THE PREPARATION.
It was late in the evening of the same day of which we have just been
speaking, when Ella Brune returned to her hostelry. She had gone back
to thank fair Mary Markham for her kindness, intending only to stay
for a few moments; but her new friend detained her till the sun was
near his setting, and then only let her depart under the escort of
Hugh of Clatford and another yeoman, after extracting a promise from
her that she would return on the following morning, after the sad
ceremony of her grandsire's funeral was over. And now Ella sat in her
lonely little chamber, with the tears filling her bright eyes, which
seemed fixed upon a spot of sunshine on the opposite wall of the
court, but, in reality, saw nothing, or, at least, conveyed no
impression to the mind. Why was it Ella wept? To say truth, Ella
herself could not, or would not tell. It was, perhaps, the crowding
upon her of many sad sensations, the torrent swelled by many smaller
rills, which caused those tears; and yet there was one predominant
feeling--one that she wished not to acknowledge even to her own heart.
What can I call it? How shall I explain it? It was not disappointment;
for, as I have said before, she did not, she had never hoped. No, the
best term for it is, love without hope; and oh! what a bitter thing
that is!
During the whole of that morning she had had no time to dwell upon it;
she had been occupied while she remained with Mary Markham in
struggling against her own sensations--not examining them. But now she
paused and pondered: in solitude and in silence, she gave way to
bitter thought; but it was not with the weak and wavering irresolution
of a feeble mind. On the contrary, though the anguish would have its
tear, she regarded her present fate and future conduct with the firm
and energetic purposes of a heart inured to suffer and to decide. Her
mind rested upon Richard of Woodville, upon his kindness, his
generosity, his chivalrous protection of her who had never met with
such protection before; and the first strong determination of her mind
expressed itself, in the words she murmured to herself, "I will repay
it!"
Then, again, she asked herself, "Why should I feel shame, or fear, or
hesitation now, at the thought of following him through the world--of
watching for the hour, for the moment, when God may grant me the grace
to serve him? He loves another, and is loved by another! He can never
be anything to me, but the friend who stood forward to help me in the
hour of need. What has sex, or station, to do with it? Why should I
care more than if I were a man? and how often do the meanest, by
watchful love, find an opportunity to deliver or to support the
highest and the mightiest! Why should I think of what men may say or
believe? True in my own heart, and conscious of my truth, I may well
laugh at suspicion, which follows such as I am, whatever course they
take. How often have I been thought a ribald and a losel, when I have
guarded my words, and looks, and actions, most carefully! and now I
will dare to do boldly what my heart tells me, knowing that it is
right. Yet, poor thing," she added, after a moment, "thou art beggar
enough, I fear! thou must husband thy little store well. Let me see; I
will count my treasure. There are the fifty half nobles sent me by the
King, and those my dear protector gave me. Now for the little store of
the poor old man;" and, drawing a key from her bosom, she crossed the
room to where, upon a window-seat, there stood a small oaken coffer,
containing her apparel and that of the poor old minstrel. After
opening the box, and taking out one or two instruments of music which
lay at the top, she thrust her hand further down, and brought forth a
small leathern pouch, fastened by a thong bound round it several
times. It cost her some trouble to unloose it; but at length she
spread out the mouth, and poured the contents upon the top of the
clothes in the coffer. She had expected to see nothing but silver and
copper; but amongst the rest were several pieces of gold; and besides
these, was a piece of parchment, tied up, with some writing upon it,
and a gold ring, set with a large precious stone. The former she
examined closely, and read the words with some difficulty; for they
were written by no very practised hand, in rough and scattered
characters. She made it out at length, however, to be merely "My
Ella's dowry;" and a tear fell upon it as she read. She thought that
the handwriting was her father's.
