THE MINSTREL'S GIRL.
At the hour appointed by the King, Richard of Woodville arrived at the
palace, and was at once introduced to Henry's presence. The monarch
was now quite alone, and seemed in a more cheerful, a less meditative
mood, than the day before. "Well, Richard," he said, "how sped you
last night? you found room in hall, and a place at board, I trust?"
"I did, Sire," replied Woodville; "and so long as I was here 'twas
well; but as I returned homeward to my hostel, I saw that done which
grieved me, and would grieve your Highness, too, were it told."
"Speak it, speak it," said the King; "I am now in that station where
every day I must hear that which offends my ear, if I would perform
the first duty of a king, and render justice to my people. What is
this you saw?"
Briefly and accurately Richard of Woodville, as he had previously
determined, related to the monarch the facts attending the death of
the old minstrel, by the brutal act of Sir Simeon of Roydon, and his
companions; and he could see Henry's brow gather into a heavy frown,
and his cheek flush. When he had done, the King rose from his chair,
before he spoke, and walked twice across the small chamber in which
the young gentleman had found him.
"This is bad," he said at length; "this is bad; but I must not
interfere with the course of law. The matter will be inquired into, of
course. If the law should not punish the offence, I might myself
inflict some chastisement, and, by banishing this man from my court
and presence, mark my indignation at his rash contempt of human life
and suffering, to call it nothing worse. But I have other views,
Richard; and if I must strike, I would have it effectually."
"I do not understand you, Sire," replied Woodville, seeing that the
King paused.
"No, perhaps not," said Henry; and then falling into a fit of musing
again, he remained for more than a minute with his eyes fixed upon the
ground. "Call me a page," he continued, at length; "I will see this
Sir Simeon of Roydon."
Richard of Woodville obeyed; and when the boy appeared, Henry directed
him in the clear brief words, with which even trivial orders are given
by men of powerful and accurate minds, to inquire of the sergeant of
the gates where Sir Simeon of Roydon was to be found, and then to
summon him immediately to his presence.
"He shall make some compensation to the old man's daughter, or whoever
she is, whatever the law may say," the King continued, turning to his
companion, after having spoken to the page: "but tell me, Richard, was
this the only adventure you met with yesterday? Ned Dyram told me,
that some one had spoken to you by name in the crowd, bidding you not
to let poor Dacre do battle with Simeon of Roydon,--she anticipated my
commands, it would seem."
"She did so, truly, Sire," replied Woodville; "but I could never
discover who it was, though she again spoke to me at the gates of the
convent as I came out."
"It is very strange," said the King; "did you not know the voice?"
"It seemed somewhat disguised," answered the young gentleman; "but
still it was clearly a woman's voice; and there were tones in it not
unfamiliar to my ear, yet not sufficiently strong on recollection to
enable me in any way to judge who spoke."
"Have we got fairies amongst us, even in Westminster?" asked the
monarch, laughing. "Well, my good friend, you have nothing to do but
obey your fair monitor."
"In that I shall not fail, Sire," replied Richard; "for I shall have
no cause to prevent or encourage Dacre--Simeon of Roydon will take
good heed to that. But I trust neither the lady nor your Highness will
forbid my chastising this man myself, if need should be; for, as I
have told you, Sire, I cast him from his horse last night, before his
comrades; and he will seek revenge in some shape, I am sure."
