THE HALL AND ITS DENIZENS.
The hall of the old house at Dunbury--long swept away by the two great
destroyers of man's works, Time and Change--was a spacious vaulted
chamber, of about sixty feet in its entire length, by from thirty-five
to forty in width; but, at the end next the court, a part of the
pavement, of about nine feet broad, and some eighteen or twenty inches
lower than the rest, was separated from the hall by two broad steps
running all the way across. This inferior space presented three doors;
the great one communicating at once with the court, and two others in
the angles, at the right side and the left, leading to chambers in the
rest of the building. At the further end of the hall, on the left, was
another small door, opposite to which there appeared the first four
steps of a staircase, which wound away with a turn to apartments
above. There was a high window over the principal entrance, from which
the room received, in the daytime, its only light; and about half way
up the chamber, on the left hand, was the wide chimney and hearth,
with seats on either side, and two vast bars of iron between them for
burning wood. In the midst of the pavement stood a long table, with
some benches, one or two stools and a great chair, in which the master
of the mansion seated himself at the time of meals; but the hall
presented no other ornament whatever, except a number of lances, bows,
cross-bows, axes, maces, and other offensive arms, which were ranged
with some taste against the walls. The armoury was in another part of
the house, and these weapons seemed only admitted here to be ready in
case of immediate need; for those were times in which men did not
always know how soon the hand might be called upon to defend the head.
When Richard of Woodville and his companion entered, some six or seven
large logs, I might almost call them trees, were blazing on the
hearth; and, in addition to the glare they afforded, a sconce of seven
burners above the chimney shed a full light upon the party assembled
round the fire. That party was very numerous, for several maids and
retainers, of whom it may not be necessary to speak more particularly,
were scattered round the principal personages, busy with such
occupations for the evening as were common in a rude age, when
intellectual pursuits were very little cultivated.
The group in front, however, deserves more attention, consisting of
seven persons, most of whom we shall have to speak of more than once
in the course of these pages. In the seat within the chimney, just
opposite the door, sat the master of the mansion, a tall powerful old
man, who had seen many a battle-field in his day, during that and the
preceding reign, and had borne away the marks of hard blows upon his
face. He was spare and large boned in form, with his hair and beard[1]
very nearly white; but he was hale and florid withal, and his
countenance, though strongly marked, had an expression of kindness and
good humour, not at all incompatible with the indications of a quick
and fiery temper, which were to be discovered in the sparkle of his
undimmed blue eye, and the sudden contraction of his brow when
anything surprised him. The seat on the other side of the fire was not
visible from the door by which the two wayfarers entered; but beyond
the angle of the chimney, protruded into the light, the arm, shoulder,
and part of the head of another tall old man, apparently clothed in
the grey gown of some monastic order.
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[Footnote 1: The beard was, at this time, usually shaved off by the
English nobles; but many of the older barons still retained it, and I
find the mustachio very frequently in contemporaneous representations
of younger knights.]
---------------------
On the left of Sir Philip Beauchamp was seated a young lady, perhaps
eighteen or nineteen years of age, with her arm resting on his knee,
and her head and figure bent gracefully towards him. Her hair was as
black as jet, her skin soft and clear, and her complexion somewhat
pale, though a slight tinge of the rose might be seen upon her cheek.
Her eyes, like her father's, were of a deep clear blue, though the
long black fringes that bordered her eyelids in a long sweeping line,
made them, at a distance, look as dark as her hair. She seemed neither
above nor below the ordinary height of woman; and her whole figure,
though by no means thin, was slim and delicate. The small exquisite
foot and rounded ancle inclining gracefully towards the fire, were
displayed by the posture in which she had placed herself; and the hand
that rested on her father's knee, with long fingers tapering to the
point, showed in every line the high Norman blood of her race.
Next to Isabel Beauchamp, the only daughter of the old knight, was
another lady, perhaps a year younger. She was in several respects
strikingly contrasted to her fair companion, though hardly less
beautiful. Her hair was of a light glossy brown, catching a warm gleam
wherever the light fell upon it, as fine as silk new spun from the
cone, yet curling in large bunches wherever it could escape from the
bands that confined it. Her complexion was fair and glowing; her cheek
warm with health, and her skin as soft and smooth as that of a child.
