THE ASSASSINATION.
Clouds had again come over the heavens as day declined, and the light
had nearly faded from the sky; but yet the horses of Hal of Hadnock
and Richard of Woodville had not appeared in the court-yard, and the
former showed great anxiety to proceed at once. His gaiety was gone;
and he stood, either playing, in deep thought, with the hilt of his
dagger, the sheath of which hung from a ring in the centre of his
belt, or listening for the horses, with his ear turned towards the
door of the hall.
"I fear, sir, the news you have received are bad," said old Sir Philip
Beauchamp, who, with the rest of the party, had by this time risen
from table.
"A father's perilous sickness, noble Sir Philip," answered Hal of
Hadnock; "one who might have been kinder, indeed; but still the
tidings must ever be sad ones to a son's heart. I wonder that the
horses be not ready."
"Go, Hugh, and see," replied Richard of Woodville; but a serving man,
who had entered the moment before, stopped the messenger, saying--
"They will be here in a minute, sir. A shoe was found loose on the
gentleman's steed, and John the smith has had to fasten it."
"Well, Dick, thou goest in good earnest at last," said the old knight,
turning to his nephew; "and on my life I think it is the best thing
thou canst do. Thou art a good soldier, and wilt raise thyself to
renown. I need not tell thee what thy duties are; but thou must take a
horse and arms of thine old uncle, whom thou mayest never see again,
perchance. Choose them for thyself, boy. Thou wilt find wherewithal in
that purse," and he placed a full one in his nephew's hand. "As my
good brother, the Abbot, is not here, thou must content thyself with
my benison. Be it upon thee, Richard! Love thy king, thy country, and
thine honour. But, above all things, love God, fear his anger, hope in
his mercy, trust in his promises, and submit thine own reason in all
things to his word. So shalt thou prosper in this world; so shalt thou
be meet for another."
The young man caught his uncle's hand and kissed it; and the old
knight pressed him for a moment in his arms.
"Here, Richard, take this gift of me," said Isabel: "'tis but a jewel
for your baldrick."
Mary Markham did not speak; but after he had pressed his lips on
Isabel's cheek, she offered hers silently, placing a ring in his hand.
"I will bear it to honour, and win you yet, Mary," said Woodville, in
a low voice, as he took his parting kiss; and he felt that her cheek
was wet with tears.
"Hark! there are the horses, noble sir," exclaimed Hal of Hadnock,
turning to Sir Philip. "Once more, farewell! Your nephew shall give
you further news of me; and may one day clear me in your eyes for
somewhat you have thought amiss."
Then bidding the ladies adieu, he turned to the hall door, and
mounted, with a princely largesse to the servants of the house.
Richard of Woodville followed, sprang on his horse's back, and, giving
one look back, rode through the gates after his companion.
The wood was dark and sombre, as they proceeded amidst its thick
coverts; but when they issued forth, a faint glimmer of twilight
served to guide them on the way, and they quickened their pace. There
were lights in the windows of the cottages, too, as they passed
through the village; and when they reached the other side, they caught
a pale line of yellow light, peeping out from beneath the dark clouds
upon the edge of the western sky, and gilding the water of the stream.
Riding on quickly, they had not left the last house behind them five
minutes, when Hal of Hadnock pulled up his horse short, exclaiming,
"Hark! there is a scream!"
"'Tis but a screech-owl," answered Richard of Woodville; "they come
forth in spring."
But as he spoke, there was another shriek, apparently before them; and
each struck his horse with the spur, and dashed on. No other sound met
their ear, however, except what seemed the distant galloping of a
horse, which might be but the echo of their own beasts' feet. When
they reached the spot where, on the preceding night, they had seen the
wild fire over the moor, Hal of Hadnock again drew in his rein,
saying, "It came from somewhere here."
"It seemed to me near where we then were," replied Richard of
Woodville. "Perchance 'twas but some villagers got drunk at that
Glutton mass. See, there is the otter again!"
"It was a shriek of pain or terror," answered his companion.
"Otter!--that is no otter! Here, hold my horse," and springing from
the saddle in a moment, he dashed down the bank, and plunged into the
river. Though shallow in most places, it there formed a deep pool; but
Hal of Hadnock, expert in all exercises alike, struck out at once, and
caught the object he had seen, just as it was sinking. A feeling of
horror and alarm seized him, as his hand grasped the long hair of a
woman; but raising her head above the water again, he held it gently
on his left arm, and with his right swam in towards the shore.
"Here, help, Richard," he cried, "set the horses free, and take her.
'Tis a woman!"
Woodville was down the bank in a moment, exclaiming, "Who is it?--who
is it?"
"I know not," answered Hal of Hadnock, raising her so far above the
water, that his companion could grasp her in his arms and lift her
out; but as he himself followed, placing one knee on the shore, with a
sad heart, he heard his companion exclaim, in the accents of deep
grief--
"Good Heaven! it is Catherine!"
"Quick! bear her to the nearest house!" cried Hal of Hadnock; "the
spark of life may be still there. I will follow with the horses."
"Up the short path to the right, lies the chanter's," cried Richard,
raising the unhappy girl in his stout arms, and running along the
road.
