THE NEW FRIENDS.
Ella Brune sat on a stool at the feet of Mary Markham, on the day
after Richard of Woodville's departure from London, and certainly a
more beautiful contrast was seldom seen than between the fair lady and
the minstrel girl, as the one told and the other listened to, the tale
of the old man's death, and all that had since occurred. The eyes of
both were full of tears, which did not run over, indeed, but hung
trembling on the eyelid, like drops of summer dew in the cup of a
flower; and Mary Markham, with the kind, familiar impulse of sympathy,
stretched forth her fair hand twice, and pressed that of her less
fortunate companion, as she told the tale of her sorrows, and her
sufferings. The poor girl's heart yearned towards her gentle friend,
as she remarked her sympathy for all she felt,--her grief at the death
of the poor old man, her pleasure at the conduct of Ella's generous
protector, her indignation at the persecution she had suffered from a
man whom she herself scorned and despised. But one thing is to be
remarked. The name of Sir Simeon of Roydon, Ella spoke plainly, and
repeated often, during her narrative; but that of Richard of
Woodville, from some latent feeling in her own heart, she shrunk from
pronouncing. It might be, that the meaning looks and smiles of the
people of the inn where she had visited him, made her believe that
others would entertain the suspicions or fancies which she imagined
that those looks implied. It might be that she doubted her own heart,
or that she knew there really were therein sensations which she
dreaded to acknowledge to herself, and still more to expose to the
eyes of others. Thus she gave him any other designation than his own
name. She called him "the noble gentleman who had befriended her,"
"her protector," "her benefactor,"--everything, in short, but Richard
of Woodville.
Mary Markham observed this reserve; and, as woman's heart, even in the
most simple and single-minded, is always learned in woman's secrets,
Mary judged, and judged rightly, that gratitude was growing up in
Ella's bosom into love. She could very well understand that it should
be so; she thought it natural--so natural, that it could scarce be
otherwise; and what she felt within herself would have made her very
lenient to passion in others, even had she been more harsh and severe
than she was. She took a deep interest in the poor girl and her whole
history, and not less in her grateful love than in any other part
thereof; so that she was anxious to learn who and what this unnamed
benefactor was, in order that she might judge whether there was the
least hope or chance of Ella's tenderness meeting due return.
"He was a generous and noble-hearted knight, indeed," she said; "more
like the ancient chivalry, my poor girl, than the heartless nobility
of the present day."
"He is not a knight," answered Ella, timidly; "but I am sure he soon
will be, for he well deserves his spurs."
"And he is young and handsome, of course, Ella?" said Mary Markham,
with a smile.
The minstrel girl coloured, but answered nothing; and Mary went on,
saying, "But you must tell me his name, Ella; I would fain know who is
this noble gentleman."
Thus plainly asked, Ella Brune could not refuse to answer; and,
bending down her bright eyes upon the ground, she said, "His name is
Richard of Woodville, lady."
She spoke in a tone so low, that the words might have been inaudible
to any other ear than that of Mary Markham. The well-known sound,
however, was instantly caught by her, producing emotions in her heart
such as she had never felt before. Her very breath seemed stopped; her
bosom fluttered, as if there had been a caged bird within; her cheek
turned very pale, and then flushed warm again with the blood spreading
in a brighter glow over her fair forehead and her blue-veined temples.
Hers was not indeed a jealous disposition; her nature was too generous
and frank to be suspicious or distrustful; but it is difficult for any
woman's ear to hear that he to whom her whole affections are given is
loved by another, and her heart not beat with emotions far from
pleasurable.
Yet Mary schooled herself for what she felt--for the slight touch of
doubt towards Woodville, and of anger towards Ella, which crossed her
bosom for a moment. "It is not his fault," she thought, "if the girl
loves him; nor hers either to love him for acts of generous kindness.
She is no more to blame for such feelings than myself; the same high
qualities that won my regard might well gain hers. He is too noble,
too--too true and faithful to trifle with her, or to forget me. Yet,
would this had not happened! It is strange, too, that he did not
mention all this to me!"
But then she remembered how every hour he had spent with her had
passed, how little time they had found to say all that two warm and
tender hearts could prompt; how often they had been interrupted in the
half-finished tale of love; how constantly it had been renewed
whenever they were alone; and then she thought it not extraordinary at
all that he had spoken of nothing else.
