THE PILGRIM.
One morning, while the events which I have lately detailed were
passing in the city of London, a man in a long brown gown, with a
staff in his hand, a cross upon his shoulder, and a cockle-shell in
his hat, walked slowly, and apparently wearily, into the little
village of Abbot's Ann, and sat himself down on a stone bench before
the reeve's door.
Recognising the pilgrim from some far distant land as she looked out
of her casement window, the good dame, with the charitable spirit of
the age, took him forth some broken victuals and a cup of ale, and
inquired what news he brought from over sea. The wanderer, however,
seemed more inclined to ask than answer questions, and was apparently
full of wonder and amazement at the tragic story--which he had just
heard, he said--of the death of the Lady Catherine Beauchamp. He
prayed the good woman, for love and for charity's sake, to tell him
all about it; and she, very willing to gratify him--for every country
gossip gains dignity while telling a horrible tale--began at the
beginning of the affair, as far as she knew it; and related how, just
on the night after the last Glutton mass, as Childe Richard of
Woodville, their lord's nephew, was riding down the road with a
friend, he heard a shriek, and, on hurrying to the water, found the
body of the poor young lady floating down the stream; how the two
gentlemen bore her to the chanter's cottage; and how marks were found
upon her person, which seemed to prove that she had come to her death
by unfair means.
"And has the murderer been discovered, sister?" inquired the old
pilgrim.
"Alas, no!" replied the reeve's wife; "there have been whispers about,
but nothing certain."
"Ay, murder will out, sooner or later," answered the pilgrim. "And
whom did the whispers point at?"
"Nay," replied Dame Julian, "I know not that I ought to say; but, to a
reverend man like you, who have visited the shrine of St. James, there
can be no harm in speaking of these things, especially as we all know
that the whispers are false. Well, then--but you must tell nobody what
I say--the lady's own lover--husband, indeed, I might call him, for
they were betrothed by holy church--has been accused of having done
the deed; but every one who knows Sir Harry Dacre is right sure that
he would have sooner cut off both his hands; and, besides, the miller
of Clatford Mill told me--'twas but yesterday morning--that, half an
hour before sunset, on that very day when all this happened, he saw
Sir Harry at his own place, and opened the gate for him to go through.
He remembered it, he said, because the knight had torn his hand with a
nail in the gate, by trying to open it without dismounting; and as
soon as he was through, he rode on towards Wey Hill, which is quite
away from here."
"Might he not have come back again by some other road?" asked the
pilgrim.
"No," answered Dame Julian, "not without going four miles round; and,
besides, the miller told me that his man Job saw the knight, half an
hour after, at the top of Wey Hill, halting his horse, and gazing at
the sun setting. Now that's a good way off, and this deed was done
just after close of day."
"Then that clears him," replied the pilgrim; "but is there no one else
suspected?"
The good woman shook her head, and he added--"Was nobody seen about
here who might have had cause to wish the lady ill?"
"None," said Dame Julian, with a low laugh, "but one who might perhaps
wish her dead; for he got all her wealth, which was prodigious, they
say."
"Ay, was he seen about, then?" demanded the pilgrim; "there might be
suspicion there."
"Why," said the reeve's wife, "he was staying up at the Hall, and
passed homeward about three. It might be a little later, but not much.
What became of him afterwards I do not know; and yet, now I think of
it, he must have remained in the place some time, for he was seen an
hour after, or more, by a girl, who asked me who he was."
"Tis a wonder she did not know him," said the pilgrim, "if she lives
in this place."
"But that she does not," answered Dame Julian. "She dwells a good way
off, and was here by chance."
"Ay, 'tis a sad tale, indeed," rejoined her companion; "but I must go,
good dame. Gramercy for your bounty. But tell me,--I saw an abbey as I
came along; have they any famous relics there?"
"Ay, that they have," rejoined the reeve's wife, with a look of pride.