To look upon her at a little distance, one would have expected to find
the merry grey or blue eye, so often seen in the pretty village maid;
but hers was dark brown, large, and full, and soft, yet with a
laughing light therein, that seemed to speak a buoyant and a happy
heart. In form she was somewhat taller than the other; but though her
waist looked as if it would have required no giant's hand to span it
round, yet there was that sort of full and graceful sweep in all the
lines, which painters and statuaries, I believe, call _contour_.
Nought but the tip of one foot was seen from beneath the long and
flowing petticoat then in fashion; but even from that, one might judge
that nothing much more neat and small ever beat the turf, except
amongst the elves of fairy land. Her hand rested upon a frame of
embroidery, at which she had been working, and her head was slightly
bent forward, as if to hear something said by the good Abbot of the
convent, who sat opposite to his brother, in the seat within the
chimney. But between her and him was another group, consisting of
three persons, which somewhat detached itself from the rest. Two were
seated, a lady and a gentleman, and the third was standing with his
arms folded on his chest a little behind the others.
The backs of these three were turned towards the door by which
Woodville and his companions entered; and they were somewhat in the
shade, being placed between the lower end of the hall and the light
both of the fire and the sconce; but as we are now looking at the
picture of the whole, we may as well examine the details before we
proceed.
The lady bore a striking resemblance in features, complexion, and
form, to Isabel Beauchamp, whom we have already described; and the
Lady Catherine might well be taken, as was often the case, for her
cousin's sister. She was taller, indeed, though not much; but the
chief difference was in the expression of the two countenances.
Catherine's wanted all the gentleness, the tenderness, the
thoughtfulness, of Isabel's. It could assume a look of playful
coquetry, it could seem grave, it could seem joyous; but with each
expression there mingled a touch of pride, perhaps, too, of vanity;
and a scornful turn of the lip and well-chiseled nostril, as well as a
quick flash of the eye, spoke the rash and haughty spirit which too
certainly dwelt within her breast.
We are the slaves of circumstances from our cradle; and the mother and
the nurse form as much part of our fate as any of the other events
which mould our character, guide our course, and lead us to high
station, retain us in mediocrity, or plunge us into misfortune.
Catherine Beauchamp, like her cousin, was an only child, and an
heiress; but her mother had brought large possessions to her father,
and with those large possessions an inexhaustible store of pride. She
had looked upon herself, indeed, as her husband's benefactor, for he
was a younger brother, of small estate; and, after his death, she and
a foolish servant had rivalled each other in instilling into her
daughter's mind high notions of her own importance. In this, as in
many another thing, the mother had proved herself weak; and the spoilt
child had early shown her the result of her own folly. She did not
live long enough to correct her error, even if she had possessed sense
enough to make the effort; and when Catherine came to the house of her
uncle, as his ward, her character was too far fixed to render any
lessons effectual, but the severe ones of the world. There, then, she
sat, beautiful, rich, vain, and haughty, claiming all admiration as
her due, and believing that even her faults ought to be admired for
her loveliness and her wealth.
Beside her was placed her mother's nearest relation, a distant cousin,
named Simeon of Roydon. He was a tall, robust, well-proportioned man,
of two or three and thirty years of age, with a quantity of light hair
close cut in front, and left long upon the back of the head and over
the temples. His features were in general good; and what with youth
and health, a florid complexion, fair skin, bright keen eyes, an
aquiline nose, somewhat too much depressed, and an air of calm
self-importance and courtly ease, he was the sort of man so often
called handsome by those who little consider or know in what
beauty really consists. Nothing, indeed, that dress could do, was
left undone, according to the fashions of the day, to set off his
person to the best of advantage. His long limbs were clothed in the
light-coloured breeches and hose, without division from the waist to
the foot, which were then generally worn by men of the higher class;
but so tightly did they fit, that scarce a muscle of the leg might not
be traced beneath; and his coat was also cut so close to his shape,
that except on the chest, where, perhaps, some padding added to the
appearance of breadth, the garment seemed to be but an outer skin. His
shoes exhibited points of at least six inches in length beyond the
toe; and the sleeves of his mantle, which he continued to wear even in
the hall, hung down till they swept the floor. He wore a dagger in his
girdle with a jewelled hilt, and a clasp upon his coat with a ruby set
in gold; while on his thumb appeared a large signet-ring of a very
peculiar fashion and device.
