THE JOURNEY AND THE VOYAGE.
The sun rose behind some light grey clouds, and the blue sky was
veiled; but the birds made the welkin ring from amongst the young
leaves of the April trees, and told of the coming brightness of the
day. Why, or wherefore, let men of science say; but one thing is
certain, the seasons at that time were different from those at
present; they were earlier; they were more distinct; spring was
spring, and summer was summer; and winter, content with holding his
own right stiffly, did not attempt to invade the rights of his
brethren. Far in the north of England we had vines growing and bearing
fruit in the open air. At Hexham there was a vineyard; and wine was
made in more than one English county--not very good, it is to be
supposed, but still good enough to be drunk, and to prove the longer
and more genial reign of summer in our island. Thus, though the
morning was grey, as I have said, and April had not yet come to an
end, the air was as warm as it is often now in June, and every bank
was already covered with flowers.
There were horses before the gate of Richard of Woodville's house, and
men busily preparing them for a journey. There was the heavy charger,
or battle horse, with tall and bony limbs, well fitted to bear up
under the weight of a steel-covered rider; and the lighter, but still
powerful palfrey, somewhat of the size and make of a hunter of the
present day, to carry the master along the road. Besides these,
appeared many another beast; horses for the yeomen and servants, and
horses and mules for the baggage: the load of armour for himself and
for his men which the young adventurer carried with him, requiring not
a few of those serviceable brutes who bow their heads to man's will,
in order to carry it to the sea-shore. At length all was prepared; the
packs were put upon the beasts, the drivers were at their heads, the
yeomen by their saddles; and with ten stout men and two boys, fourteen
horses, three mules, a plentiful store of arms, and all the money he
could raise, in his wallet, Richard of Woodville issued forth, gave
his last commands to the old man and woman whom he left behind in the
hall, and, springing into the saddle, began his journey towards Dover.
It was not without a sigh that he set out; for he was leaving the land
in which Mary Markham dwelt; but yet he thought he was going to win
honour for her sake--perchance to win her herself; and all the bright
hopes and expectations of youth soon gathered on his way, more vivid
and more glowing in his case, than they could be in that of any youth
of the present day, taking his departure for foreign lands. If at
present each country knows but very little in reality of its
neighbour, if England entertains false views and wild imaginations
regarding France and her people, and France has not the slightest
particle of knowledge in regard to the feelings, character, and habits
of thought, of the English, how much more must such have been the case
in an age when communication was rare, and then only or chiefly by
word of mouth! It is true that the state of geographical knowledge was
not so low as has been generally supposed, for we are very apt to look
upon ourselves as wonderful people, and to imagine that nobody knew
anything before ourselves; and the difference between former ages and
the present is more in the general diffusion of knowledge than in its
amount. In the very age of which we speak, the famous Henry of Vasco
was pursuing his great project for reaching India by passing round
Africa, attempting to establish Portuguese stations on the coast of
that continent, and to communicate with the natives; "e poi aver con
essi loro comercio per l'onore e utilta del Regno."[4]
---------------------
[Footnote 4: Barros, Dec. i. lib. i. cap. 6.]
---------------------
The highways of Europe were well known; for mercantile transactions
between country and country were carried on upon a system so totally
different from that existing at present, that multitudes of the
citizens of every commercial state were constantly wandering over the
face of Europe, and bringing home anecdotes, if not much solid
information, regarding the distant lands they had visited. The
merchant frequently accompanied his goods; and the smaller traders,
especially from the cities of Italy, travelled every season from fair
to fair, and mart to mart, throughout the whole of the civilized
world. Besides the communications which thus took place, and the
information thus diffused, intelligence of a different sort was
carried by another class, who may have been said to have represented
in that day the tourists of the present. Chivalry, indeed, had greatly
declined since the days of Richard I., and even since the time of the
Black Prince; but still it was a constant practice for young knights
and nobles of every country to visit the courts of foreign princes, in
order either to acquire the warlike arts then practised, or to gain
distinction by feats of arms. Few books of travels were written, it is
true, and fewer read; for the art of printing had not yet, by the easy
multiplication of copies, placed the stores of learning within the
reach of the many; and one of the sources from which vast information
might have been derived was cut off, by the general abhorrence with
which the ever-wandering tribes of Israel were regarded, and the
habitual taciturnity which had thus been produced in a people
naturally loquacious.
