THE CORONATION.
Five days after the events related in the last chapter, Richard of
Woodville, leaving armourers and tailors busy in his house at Meon,
rode away for London, accompanied by two yeomen, a page, and Ned
Dyram, whose talents had not been long in displaying themselves in the
service of his new master. He had instructed the tailors; he had
assisted the armourers; he had aided to choose the horses; he had
drawn figures for fresh pallettes and pauldrons; and he had with his
own hand manufactured a superb bridle and bit, ornamented with gilt
steel plates; jesting, laughing, talking, all the while, and
overcoming the obstinacy and the vanity of the old artificers, who
would fain have equipped the young gentleman who employed them, in the
fashions of the early part of the last reign, all new inventions in
those days travelling slowly from the capital to the country. Ned
Dyram, however, had been in many lands, and had accumulated, in a head
which possessed extraordinary powers both of observation and memory,
an enormous quantity of patterns and designs of everything new or
strange, which he had seen; and sometimes with a laugh, sometimes with
an argument, he drove those who were inclined to resist all
innovation, to adopt his proposed improvements greatly against their
will. But though his tongue occasionally ran fast, and he seemed to
take a pleasure occasionally in confounding his slower opponents with
a torrent of words, yet on all subjects but those immediately before
him, he kept his own counsel, and not one of the servants of the
house, when he set out with Woodville for London, was aware of who or
what he was, whence he came, or where he had gained so much knowledge.
The first day's journey was a long one, and Richard of Woodville and
his train were not many miles from London, when they again set forth
early on the following morning, so that it was not yet noon, on the
ninth of April, when they approached the city of Westminster, along
the banks of the Thames.
Winding in and out, through fields and hedge-rows, where now are
houses, manufactories, and prisons, with the soft air of Spring
breathing upon them, and the scent of the early cowslips, for which
that neighbourhood was once famous, rising up and filling the whole
air, they came on, now catching, now losing, the view of the large
heavy abbey church of Westminster, and its yet unfinished towers of
the same height as the main building, while rising tall above it,
appeared the belfry of St. Stephen's chapel, with its peaked roof,
open at the sides, displaying part of the three enormous bells, one of
which was said (falsely) to weigh thirty thousand pounds. The top of
two other towers might also be seen, from time to time, over the
trees, and also part of the buildings of the monastery adjoining the
Abbey; but these were soon lost, as the lane which the travellers were
following wound round under the west side of Tote Hill, a gentle
elevation covered with greensward, and ornamented with clumps of oak,
and beech, and fir, amidst which might be discovered, here and there,
some large stone houses, richly ornamented with sculpture, and
surrounded with their own gardens. The lanes, the paths, the fields,
were filled with groups of people in their holiday costume, all
flocking towards Westminster; and what with the warm sunshine, the
greenness of the grass, the tender verdure of the young foliage, and
the gay dresses of the people, the whole scene was as bright and
lively as it is possible to conceive. At the same time, the loud bells
of St. Stephen's began to ring with the merriest tones they could
produce, and a distant "Hurrah!" came upon the wind.
"Now, Ned, which is the way?" asked Richard of Woodville, calling up
his new attendant to his side, as they came to a spot where the lane
divided into two branches, one taking the right hand side of the hill,
and one the left. "This seems the nearest," he continued, pointing
down the former; "but I know nought of the city."
"The nearest may prove the farthest," replied Ned Dyram, riding up,
"as it often does, my master. That is the shortest, good sooth! but
they call the shortest often the fool's way; and we might be made to
look like fools, if we took it--for though it leads round to the end
of St. Stephen's Lane, methinks that to-day none will be admitted to
the palace-court by that gate, as it is the King's coronation
morning."
"Indeed!" said Woodville; "I knew not that it was so."
"Nor I, either," answered Ned; "but I know it now."
"And how, pray?" asked his new master.
"By every sight and sound," replied Ned Dyram. "By that girl's pink
coats--by that good man's blue cloak--by the bells ringing--by the
people running--by the hurrah we heard just now. I ever put all I hear
and see together--for a man who only sees one thing at once, will
never know what time he is living in."
"Then we had better turn to the left," said Woodville, not caring to
hear more of his homily. "Of course, if this be the coronation day, I
shall not get speech of the King till to-morrow; but we may as well
see what is going on."
"To the left will lead you right," replied his quibbling companion;
"that is to say, to the great gate before the palace court; and then
we shall discover whether the King will speak with you or not. Each
Prince has his own manners, and ours has changed so boldly in one day,
that no one can judge from that which the lad did, what the man will
do."
