THE DAY OF FESTIVAL.
Crossing through the great Hall of the palace of Westminster, where so
many a varied scene has been enacted in the course of English history,
where joy and sorrow, mirth, merriment, pageantry, fear, despair, and
the words of death, have passed for well nigh a thousand years, and do
pass still, Richard of Woodville followed the page amidst tables and
benches, serving-men, servers, guards, and ushers, till they reached a
small door at the left angle, which, when opened, displayed the first
steps of a small stone staircase. Up these they took their way, and
then, through a corridor thronged with attendants, past the open door
of a large room on the right, in which mitres and robes, crosses and
swords of state, met the young gentleman's eye, to a door at the end,
which the page opened. Within was a small antechamber containing
several squires and pages in their tabards, waiting either in silence,
or at most talking to each other in whispers. They made way for their
comrade, and the gentleman he brought with him, to pass, and,
approaching an opposite door, the boy knocked. No one answered; but
the door was immediately opened; and Richard of Woodville was ushered
into a bedchamber, where, seated in a large chair, he found the King,
attended by two men dressed in their habits of state. One of these had
just given the visitor admission; but the other was engaged in pulling
off the boots in which the monarch had walked to and from the Abbey,
and in placing a pair of embroidered shoes upon his feet instead.
"Welcome, Richard of Woodville," said Henry, as soon as he beheld him;
"so you have come to see Hal of Hadnock before you depart?"
"I have come to see my gracious Sovereign, Sire," replied Woodville,
advancing, and bending the knee to kiss his hand, "and to wish him
health and long life to wear his crown, for his own honour and the
happiness of his people."
"Nay, rise, Richard, rise," said Henry, smiling kindly; "no court
ceremonies here. And I will tell you, my good friend, that I do really
believe, there is not one of all those who have shouted on my path
to-day, or sworn to support my throne, who more sincerely wishes my
prosperity than yourself. But say, did you guess, that Hal of Hadnock
was the Prince of Wales?"
"I knew it, Sire," replied Woodville, "from the first moment you
entered my uncle's hall. I had served under your Grace's command in
Wales."
"I suspected as much," replied the monarch, "from some words you let
fall."
"I do beseech you, Sire, to pardon me," continued Richard, "if I
judged my duty wrongly; but I thought that so long as it was not your
pleasure to give yourself your own state, it was my part, to know you
only as you seemed."
"And you did right, my friend," replied the King; "but were you not
tempted to breathe the secret to any one--not even to Mary Markham?"
"To no one, Sire," answered Woodville, boldly; "not for my right hand,
would I have said one word to the best friend I had."
"You are wise and faithful, Richard of Woodville," said Henry,
gravely; "God send me many such."
"Here is the other mantle, Sire," said the attendant who was dressing
him, "will you permit me to unclasp that?"
Henry rose, and the man disengaged the royal mantle from his
shoulders, replacing it with one less heavy, while the King continued
his conversation with Woodville, after a momentary interruption,
repeating, "God send me many such; for if I judge rightly, I shall
have need of strong arms, and wise heads, and noble hearts about me.
Nor shall I fail to call for yours when I have need, my friend."
"Ah, Sire," answered Woodville, with a smile, "as far as a true heart
and a strong arm may go, I can, perhaps, serve you; but for wise
heads, I fear you must look elsewhere. I am but a singer of songs, you
know, and a lover of old ballads."
"Like myself, Richard," replied Henry; "but none the worse for that. I
know not why, but I always doubt the man that is not fond of music
'Tis, perhaps, that I love it so well myself, that I cannot but think
he who does not has some discordant principle in his heart that jars
with sweet sounds. 'Tis to me a great refreshment also; and when I
have been sad or tired with all this world's business, when my
thoughts have grown misty, or my brain turned giddy, I have sat me
down to the organ and played for a few moments till all has become
clear again; and I have risen as a man does from a calm sleep. As for
poesy, indeed, I love it well enough, but I am no poet:--and yet I
think that a truly great poet is more powerful, and has a wider
empire, than a king. We monarchs rule men's bodies while we live; but
their minds are beyond that sceptre, and death ends all our power. The
poet rules their hearts, moulds their minds to his will, and stretches
his arm over the wide future. He arrays the thoughts of countless
multitudes for battle on the grand field of the world, and extends his
empire to the end of time. Look at Homer,--has not the song of the
blind Greek its influence yet? and so shall the verse of Chaucer be
heard in years to come, long after the brow they have this day crowned
shall have mouldered in the grave."