Such thoughts, however, kept her mute, with her eyes gazing on the
tapestry at the other side of the room; and she saw not that Ella,
surprised at her silence, had now raised her look, and was reading in
the countenance--with the skill which peril and misfortune soon
acquire in this hard world--all that was passing in the heart beneath.
The poor girl's face was very pale, for she had her emotions too; but
yet she was calmer than Mary Markham, for one of the chief sources of
agitation was wanting in her bosom. She was without hope. She might
love, but it was love with no expectation. The future, which to Mary's
eyes was like the garden of the Hesperides, all hanging with golden
fruit, was a desert to poor Ella Brune. She had no fear, because she
had no hope. She had no doubts, because she had no trust. She was
externally calm, for though there were painful sensations, there was
no internal contention. She, therefore, it was who spoke first.
"You know him, lady," she said, in a sweet, gentle, humble tone; "and
if you know him, you love him."
"I do know him," answered Mary Markham, with a trembling voice and
glowing cheek--"I have known him well for years."
She paused there; but the moment after, she thought, with that
generous confidence so often misplaced, but which was not so in this
instance, "It were better to tell her all, for her sake and for mine.
If she be good and virtuous, as I think, it cannot but lead to good to
let her know the whole truth."
"Ay, Ella," she continued aloud, "and you are right. I do love him,
and he loves me. We have plighted our faith to each other, and wait
but the consent of others to be more happy than we are."
A tear trembled in the eye of Ella Brune; but what were the thoughts
that flashed like lightning through her mind? "The lady loves him,
and she sees I love him too. Jealousy is a strange thing, and a sad
pang!--She may doubt him, even with such a friendless being as I am--I
will sweep that doubt away;" and with a resigned, but gentle smile,
looking in Mary's face, she said--"I was sure of it."
"Of what, Ella?" asked Mary Markham, with some surprise.
"That he loved some one, and was beloved again," replied the poor
girl; and she repeated "I was sure of it."
"What could make you sure?" asked the lady, gazing at her with a less
embarrassed look. "He did not tell you, did he?"
"Oh, no," answered Ella Brune. "All he told me was, that he was going
afar to Burgundy, and that as he could not give me any further
protection himself, he would send one of his men to inquire after me,
that he might hear I was safe, and as happy as fate would let me be,
but--" and she paused, as if she doubted whether to proceed or not.
"But what, Ella?" demanded Mary.
"Why, I was foolish, lady," said the girl; "and perhaps you may think
me wrong too, and bold. But when I heard that he was going to
Burgundy, I cried, 'Oh, that I were going with you!' And I told him
that I had kinsfolk both in Liege and in Peronne; and then I knew by
his look, and what he said, that there was some lady whom he loved,
and who loved him."
"How did that enlighten you?" inquired Mary Markham. "Did he refuse
you?--That were not courteous, I think."
"No, he did not actually refuse," answered Ella Brune, "but he said,
that it might hardly be; and I saw, he thought that his lady might be
jealous--might suspect--"
Mary Markham put her hand on Ella's, with a warm smile, and said, "I
will neither suspect him, nor be jealous of you, Ella--though perhaps
I might have been," she added; "yes, perhaps I might, if I had heard
you were with him, and I had not known why. Yet I should have been
very wrong. Out upon such doubts I say, if they can prevent a
true-hearted gentleman from doing an act of kindness to a poor girl in
her need, lest a jealous heart should suspect him. But I will write to
him, Ella: and yet it is now in vain; for he has left Westminster."
Ella gazed at her, smiling. "We know not our own hearts," she said;
"and, perhaps, dear lady, you might be jealous yet."
"No, no!" cried Mary, with one of her own joyous laughs again. "Never,
now. I am of a confiding nature, my poor girl; and I soon conquer
those bitter enemies of peace, called doubts."
Ella Brune gazed round the room. "If I had some instrument, I could
sing to you on that theme," she said.
"Nay, you can sing without, Ella," replied the lady. "I have none
here, alas!"
"Well, I will sing it, then," answered Ella Brune; "'tis an old ditty,
and a simple one;" and, leaning her hand on Mary Markham's knee, she
sang:--
SONG.
"Trust! trust! sweet lady, trust!