Notwithstanding dress, however, and good features, and a countenance
under perfect command, there were certain minute, but very distinct
signs, to be perceived by an eye practised in the study of the human
character, which betrayed the fact, that his smooth exterior was but a
shell containing a less pleasant core. There was a wandering of the
eyes, which did not always seem to move in the same orbits; there was
an occasional quiver of the lower lip, as if words which might be
dangerous were restrained with difficulty; there was a look of keen,
eager, almost fierce, inquiry, when anything was said, the meaning of
which he did not at once comprehend; and then a sudden return to a
bland and sweet expression almost of insipidity, which spoke of
something false and hollow. He was talking to Catherine Beauchamp,
when Richard of Woodville and Hal of Hadnock entered, in gay tones,
often mingling a low laugh with his conversation, and eying his own
foot and leg as it was stretched out towards the fire, with an air of
great self-admiration and satisfaction.
The figure of the third person, who stood close behind the lady--as if
he had come round thither and left vacant a stool which appeared on
the other side, to take part in her conversation with Sir Simeon of
Roydon--was as tall and finer in all its proportions than that of the
knight who sat by her side. His chest was broader; his arms more
muscular; the turn of his head, and the fall of his shoulders, more
graceful and symmetrical. His dark hair curled short round his
forehead, and on his neck; his straight-cut features, of a grave and
somewhat stern cast, wore their least pleasing look when in repose;
for they wanted but the fire of expression to light them up in a
moment, and render them all bright and glowing. His eye, however, the
feature which soonest receives that light, had in it a fixed
melancholy, which scarcely even left it when he smiled; and now,
though he had come round thither to interchange a few words with
Catherine, his betrothed wife, and her gay kinsman, Sir Henry Dacre
had fallen into thought again, and remained standing with his arms
folded on his chest, and his look fixed upon Isabel Beauchamp, as she
leaned upon her father's knee. His gaze was intense, thoughtful--I
might call it inquiring; but yet it was not rude, for he knew not that
his eyes were so firmly fixed upon her. He was buried in his own
thoughts; and perhaps the peculiar investigating expression of that
look might be accounted for by supposing that he was asking questions,
difficult to solve, of his own heart.
Isabel herself did not remark that he was gazing at her, for she was
listening to some anecdote of other days which her father was telling.
But the old knight did observe the glance of his young friend, and he
observed it with pain, yet "more in sorrow than in anger;" for there
were some things for which he bitterly grieved, but which could not be
amended. He broke off his story for a moment to mutter to himself,
"Poor fellow!" and just at that instant his eye lighted upon Richard
of Woodville, as the young traveller opened the great door of the
hall. His brow contracted while perhaps one might count ten, but was
speedily clear again, and he exclaimed, laughing aloud--"Ha! here is
Dickon again! I thought he would not go far."
Every one turned round suddenly; and all laughed gaily, except one.
But the fair girl with the rich brown hair, sitting next to Isabel
Beauchamp, gazed down the hall, with a smile indeed, but with a kindly
look gleaming forth through her half-closed, merry eyes.
"Ah, run-away!" cried Isabel Beauchamp, still laughing; "so you have
come back?"
"Yes, sweet cousin," replied Richard of Woodville, advancing up the
hall with his companion; "but I have a cause--I should have been half
way to Winchester else.--Here is a gentleman, sir," he continued,
addressing his uncle, "whom I have met seeking the right way, and
finding the wrong; and I failed not in promising him your hospitality
for the night."
"Right, Richard--you did right!" replied the old knight, raising his
tall form from the seat by the fire. "Sir, you are most welcome.
Quick, Hugh of Clatford, leave cutting that bow, and speed to the
buttery and the kitchen. Bid them bring wine and meat. I pray you,
sir, take the seat by the fire."
"Nay, not so, noble sir," replied Hal of Hadnock, in a courteous tone.
"I am not one to take the place of venerable years and high renown.