The thoughts which he had himself called up, seemed to take entire
possession of the King, and he remained gazing in deep meditation for
a few minutes upon the glittering emblems of royalty which lay upon
the table before him, while Richard of Woodville stood silent by his
side, not venturing to interrupt his reverie.
"Well, Richard," continued the King, at length rousing himself, "so
you go to Burgundy? but hold yourself ready to join me when I have
need."
"I am always ready, now or henceforward, Sire," answered the young
gentleman, "to serve you with the best of my poor ability; and the day
will be a happy one that calls me to you. I only go to seek honour in
another land, because I had so resolved before I met your Highness,
and because you yourself pronounced it best for me."
"And so I think it still," replied Henry. "I would myself advance you,
Woodville, but for two reasons; first, I find every office near my
person filled with old and faithful servants of the crown; and, as
they fall vacant, I would place in them men who have themselves won
renown. Next, I think it better that your own arm and your own
judgment should be your prop, rather than a King's favour; and, as
yet, there is here no opportunity. Besides, there are many other
reasons why you will do well to go, in which I have not forgotten your
own best interests. But keep yourself clear of long engagement to a
foreign Prince, lest your own should need you."
"That I most assuredly w ill, Sire," answered Richard of Woodville. "I
go but to take service as a volunteer, holding myself free to quit it
when I see meet. I ask no pay from any one; and if I gain honour or
reward, it shall be for what I have done, not for what I am to do."
"You are right, you are right," said Henry; "but have you anything to
ask of me?"
"Nothing, Sire," replied the young gentleman. "I did but wish to pay
reverence to your state, and thank you for the gracious letters you
have given me, before I went;" and he took a step back as if to
retire. But Henry made a sign, saying--
"Stop! yet a moment; I have something to ask you.--Lay the gloves down
there, Surtis. Tighten this point a little, and then retire with
Baynard."
The attendants did as they were bid; and Henry then inquired, "What of
Sir Henry Dacre, and of that dark evening's work at which we were
present?"
"Dacre goes with me, Sire," replied Richard of Woodville.
"Ha!" exclaimed the King; "then were we wrong in thinking he loved the
other?"
"Not so," answered Woodville; "'tis a sad tale, Sire. He does love
Isabel, I am sure--has long loved her, though struggling hard against
such thoughts. But, as if to mar his whole happiness, that scoundrel,
Roydon, whom you saw, when informed of poor Kate's death, wrote,
though he did not come, raising doubts as to whether her fate had been
accidental."
"Doubts!" cried the King. "Do you entertain no doubts, Richard?"
"Many, Sire," answered the young gentleman; "but I never mention
doubts that I cannot justify by proof, and will not support with my
arm. But he did more; he pointed suspicion at one he knew too well to
be innocent. He called up some accidental circumstances affecting
Dacre--not as charges, indeed, but as matters of inquiry; made the
wound and left the venom, but shrunk from the result."
"And what did Dacre?" asked the King.
"Gave him the lie, Sire," replied Woodville; "called upon him to come
boldly forward, make his accusation, and support it in the lists."
"He avoided that, I'll warrant," replied Henry; "I know him, Richard."
"He did so, Sire," answered the young gentleman; "he declared he had
no accusation to bring--held Dacre to be good knight and true; but
still kept his vague insinuations forward in view, as things that he
mentions solely because it would be satisfactory to the knight himself
to clear up whatever is obscure."
"And does the Lady Isabel give any credence, then, to these cowardly
charges?" inquired the King.