'Tis a shield of seven-fold steel.
Cares and sorrows come they must;
But sharper far is doubt to feel.
Trust! trust! sweet lady, trust!
"If deceit must vex the heart--
Who can pass through life without?--
Better far to bear the smart
Than to grind the soul with doubt.
Trust! trust! sweet lady, trust!
"Trust the lover, trust the friend;
Heed not what old rhymers tell.
Trust to God: and in the end
Doubt not all will still be well.
Trust! trust! sweet lady, trust!
"Love's best guide, and friendship's stay--
Trust, to innocence was given;
'Tis doubt that paves the downward way,
But trust unlocks the gates of heaven.
Trust! trust! sweet lady, trust!"
"And so I will, Ella," cried the lady; "so have I ever done, and will
do still; but methinks you have made the song to suit my ear."
"Nay, in truth, dear lady, it is an ancient one," replied Ella Brune;
but ere she could add more, old Sir Philip Beauchamp strode into the
room, with an air hurried, yet not dissatisfied.
"I have seen the King, Mary," he said; "and, on my life, he is a noble
youth--right kingly in his port and in his words. His brother John,
who won his spurs under my pennon when but a boy, soon got me speech
of him; and you are to go with me at once to his presence, pretty
maid. Nay, do not look downcast; he is no frightful tyrant, but a man
that lady's eyes may look upon well pleased; and 'tis needful for your
safety you should go."
"Must she go alone, dear knight?" asked Mary Markham, with kind
consideration for the girl's fears.
"Alone! no. I am to go with her, to be sure," answered Sir Philip.
"How, my fair Mary, you would fain go visit Henry, too! What would
Richard of Woodville say?"
"He would trust," answered Mary Markham, giving a gay look to Ella.
"However, I seek not to go, noble sir; but it would be better for this
poor girl to have my maid, Maude, with her--for decency's sake," she
continued, in a laughing tone; "you old knights are sometimes too
light and gallant; and I must protect her from your courteous speeches
by the way. Come with me, Ella. I have a cloak in my chamber that will
suit well with your hood, and cover you all, so that nothing will be
seen but the edge of your wimple. Then will you and Sir Philip escape
scandal, if you both walk softly, and look demure, while Maude trips
along beside you."
Though Mary Markham said no word of the minstrel girl's attire, and
did not even glance her eye to the gold fringe upon her gown, yet Ella
understood, and was thankful for, her kind care, and mentally promised
herself, that, before that day was but, she would provide herself with
plainer weeds. In less than five minutes she and the maid were ready
to depart; and, accompanied by Sir Philip, they soon crossed the open
ground before the Abbey and the Sanctuary, and entered the gates of
the palace yard. At the private door of the royal residence they
received immediate admission; for a page was waiting Sir Philip's
return; but he led them, not to the small chamber where Henry had
received Ned Dyram in the morning, and Sir Philip shortly after.
Following, on the contrary, the larger staircase, the boy conducted
the little party to a hall, then used as an audience chamber; and when
they entered they at once perceived the King at the farther end,
surrounded by a gay and glittering throng, and listening, apparently
with deep attention, to an old man, dressed as a prelate of the
Church, who, with slow and measured accents, was delivering what
seemed a somewhat long oration. Whatever was the subject on which he
spoke, it seemed to be one of much interest; for, ever and anon, the
King bowed his head with a grave, approving motion, and a murmur of
satisfaction rose from those around.
Slowly and quietly the old knight and his companions drew near, and
then found that the good Bishop was arguing the King's title, not
alone to the Duchies of Normandy, Aquitaine, and Anjou, which
undoubtedly belonged of right to the English Crown, but also to the
whole of France, which as certainly belonged to another. Sir Philip
Beauchamp marked well the monarch's countenance as he listened, and
perceived that, when the subject was the recovery of those territories
which had descended to the race of Plantagenet from William the
Conqueror, Fulke of Anjou, and Eleanor of Aquitaine, one of those
grave inclinations of the head which marked his approbation followed;
but that, when the claim of all France was considered, Henry paused,
and seemed to meditate more on thoughts suggested by his own mind than
on the mere words that struck his ear. The surrounding nobles,
however, applauded all; and bright and beaming eyes were turned upon
the prelate when he concluded his oration with the words--strange
ones, indeed, in the mouth of a Christian bishop: "Wherefore, Oh my
Lord, the King! advance your banner, fight for your right, conquer
your inheritance; spare not sword, blood, or fire; for your war is
just, your cause is good, your claim is true!"[3]
---------------------
[Footnote 3: The recorded words of Henry Chicheley, Archbishop of
Canterbury.]