Still a great deal of desultory and vague information concerning
distant lands was floating about society. Strange tales were told, it
is true, and truth deformed by fiction; but imagination had plenty of
materials out of which to form splendid structures; and bright
pictures of the far and the future, certainly did present themselves
to the glowing fancy of Richard of Woodville, as he rode on upon his
way. Knowing his own courage, his own skill, and his own strength;
energetic in character, resolute, and persevering; animated by love,
and encouraged by hope, he might well look forward to the world as a
harvest-field of glory, into which he was about to put the sickle.
Then came all the vague and misty representations that imagination
could call up of distant courts and foreign princes, tilt and
tournament, and high emprize; and the adventurous spirit of the times
of old made his bosom thrill with dim visions of strange scenes and
unknown places, accidents, difficulties, dangers, enterprises,--the
hard rough ore from which the gold of praise and renown was still to
be extracted.
Movement and exertion are the life-blood of youth; and as he rode on,
the spirits of Richard of Woodville rose higher and higher;
expectation expanded; the regrets were left behind; and "Onward,
onward!" was the cry of his heart, as the grey cloud broke into
mottled flakes upon the sky, and gradually disappeared, as if absorbed
by the blue heaven which it had previously covered.
Through the rich wooded land of England he took his way for four days,
contriving generally to make his resting-place for the night at some
town which possessed the advantage of an inn, or at the house of some
old friend of his family, where he was sure of kind reception. In the
daytime, however, many of his meals were eaten in the open field, or
under the broad shade of the trees; and, as he sat, after partaking
lightly of the food which had been brought with him, while the horses
were finishing their provender, the birds singing in the trees above
often brought back to his mind the words of the minstrel's girl's
lay:--
"The lark shall sing on high,
Whatever shore thou rovest;
The nightingale shall try
To call up her thou lovest.
For the true heart and kind,
Its recompence shall find;
Shall win praise,
And golden days,
And live in many a tale."
It seemed like the song of hope, and rang in his ear, mingling with
the notes of the blackbird, the thrush, and the wood-lark, and
promising success and happiness. The words, too, called up the image
of Mary Markham, as she herself would have wished, the end and object
of all his hopes and wishes, the crowning reward of every deed he
thought to do. It is true that, with her, still appeared to the eye of
memory the form of poor Ella Brune; but it was with very different
sensations. He felt grateful to her for that cheering song; and,
indeed, how often is it in life, that a few words of hope and
encouragement are more valuable to us, are of more real and solid
benefit, than a gift of gold and gems! for moral support to the heart
of man, in the hour of difficulty, is worth all that the careless hand
of wealth and power can bestow. But he felt no love--he might admire
her, he might think her beautiful; but it was with the cold admiration
of taste, not with passion. Her loveliness to him was as that of a
picture or statue, and the only warmer sensations that he felt when he
thought of her, were pity for her misfortunes, and interest in her
fate. Nor did this arise either in coldness of nature, or the haughty
pride of noble birth; but love was with him, as it was with many in
days somewhat previous to his own, very different from the transitory
and mutable passion which so generally bears that name. It was the
absorbing principle of his whole nature, the ruling power of his
heart, concentrated all in one--indivisible--unchangeable--a spirit in
his spirit, a devotion, almost a worship. I say not, that in former
times, before he had felt that passion, he might not have lived as
others lived,--that he might not have trifled with the fair and bright
wherever he found them,--that the fiery eagerness of youthful blood
might not have carried him to folly, and to wrong; but from the moment
he had learned to love Mary Markham, his heart had been for her alone,
and the gate of his affections was closed against all others. Thus,
could she have seen his inmost thoughts, she would have found how
fully justified was her confidence, and might, perhaps, have blushed
to recollect that one doubt had ever crossed her bosom.
It was about three o'clock on the evening of the fourth day, that
Richard of Woodville--passing along by the priory, and leaving the
church of St. Mary to the left, with the towers of the old castle
frowning from the steep above, on one side, and the round chapel of
the ancient temple house peeping over the hill upon the other--entered
the small town of Dover, and approached the sea-shore, which, in those
days, unencumbered by the immense masses of shingle that have since
been rolled along the coast, extended but a short distance from the
base of the primeval cliffs. Thus the town was then thrust into the
narrow valley at the foot of the two hills; and the moment that the
houses were passed, the wide scene of the sea, with a number of small
vessels lying almost close to the shore, broke upon the eye.