"To defend himself is every man's right," replied the King; "but I
must insist, that no arranged encounter takes place between you and
Sir Simeon of Roydon, without your sovereign's consent." The King
spoke sternly, almost harshly; but he added a moment after, in a mild
and familiar tone, "The truth is, Richard, that I have resolved, as
much as possible, to put a stop, both to the trial by battle and
combats at outrance between my subjects. The blood of Englishmen is
too precious to their King and their country to be shed so frequently
as it has hitherto been in private quarrels. The evil is increasing;
and if it be not stayed, a time will come when every idle jest will be
the subject of a combat, and the man of mere brute courage will
venture upon any wrong he chooses to do another, because he values his
life less than his neighbour. Such a state shall never grow up under
me. The day may not be far distant when, in defence of the rights of
this crown, I shall give every English gentleman an opportunity of
displaying his valour and his skill; but, till then, I will hold a
strong hand over quarrelsome folks. As a last resource for honour
really wounded, or, under the sanction of the law, for the judgment of
God in dark cases which human wisdom cannot decide, I may consent that
an appeal be made to the lance; but not till every other means has
been tried. Such is my resolution. Let that suffice you. I know you
will obey; and in the court of Burgundy, if I hear right, you will
have plenty of occasions, should you be too full of blood, to shed it
freely. I have wished to give you some gift, my friend," he continued,
in a tone of kindly condescension; "but for the present, I can think
of nothing better than this."
He took a ring from his finger, and held it out to the young gentleman
who stood beside him, adding, "Take it, Richard; wear it always; and
when you look upon it, think of Hal of Hadnock. But should you at any
time seek aught of the King of England, seal your letter with that
ring, and I will open and read the contents myself, and immediately.
It shall go hard, but I will grant you your boon, if it be such as the
Richard of Woodville whom I know, is likely to request. So, farewell,
and God speed you, and lead you to honour."
Richard of Woodville knelt, and kissed the gracious Prince's hand; and
then, retiring from his presence, sped back to his inn without
adventure.
All traces of the last day's festival had disappeared; the citizens
had resumed their usual occupations; the artisan had gone to his work,
the merchant to his warehouse, the tradesman to his stall, the monk to
his cloister, the priest to his chapel or his church. The streets,
though there was many a passenger hurrying to and fro, seemed almost
empty, by comparison; and a scene that was in itself gay, looked dull
from the want of all the glitter and pageantry of the preceding
afternoon.
The inn, called the Acorn, at which Richard of Woodville had taken up
his abode, was a low building, in what we still term the Strand,
between the Cross at Charing and a very small monastery, which was
soon after attached to the abbey of Roncesvalles in Navarre, and
acquired the name of Roncevaux. The entrance to the Acorn was a tall
dark arch, and as soon as Richard of Woodville rode in, followed by
his two attendants--for Ned Dyram he had not seen since the day
before--the host presented himself, saying, with a low reverence and a
smile, "There has been a fair maid seeking you, noble sir. There have
been tears in her eyes, too, full lately. I hope you are not a
faithless squire, to make the pretty maiden weep."
"Poor thing, she has good cause," answered Woodville, gravely. "She is
the poor old man's daughter, I suppose, who was killed by the horses
last night. When did she say she would return?"
"She is here now! she is here now!" cried the host's wife, from
within. "How can you be such a fool, Jenkyn! I took her in till the
noble gentleman returned. I knew she was no light o' love, but only
came from foreign lands."
"I never said she was, good wife," replied her husband. "Shall I bring
her up, sir, to your chamber?"
"No," answered Richard; "it wants an hour of dinner yet; let her come
with me to the hall, if it be vacant."
"That it is, discreet sir," replied the host. "Now, I warrant you," he
continued, murmuring to himself, as he walked away to call the poor
girl to her kind benefactor, "he has got some lady love himself, and
fears it should come to her ears, were he to entertain a pretty maiden
in his own chamber."
Perhaps some such thought might pass through Richard of Woodville's
mind; but certainly it would never have entered therein, had it not
been for the host's first suspicion; and he would have received the
poor girl in his own room without hesitation, though the minstrels of
that day and their followers were generally a somewhat dissolute and
licentious race. It has happened strangely, indeed, in all ages, that
those who follow, as their profession, the sweetest of arts, music,
which would seem intended to elevate and purify the mind and heart,
should be so frequently obnoxious to the charge of immoral life; but
so it has been, alas, though difficult to account for.