She then looked at the ring, and saw by its lustre that it must be of
some value; but a strip of leather which was sewn round the gold
caught her eye, and she found it, too, traced with some rude
characters. They only expressed a date, however, which was 21 July,
1403, and what it meant she knew not. Opening the parchment packet,
she then proceeded to examine of what her little dowry consisted; and,
to her surprise and joy, she found forty broad pieces of gold. "Nay,"
she exclaimed, "this is, indeed, wealth; why, I am endowed like a
knight's daughter." And well might she say so; for when we remember
the difference between the value of gold in that day and at present,
the amount she now possessed,--what with the sum she had just found,
and the penalty imposed by the King on Simeon of Roydon,--was equal to
some six or seven hundred pounds.
"I shall have enough to follow him for ten years," said Ella Brune,
gazing on the gold, "without being a charge to any one; and then there
may still remain sufficient to gain me admission to a nunnery. But I
will lay it by carefully:" and placing all the gold she had, except
the few pieces that had been loose in the pouch, into the parchment
which had contained her dowry, she tied it up again carefully, and
restored it to its place.
"Yet I will be avaricious," she said. "I will disencumber myself of
everything I do not want, and change it into coin.--Shall I sell this
ring? No; it may mean something I do not know. 'Tis easily carried,
and might create suspicion if I disposed of it here. Perhaps my cousin
at Peronne can tell me more about it. How shall I sell the other
things? Nay, I will ask the hostess to do it for me. She will think of
her own payment, and will do it well!"
After carefully putting back the ring and the money, she opened the
door of the room, and called down the stairs, "Hostess, hostess!
Mistress Trenchard!"
"Coming, coming, little maid," said the good dame, from below. "Do not
be in haste; I am with you in a minute;" and, after keeping Ella
waiting for a short time, more to make herself of importance than
because she had anything else to do, she came panting up the stairs,
closed the door, and seated herself on the side of the low bed.
"Well, my poor Ella," she said, "what want you with me? Yours is a sad
case, indeed, poor thing. My husband and I both said, when you and
poor old Murdock Brune went away to foreign lands, leaving your own
good country behind you, that harm would come of it."
"And yet he died in England," replied Ella, with a sigh; "but what you
say is very true, hostess; no good has come of it; and we returned
poorer than we went--I have wherewithal to pay my score," she added,
seeing a slight cloud come over good Mistress Trenchard's face; "but
yet I shall want more for my necessity; and I would fain ask you a
great favour."
"What is that?" asked the hostess, somewhat drily.
"It is simply, that you would sell for me a good many of these things
that I do not want," answered Ella. "Here are several instruments of
music, which I know cost much, and must produce something."
"Oh, that I will, right willingly!" replied the hostess; "and 'tis but
right and fitting that you should trust such matters to one who is
accustomed to buy and sell, than to do it yourself, who know nothing
of trade, God wot. I will have them to Westcheape, where there are
plenty of fripperies; or carry them to the Lombards, who, perhaps,
know more about such matters."
"I should think that the Lombards would purchase them best," answered
Ella; "for one of these instruments, the viol, was purchased out of
Italy, when my grandfather was chief minstrel to the great Earl of
Northumberland."
"Ay, I remember the time well," said Mistress Trenchard. "Murdock
Brune was a great man in those days, and rode upon a grey horse, fit
for a knight. He used to pinch my cheek, and call me pretty Dolly
Trenchard, till my husband was somewhat crusty;--and so the viol is
valuable, you think?"
"Yes, and the ribible, too," answered Ella Brune; "for they were cut
by a great maker in Italy, and such are not to be found in England."
"I will take care, I will take care," rejoined the hostess. "Gather
them all together, and I will send up Tom, the drawer, for them,
presently. To-morrow I will take them to the Lombards; for it is
somewhat late this evening."
"Nay, but I have other favours to ask of you, dame," said Ella Brune.
"To-morrow they bury the poor old man, and I must have a black gown of
serge, and a white wimple; and I would fain that you went with me to
the burial, if you could steal away for an hour; for it will be a sad
day for me."
