half stretched out towards him, her lips quivering with the
intensity of her emotion.
He paused just one moment looking at her, and then holding out his arms,
he said:
"Gertrude!"
Next moment she was clasped in his close embrace, and was shedding happy
tears upon his shoulder.
"Oh!" said Gertrude at last, in a soft whisper, "it was worth waiting
for this. I never thought I could have been so happy."
"Joanna -- Alphonso, it is all settled. He will leave the castle with
me. He will help me now in the care of my lands. But he will not move
whilst Griffeth lives. And I think he is right. They have so loved each
other, and he will not leave his brother to die amongst strangers in
captivity."
"It is like him," said Joanna eagerly. "Gertrude, thou hast found a very
proper knight, as we told thee from the first, when he was but a lad,
and held the Eagle's Crag against a score of men. But ye must be wedded
soon, that there be no delay when once the poor boy be gone. Every day
he looks more shadowy and frail. Methinks that our softer air ill suits
him, for he hath dwindled to a mere shadow since he came. You will not
have to wait long."
"Joanna speaks the truth," said Alphonso, half sadly, half smilingly.
"He will not be with us long. But it is very true that this marriage
must be privately celebrated, and that without delay, that when the day
comes when 'Griffeth' flies from the castle, he and his wife may go
together."
"Ay, and my chaplain will make them man and wife, and breathe not a word
to any man," cried Joanna, who, now that she was older, had her own
retinue of servants, equal in number to those of her sister, by whom she
was dearly loved for her generosity and frankness, so that she could
always command ready and willing obedience to any expressed wish of hers.
"You think he will? O Joanna, when shall it be?"
"It shall be at midnight in the chapel," said the girl, with the prompt
decision which characterized her. "Not tonight, but three nights from
this. Leave all things in my hands, sweet Gertrude; I will see that
nought is lacking to bind thee lawfully to thy lord. My chaplain is a
good and holy man from the west country. He loveth those poor Welsh who
are prisoners here, and spends much of his time in ministering to them.
He loves thy future lord and his dying brother, and he knows somewhat of
our plan, for I have revealed it in the confessional, and he has not
chided me for it.
"Oh, I can answer for him. He will be glad that thou shouldst find so
proper a knight; and he is kind of heart, and stanch to my service. Fear
not, sweet Gertrude: ere three days have gone by thou shalt be a wedded
wife; and when the time comes thou mayest steal away with him thy
plighted lord, and trust thy sister Joanna to make thy peace with the
king, if he be in any way angered or grieved."
Gertrude threw herself into Joanna's arms and kissed her a hundred
times; and Joanna laughed, and said she deserved much credit for
plotting to rid herself of her dearest friend, but was none the less
loyal to the cause because Gertrude's gain would be her loss.
So there came a strange night, never to be forgotten by those who
witnessed the proceedings, when Wendot ap Res Vychan and the Lady
Gertrude Cherleton stood at midnight before the altar in the small
private chapel of the castle, whilst the chaplain of the Princess
Joanna's private suite made them man and wife according to the law of
the Church. And of the few spectators who witnessed the ceremony two
were of royal blood -- Alphonso and Joanna -- and beside them were only
one or two attendants, sworn to secrecy, and in full sympathy with the
youthful lovers thus plighting their troth and being united in wedlock
at one and the same time.
Griffeth was not of the number who was present to witness this ceremony.
He was unable to rise from his bed, a sudden access of illness having
overtaken him, possibly as the result of the excitement of hearing what
was about to take place.
When the solemn words had been spoken, and the bride was led away by her
proud and happy spouse -- happy even in the midst of so much peril and
sorrow in the thought of the treasure he had won -- she paused at the
door of her apartments, whither he would have left her (for so long as
they remained within the walls of the castle they would observe the same
manner of life as before), and glancing into his face said softly:
"May I not go with thee to tell the news to Griffeth?"
"Ay, well bethought," said Alphonso, who was leaning on Wendot's other
arm, the distance through the long passages being somewhat fatiguing to
him. "Let us go and show to him thy wife. None will rejoice more than he
to know that she is thine in very truth, and that none can take her from
thee."
Griffeth's room was nigh at hand, and thither Wendot led his bride. A
taper was burning beside the bed, and the sick youth lay propped up with
pillows, his breath coming in laboured gasps, though his eyes were
bright and full of comprehension as Wendot led the slim, white-robed
figure to his side.
But the elder brother was startled at the change he saw in his patient
since he had left him last. There was something in his look that struck
chill upon his heart. He came forward and took the feeble hand in his.
It was deadly cold, and the unearthly radiance upon the lad's face was
as significant in its own way. Had not their mother looked at them with
just such a smile when she had slipped away into another world, whilst
they were trying to persuade themselves that she was better?
"My sister Gertrude," whispered Griffeth. "Oh, I am so happy! You will
be good to him -- you will comfort him.
"Wendot -- Gertrude --" he made a faint effort, and joined their hands
together; and then, as if his last earthly task was accomplished, he
seemed to look right on beyond them, whilst a strange expression of awe
and wonder shone from his closing eyes.
"Howel," he whispered -- "father -- mother -- oh, I am coming! Take me
with you."
Then the head fell backwards, the light vanished from the eyes, the cold
hand fell nervelessly from Wendot's grasp, and they knew that Griffeth
was the king's prisoner no longer.