The horses were easily caught, and mounting one, and leading the
other, Hal of Hadnock followed, obtaining a glance of his companion
just as he turned from the highway, towards a spot where the thatch of
a small house peeped up above some trees. He was at the door as soon
as Woodville; and, lifting the latch, they both went in.
An old man and woman were sitting before the fire; but the sudden
entrance of two men roused them in fear; and, when they saw who it
was, and what they bore, all was eager hurry and lamentation. The
inanimate body of Catherine Beauchamp, however, was speedily laid in
the old chanter's bed, in the neighbouring chamber; and such simple
means as first suggested themselves were employed to ascertain if life
were still within that fair and silent frame. But she lay calm and
still as if asleep, with her features full of a sweet placidity, such
as they had seldom worn in life.
"It is past!" said Richard of Woodville; "it is past'. Poor girl! how
has this happened? Ha! there is the mark of a grasp upon her throat!"
"See there, too!" cried Hal of Hadnock; and he pointed with his hand
to where, upon the fine lawn that covered her bosom, was a faint red
stain, half washed out by the water of the stream, as if blood had
been spilt. No wound, however, was to be discovered; and while the two
gentlemen stood and gazed, the old chanter's sister continued,
ineffectually, to employ every effort to reawaken the inanimate frame,
and the old man himself ran off to the Abbey to procure farther aid.
"Go into the other room, sirs--go into the other room," said the good
dame, at length; "I will take off her wet clothes. 'Tis that keeps her
from coming to."
Hal of Hadnock shook his head; for he could not see that pale
countenance, those immovable lips, those sightless eyes, without
feeling sure--too sure--that life had departed for ever. He would not
say anything, however, to discourage the zeal of the poor woman; and
he accordingly accompanied Richard of Woodville into the chamber which
they had first entered, and stood with him in silent thought before
the fire. Neither spoke; for the mind of each was busy with sad and
dark inquiries, regarding the event which had just taken place; yet
neither could arrive at anything like a conclusion. Was it her own
act? was it accident? was it the deed of another? and if so, of whom?
Such were the questions which both asked themselves. Both, too,
entertained suspicions; but yet they did not like even to admit those
suspicions to their own hearts, for how often does the first
conclusion of guilt do injustice to the innocent! but while they were
still in thought, the voice of the chanter's sister was heard
exclaiming--
"Come hither, Master Richard!--come hither! See here!" and as they
entered, she pointed to the poor girl's arm, which now lay uncovered
on the bed-clothes, adding, "there is the grasp of a hand, clear
enough! Look, all the fingers and the thumb!"
"Stay," said Hal of Hadnock; "that might be mine, Richard, or yours in
raising her out of the stream."
"I took her by the other arm," answered Richard of Woodville.
"And I do not remember having touched her arm at all," said Hal of
Hadnock, after thinking for a moment.
"Oh, no, sirs," cried the old woman; "that hand must have grasped her
in life, else it would not have brought the blood to the skin. Hark!
there are the people coming," and, in another minute, the good old
Abbot, and four or five of his monks, ran in breathless and scared.
"Alas! alas! Richard, what is this?" cried the Abbot.
"A sad and dark affair, father," replied Richard of Woodville, while
one of the monks, famed for his skill in leechcraft, advanced to the
bed-side, and put his hand upon the heart; "I fear life is extinct."
The Abbot gazed at the monk as he knelt; but the good brother slowly
waved his head, with a melancholy look, saying, "Yet leave me and the
old woman alone with her."
"I will stay and aid," replied the Abbot. "I am her uncle."
All the rest withdrew; and many were the eager questions of the monks,
as to how the accident had happened. Richard of Woodville told the
tale simply as it was--the two shrieks that they had heard, the
discovery of the body in the water, and its recovery from the stream.
"Ay, she screamed when she fell in, and when she first rose," said one
of the monks; "drowning people always do."
Woodville made no reply; for he would not give his own suspicions to
others; but Hal of Hadnock asked him, in a low voice, "Did you not
hear the galloping of a horse, on the other side, as we came near?"
"I did," answered Richard, in the same tone; "I did, too plainly."
In about a quarter of an hour, the Abbot came forth, and all made way
for him.
"What hope?" asked Woodville, looking into his uncle's face for
speedier information.
"None!" replied the Abbot. "How has this chanced, my son? there are
marks of violence."
The same tale was told over again; but this time Richard of Woodville
added the fact of a horse's feet having been heard; and the Abbot
mused profoundly.
"I will have the body carried down to the Abbey," he said, at length.
"You, Richard, speed to my brother, and break the tidings there. Come
down with him to the Abbey, and we will consult. Bring Dacre, too.
"Dacre has been gone more than two hours," answered Richard of
Woodville; "but I will seek my uncle Philip," and he turned towards
the door.
Hal of Hadnock stayed him for a moment, however, saying, "I must ride
on, Richard. You know that my call hence admits of no delay. But let
every one remark and remember, for this matter must be inquired into,
that I heard and saw all that this good friend of mine did; the
shrieks, the galloping of a horse, the body in the water. You shall
have means of finding me, too, should it be needful; and now, my Lord
Abbot, a sad good night. Farewell, Richard; you shall hear from me
soon." Thus saying, he quitted the cottage, mounted his horse, and
rode away at a quick pace.