"That will I do, poor maiden," replied the hostess, readily; not alone
because she took a sincere interest in her fair guest, but because in
those days, as in almost all others, people of inferior minds found a
strange pleasure in bearing part in any impressive ceremony, however
melancholy. As so much of her spare time was likely to be occupied on
the morrow, she agreed to run up to Cheape that very night, before the
watch was set, and to purchase for Ella Brune the mourning garments
which she required. The latter commission she performed fully to the
poor girl's satisfaction, returning with a loose gown of fine black
serge, ready made, and a wimple and hood of clear lawn, little
differing from that of a nun.
Ella gazed on the dress with some emotion, murmuring to
herself,--"Ay, the cloister; it must end there, at last!--Well, prayer
and peace!--'tis the calmest fate, after all."
But the sale of the instruments of music, and several other small
articles, was not executed quite as well. Men were rogues in those
times, as at present, though, perhaps, in the improvement of all
things, roguery has not been neglected, and the good Lombards took
care not to give more than half the value of the goods they purchased.
Neither Ella nor good Mistress Trenchard herself knew any better,
however; so that the latter thought she had made a very good bargain,
and the former was content. Her store was by this means considerably
increased; and, a short time before the appointed hour, Ella, with the
hostess, set out towards the hospital of St. James, for the sad task
that was to be performed that day.
I will not pause upon the hours that followed. Dark and sorrowful such
hours must ever be; for the dim eyes of mortality see the lamp of
faith but faintly, and there is nought else to light our gaze through
the obscure vault of death to the bright world of re-union. Put the
holy promises to our heart as eagerly, as fondly as we will, how
difficult is it to obtain a warm and living image of life beyond this
life! How the clay clings to the clay! How the spirit cleaveth to the
dust with which it hath borne companionship so long! Strange, too, to
say, that we can better realize in our own case the idea of renewed
existence, than in the case of those we love. It is comparatively easy
to fancy that we who have lived to-day, shall live to-morrow;--that
we, who lie down to rest ourselves in sleep and to rise refreshed,
shall sleep in death, and wake again renewed. There is in every man's
own heart a sentiment of his immortality, which nothing can blot out,
but the vain pride of human intellect--the bitterest ashes of the
forbidden fruit. But when we see the dearly loved, the bright, the
beautiful, the wise, the good, fall, like a withered leaf, into the
dark corruption of the tomb--the light go out like an extinguished
lamp--and all that is left, all that has been familiar to our living
senses, drop into dust and mingle with its earth again, the Saduceean
demon seizes on us; and it requires a mighty struggle of the spirit,
prayer, patience, resignation, hope, and faith, to win our belief from
the dark actuality before us, and fix it on the distant splendour of a
promised world to come.
They were sad hours for poor Ella Brune; and when they were over, the
chambers of the heart felt too dark and lonely for her to admit any
thoughts but those of the dead. She sent, therefore, to Mary Markham,
to tell her that she was too wobegone to come that day; and, returning
to her little chamber at the inn, she sat down to weep, and pass the
evening with her memories.
On the following morning early, she once more set out for Westminster,
and passed quietly along the road till she reached Charing; but near
the hermitage and chapel of St. Catherine, just opposite the cross,
she perceived a man standing gazing up the Strand, with the serpent
embroidered on the black ground, which distinguished the followers of
Sir Simeon of Roydon. Her fears might have betrayed her; for she
forgot for a moment the complete change of her dress, and fancied that
she must be instantly recognised; but the instant after, recovering
her presence of mind, she drew the hood far over her face, and passed
the man boldly, without his even turning to look at her. She then made
her way on towards Tote-hill, and soon came to the gates of the house
in which Sir Philip Beauchamp had taken up his temporary abode.