"Has he changed much, then?" asked Woodville, riding on; "it must have
been sudden, indeed, if you had time to see it ere you left him."
"Ay, has he!" answered Dyram; "the very day of his father's death he
put on, not the robes of royalty, but the heart; and those who were
his comrades before, gave place to other men. They who counted much
upon his love, found a cold face; and they who looked for hate, met
with nought but grace."
"Then, perhaps, my reception may not be very warm," said Woodville,
thoughtfully.
"You may judge yourself, better than I can, master mine," replied Ned
Dyram. "Did you ever sit with him in the tavern, drinking quarts of
wine?"
"No," answered Richard of Woodville, smiling.
"Then you shall be free of his table," said Ned. "Did you ever shoot
deer with him, by moonlight?"
"Never," was his master's reply.
"Then you may chance to taste his venison," rejoined the man. "Did you
ever brawl, swear, and break heads for him, or with him?"
"No, truly," said the young gentleman; "I fought under him with the
army in Wales, when he and I were both but boys; and I led him on his
way one dark night, two days before his father died; but that is all I
know of him."
"Then, perchance, you may enter into his council," answered Dyram;
"for, now that he is royal, he thinks royally, and he judges man for
himself, not with the eyes of others."
"As all kings should," said Richard of Woodville.
"And few kings do," rejoined Ned. "I was not so lucky; but many a mad
prank have I seen during the last year; and though he knows, and
Heaven knows, I never prompted what others did, yet I was one of the
old garments he cast off, as soon as he put on the new ones. I fared
better than the rest, indeed, because I sometimes had told him a rough
truth; and trust I shall fare better still, if I do his bidding."
"And what may be his bidding?" asked Richard of Woodville--"for,
doubtless, he gave you one, when he sent you to me."
"He bade me live well, and forget former days, as he had forgotten
them," replied Ned Dyram; "and he bade me serve you well, master, if
you took me with you; so you have no cause to think ill of the counsel
that he gave me in your case. But here we are, master mine; and a
goodly sight it is to see."
As he spoke, they turned into the wide street, or rather road, which
led from the village of Charing to the gates of the palace at
Westminster; and a gay and beautiful scene it certainly presented,
whichever side the eye turned. To the north was seen the old gothic
building (destroyed in the reign of Edward VI.) where the royal
falcons were kept, and called from that circumstance the Mew; while, a
little in advance, upon a spot slightly elevated, stood the beautiful
stone cross, one of the monuments of undying regard, erected in the
village of Charing, by King Edward the First; to the left appeared the
buttery and lodge, and other offices of the hospital and convent of
St. James's, forming together a large pile of buildings, with gates
and arches cutting each other in somewhat strange confusion--while the
higher stories, supported by corbels, overhung the lower. The effect
of the whole, however, massed together by the distance, was grand and
striking; while the trees of the fields, then belonging to the
nunnery, and afterwards formed into a park, broke the harsher lines,
and marked the distances down the course of the wide road.
A little nearer, but on the opposite side of the way, with gardens and
stairs extending to the river, was the palace, or lodging of the Kings
of Scotland. The edifice has been destroyed--but the ground has still
retained the name which it then bore; and many years had not elapsed,
at the time I speak of, since that mansion had been inhabited by the
monarchs of the northern part of this island, when they came to take
their seats in Parliament, in right of their English feofs. Gardens
succeeded, till appeared, somewhat projecting beyond the line of road,
the old stern building which had once been the property of Hubert de
Burg, Earl of Kent, more like a fortress than a dwelling, though its
gloomy aspect was relieved by a light and beautiful chapel, lately
built on the side nearest to Westminster, by one of the Archbishops of
York.
Several smaller edifices, sometimes constructed of brick, sometimes of
grey stone, were seen on the right and left, all in that peculiar
style of architecture so much better fitted to the climate of northern
Europe, and the character of her people, than the light and graceful
buildings of the Greeks, which we imitate in the present day,
generally with such heavy impotence; and still between all appeared
the green branches of oaks, and beeches, and fields, and gardens,
blending the city and the country together.
Up the long vista, thus presented, were visible thousands of groups,
on horseback and on foot, decked out in gay and glittering colours:
and as brilliant a scene displayed itself to the south, in the wide
court before the palace, surrounding which appeared the venerable
Abbey, the vast Hall, the long line of the royal dwelling, the
monastery, the chapel of St. Stephen, with its tall belfry, and many
another tower and lofty archway, and the old church of St. Margaret,
built about a century and a half before, together with the lofty yet
heavy buildings of the Woolstaple, and the row of arches underneath.