The associations of the people naturally gave to the principal
hostelry of the place a similar name to that which it has ever since
borne. Though very differently situated and maintained, the chief
place of public reception in the town of Dover was then called the
Bark, as it is now called the Ship; and although that port was not the
principal place through which the communication between England and
France took place, yet, ever since Calais had been an English
possession, a great traffic had been carried on by Dover, so that the
hostelry of the Bark was one of the most comfortable and best
appointed in the kingdom.
As every man of wealth and consequence who landed at, or embarked
from, that port, brought his horses with him, numerous ostlers and
stable boys were always ready to take charge of the guests' steeds;
and as soon as a gentleman's train was seen coming down the street,
loud shouts from the host called forth a crowd of expectant faces, and
ready hands to give assistance to the arriving guests.
The first amongst those who appeared was Ned Dyram, in his blue
tabard; and, although he did not condescend to hold his master's
stirrup, but left that task to others, yet he advanced to the young
gentleman's side, with some pride in the numbers and gallant
appearance of the train, and informed him as he dismounted, that he
had performed his errand in London; and also the charge which he had
received for Dover, having engaged a large bark, named the Lucy
Neville, to carry his master, with horses and attendants, to the small
town of Nieuport, on the Flemish coast.
"The tide will serve at five o'clock, sir," he said. "There is time to
embark the horses and baggage, if you will, while you and the men sup.
We have plenty of hands here to help; and I will see it all done
safely. If not, we must stop till to-morrow."
The host put in his word, however, observing, "that the young lord
might be tired with a long journey, that it were better to wait and
part with the morning tide, and that it was Friday--an inauspicious
day to put to sea."
But the surface of the water was calm; the sky was bright and clear;
and it was the last day of the period which Woodville had fixed, in
his communication with the King, for his stay in England. He therefore
determined to follow the opinion of Ned Dyram, instead of that of the
host, which there was no absolute impossibility to prevent him from
supposing interested; and, ordering his horses and luggage to be
embarked, with manifold charges to his skilful attendant to look well
to the safety of the chargers, he sat down to the ample supper which
was soon after on the board, proposing to be down on the beach before
his orders regarding the horses were put in execution.
The master and the man, in those more simple days, sat at the same
board in the inn, and often at the castle: and as he knew that his own
rising would be a signal for the rest to cease their meal, Richard of
Woodville remained for several minutes, to allow the more slow and
deliberate to accomplish the great function of the mindless. At
length, however, he rose, discharged his score, added largess to
payment, and then, with the "fair voyage, noble sir," of the host, and
the good wishes of drawers and ostlers, proceeded to the shore, where
he fully expected to find Ned Dyram busily engaged in shipping his
baggage.
No one was there, however, but two or three of the horse-boys of the
hotel, who saluted him with the tidings that all was on board. As he
cast his eyes seaward, he saw a large boat returning from a ship at
some small distance from the shore, with Ned Dyram in the stern; and
in a few minutes after, the active superintendent of the embarkation
jumped ashore, with a laugh, saying, "Ah, sir! so you could not trust
me! But all is safe, no hide rubbed off, no knees broken, no shoulder
shaken; and if they do not kick themselves to pieces before we reach
Nieuport, you will have as stout chargers to ride as any in Burgundy.
But you are not going to embark yet? The tide will not serve for half
an hour; and I have left my saddle-bags at the hostel."
"Well, run quick and get them," replied his master. "I would fain see
how all is stowed before we sail."
"And know little about it when you do see," answered Ned Dyram, with
his usual rude bluntness, or that which appeared to be such.
Richard of Woodville might feel a little angry at his saucy tone; but
it was only a passing emotion, easily extinguished. "I certainly know
little of stowing ships, my good friend," he answered, "seeing that I
never was in one in my life; but common sense is a great thing, Master
Dyram; and I am not likely to be mistaken as to whether the horses are
so placed as to run the least chance of hurting themselves or each
other. Back to the hostel, then, as I ordered, with all speed; and do
not let me have to wait for you."