Few but the higher nobility, or persons immediately attached to the
Court, indulged in those days in the luxury of a dwelling in London or
the neighbouring city; and when business or pleasure called inferior
personages to the capital, they either took up their dwelling at a
hostel, or found lodging in the mansions of some of the great families
to whom they were attached by friendship or relationship. Nor was such
hospitality ever refused, so long as the house could contain more
guests; for each man's consequence, and sometimes his safety, depended
upon the number of those whom he entertained; and even when the lord
was absent from his own dwelling, the doors were always open to those
who were known to be connected with him. Thus Sir Philip Beauchamp had
found ready lodging in the house of one of the numerous family of that
name, the head of which was then the Earl of Warwick, though, ere many
years had passed, an only daughter bore that glorious title into the
house of Neville.
When Ella reached the mansion, the porter, distinguished by the
cognizance of the bear, was standing before the gates, talking with a
young man, who seemed to have just dismounted from a tired horse, and
held the bridle-rein cast over his arm.
In answer to Ella's inquiry for the Lady Mary Markham, the old servant
laughed, saying, "Here is another!--if it goes on thus all day, there
will be nothing else but the opening of gates for a pretty lady who is
not here. She departed last night with Sir Philip, fair maid. They
went in great haste, good sooth I know not why; for 'twas but two
hours before, the sturdy old knight told me he should stay three days;
but they had letters by a messenger from the country, so perchance his
daughter is ill."
"The blessed Virgin give her deliverance!" said Ella, turning away
with a disappointed look; and, bending her steps back towards the city
of London, she walked slowly on along the dusty road, absorbed in no
very cheerful thoughts, and marking little of what passed around her.
But few people were yet abroad between the two towns--the Strand was
almost solitary; and she had nearly reached the wall of the garden of
Durham House, which ran along to the Temple, when she heard a voice
behind her exclaim, in a sharp tone, "Why do you follow her, master
knave?"
"What is that to you, blue tabard!" replied another tongue.
"I will let you know right soon, if you do not desist," answered the
first.
"Whom do you serve?" asked the second.
"The King!" was the reply; "so away with you."
Ella looked round, and beheld the man whom she had found speaking with
the porter a moment before, bending his brows sternly upon the servant
of Sir Simeon Roydon, whom she had seen watching near the hermitage of
St. Catherine, as she passed up the Strand. The latter, however,
seemed to be animated by no very pugnacious spirit, for he merely
replied, "Methinks one man has a right to walk the high road to London
as well as another."
But he did not proceed to enforce this right by following the course
he had been pursuing; and, crossing over from the south to the north
side of the way, he was soon lost amongst the low shops and small
houses which there occupied the middle of the road.
"I will ride along beside you, fair maiden," said Ned Dyram, for he it
was who had come up, "though I should not wonder, from what the porter
told me just now, if you were the person I am looking for."
He spoke civilly and gravely; and Ella replied, with a bright smile,
"Ha! perhaps it is so; for he said he would send. Whom do you come
from?"
"I come from Richard of Woodville," answered the man; "and I am sent
to a maiden named Ella Brune, living not far up the new street
somewhat beyond the Old Temple, in an hostelry called the Falcon."
"'Tis I--'tis I!" cried Ella. "Oh! I am glad to see you."
Her bright eyes lighted up, and her fair face glowed with an
expression of joy and satisfaction, which added in no small degree to
its loveliness; for, though we hear much of beauty in distress being
heightened by tears, yet there is an inherent harmony between man's
heart and joy, which makes the expression thereof always more pleasant
to the eye than that of any other emotion.
Ned Dyram gazed at her with admiration, but withdrew his eyes the
moment after, and resumed a more sober look. "I will give you all his
messages by and by," he said, "for I shall lodge at the Falcon
to-night, and have much to say. But yet I may as well tell you a part
as we go along," he continued, dismounting from his horse, and taking
the bridle on his arm. "First, fair maiden, I was to ask how you
fared, and what you intended to do?"
"I have fared ill and well," answered Ella Brune; "but that is a long
story, and I will relate it to you afterwards; for that I can talk of,
though the people of the house should be present; but what I am to do
is a deeper question, and I know not well how to answer it. I have
friends at the court of Burgundy--"
"What, then, are you of noble race, lady?" asked Ned Dyram, in an
altered tone.