Thanks for your welcome, and good fortune to your roof-tree. I beseech
you, let me make no confusion. I will place me here;" and he drew a
stool from the table somewhat nearer to the fire, and seated himself,
while all eyes were fixed upon him.
Richard of Woodville, too, took a better view of his companion than he
had hitherto obtained, and that view satisfied him that he had not
introduced to his uncle's hall a guest, who, in point of rank and
station, at least, was not well deserving of a place therein.
The stranger was, as I have already said, a tall and somewhat slim
young man, perhaps four or five and twenty years of age, with black
hair and close-shaved beard, keen dark eyes, long and sinewy limbs,
and a chest of great width and depth. His features were remarkably
fine, his brow wide and expansive, his forehead high, and the whole
expression of his countenance noble and commanding. His dress was rich
and costly, without being gaudy. His coat of deep brown, covering the
hips, like that of a crossbowman, was of the finest cloth, and
ornamented with small lines of gold, in a quaint but not ungraceful
pattern. Instead of the hood then commonly worn, his head was covered
with a small cap of velvet, and one long pennache, or feather, clasped
with a large jewel; his dagger and the hilt of his sword were both
studded with rubies, and though his riding-boots of untanned leather
were cut square off at the toe, instead of being encumbered with the
long points still in fashion, over them were buckled, with a broad
strap and flap, a pair of gilt spurs, showing that he had seen service
in arms, and had won knightly rank. His tight-fitting hose were of a
light philimot, or brownish yellow colour, and round the leg, below
the knee, was a mark, as if the impression of a thong, seeming to
prove that when not in riding attire, he was accustomed to wear shoes
so long, that the horns points were obliged to be fastened up by a
gilt chain, as was then not unusual. His manner was highly courteous;
but it was remarked, that at first he committed what has, in most
ages, been considered an act of rudeness, remaining with his head
covered some minutes after he entered the hall. But, at length,
seeming suddenly to remember that such was the case, he took off his
cap, and laid it on the table.
Sir Philip Beauchamp, without asking any question of his guest,
proceeded at once to name to him the different persons assembled round
the fire; but as we have already heard who they were, it is needless
to give a recapitulation here. Richard of Woodville, however, marked
or fancied, that as the old knight pronounced the name of Sir Simeon
of Roydon, a brief glance of recognition passed between that personage
and his companion of the road; but neither claimed the other as an
acquaintance, and Woodville said nothing to call attention to what he
had observed.
"It will seem scarcely courteous, sir," said the guest, as Sir Philip
ended, "not to give you my own name, though you in your hospitality
will not ask it; but yet, for the present, I will beg you to call me
simply Hal of Hadnock; and ere I go, Sir Philip, to your own ear I
will tell more. And now, pray let me not kill mirth, or break off a
pleasant tale, or stop a sweet lay; for doubtless you pass the long
eves of March as did the knights and dames in our old friend Chaucer's
dreams--
'Some to rede old romances,
Them occupied for ther pleasances,
Some to make verelaies and laies,
And some to other diverse plaies.'"
"Nay, sir," answered the old knight, who had glanced with a smile at
his guest's gilded spurs, as he gave himself the name of Hal of
Hadnock, "we were but talking of some old deeds of arms, which,
doubtless, you in your career have often heard of. As to lays, when my
nephew Richard is away, we have but little poesy in the house, except
when this sweet ward of mine, Mary Markham, will sing us a gay ditty."
"Not to-night--not to-night!" cried the lady on Isabel Beauchamp's
left; "I am not in tune to-night."
Isabel bent her head to her fair companion, and whispered a word which
made the blood come warm into Mary Markham's cheek; but Catherine,
with a gay toss of her head, and a glance of her blue eye at the
handsome stranger, exclaimed--"I love neither lay nor ballad; they are
but plain English twisted out of form, and set to a dull tune."
"Indeed, lady!" said the stranger, gazing upon her with an incredulous
smile. "I have ever thought that music and verse made sweet things
sweeter; and, methinks, even now, were it some tender lay addressed to
your bright looks, you would not find the sounds so rude."
A smile passed round the little circle, but did not visit the lip of
Sir Henry Dacre; and though Catherine Beauchamp laughed with a
scornful smile, it seemed as if she knew not well whether to look upon
the stranger's words as kind or uncourteous.