"Oh! no, Sire," replied Woodville, warmly. "She has known Harry Dacre
from her infancy; and those who have, are well aware that, though
quick in temper, he is as kind as the May wind--as true and pure as
light. But Dacre is miserable. He thinks, that, henceforth, the finger
of suspicion will be pointed at him for ever; he sees imaginary doubts
and dreads in every one's heart towards him; he feels the mere
insinuation, as the first stain upon a high and noble name. It weighs
upon him like a captive's chain; he cannot break it or get free--it
binds his very heart and soul; and, casting all hope and happiness
behind him, he is resolved to go and peril life itself in any rash
enterprise that fortune may present."
"Poor man!" exclaimed Henry, "I can well understand his feelings:
but God will bring all things to light. Yet, tell me, Richard
of Woodville, do your own suspicions point in no particular
direction?--have you no doubts of any one?"
"Perhaps I have, Sire," answered Woodville; "but I will beseech your
Highness to grant me one of two things--either, to appoint a day and
hour where, in fit lists and with arms at outrance, I may sustain my
words to the death; or do not ask me to make a charge which I can
support with no other proof than my right hand."
"I understand you, Richard," said the King, "and I will ask no
farther. Your course is a just one; but I trust, and am sure, that
heaven will not witness such deeds as have been done, without sending
punishment. We both think of the same person, I know; and my eye is
upon him. Tell me, however, one thing,--does not Sir Simeon of Roydon
inherit the estates of this poor Lady Catherine?"
"He does, Sire, and is already in possession," replied Woodville.
"He is here at the court," rejoined the King, "and I shall show him
favour for her sake."
Richard of Woodville gazed at the monarch in surprise, but a slight
smile curled Henry's lip; and, although he gave no explanation of the
words which he had spoken in a grave tone, his young companion was
satisfied.
"I always love to get at the heart of a mystery," continued the King,
seeing that Richard remained silent; "and I should much like to know,
if you can tell me, what was the cause of that furious quarrel which
took place between Sir Henry Dacre and this unhappy lady, just before
he went? I fear I had some share in it."
"You were but the drop, Sire, that overflowed the cup," replied
Woodville; "it had been near the brim for several days before; but
what was said I know not. Remonstrance upon his part, and cutting
sneers on hers, as usual, I suppose; but he has never told me."
Henry mused for a moment at this reply; and then, changing the
subject, he inquired, "Is good Ned Dyram with you here in
Westminster?"
"He is in the Hall below, Sire," answered Woodville; "and a most
useful gift has he been to me already."
"A loan, Richard, a loan!" cried the King; "I shall claim him back one
of these days, after he has served you in Burgundy. You will find he
has faults as well as virtues; so have an eye to correct them. But
even now, as the country folk say, I have a mind to borrow my own
horse. I want his services for three days, if you will lend him to
me--You are not yet ready to set out?"
"Not yet, Sire," replied Woodville; "but, in one week more, I hope to
be on the sea."
"Well, then, send the man up to me, and he shall rejoin you in four
days," answered Henry; "but let me see you tomorrow, my good friend,
before you go home, for I would fain talk farther with you. It is
seldom that a King can meet one with whom he can speak his thoughts
plainly; and I find already a difference that makes me sad. Command
and obedience, arguments of state and policy, flattering acquiescence
in my opinion, whether right or wrong, praise, broad and coarse, or
neat and half concealed,--of these I can have plenty, and to surfeit;
but a friend, into whose bosom one can pour forth one's ideas without
restraint, whether they be sad or gay, is a rare thing in a court. So,
for the present, fare-you-well, Richard. You will stay here for the
banquet in the Hall, of course; and let me see you to-morrow morning,
towards the hour of eight."
Richard of Woodville, as he well might, felt deeply gratified at the
confidence which the King's words implied, and he answered, "I will
not fail, Sire, to attend you at that hour, with more gratitude for
your good opinion than any other favour. At the banquet, I will try to
find a place, and will send Ned Dyram to you. Will you receive him
now?"
"Yes, at once," replied the King; "for, good faith! these lords and
bishops who are waiting for me, will think me long. I will order you a
place below; but, mark me, Richard--if you meet Simeon of Roydon, seek
no quarrel with him; and lay my commands upon Sir Henry Dacre, that he
do not, on any pretence, again call him to the lists, without my
knowledge and consent. As to Ned Dyram, he shall rejoin you soon.