"Oh, no!" replied Ella Brune, with a faint smile. "The cousin of whom
I speak is but a goldsmith to the Count of Charolois; but, 'tis a long
journey for a woman to take alone, through foreign lands, and amongst
a people somewhat unruly."
"Why not come with us?" inquired Ned Dyram; "we sail from Dover in
three days, and our company will be your protection. Did not Childe
Richard tell you he was going?"
"Yes," answered Ella Brune, casting down her eyes, "but he did not
seem to like the thought of having a woman in his company."
"Faith! that is courteous of the good youth," cried Ned Dyram, with a
low sharp laugh. "He may win his spurs, but will not merit them, if he
refuses protection to a lady."
"That, I am sure, he would not do," replied Ella, gravely. "He has
given me the noblest protection at my need; but he may not think it
right."
"No, no; you have mistaken him," said Ned Dyram. "He is courteous and
kind, without a doubt. He might think it better for yourself to go to
York, as he bade me tell you, and to see your friends there, and to
claim your rights; but if you judge fit to turn your steps to Burgundy
instead, depend upon it he will freely give you aid and comfort on the
way. If he did doubt," added the man, "'twas but that he thought his
lady-love might be jealous, if she heard that he had so fair a maiden
in his company--for you know he is a lover!"--and he fixed his eyes
inquiringly on Ella's face.
"I know he is," she answered, calmly, and without a change of feature.
"I know the lady, too; but she is not unwilling that I should go; and
I dread much to show myself in York."
"Why so?" demanded Ned Dyram. But Ella Brune was not sufficiently won
by his countenance or manner to grant him the same confidence that she
had reposed in Richard of Woodville; and she replied, "For many
reasons; but the first and strongest is, that there are persons there
who have seized on that which should be mine. They are powerful; I am
weak; and 'tis likely, as in such case often happens, that they would
be willing to add wrong to wrong."
"Not only often, but always," replied Ned Dyram; "therefore I say,
fair maiden, you had better come with us. Here's one arm will strike a
stroke for you, should need be; and there are plenty more amongst us
who will do the like."
Ella answered him with a bright smile; but at that moment they were
turning up the lane opposite the gate of the Temple, and she paused in
her reply, willing to think farther and see more of her companion
before she decided.
"Stay, fair maiden!" continued Ned Dyram, who well knew where the
hostelry of the Falcon was situate--"It may be as well to keep our
counsel, whatever it be, from host and hostess. Gossip is a part of
their trade; and it is wise to avoid giving them occasion. I will give
you, when we are within, a letter from my young lord, and read it to
you, too, as perchance you cannot do that yourself; but it will let
the people see that I am not without authority to hold converse with
you, which may be needful."
"Nay," answered Ella, "I can read it myself; for I have not been
without such training."
"Ay, I forgot," rejoined Ned Dyram, with one of his light sneers;
"had you been a princess, you would not have been able to read. Such
clerk-craft is only fit for citizens and monks. I wonder how Childe
Richard learned to read and write. I fear it will spoil him for a
soldier."
The satire was not altogether just; for, though it did not
unfrequently happen that high nobles and celebrated warriors and
statesmen were as illiterate as the merest boors, and in some
instances (especially after the wars of the Roses had deluged the land
with blood, and interrupted all the peaceful arts of life) the barons
affected to treat with sovereign contempt the cultivation of the mind,
yet such was not by any means so generally the case, as the pride of
modern civilization has been eager to show. We have proofs
incontestable, that, in the reigns of Richard II., Henry IV., and
Henry V., men were by no means so generally ignorant as has been
supposed. The House of Lancaster was proud of its patronage of
literature; and, though more than one valiant nobleman could not sign
his own name, or could do so with difficulty, there is much reason to
believe that the exceptions have been pointed out as the rule; for we
know that many a citizen of London could not only maintain, without
the aid of another hand, long and intricate correspondence with
foreign merchants, but also took delight in the reading during
winter's nights of Chaucer and Gower, if not in studying secretly the
writings of Wickliffe and his disciples.