The last words were spoken in a tone of command, which did not much
please the hearer; but there were certain feelings in his breast that
rendered him unwilling to offend a master on whom he had no tie of old
services; and he therefore hurried his pace away, as long as he was
within sight. He contrived to keep Woodville waiting, however, for at
least twenty minutes; and as the young gentleman gazed towards the
ship, he saw the large and cumbersome sails slowly unfurled, and
preparations of various kinds made for putting to sea. His patience
was well nigh exhausted, and he had already taken his place in the
boat, intending to bid the men pull away, when Ned Dyram appeared,
coming down from the inn, and carrying his saddle bags over his arm,
while a man followed bearing a heavy coffre.
Richard of Woodville smiled, saying to his yeoman of the stirrup, "I
knew not our friend Ned had such mass of baggage, or I would have
given him further time."
"He has got his tools there, I doubt," observed the old armourer; "for
he is a famous workman, both in steel and gilding, though somewhat
new-fangled in his notions."
The minute after Ned Dyram was seated in the boat, the men gave way,
and over the calm waters of a sea just rippled by a soft but
favourable breeze, she flew towards the ship. All on board were in the
bustle of departure; and, before Richard of Woodville had examined the
horses, and satisfied himself that everything had been carefully and
thoughtfully arranged for their safety, the bark was under weigh. He
looked round for Ned Dyram, willing to make up, by some praise of his
attention and judgment, for any sharpness of speech on the shore; but
the yeomen told him that their comrade had gone below, saying that he
was always sick at sea; and the young gentleman, escaping from the
crowd and confusion which existed amongst horses and men in the fore
part of the vessel, retired to the stern, and took up his position
near the steersman, while the cliffs of England, and the tall towers
of the castle, with the churches and houses below, slowly diminished,
as moving heavily through the water the bark laid her course for the
town of Nieuport.
The bustle soon ceased upon the deck; some of the yeomen laid
themselves down to sleep, if sleep they might; the rest were down
below; the mariners who remained on deck proceeded with their ordinary
tasks in silence; the wind wafted them gently along with a soft and
easy motion; and the sun, declining in the sky, shone along the bosom
of the sea as if laying down a golden path, midway between France and
England.
The feeling of parting from home was renewed in the bosom of Richard
of Woodville, as he gazed back at the slowly waning shores of his
native land, leaning his arms, folded on his chest, upon the bulwark
of the stern. He felt no inclination to converse; and the man at the
huge tiller seemed little disposed to speak. All was silent, except an
occasional snatch of a rude song, with which one of the seamen cheered
his idleness from time to time; till at length a sweeter voice was
heard, singing in low and almost plaintive tones; and, turning
suddenly round, Woodville beheld a female figure, clothed in black,
leaning upon the opposite side of the vessel, and gazing, like
himself, upon the receding cliffs of England. He listened as she sang;
but the first stanza of her lay was done before he could catch the
words.
SONG.
I.
Oh, leave longing! dream no more
Of sunny hours to come;
Dreams that fade like that loved shore,
Where once we made our home.
Farewell; and sing lullabie
To all the joys that pass us by.
They go to sleep,
Though we may weep,
And never come again.--Nennie.
II.
Oh, leave sighing! thought is vain
Of all the treasures past;
Hope and fear, delight and pain,
Are clay, and cannot last.
Farewell; and sing lullabie
To all the things that pass us by.
They go to sleep,
Though we may weep,
And never come again.--Nennie.
III.
Oh, leave looking--on the wave
That dances in the ray;
See! now it curls its crest so brave,
And now it melts away.
Farewell; and sing lullabie
To all the things that pass us by.
They go to sleep,
Though we may weep,
And never come again.--Nennie.
The voice was so sweet, the music was so plaintive, that, without
knowing it, and though she sang in a low and subdued tone, the singer
had every ear turned to listen. Richard of Woodville did not require
to see her face, to recognise Ella Brune, though the change in her
dress might have proved an effectual means of concealment, had she
been disposed to hide herself from him. The peculiarly mellow and
musical tone of her voice was enough; and, as soon as the lay ceased,
Woodville crossed over and spoke to her.