There is no way in which he may not be useful to you; for there is
scarce an earthly chance for which his ready wit is not prepared. I
met him first, studying alchemy with a poor wretch who, in pursuit of
science, had blown all his wealth up the chimney of his furnace, and
could no longer keep this boy. I found him next in an armourer's shop,
hammering at hard iron, and thence I took him. He has a thousand
qualities, some bad, some good. I think him honest; but his tongue is
somewhat too free; and that which the wild Prince might laugh at,
might not chime with the dignity of the crown. He will learn better in
your train; but at the present I have an errand for him--so send him
to me quickly."
Richard of Woodville bowed and withdrew; and, finding his way down to
the Hall, he called Ned Dyram,--who was in full activity, aiding the
royal officers to set out the tables,--and told him to go directly to
the King. The man laughed, and ran off to fulfil the command: and
about three quarters of an hour elapsed before the monarch appeared in
the hall, which by that time was nearly filled with guests, invited to
the banquet. He was followed by the train of high nobles and
churchmen, whom Woodville had seen waiting in a chamber above; and the
numerous tables, which were as many as that vast building could
contain, were soon crowded.
It would be dull to the reader, were I to give any account of a mere
ordinary event, such as a royal feast of those days--were I to tell
the number of oxen and sheep that were consumed--the capons, ducks,
geese, swans, and peacocks, that appeared upon the board. Suffice it,
that one of the royal servants placed Richard of Woodville according
to his rank; that the banquet, with all its ceremonies, was somewhat
long in passing, but that the young gentleman's comfort was not
disturbed by the sight of Simeon of Roydon, who, if he were in the
Hall, kept himself from Richard's eyes. The lower part of the chamber
was filled with minstrels, musicians, and attendants; and music, as
usual, accompanied the feast; but ever and anon, from the court before
the palace and the neighbouring streets, were heard loud shouts, and
laughter, and bursts of song, showing that the merriment and revelry
of the multitude were still kept up, while the King and his nobles
were feasting within.
Thus, when the banquet was over, the monarch gone from the Hall, and
Richard of Woodville, with the rest of the guests, issued forth into
the court, he was not surprised to find a gay and joyous scene
without, the whole streets and roads filled with people, and every one
giving himself up to joy and diversion. The gates of the court were
thrown open, the populace admitted to the very doors of the palace,
and a crowd of several hundred persons assembled round a spot in the
centre, where a huge pile of dry wood had been lighted for the august
ceremony of roasting an ox whole, which was duly superintended by half
a dozen white-capped cooks, with a whole army of scullions and
turnspits. Butts of strong beer stood in various corners; and a
fountain, of four streams, flowed with wine at the side next to the
Abbey. In one spot, people were jostling and pushing each other to get
at the ale or wine; in another, they were dancing gaily to the sound
of a viol; and further on was a tumbler, twisting himself into every
sort of strange attitude for the amusement of the spectators. Loud
shouts and exclamations, peals of laughter, the sounds of a thousand
different musical instruments playing as many different tunes, with
voices singing, and others crying wares of several sorts, prepared for
the celebration of the day, made a strange and not very melodious din;
but there was an air of festivity and rejoicing, of fun and good
humour, in the whole, that compensated for the noise and the crowd.
Richard of Woodville had given orders for his horses to be taken to an
inn at Charing, while waiting in the Hall before the banquet; and he
now proceeded on foot, through the crowd in the palace courts, towards
the gates. It was a matter of some difficulty to obtain egress; for
twilight was now coming on, and the multitude were flocking from the
sights which had been displayed in the more open road to Charing
during the last two or three hours, to witness the roasting of the ox,
and to obtain some of the slices which were to be distributed about
the hour of nine.
At length, however, he found himself in freer air; but still, every
four or five yards, he came upon a gay group, either standing and
talking to each other, or gathered round a show, or some singer or
musician. It was one constant succession of faces; some young, some
old, some pretty, some ugly, but all of them strange to Richard of
Woodville. Nevertheless, more than once he met the same merry
salutations which he had been treated to when on horseback; and, as he
paused here and there, gazing at this or that gay party, he was twice
asked to join in the dance, and still more frequently required to
contribute to the payment of a poor minstrel with his pipe or cithern.