Banners and pennons fluttering in the wind; long gowns of monks and
secular clergymen; tabards and mantles of every hue under the sun; the
robes and headdresses of the ladies and their women, and the gorgeous
trappings of the horses, catching the light as they moved hither and
thither, rendered the line from the Eleanor cross to the palace one
living rainbow; while the river, flowing gently on upon the east, was
covered with boats, all tricked out with streamers and fluttering
ribbons. Even the grave, the old, and those dedicated to seclusion and
serious thought, seemed to have come forth for this one day; and,
amongst the crowd, might be distinguished more than one of the long,
grey, black, or white gowns, with the coif and veil which marked the
nun. All seemed gay, however; and nothing was heard but laughter,
merriment, gay jests, the ringing of the bells, the sounding of
clarions, and, every now and then, the deep tone of the organ, through
the open windows of the Abbey, or a wild burst of martial music from
the lesser court of the palace.
Habited in black, as mourning for his unhappy cousin, Richard of
Woodville felt himself hardly fitted for so gay a scene; but his good
mien and courteous carriage gained him many a civil word as he moved
along, or perchance some shrewd jest, as the frank simplicity of those
days allowed.
"Where is the black man going?" cried a pert London apprentice; "he
must be chief mourner for the dead king."
"Nay, he is fair enough to look upon, Tom," replied a pretty girl by
his side. "You would give much to be as fair."
"Take care of my toes, master," exclaimed a stout citizen; "your horse
is mettlesome."
"He shall not hurt you, good sir," replied Woodville.
"Let me hold by your leg, sir squire," said a woman near, "so shall I
have a stout prop."
"Blessings on his fair, good-natured face!" cried an old woman; "he
has lost his lady, I will wager my life."
"You have not much there to lose, good mother," answered a man behind
her.
"Well, he will soon find another lady," rejoined a buxom dame, who
seemed of the same party, "if he takes those eyes to court."
"Out on it, master!" exclaimed a man who had been amusing the people
round him by bad jokes; "is your horse a cut-purse? He had his nose in
my pouch."
"Where he found nothing, I dare say," answered Woodville; and in the
midst of the peal of laughter which followed from the easily moved
multitude, he made his way forward to the gates, where he was stopped
by a wooden barrier drawn across and guarded by a large posse of the
royal attendants, habited in their coats of ceremony.
"What now?--what now?" asked one of the jacks of office, with a large
mace in his hand, as Woodville rode up; "you can have no entrance
here, sir squire, if you be not of the King's house, or have not an
order from one of his lords. The court is crowded already. The King
will not have room to pass back."
Before his master could answer, however, Ned Dyram pushed forward his
horse, and addressed the porter, saying, in a tone of authority, "Up
with the barrier, Master Robert Nesenham. 'Tis a friend of the King's,
for whom he sent me--Master Richard of Woodville--you know the name."
"That's another affair, Ned," replied the other; "but let me see, are
not you on the list of those who must not come to court?"
"Not I," replied Ned Dyram; "or if I be, you have put me on yourself,
Robin; 'tis but the other day I left his Grace upon this errand."
"Well, come in, if it be so, varlet," replied the porter, lifting the
barrier; "but if you come forbidden, the pillory and your ears will be
acquainted. How many men of you are there?--Stand back, fellows, or I
will break your pates. See, Tim, there is a fellow slipping through!
Drive him back--give him a throw--cast him over--break his neck--five
of you, that is all?--stand back, fellows, or you shall into limbo."
While the good man strove with the crowd without, who all struggled
manfully to push through the barrier when it was open, Richard of
Woodville and his followers made their way on into the court; and,
dismounting from his horse in the more open space which it afforded,
he advanced towards the passage which was kept clear by the royal
officers, between the door of the great Hall and the Abbey. At first
he was placed near a stout man, dressed as a wealthy citizen; and he
inquired of him how long the King had been in the church.
"Three parts of an hour," replied the other; "did you not hear the
shout and the bells begin to ring? Oh, it was a grand sight! There
was----" but the rest of what he said was drowned by the noise around,
aided by a loud flourish of trumpets from the Hall.
The crowd, however, was constantly changing, and swaying to and fro;
and Woodville soon found himself separated from the man to whom he had
spoken, by two or three of the secular clergy of the city, and a
somewhat coquettish-looking nun, who wore over her grey gown a blue
ribbon and a silver cross.