---------------------
"Many thanks, my good lord," replied the King; "we will with our
council consider duly what you have advanced; and we beseech you to
pray God on our behalf, that we be advised wisely. Pity it were,
indeed, to shed Christian blood without due cause; and, therefore, we
shall first fairly and courteously require of our cousin the
restitution of those territories undeniably appertaining to our crown;
with the which we may content ourselves, if granted frankly; but if
they be refused, a greater claim may perchance grow out of the denial
of the smaller one; and, at all events, we shall know how, with the
sword, to do ourselves right when driven to draw it. We will then
beseech farther communion with you on these weighty matters, and, for
the present, thank you much."
The Bishop retired from the spot immediately facing the King; and
Henry's eye lighting on Sir Philip Beauchamp, he bowed his head to
him, saying, "Advance, my noble friend. Ha! you have brought the girl
with you, as I said;" and his look fixed upon the countenance of poor
Ella Brune, with a calm and scrutinizing gaze, not altogether free
from wonder and admiration, to see such delicate beauty in one of her
degree, but without a touch of that coarse and gloating expression
which had offended her in the stare of Sir Simeon Roydon.
"Is the knight I sent for, here?" demanded the King, turning towards
the page.
"Not yet, Sire," answered the boy.
"Well, then," said Henry, "though it is but fair that a man accused
should hear the charge against him, we must proceed; and you lords
will witness what this young woman says, that it may be repeated to
him hereafter. Now, maiden, what is this which the worthy knight, Sir
Philip Beauchamp, has reported concerning you and Sir Simeon of
Roydon?"
To say that Ella Brune was not somewhat abashed would be false; for
she did feel that she was in the presence of the most powerful King,
and the most chivalrous court in Europe; she did feel that all eyes
were turned upon her, every ear bent to catch her words. But there
were truth and innocence at her heart, the strongest of all supports.
There was the sense of having been wronged also; and, perhaps, some
feeling of scorn rather than shame was roused by the light smiles and
busy whisper that ran round the lordly circle before which she stood;
for there is nothing so contemptible in the eyes, even of the humble,
if they be wise and firm of heart, as the light and causeless, but
oppressive sneer of pride--whether that pride be based in station,
fortune, courtliness, or aught else on earth; for the true nobility of
mind, which sometimes impresses even pride with a faint mark of its
own dignity, never treads upon the humble.
Henry, however, heard the buzz, and felt offended at the light looks
he saw. "My lords!" he said, in a tone of surprise and displeasure; "I
beseech you, my good uncle of Exeter, warn those gentlemen of that
which the King would not speak harshly. This is no jesting matter.
Wrong has been done--I may say almost in our presence, so near has it
been to our palace gates; and, by the Queen of Heaven, such things
shall not escape punishment, while I wear the crown or bear the sword.
When I am powerless to defend the meanest of my subjects, may death
give my sceptre to more mighty hands; when I am unwilling to do
justice to any in the land, may my enemies take from me the power I
have borne unworthily. Go on with your tale, maiden."
Ella Brune obeyed the King's order, with a voice that faltered at
first, but the rich sweet tone of which soon called the attention of
all to what she said; and, taking up her story from the beginning, she
related the death of her old companion, the interview which she had
first had with Sir Simeon of Roydon, and the violent manner in which
she had been carried off, as she was returning to the hostelry where
she lodged. As she spoke she gained confidence; and though, ere she
had proceeded far, the base knight himself entered the presence, and
placed himself exactly opposite to her, glaring at her with fierce and
menacing eyes, her tongue faltered no more; and she went on to speak
of her second interview with him, telling how she had forced back the
lock of the door with her dagger--how the servants of the knight had
not ventured to seize her, under the belief that the weapon was
poisoned--and how she had dropped from the great window at the end of
the corridor into the lane below.