The minstrels were not, indeed, in those days at least, a very
elevated race of beings; their poetical powers, if they ever in this
country possessed any, had entirely merged in the musical; and, though
they occasionally did sing to their own instruments, or to those of
others, the verses were generally either old ballads, or pieces of
poetry composed by persons of a higher education than themselves.
Nearly opposite the old dwelling of the kings of Scotland, Woodville's
ear caught the tones of a very sweet voice singing; and, approaching
the group of people that had gathered round, he saw an old man
playing on an instrument somewhat like, but greatly inferior to a
modern guitar, while a girl by his side, with fine features, and
apparently--for the light was faint--a beautiful complexion, dressed
in somewhat strange costume, was pouring forth her lay to the
delighted ears of youths and maidens. She had nearly finished the
song, when the young gentleman approached; and, in a moment or two
after, she went round with a cap in her hand, asking the donations of
the listeners.
Woodville had been pleased, and he threw in some small silver coin,
more than equal to all that the rest had given; and, resuming her
place by the old man's side, she whispered a word in his ear, upon
which he immediately struck his instrument again, and she began
another ditty in honour, it would appear, of her generous auditor:--
SONG.
The bark is at the shore,
The wind is in the sail,
Fear not the tempest's roar,
There's fortune in the gale;
For the true heart and kind,
Its recompence shall find,
Shall win praise,
And golden days,
And live in many a tale.
Oh, go'st thou far or nigh,
To Palestine or France,
For thee soft hearts shall sigh,
And glory wreath thy lance;
For the true heart and kind,
Its recompence shall find,
Shall win praise,
And golden days,
And five in many a tale.
The courtly hall or field,
Still luck shall thee afford;
Thy heart shall be thy shield,
And love shall edge thy sword;
For the true heart and kind,
Its recompence shall find
Shall win praise,
And golden days,
And live in many a tale.
The lark shall sing on high.
Whatever shores thou rov'st;
The nightingale shall try,
To call up her thou lov'st;
For the true heart and kind,
Its recompence shall find,
Shall win praise,
And golden days,
And live in many a tale.
In hours of pain and grief,
If such thou must endure.
Thy breast shall know relief,
In honour tried and pure;
For the true heart and Kind,
Its recompence shall find,
Shall win praise,
And golden days,
And live in many a tale.
And Fortune soon or late,
Shall give the jewell'd prize;
For deeds, in spite of fate,
Gain smiles from ladies' eyes;
And the true heart and kind,
Its recompense shall find,
Shall win praise,
And golden days,
And live in many a tale.
The song was full of hope and cheerfulness; and though the melody was
simple, as all music was in those days, it went happily with the
words. Richard of Woodville well understood, that though certainly not
an improvisation, the verse was intended for him; and feeling grateful
to the girl for her promises of success, he drew forth his purse, and
held out to her another piece of money. She stepped gracefully forward
to receive it, and this time extended a fair, small hand, instead of
the cap which she had before borne round the crowd; but just at that
moment, a party of horsemen came up at full gallop, and, as if for
sport--probably under the influence of wine--rode fiercely through the
little circle assembled to hear the song.
The listeners, young and active, easily got out of the way; but not so
the old minstrel, who stood still, as if bewildered, and was knocked
down and trampled by one of the horsemen. The girl, his companion,
with a shriek, and Richard of Woodville, with a cry of indignation,
started forward together; and the latter, catching the horse which had
done file mischief by the bridle, with his powerful arm forced it back
upon its haunches, throwing the rider to the ground with a heavy fall.
As the man went down, his hood was cast back, and Woodville beheld the
face of Simeon of Roydon. But he paused not to notice him farther,
instantly turning to raise the old man, and endeavouring to support
him. The poor minstrel's limbs had no strength, however, and fearing
that he was much hurt, the young gentleman exclaimed, "Good heaven!
why did you not get out of their way?"
The old man made no answer; but the girl replied, wringing her
hands--"Alas! he is blind!"