"Our abbey is as rich in relics as any other in England;" and she
began an enumeration of all the valuable things that it contained;
amongst which, the objects that she seemed to set the greatest store
by, was a finger of St. Luke the Evangelist, the veil of the blessed
Virgin, and one of the ribs of St. Ursula.
The pilgrim declared that he must positively go and visit them, as he
never passed any holy relics without sanctifying himself by their
touch.
He accordingly took his way towards the abbey direct, and visited and
prayed at the several shrines which the church contained, having
secured the company and guidance of one of the monks, who were always
extremely civil and kind to pilgrims and palmers, when they did not
come exactly in the guise of beggars. The present pilgrim was of a
very different quality; and he completely won the good graces and
admiration of the attendant monk, not so much, indeed, by the devotion
with which he told his beads and repeated his prayers, as by his
generosity in laying down a large piece of silver before the rib of
St. Ursula, another at the shrine of St. Luke, and a small piece of
gold opposite to the veil of the blessed Virgin.
Having thus prepared the way, the stranger proceeded to open a
conversation with the monk, somewhat similar to that which he had held
with Dame Julian, the reeve's wife; and now a torrent of information
flowed in upon him; for his companion had been one of the brethren who
accompanied the abbot to the cottage whither the body of Catherine
Beauchamp had been carried. The tale, however, though told with much
loquacity, furnished but few particulars beyond those which the
pilgrim had already gained; for the monk appeared a meek, good man,
who took everything as he found it, and deduced but little from
anything that he heard. All that he knew, indeed, he was ready to
tell; but he had neither readiness nor penetration sufficient to
gather much information, or to sift the corn from the chaff.
The pilgrim seemed somewhat disappointed, for he was certainly anxious
to hear more; and he was on the eve of leaving the church unsatisfied,
when he beheld another monk pacing the opposite aisle, with a grave,
and even dull air. He was an old man, with a short, thin, white beard,
and heavy features, which, till one examined closely, gave an
expression of stupidity to his whole countenance, only relieved by the
small, elephant-like eye, which sparkled brightly under its shaggy
eyebrow.
"What brother is that?" demanded the pilgrim, looking across the
church.
"Oh, that is brother Martin," replied the monk; "a dull and silent
man, from whom you will get nothing. He is skilled in drugs and
medicines, it is true. His cell is like an alchymist's shop; but we
all think he must have committed some great sin in days of old, for
half his time is spent in prayers and penances, and the other half in
distilling liquors, or roasting lumps of clay and other stuffs in
crucibles and furnaces. 'Tis rather hard, the lord abbot favours him
so much, and has granted him two cells, the best in the whole
monastery, to follow these vain studies, which, in my mind, come near
to magic and sorcery. I saw him once, with my own eyes, make a piece
of paper, cut in the shape of a man, dance upright, as if it had
life."
"I will speak to him," said the pilgrim, "and will soon let you know
if there be anything forbidden in his studies; for I have been in
lands full of witches and sorcerers, and have learnt to discover them
in an instant."
"'Tis a marvel if he answers you at all," replied the monk; "for he's
as silent as a frog; but, I pray you, let me hear what you think of
him."
"Ay, that I will," rejoined the stranger; "but you must keep away
while we talk together, lest the presence of another might close his
lips. I will seek you out afterwards, brother; I think your name is
Clement? so the porter told me."
"The same, the same," replied the monk. "I will go to the refectory."
But, before he went, he paused for a minute or two, and watched the
pilgrim crossing the nave, and addressing brother Martin. At first, he
seemed to receive no answer but a monosyllable. The next instant,
however, much to his surprise, Clement saw the silent brother turn
round, gaze intently upon the pilgrim's face, and then enter into an
eager conversation with him. What was the subject of which they spoke
he could not divine, or, rather, what was the secret by which the
pilgrim had contrived to break the charmed taciturnity of silent
brother Martin; and his curiosity was so much excited, that he thought
fit to cross over also, though with a slow and solemn step, in order
to benefit by this rare accident. The small, clear, grey eye of
brother Martin, however, caught Clement's movements in a moment, and
laying his hand upon the sleeve of the pilgrim's gown, he led him,
with a quick step, through a small side door that opened into the
cloister, and thence to his own cell, leaving the inquisitive monk,
who did not choose to discompose his dignity, or shake his fat sides
by rapid motion, behind them in the church.