Ella Brune replied not, but walked on into the house, calling the good
hostess, who, in that day as in others, often supplied the place of
both master and mistress in a house of public entertainment. Ned Dyram
followed her with his eyes into the house, scrutinizing with keen and
wondering glance the beauties of form which even the long loose robe
of serge could not fully conceal. He marvelled at the grace he beheld,
even more rare at that day amongst the sons and daughters of toil than
at present; and, although the pride of rank and station could not, in
his case, suggest the bold disregard of all law and decency in seeking
the gratification of passion, his feelings towards Ella Brune were not
very far different from those of Sir Simeon of Roydon. He might have
more respect for the opinion of the world, by which he hoped to rise;
he might even have more respect for, and more belief in, virtue, for
he was a wiser man; he might seek to obtain his ends by other means;
he was even not incapable of love,--strong, passionate, overpowering
love; but the moving power was the same. It was all animal; for,
strange to say, though his intellect was far superior to that of most
men of his day; though he had far more mind than was needful, or even
advantageous, in his commerce with the world of that age, his impulses
were all animal towards others. That which he cared for little in
himself, he admired, he almost worshipped, in woman. It was beauty of
form and feature only that attracted him. Mind he cared not for--he
thought not of; nay, up to that moment, he perhaps either doubted
whether it existed in the other sex, or thought it a disadvantage if
it did. Even more, the heart itself he valued little; or, rather, that
strange and complex tissue of emotions, springing from what source we
know not, entwined with our mortal nature--by what delicate threads
who can say?--which we are accustomed to ascribe to the heart, he
regarded but as an almost worthless adjunct. His was the eager
love--forgive me, if I profane what should be a holy name, rather than
use a coarser term--of the wild beast; the appetite of the tiger, only
tempered by the shrewdness of the fox. I mean not to say it always
remained so; for, under the power of passion and circumstances, the
human heart is tutored as a child. Neither would I say that aught like
love had yet touched his bosom for Ella Brune. I speak but of his
ordinary feeling towards woman; but feelings of that sort are sooner
roused than those of a higher nature. He saw that she was very
beautiful--more beautiful, he thought, than any woman of his own
station that ever he had beheld; and that was enough to make him
determine upon counteracting his master's wishes and counsel, and
persuading Ella to turn her steps in the same course in which his
own were directed. He knew not how willing she was to be persuaded;
he knew not that she was at heart already resolved: but he
managed skilfully, he watched shrewdly, through the whole of his
after-communications with her during the day. He discovered much--he
discovered all, indeed, but one deep secret, which might have been
penetrated by a woman's eyes, but which was hid from his, with all
their keenness--the motive, the feeling, that led her so strongly in
the very path he wished. He saw, indeed, that she was so inclined; he
saw that there was a voice always seconding him in her heart, and he
took especial care to furnish that voice with arguments which seemed
irresistible. He contrived, too, to win upon her much; for there was
in his conversation that mingling of frankness and flattering
courtesy, of apparent carelessness of pleasing, with all the arts of
giving pleasure, and that range of desultory knowledge and tone of
superior mind, with apparent simplicity of manner, and contempt for
assumption, which of all things are the most calculated to dazzle and
impress for a time. 'Tis the lighter qualities that catch, the deeper
ones that bind; and though, had there been a comparison drawn between
him, who was her companion for a great part of that evening, and
Richard of Woodville, Ella Brune would have laughed in scorn; yet she
listened, well pleased, to the varied conversation with which he
whiled away the hours, when she could wean her thoughts from dearer,
though more painful themes; yielded to his arguments when they
seconded the purposes of her own heart, and readily accepted his
offered service to aid her in executing the plan she adopted.