Finding his way through one or two long ill-lighted passages, Richard
of Woodville opened the door of the room appropriated to the daily
meals of the guests and their host, and had not long to wait for the
object of his compassion. She was not dressed in the same manner as
the night before, but still, her garb was singular. A bright red
scarf, which had been twined through her black hair, was no longer
there; and the rich, luxuriant tresses, were bound plainly round her
head, which was partially covered also by a hood of simple gray cloth.
The rest of her apparel was white, except at the edge of the
petticoat, which came not much below the knee, and was bordered by two
bands of gold lace. Her small, delicate ankles, as fair as alabaster,
were, nevertheless, without covering; and her feet were clothed in
small slippers of untanned leather, trimmed and tied with gold.
Bending down her beautiful head as she entered, she said, "I have come
to thank you, noble sir."
"Nay, no thanks, my fair maiden," answered Woodville, placing a stool
for her to sit, as the host retired. "I did but what any Christian and
gentleman ought to do; so, say not a word of that. But I am glad you
have come, for I wish much to hear more of you, and to know what will
become of you now."
"Ah! what, indeed?" said the girl, casting down her eyes, which had
before been fixed upon the young gentleman's countenance.
"Have you no friends, no home, to which you can go?" asked Woodville.
"In this country, no friends that would receive me--no home that would
be open to me," replied the girl, the tears rolling over the long
black lashes, and trickling down her cheek. "I am not given to yield
to sorrow thus," she added; "had I been, it would have crushed me long
ago. But this last blow has been heavy; and, like a reed beaten down
by the storm, I shall not raise my head till the sun shines again."
"But you are of English birth?" inquired Richard of Woodville; "if
not, you speak our tongue rarely."
"Oh, yes! I am English," she cried, eagerly; "English in heart, and
spirit, and birth; but yet, my mother was from a distant land."
"And was that poor old man your father?" demanded her companion;
"come, let me hear something of your former life, that I may think
what can be done for the future."
The girl evidently hesitated; she coloured, and then turned pale; and
Richard of Woodville began to fear that, in the interest he had taken
in her, he had been made the fool of imagination. "She is probably
like the rest," he thought; "and yet, her very shame to speak it,
shows that she has some good feelings left."
But, while he was still pondering, the girl exclaimed, clasping
her hands, "Oh, yes! I am sure I may tell you. You are not one
who--whatever might be his errors--would deprive a poor old man of
blessed ground to rest in, or the prayers of good men for his soul."
"Not I, indeed," replied the young gentleman; "methinks, we have no
right to carry justice or punishment beyond the grave. When the spirit
is called to its Creator, let him be judge--not man. But speak; I do
not understand you clearly."
"I will make my tale short," she answered. "That old man was my
father's father; a minstrel once in the house of the great Earl of
Northumberland--I can just remember the Earl--and a gay and happy
household it was. He was well paid and lodged, much loved by the good
lord, and wealthy by his bounty. My father was stout and tall, a brave
man, and skilful in arms; and he was the Percy's henchman. Once, when
one of the Earl's kinsmen went to the court of the Emperor, my father
was sent with him, I have heard; and he returned with my mother, a
native of a town called Innsbruck in the mountains. I know not whether
you have heard of it; but it is a fair city, in good truth."
"You have seen it, then?" asked Richard of Woodville.
"Not a year since," answered the girl; "but, to my tale. When I was
still young, my father fought and fell with Hotspur; and, not long
after, the Duke's household was dispersed, and he himself obliged to
fly to Wales, or Scotland, I know not which. My mother pined and died,
for the people there loved not a stranger amongst them; and, after my
father's death, called her nought but _the foreigner_. They laughed,
too, at her language, for she could speak but poor English; and, what
between their gibes and her own grief, she withered away daily, till
her eyes closed. She taught me her own language, however; and I have
not forgot it. She taught me her own faith, too; and I have not
abandoned it."
"And that was--" exclaimed Richard.
"The holy Catholic faith!" replied the girl, crossing herself; "and
nothing has ever been able to turn me from it. But still, I could not
let it break all bonds--could I, noble sir?"