Three days later the Lady Gertrude Cherleton said farewell to her royal
companions, and started forth for her own estates in Derbyshire, which
she had purposed for some time to visit. Perhaps had the minds of those
in the castle been free to wonder at anything so trivial as the
movements of the young heiress, they would have felt surprise at her
selecting this time to betake herself to a solitary and independent
existence, away from all her friends and playmates; but the mortal
illness of the Prince Alphonso occupied the whole attention of the
castle. The remains of the so-called Wendot, late of Dynevor, had been
laid to rest with little ceremony and no pomp, and the very existence of
the other brother was almost forgotten in the general dismay and grief
which permeated through all ranks of people both within and without the
castle walls.
The lady had a small but sufficient retinue; but it was considered
rather strange that she should not start until the dusk had begun to
gather round the castle, so that the confusion of the start was a good
deal increased from the darkness which was stealing upon the place. Had
there been much time or attention free, it might have been noted by a
keen observer that Lady Gertrude had added to her personal attendants
one who looked like a tall and stout woman, though her hood was so
closely drawn that her face was seen by none of the warders, who,
however, let her pass unchallenged: for she rode beside her mistress,
and was evidently in the position of a trusted companion; for the lady
was speaking to her as they passed out through the gate, and there could
certainly be no reason for offering any obstruction to any servant of hers.
If there were any fear or excitement in Gertrude's breast as she and her
husband passed out of the gate and rode quickly along the path which led
through the town, she did not betray it by look or gesture. Her
eagerness was mainly showed by a desire to push on northward as fast as
possible, and the light of a full harvest moon made travelling almost as
easy as by day. On they rode, by sleeping hamlets and dreaming pastures,
until the lights of Windsor lay twinkling in the dim, hazy distance
miles away.
Then Gertrude suddenly threw back her hood, and leaning towards her
companion -- they two had outridden their followers some time before --
cried in a strange, tense voice:
"O Wendot husband, thou art free! Tomorrow will see us safe within those
halls of which thou art rightful lord. Captivity, trouble, peril is at
an end. Nothing can greatly hurt us now, for are we not one in bonds
that no man may dissever?"
"My noble, true-hearted wife," said Wendot, in accents of intense
feeling; and then he leaned forward and kissed her in the whispering
wood, and they rode forward through the glades of silvery moonlight
towards the new life that was awaiting them beyond.
"Hills, wild rocks, woods, and water!" cried Wendot, with a sudden
kindling gleam in his eyes. "O Gertrude, thou didst not tell me the
half! I never guessed that England had aught so like home as this. Truly
it might be Dynevor itself -- that brawling torrent, those craggy fells,
and these gray stone walls. And to be free -- free to breathe the fresh
wind, to go where the fancy prompts, to be loosed from all control save
the sweet bonds that thou boldest me in, dearest! Ah, my wife, thou
knowest not what thou hast done for me. How shall I thank thee for the
boon?"
"Why, by being thine old self again, Vychan," said Gertrude, who was
standing by her husband's side on a natural terrace of rock above the
Hall which was to be their home. She had brought him out early in the
morning to see the sun rise upon their home, and the rapture of his
face, the passionate joy she saw written there, was more than she had
hoped for.
"Thou hast grown old and worn of late, too saddened, too grave for thy
years. Thou must grow young again, and be the bright-faced youth to whom
I gave my heart. Thy youth is not left so far behind but what thou canst
recall it ere it be too late."
"In sooth I shall grow young again here, sweetheart," quoth Wendot, or
Vychan, as we must call him now. He had an equal right to that name with
his father, though for convenience he had always been addressed by the
other; and now that Lady Gertrude had brought her husband home, he was
to be known as Res Vychan, one of the descendants of the last princes of
South Wales, who had taken his wife's name also, as he was now the ruler
of her land; so, according to the fashion of the English people, he
would henceforth be known as Vychan Cherleton. His brother's name he
could not bear to hear applied to himself, and it was left to Joanna to
explain matters to the king and queen when the chance should arrive.
None else need ever know that the husband of the Lady Gertrude had ever
been a captive of Edward's; and the name of Griffeth ap Res Vychan
disappears from the ken of the chroniclers as if it had never been known
that he was once a prisoner in England.
There was no pursuit made after the missing Welshman. The king and queen
had other matters to think of, and the fondness of their son for the
youth would have been protection enough even if he had not begged with
his dying breath that his father would forgive and forget. Lady Gertrude
and her husband did not come to court for very many years; and by the
time they did so, Vychan Cherleton's loyalty and service to the English
cause were too well established for any one to raise a question as to
his birth or race.
If the king and queen ever knew they had been outwitted by their
children, they did not resent that this had been so, nor that an act of
mercy had been contrived greater than they might have felt justified in
ratifying.
But all this was yet in the future. As Vychan and his wife stood on that
high plateau overlooking the fair valley of the Derwent, it seemed to
Gertrude as though during the past three days her husband had undergone
some subtle change. There was a new light in his eyes; his frame had
lost its drooping air of languor; he had stood the long days of rough
riding without the smallest fatigue. It really seemed as if the old
Wendot had come back again, and she smilingly asked him how it was that
he had gained such strength in so short a time.
"Ah, that question is soon answered, sweet wife. It is freedom that is
the elixir of life to us sons of Cambria. I know not if your
English-born men can brook the sense of fetter and constraint, but it is
death to us.
"Let us not think of it more. That page has closed for ever; and never
shall it reopen, for sooner will I die than fall alive into the hands of
a foe. Nay, sweetest Gertrude, look not so reproachfully at me. Thou
shalt soon see that I mean not to die, but to live for thee. Here in
this fair, free spot we begin our new life together. It may be even yet
-- for see, is not that bright sky, illumined by those quivering shafts
of light athwart our path, an omen of good? -- that as thou showest me
this fair spot with which thou hast endowed me, I may one day show thee
again and endow thee with the broad lands of Dynevor."