But she showed no surprise at seeing him, greeting him with a smile,
and answering gaily to his inquiry, if she knew that he was in the
same ship,--"Certainly; that was the reason that I came. I am going to
be headstrong, noble sir, for the rest of my life. I would not go to
York, as you see; for I fancied that when people have got hold of that
which does not belong to them, they may strike at any hand which
strives to take it away, especially if it be that of a woman."
"You are right, Ella," answered Richard of Woodville; "I had not
thought of that."
"Then I am going to Peronne, or it may be to Dijon," continued Ella,
in a tone still light, notwithstanding the somewhat melancholy
character of her song; "because I think I can be of service, perhaps,
to some who have been kind to me; and then, too, I intend to amass
great store of money, and marry a scrivener."
"You are gay, Ella," replied Woodville, somewhat gravely, sitting down
beside her, as she still leaned over the side of the vessel.
"Do you see those waves?" she said; "and how they dance and sparkle?"
"Yes," replied her companion; "what then?"
"There are depths beneath!" answered Ella. "Henceforth I will be
gay--on the surface, at least, like the sunny sea; but it is because I
have more profound thoughts within me, than when I seemed most sad.
Keep my secret, noble sir."
"That I will, Ella," replied Woodville; "but tell me--Did my servant
find you out?"
"Yes, and did me good service," answered the girl; "for he brought me
here."
"And the poor fool was afraid I should be offended," said Woodville;
"for he has avoided mentioning your name."
"Perhaps so," rejoined Ella; "for he knew, I believe, that you did not
wish to have me in your company. 'Tis a charge, noble sir; and a poor
minstrel girl is not fit for a high gentleman's train."
"Nay, you do me wrong, Ella," answered Richard of Woodville; "right
willingly, my poor girl, now as heretofore, in this as in other
things, will I give you protection. I thought, indeed, that it might
be better for yourself to remain; and there were reasons, moreover,
that you do not know."
"Nay, but I do know, sir," replied Ella, interrupting him; "I know it
all. I have made acquaintance with your lady-love, and sat at her knee
and sung to her; and she has befriended the poor lonely girl, as you
did before her; and she told me, she would neither doubt you nor me,
though you took me on your journey, and protected me by the way."
"Dear, frank Mary!" exclaimed Richard of Woodville; "there spoke her
own true heart. But tell me more about this, Ella. How did you see
her?--when?--where?"
Ella Brune did as he bade her, and related to him all that had
occurred to her since he had left London. As she spoke, her eye was
generally averted; but sometimes it glanced to his countenance,
especially when she either referred to Sir Simeon of Roydon, or to
Mary Markham; and she saw with pleasure the flush upon her young
protector's cheek, the knitted brow, and flashing eye, when she told
the outrage she had endured, and the look of generous satisfaction
which lighted up each feature, when she spoke of the protection she
had received from good Sir Philip Beauchamp and the King.
"Ah! my noble uncle!" he said; "he is, indeed, somewhat harsh and rash
when the warm blood stirs within him, as all these old knights are,
Ella; but there never was a man more ready to draw the sword, or open
the purse, for those who are in need of either, than himself. And so
the King befriended you, too? He is well worthy of his royal name, and
has done but justice on this arch knave."
"Not half justice," answered Ella Brune, with a sudden change of tone;
"but no matter for that, the hand of vengeance will reach him one of
these days. He cannot hide his deeds from God!--But you speak not of
your sweet lady:--was she not kind to the poor minstrel girl?"
"She is always kind," answered Richard of Woodville. "God's blessing
on her blithe heart! She would fain give the same sunshine that is
within her own soft bosom, to every one around her."
"That cannot be," answered Ella Brune; "there are some made to be
happy, some unhappy, in this world. Fortune has but a certain store,
and she parts it unequally, though, perhaps, not blindly, as men say.
But there's a place where all is made equal;" and, resuming quickly
her lighter tone, she went on, dwelling long upon every word that Mary
Markham had said to her, seeming to take a pleasure in that, which had
in reality no small portion of pain mingled with it. Such is not
infrequently the case, indeed, with almost all men; for it is
wonderful how the bee of the human heart will contrive to extract
sweets from the bitter things of life; but, perhaps, there might be a
little art in it--innocent art, indeed--most innocent; for its only
object was to hide from the eyes of Richard of Woodville that there
was any feeling in her bosom towards him but deep gratitude and
perfect confidence. She dwelt then upon her he loved, as if the
subject were as pleasing to her as to himself; and, though she spoke
gaily--sometimes almost in a jesting tone--yet there were touches of
deep feeling mingled every now and then with all she said, which made
him perceive that, as she herself had told him, the lightness was in
manner alone, and not in the mind.