"Ha, Kate! he touched you there," said the old knight. "What think
you, Abbot? has not our guest judged our niece aright?"
"I believe it is so with all ladies," answered the Abbot, gravely;
"they find the words of praise sweet, and the words of blame bitter,
whether it be in song or saying. You men of the world nurture them in
such folly. You flatter them too much; so that, like the tongue of a
wine-bibber, they can taste nothing but what is high-seasoned."
"Faith, not a whit, reverend lord," cried Hal of Hadnock, gaily;
"craving your forgiveness, we deal with them as heaven intended. Fair
and delicate in mind and frame, we shelter their persons from all
rough winds and storms, as far as may be, and their ears from all
harsh sounds. They were not made to cope with the rough things of
life; and if they find wholesome exercise for body and soul, good
father, in the chase and in the confessional, it is as much as is
needed. The Church has the staple trade for truth, especially with
ladies; and for any laymen to make it their merchandise would be
against the laws of Cupid's realm."
"I fear you speak lightly, my son," said the Abbot, with a
good-humoured smile; "but here comes your meal, and I will give it my
blessing."
By such words as these, the ice of new acquaintance was soon broken,
and, as the guest sat down at the side of the long table, to partake
of such viands as his entertainer's hospitality provided for him, the
party round the fire separated into various groups. The good master of
the mansion approached to do the honours of his board, and press the
stranger to his food. Catherine seemed smitten with a sudden fit of
affection for her uncle, and placed herself near him, where, with no
small spice of coquetry, she sought to engage the attention of the
visitor to herself. Sir Henry Dacre remained talking by the fire with
Isabel Beauchamp; and, whatever was the subject of their discourse,
the faces of both remained grave, almost sad; while, at a little
distance, Richard of Woodville conversed in low tones with fair Mary
Markham, and their faces presented the aspect of an April sky, with
its clouds and its sunshine, being sometimes overshadowed by a look of
care and anxiety, sometimes smiling gaily, as if the inextinguishable
hopes of youth blazed suddenly up into a flame, after burning low and
dimly for a while, under some cold blast from the outward world.
The Abbot had resumed his seat by the fire, and Sir Simeon of Roydon
had not quitted his; but the latter, though the good monk spoke to him
from time to time, seemed buried in his own thoughts, answered
briefly, and often vaguely, and then fell into a reverie again,
turning occasionally his eyes upon his fair kinswoman and the stranger
with an expression of no great pleasure.
With the old knight and Catherine Beauchamp, in the meanwhile, Hal of
Hadnock kept up the conversation gaily, seeming to find a pleasure in
so mingling sweet and bitter things together, in his language to the
lady, as sometimes to flatter, sometimes to pique her; and thus,
without her knowing it, he contrived to put her through all her paces,
like a managed horse, till every little weakness and fault in her
character was displayed, one after another.
At first, Sir Philip Beauchamp was amused, and laughed at the
stranger's merry jests, thinking, "It will do Kate good to hear some
wholesome truth from an impartial tongue;" but as he saw that, whether
intentionally or not, the words of Hal of Hadnock had the effect of
bringing out all the evil points in her disposition to the eyes of his
guest, he grew uneasy for his brother's child, and felt all her faults
more keenly from seeing her thus expose them, in mere vanity, to the
acquaintance of an hour. He saw, then, with satisfaction, his guest's
meal draw towards a close, and, as soon as it was done, proposed that
they should all retire to rest.
There was some consideration required as to what chamber should be
assigned to Hal of Hadnock,--for small pieces of ceremony were, in
those days, matters of importance,--but Sir Philip Beauchamp decided
the matter, by telling Richard of Woodville to lead the visitor to the
rose-tapestry room, and to place a good yeoman to sleep across his
door. It was one of the principal guest-chambers of the house;
and its selection showed that the good knight judged his nephew's
fellow-traveller to be of higher rank than he assumed.
Lighted by a page, Richard of Woodville led the way, and entered with
his companion, when they reached the apartment to which they had been
directed. Although it was now late, he remained there more than an
hour, in conversation deeply interesting to himself, at least.