What turn their communications took, and whether the pilgrim
discovered or not that brother Martin was addicted to the black art,
Clement never learned--for the faithless visitor of the abbey totally
forgot to fulfil his promise; and when, at the end of about two hours,
he took his departure, it was by the back door leading from the
cloister over the fields. The high road was at no great distance, and
along it he trudged with a much more light and active step than that
which had borne him into the village on his first appearance; so that,
had good Dame Julian, the reeve's wife, seen him as he went back, she
might have been inclined to think that brother Martin had employed
upon him some magical device, to change age into youth.
About half a mile from Andover, the pilgrim turned a little from the
road, and, sitting down in a neighbouring field, took out of his
wallet a large kerchief, and an ordinary hood,--then stripped off his
brown gown and hat, laying them deliberately in the kerchief, and next
divested himself of a quantity of white hair, which left him with a
shock head of a lightish brown hue, a short tabard of blue cloth, a
stout pair of riding boots, and a dagger at his girdle.
"So ends my pilgrimage!" said Ned Dyram, as he packed up his disguise
in the napkin; "and, by my faith, I have brought home my wallet well
stored. Out upon it!--am I to labour thus always for others? No, by my
faith! I will at least keep some of the crusts I have got for myself;
and if others want them they must pay for them. Let me see;--we will
divide them fairly. Dame Julian and brother Clement in one lot;
brother Martin in the other. That will do; and if aught be said about
it hereafter, I will speak the truth, and avow that, had I been paid,
I would have spoken. Alchemy is a great thing;--without its aid I
could never have transmuted brother Martin's leaden silence into such
golden loquacity. Why, I have taught the old man more in an hour than
he has learned in his life before; and he has given wheat for rye; so
that we are even."
With these sage reflections, Ned Dyram put his packet under his arm
and walked on to Andover--where, at a little hostelry by the side of
the river, he paused and called for his horse, which was soon brought.
A cup of ale sufficed him for refreshment, and after he had drained it
to the dregs, he trotted off upon the road to London, still meditating
over all that he had learned at Abbot's Ann and Dunbury Abbey, and
somewhat hesitating as to the course which he had to pursue.
It would afford little either of instruction or amusement, were I to
trace all the reflections of a cunning but wayward mind--for such was
that of Edward Dyram. Naturally possessed of considerable abilities,
quick in acquirements, retentive in memory, keen, observing,
dexterous, he might have risen to wealth, and perhaps distinction; for
his were not talents of that kind which led some of the best scholars
of that day to beg from door to door, with a certificate of their
profound science from the chancellors of their universities, but of a
much more serviceable and worthy kind. A certain degree of waywardness
of mind and inconstancy of disposition--often approaching that touch
of insanity, which affected, or was affected by, those wise men the
court fools of almost all epochs--and an unscrupulousness in matters
of principle, which left his conduct often in very doubtful balance
between honesty and knavery, had barred his advancement in all the
many walks he had tried. He had strong, and even ungovernable animal
impulses also, which had more than once led him into situations of
difficulty, and between which and his natural ambition, there was the
same struggle that frequently took place between his good sense and
his folly. He laboured hard, not perhaps to govern his passions, but
rather to keep their gratification within safe limits; and he felt a
sort of ill-will towards himself when they overcame him, which
generated a cynical bitterness towards others. That bitterness was
also increased by a consciousness of not having succeeded in any
course as much as the talents he knew himself to possess might have
ensured; but it must not be supposed for one moment that Ned Dyram
ever attributed the failure of his efforts for advancement to himself.