"Perhaps not," replied Richard of Woodville; "but let me hear
farther."
"When the Earl fled, and my mother died," continued the girl, "my
grandfather took me with him to the town of York; and, as he was
wealthy, as I have said, his kinsfolk, who were many in the place,
were glad to see him. He was very kind to me--oh, how kind! and taught
me to sing, and play on many instruments. But there came a disciple of
Wicliffe into the town, where there were already many Lollards in
secret; and the poor old man listened to them, and became one of them.
I would not hear them; for I ever thought of my mother, and what she
had taught me; and this caused the first unkind words my grandfather
ever gave me. He mourned for them afterwards, when he found I was not
undutiful, as he had called me. But, in the mean time, he went on with
the Lollards; till, one night, as they were coming from a place where
they had met, a crowd of rabble and loose people set upon them with
sticks and stones, and beat them terribly; and the poor old man was
brought home, with his face and eyes sadly cut. Some of the Lollards
were taken, and two were tried, and burnt as heretics. But my
grandfather escaped that fate; for, by this time, his eyes had become
red and fiery, and he kept close to his own house. The redness at
length went away--but light went too; and he was in daily fear of
persecution. One night, when he was very sad, I asked him why he
stayed in York, where there were so many perils; but he shook his
head, and answered, 'Because I am sightless, my child; and I have none
to guide me.' Then I asked him again, if he had not me; and if he
thought I would not go with him to the world's end; and I found, by
what he said, that he had long thought of going to foreign lands, but
did not speak of it, because he thought that, as I would not hear his
people, I would refuse to go. When he found I was ready, however, his
mind was soon made up, and we went first to a town called Liege, where
he had a brother, and there we lived happily enough for some time; for
that, brother, and all his family, thought on many matters with him.
But he heard of a man named Huss, who is a great leader of that sect
in a country called Bohemia, and he resolved to go thither, as he was
threatened with persecution in Liege. We then wandered far and wide
through strange lands. But why should I make my tale long? We suffered
many things--were plundered, wronged, persecuted, beaten; and the
money that he had began to melt away, with no resource behind; for we
had heard that our own relations and friends in York had pillaged his
house; and one had taken possession of it as his own. I then proposed
to him that I should sing at festivals and tournaments, that he might
keep the little he still had against an evil day. Thus we came through
Germany, and Burgundy, and part of France and Brabant; and, at length,
he determined that he would come back to his own country, which he
did, only to be murdered last night, for we have not been a month in
England."
"Alas! my poor girl," said Richard of Woodville, "yours is, indeed, a
sad history; and, in truth, I know not what counsel to give you for
the future. Alone, as you are, in the world, you need some one much to
protect you."
"I do indeed," replied the girl, "but I have none; and yet," she
added, after a moment, "these are foolish thoughts, brought upon me
but by grief. I can protect myself. Many have a worse fate than I
have; for how often are those who have been softly nurtured cast
suddenly into misfortune and distress! I have been inured to it by
degrees--taught step by step to struggle and resist. Mine is not a
heart to yield to evil chances. The little that I want in life, I
trust, I can honestly obtain; and, if not honestly, why, I can die.
There is still a home for the wanderer--there is still a place of
repose for the weary." But, as she spoke, the tears that rolled over
her cheeks belied the fortitude which she assumed.
Richard of Woodville paused and meditated, ere he replied. "Stay," he
said, at length, as the girl rose, and covered her head again with her
hood, which she had cast back, as if she were about to depart. "Stay!
a thought has struck me. Perchance I can call the King's bounty to
you. I myself am now about to depart for distant lands. I am going to
the court of Burgundy in a few days, and shall not see our sovereign
again before I set out; but I have a servant, who was once the King's,
and he will have the means of telling your sad tale."
"To the court of Burgundy!" exclaimed the girl, eagerly; "Oh! that I
were going thither with you!"
"That may hardly be," replied Woodville, with a smile, as she gazed
with her large dark eyes upon his face.