"Let us bear him quick to some hospital!" said Richard; "he is
stunned. Who will aid to carry him?"
"I will, sir!--I will!" answered half-a-dozen voices from the crowd;
and the old minstrel was immediately raised in the arms of three or
four stout young men, and carried towards the neighbouring nunnery and
hospital of St. James's, accompanied by his fair companion.
Woodville was about to follow, but Sir Simeon of Roydon, who had by
this time regained his saddle, thrust himself in the way, saying, in a
fierce and bitter tone--"Richard of Woodville, I shall remember this!"
"And I shall not forget it, Simeon of Roydon," replied the other,
hardly able to refrain from punishing him on the spot. "Get thee
hence! Thou hast done mischief enough!"
The knight was about to reply; but a shout of execration burst from
the people, and, at the same moment, a stone, flung from an unseen
hand, struck him on the face, cutting his cheek severely, and shaking
him in the saddle. His companions, alarmed at what they had done, had
already ridden on; and, seeing that he was likely to fare ill in the
hands of the crowd, Roydon put spurs to his horse, and galloped after
them, muttering curses as he went.
Richard of Woodville soon overtook the little party which was hurrying
on with the injured man to the lodge of the monastery, and found the
poor girl weeping bitterly.
"Alas! noble sir!" she said, as soon as she saw him, "he is dead! He
does not speak!--his head falls back!"
"I trust not--I trust not!" answered Woodville. "He is but stunned,
probably, by the blow, and will soon recover."
She shook her head mournfully; and the next moment, one of the young
men, who had taken up the old man's cithern, stepped forward before
the rest, and rang the bell at the gate of the nunnery. It was opened
instantly, and Woodville briefly explained to the porter what was the
matter.
"Bring him in here," said the old man; "we will get help. The good
prioress is skilful at such things, and brother Martin still more so;
and he is nearest, for the monk's lodging is only just below there.
Let one of the men run down and ask for brother Martin."
In the meantime, the old minstrel was brought in, and laid upon the
pallet in the porter's room; and the news of the accident having
spread, the lodge was speedily filled with nuns, having their veils
down, all eagerly inquiring what had happened.
The prioress and brother Martin appeared at the same moment; and, in
answer to their questions, Woodville explained the facts of the case;
for the poor girl, overwhelmed with grief, was kneeling by her old
companion's side, and holding a small ebony cross which she wore round
her neck to his motionless lips.
"Give us room, my child--give us room!" said brother Martin, putting
his hand kindly on her shoulder; and, having obtained access to the
pallet, he and the prioress proceeded to examine what injuries the
poor old man had received. Their search was short, however; for, after
feeling the back of the head with his hand, and then putting his
fingers on the pulse, the good monk turned round, with a grave
countenance, saying, "God have mercy on his soul; for to Him has it
gone."
The poor singer covered her eyes with her hands, and sobbed bitterly.
All the rest were silent for a moment; and then Richard of Woodville,
turning to the prioress, said, in a low voice, "I will beseech you,
lady, to see, in all charity, to this poor man's interment; and that
masses be said in your chapel for his soul. Also, if you would, like a
good Christian, take some heed of this poor girl, who is his daughter,
I suppose, I should be glad, for it may better become you than me; but
whatever expense the convent may be at, I will repay, though, Heaven
knows, I am not over rich. My name is Richard of Woodville; and
to-morrow, if you will send a messenger to me, I shall be found at the
Acorn, just beyond the Bishop of Durham's lodging. You must send
before eight, however, or after ten; for at eight I am to be with the
King."
The prioress bowed her head, saying simply, "I will," and Woodville
turned to depart; but the poor girl, who had heard his words, started
up, and catching his hand, pressed her lips upon it, then knelt by the
pallet again, and seemed to pray.
Without farther words, Woodville quitted the lodge; the porter hurried
on to open the gates, and the young gentleman went out with the people
who had borne or accompanied the poor old minstrel thither. Just as he
had reached the road, however, he heard a voice say, "Richard of
Woodville, farewell; and remember!"
He started and turned round; but though it was a female voice that
spoke, there were none but men around him; and at the same moment the
gate rolled heavily to.