The injustice or folly of others, he thought, or the concurrence of
untoward circumstances, had alone kept him in an inferior situation.
Though the King, on his accession to the throne, had extended to him
greater favour than to any other of those who had participated in the
wild exploits of his youth, simply because Ned Dyram had never
prompted or led in any unjustifiable act, and had not withheld the
bitterness of his tongue even from the youthful follies of the Prince,
yet he felt a rankling disappointment at not having been promoted and
honoured, without ever suspecting that Henry might have seen in him
faults or failings that would have rendered him a more dangerous
servant to a sovereign than to a private individual. Yet such was the
case; for that great prince's eyes were clear-sighted and keen; and
though he had not troubled himself to study all the intricacies of the
man's character, he had perceived many qualities which he believed
might be amended by mingling with the world in an inferior station,
but which unfitted the possessor at the time for close attendance upon
a monarch.
Ned Dyram, however, though affecting that bluntness which is so often
mistaken for sincerity, was not without sufficient pliancy to conceal
his mortification, and to perform eagerly whatever task the King
imposed upon him. I do not say, indeed, that he proposed to perform it
well, unless it suited his own views and wishes. He did the monarch's
bidding with alacrity, because on that he thought his future fortune
might depend; but he did not make up his mind to ensure success by
diligence, activity, and zeal--satisfying himself by saying, that "the
result must ever depend upon circumstances;" and one of those
circumstances was always, in this case, Ned Dyram's own good will.
He had some hesitation, however, and some fear; for there was but one
man in England whose displeasure he dreaded, and that man was the
King. But yet I would not imply that it was his power he feared alone:
he feared offending the man rather than the monarch, for Henry had
acquired over him that influence which can be obtained only by a great
and superior mind over one less large and comprehensive. It was the
majesty of that great prince's intellect of which he stood in awe, not
the splendour of his throne; and perhaps he might have yielded to the
impression in the present instance, and done all that he ought to have
done, had he not perceived too clearly the feelings which prompted him
to do so; for as soon as he was conscious that dread of the King was
operating to drive him in a certain direction, the dogged perversity
of his nature rose up and dragged him to the contrary side. He called
himself "a cowed hound;" and, with all the obstinate vanity of a
wrong-headed man, he resolved to prove to himself that he had no fear,
by acting in direct opposition to the dread of which he was conscious.
As the best way of conquering all scruples, he treated them lightly
from that moment; quickened his horse's pace, stopped to sup and sleep
about fifteen miles from London, and presented himself at the gates of
the palace at an early hour next morning. There he was kept waiting
for some time, as the King was at council; but at length he was
admitted to the monarch's presence, and, in answer to questions, which
evidently showed that he had been sent into Hampshire to collect
information of a more definite character than had previously reached
Henry's ears, in regard to the death of Catherine Beauchamp, he gave
his sovereign at full all the tidings he had gained from Dame Julian,
the reeve's wife, from brother Clement, and from two or three other
persons, whom he had seen before he met with those I have mentioned.
Of brother Martin, however, he said not a word; and Henry mused for
several minutes without observation.
"Well," he said at length, "refresh yourself and your horse, Ned; and
then go back and join your new lord. Here is largess for your service,
though I am sorry you have been able to gain no more clear
intelligence;" and at the same moment he poured the contents of a
small leathern purse, which had been lying on the table, into his
hand.
The amount was far larger than Ned Dyram had expected;--for Henry was
one of the most open-handed men on earth--and he paused, looked from
the gold to the monarch, and seemed about to speak. At that moment,
however, the door of the room opened, and a young gentleman entered in
haste. By the stern and somewhat contracted, but high forehead--by the
quick, keen eye, and by the compressed lips, Ned Dyram instantly
recognised Prince John of Lancaster; and, at a sign from the King, he
bowed low and quitted the presence.