As soon as she had done, Roydon stepped forward, as if to reply; but
old Sir Philip Beauchamp, who stood by Ella's side to give her
support, waved his hand, saying, "Silence, boy! till all be said
against you--then speak if you list. As far as the carrying off of
this poor little maid is concerned, a good woman of the neighbourhood
saw the deed done, and can bear witness respecting it, if farther
testimony is required. I saw the manner of her escape as she has told
it, and knocked down one of this knight's knaves just as he clutched
her. So far her story is confirmed. What passed between him and her in
private, they only know; but I would take her word against his in any
town; for I know him to be a wondrous liar."
A laugh ran round the royal circle; and Sir Simeon of Roydon put his
hand to his dagger; but the King turned towards him, saying, "Now,
sir, have you aught to answer?--Is this story true or false?"
"Somewhat mixed, Sire;" answered Simeon of Roydon, with a sneer upon
his lip. "The young woman is rather fanciful. I will own, that because
she has a pretty face, as you may see, and bright eyes, and a small
foot, and rounded ankle, she pleased my fancy; and, although of
somewhat low degree for such an honour, I thought to make her my
paramour for a time, as many another man might do. Minstrel girls and
tomblesteres are not generally famed for chastity; and, by my faith! I
thought I showed her favour when I told my servants to find her out
and bring her to my lodging. If they used any violence, 'twas not my
fault, for I bade them treat her gently; and, as to her confinement at
my house, that is pure fancy--she might have gone whenever she chose."
"'Tis strange, then," said the King, with a scornful smile, "that she
should take such means of going. People do not usually leap out of a
window, when they can walk through a door."
"What made you bellow after her, like a wild bull?" demanded Sir
Philip Beauchamp, turning to the culprit: "I heard you with my ears,
and so did many more, shout to your knaves to follow her, lest she
should to the King. I know your voice right well, sir knight, and will
vouch for its sweet sounds."
"Doting fool!" murmured Simeon of Roydon.
"Doting!" cried the old knight; "take care you don't feel my gauntlet
in your face, lest I send you home as toothless as I sent your
serviceable man. You will find that there is strength enough left to
crush such a worm as you."
"Silence, Sir Philip!" said the King. "Sir Simeon of Roydon, according
to your own account, you have committed an offence for which, if it
had been done within the gates of our good city of London, the sober
citizens would, methinks, have set you on a horse's back, with your
face to the tail, and marched you in no pleasant procession. But, I
must add, I do not believe your account; it seems to me to bear no
character of truth about it. Yet, that you may not stand upon my
judgment alone, if there be one of these good lords here present, who
will say they do, upon their honour, believe that this poor maiden
speaks falsely, and you tell the simple truth, you shall go free. What
say you, lords--is the girl true, or he?"
"The girl!--the girl!" cried all the voices round.
"However men may love leaping," said John of Lancaster, "they seek not
to break their necks by springing from a window, when they can help
it."
"Well, then," continued Henry, "you must carry your amorous violence
to other lands, Sir Simeon of Roydon. You have committed a
discourteous and unknightly act, and must give us time to forget it.
We will not touch you in person or in purse, in goods or lands; but we
banish you for two years from the realm of England. Bestow yourself
where you will, but be not found within these shores after one month
from this day, which space we give you to prepare. Is this a just
award, my lords?"
The gentlemen round bowed their heads; and Henry, turning to the good
old knight, added, with a gracious smile, "I thank you much, Sir
Philip Beauchamp, for bringing this matter to my knowledge. These are
deeds that I am resolved to check, with all the power that God
entrusts to me."
"Heaven bless your Grace, and ever send us such a King!" replied the
old knight; and, taking Ella by the hand, with a lowly reverence to
the monarch, he led her from the hall.
Henry, it would seem, dismissed his court at once; for before the
minstrel girl and her companion had reached the bottom of the stairs,
they were surrounded by several of the younger nobles, who were all
somewhat eager to say soft and flattering things to the fair object of
the day's interest, notwithstanding some rough reproof from good Sir
Philip Beauchamp. But as he and his young charge were passing out with
Mary Markham's maiden, a low deep voice whispered in Ella's ear, "I
swear, by Christ's sepulchre, I will have revenge!"--and the next
moment Sir Simeon of Roydon passed them, mounted his horse in the
palace-yard, and rode furiously away.