She turned round and looked at him with her veil up, showing a very
pretty face, and a pair of bright blue eyes. A fat monk was behind,
and a man dressed as a scrivener; but all were intent upon watching
the door of the Abbey, as if they expected the royal procession soon
to re-appear; and Woodville turned his eyes thither also. The next
moment he heard a voice pronounce his own name, and then add, "Beware
of Simeon of Roydon; and let not Henry Dacre fight with him."
Richard turned sharply round, and gazed at those behind him; but he
saw no face that he knew, but those of Ned Dyram and one of his own
men. The rest of the group in his immediate neighbourhood was composed
of two monks, another nun, a doctor of divinity in his cope, a tall
man in a surcoat of arms, and two elderly ladies with portentous
headdresses, a full half yard broad and two feet high.
It was a woman's voice, however, that he had heard, and he inquired at
once of the nearest woman, "Did you speak, lady?"
"To be sure I did," answered the good dame, in a sharp tone; "I asked
my brother what the hour is. No offence in that, sir, I suppose?"
"Oh, none, assuredly," replied Richard of Woodville; "but I thought
you mentioned my name."
"I do not know it, young sir," replied the lady; "come away, brother,
the squire is saucy;" and she and her party moved on, making a
complete change in the disposition of the group.
In vain Richard of Woodville looked beyond the little circle in which
they stood; he could see no face that he knew; and at length, turning
to Ned Dyram, he inquired if he had heard any one mention his name.
"That good dame, or some one near her certainly did," replied the man;
"but I could not see exactly who it was. It might be the other woman."
"Was she old, too?" demanded Woodville.
"Too old for your wife, and too young for your mother," answered
Ned--"somewhat on the touch of forty years."
As he spoke, there was a loud "hurrah!" from the ground adjacent to
the Abbey door; a true, hearty, English shout, such as no other nation
on the earth can give; and the royal procession was seen returning.
All pressed as near as they could; and Richard of Woodville gained a
place in front, where he waited calmly, uncovered, for the passing of
the King.
On came the train, bishops and abbots, priests and nobles, the pages,
the knights, the bearers of the royal emblems; but all eyes were
turned to one person, as--with a step, not haughty, but calm and firm,
such as might well accord with a heart fixed and confident to keep the
solemn vows so lately made, in scrupulous fidelity; with a brow
elevated by high and noble purposes, more than by the splendour of the
crown it bore; and with an eye lightening with genius and soul--Henry
of Monmouth returned towards his palace, amidst the gratulating
acclamations of his people.
Richard of Woodville saw Hal of Hadnock in the whole bearing of the
monarch, as he had seen the Prince in the bearing of Hal of Hadnock,
and he murmured to himself, "He is the same. 'Tis but the dress is
altered, either in mind or body. Excluded from the tasks of royalty,
he assumed a less noble guise; but still the man was the same."
As he thus thought, the King passed before him, looking to right and
left upon the long lines of people that bordered his way, though,
marching in his state, he distinguished no one by word or gesture. His
eyes, indeed, fixed firmly for an instant upon Richard of Woodville,
and a slight smile passed over his lip; but he went on without farther
notice; and the young gentleman turned, as soon as he had gone by,
thinking, "I will seek some inn, and come to the palace tomorrow.
To-day, it is in vain."
The pressure of the multitude, however, prevented him from moving for
some time, and he was forced to remain till the whole of the
procession had gone by. He then made his way out of the crowd, which
gradually became less compact, though few retired altogether, the
greater number waiting either to discuss the events of the day, or to
see if any other amusements would be afforded to the people; but it
was some time before the young gentleman could find his horses, for
the movements of the people had forced them from the place where they
had been left. Just as he was, at length, putting his foot in the
stirrup, Ned Dyram pulled his sleeve, saying, "There is a King's page,
my master, looking for some one in the crowd. Always give yourself a
chance. It may be you he seeks."
"I think not," replied Richard of Woodville; "but you can join him,
and inquire, if you will."
The man instantly ran off at full speed; and, though soon forced to
slacken his pace amongst the people, he in the end reached the page,
and asked for whom he was looking.
"A gentleman in black," replied the boy, "named Richard of Woodville."
"Then there he is," answered Ned, pointing with his hand to where his
master stood; and, followed by the page, he walked quickly to the
spot.
"If your name be Richard of Woodville, sir," said the boy, "the King
will see you now, while he is putting off his heavy robes and taking
some repose."
"I follow, young sir," replied Woodville; and, accompanying the page,
he turned towards the palace, while Ned Dyram, after a moment's
hesitation, pursued the same course as his master, "in order," as he
said mentally, "always to give himself a chance."