"I know it," she answered, sighing, and cast her eyes down to the
ground again, with the blood mounting into her cheek; "yet, why not in
the same ship?--I have kinsfolk both in Liege and in Peronne--you
would not see wrong done to me?"
"Assuredly not," said the young gentleman; "but if the King can be
engaged to show you kindness, it will be better. What little I can
spare, my poor girl, shall be yours; and I will send this man of whom
I spoke, to see you and tell you more. First, however, you must let me
know where you are lodged, and for whom he must ask, as it may be
three or four days before he returns from the errand he is now gone to
perform."
"My name is Ella Brune," replied the girl; and she went on to describe
to Richard of Woodville the situation of the house in which she and
her grandfather had taken up their abode, on their arrival in London a
few days before. He found from her account that it was a small hostel
just within the walls of the city, which the old man had known and
frequented in former years; that the host and his good dame were kind
and homely people; and that, though the poor girl had remained out
watching the corpse at the lodge of the convent, she had returned that
morning to explain the cause of her absence, and had been received
with sympathy and consolation. Knowing well, however, that there is a
limit to the tenderness of most innkeepers, and that that limit is
seldom, if ever, extended beyond the length of their guest's purse,
the young gentleman took three half nobles, which, to say truth, was
as much as he could spare, and offered them to his fair companion,
saying, "Trouble yourself not in regard to expenses of the funeral,
Ella, or of the masses. The porter of the convent has been here this
morning before I went out, and I have arranged all that with him."
The girl looked at the money in his hand, with a tearful eye and a
burning cheek; but, after gazing for a moment, she put his hand gently
away, saying, "No, no, I cannot take it--from you I cannot take it."
"And why not from me?" asked Richard of Woodville in some surprise.
She hesitated for an instant, and then replied, "Because you have been
so good and kind already. Were it from a stranger, I might--but you
have already given me much, paid much; and you shall not hurt yourself
for me. I have enough."
"Nay, nay, Ella," said Richard, with a smile. "If I have been kind,
that is a reason why you must not grieve me by refusing the little I
can give; and as to what I have paid, I will say to you with Little
John, whom you have heard of--
"I have done thee a good turn for an
Quit me when thou may."
"And what did Robin answer?" said the girl, a light coming up into her
eyes as she forgot, for an instant, her loss and her desolate
situation, in the struggle of generosity which she kept up against her
young benefactor--
"Nay by my troth, said Robin,
So shall it never be."
"It must be, if you would not pain me," replied Richard of Woodville;
"you must not be left in this wide place, my poor girl, without friend
or money."
"Nay, but I have enough," she answered; "if I were tempted to take it,
'twould only be with the thought of crossing the sea, which costs much
money, I know."
"Then take it for that chance, my poor Ella," replied Woodville,
forcing the money into her hand; "and tell me what store you have got,
in order that, if I have ought more to spare, when I have received
what my copse-wood brings, I may send it to you by the servant I spoke
of."
"Indeed, I know not," said Ella Brune; "there is a small leathern bag
at the inn, in which we used to put all that we gathered; but I
thought not to look what it contained. My heart was too heavy when I
went back, to reckon money. But there is enough to pay all that we
owe, I know; and as for the time to come," she added, with a
melancholy smile, "I eat little, and drink less; so that my diet is
soon paid."
Her words and manner had that harmony in them, which can rarely be
attained when both do not spring from the heart; and Richard of
Woodville became more and more interested in the fair object of his
kindness every moment. He detained her some time longer to ask farther
questions; but, at length, the host opened the door, and told him,
there was a young man without who sought to speak with him. This
interruption terminated his conversation with Ella Brune; for, drawing
her hood farther still over her face, she again rose, took his hand
and pressed her lips upon it.
"The blessing of the queen of heaven be upon you, noble sir," she
said; and then passed through the door, at which the landlord still
stood, wondering a little at the deep gratitude which she seemed to
feel towards his young guest.