At all events, her conduct had one effect which she could have
desired: it removed all doubt and hesitation from the mind of Richard
of Woodville, if any such remained, in regard to his behaviour towards
her;--it did away all scruple as to guarding and protecting her on the
way, as far as their roads lay together.
One point, indeed, in her account puzzled him, and excited his
curiosity--which was the sudden departure of his uncle and Mary from
Westminster. "Well," he thought, "I never loved the task of
discovering mysteries, and have ever been willing to leave Time to
solve them, else I should have troubled my brain somewhat more about
my sweet Mary's fate and history than I have done;" and, after
pondering for a few moments more, he turned again to other subjects
with Ella Brune. Pleased and entertained by her conversation, he
scarcely turned his eyes back towards the coast of England, till the
cliffs had become faint and grey, like a cloud upon the edge of the
sky; while the sun setting over the waters seemed to change them into
liquid fire. In the meantime, wafted on by the light breeze, the ship
continued her slow way; and, as the orb of day sank below the horizon,
the moon, which had been up for some little time, poured her silver
light upon the water--no longer outshone by the brighter beams. The
sky remained pure and blue; the stars appeared faint amidst the lustre
shed by the queen of night; and the water, dashing from the stern,
looked like waves of molten silver as they flowed away. Nothing could
be more calm, more grand, more beautiful, than the scene, with the
wide expanse of heaven, and the wide expanse of sea, and the pure
lights above and the glistening ripple below, and the curtain of
darkness hanging round the verge of all things, like the deep veil of
a past and future eternity.
Neither Ella Brune nor Richard of Woodville could help feeling the
influence of the hour, for the grand things of nature raise and
elevate the human heart, whether man will or not. They lived in a rude
age, it is true; but the spirit of each was high and fine; and their
conversation gradually took its tone from the scene that met their
eyes on all sides. They might not know that those stars were
unnumbered suns, or wandering planets, like their own; they might not
know that the bright broad orb that spread her light upon the waves
was an attendant world, wheeling through space around that in which
they lived; they had no skill to people the immensity with miracles of
creative power; but they knew that all they beheld was the handiwork
of God, and they felt that it was very beautiful and very good. Their
souls were naturally led up to the contemplation of things above the
earth; and while Richard of Woodville learned hope and confidence in
Him who had spread the heaven with stars and clothed the earth in
loveliness, Ella Brune took to her heart, from the same source, the
lesson of firmness and resignation.
They gazed, they wondered, they adored; and each spoke to the other
some of the feelings which were in their hearts; but some only, for
there were many that they could not speak.
"I remember," said Ella, at length, in a low voice, "when I was at a
town called Innsbruck, in the midst of beautiful mountains, hearing
the nuns chant a hymn, which I caught up by ear; and the poor old man
and I turned it, as best we might, into English, and used often in our
wanderings to console ourselves with singing it, when little else had
we to console us. It comes into my mind to-night more than ever."
"Let me hear it, then, Ella," said Richard of Woodville; "I love all
music."
"I will sing it," replied Ella; "but you must not hear it only. You
must join in heart, if not in voice."
HYMN.
Oh glorious! oh mighty! Lord God of salvation!
Thy name let us praise from the depth of the heart;
Let tongue sing to tongue, and nation to nation,
And in the glad hymn, all thy works bear a part.
The tops of the mountains with praises are ringing,
The depths of the valleys re-echo the cry;
The waves of the ocean Thy glories are singing,
The clouds and the winds find a voice as they fly;
The weakest, the strongest, the lowly, the glorious,
The living on earth, and the dead in the grave!
For the arm of thy Son over death is victorious,
With power to redeem, and with mercy to save.
Oh glorious! oh mighty! Lord God of salvation!
To Thee let us sing from the depth of the heart;
Let tongue tell to tongue, and nation to nation,
How bountiful, gracious, and holy Thou art.