THE CONCLUSION.
In the same large and magnificent hall of the royal castle at Calais,
in which Edward III. entertained his prisoners after his chivalrous,
though imprudent combat with the French forces under the walls of that
town, was assembled the Court of England on the arrival of his great
descendant, Henry V., some days subsequent to the battle of Agincourt.
The scene was a splendid one; for, though the monarch and many of his
nobility had to mourn the loss of near and dear relatives in that
glorious field, no time had yet been given to prepare the external
signs of grief; and the habiliments of all were, either the gay robes
of peace and rejoicing, or the still more splendid panoply of war. As
may be naturally supposed, the greater number of those present were
men; but, nevertheless, the circle round the King's person contained
several of the other sex; for, besides the wife and daughters of the
Governor of Calais, and the ladies of several of the principal
officers and citizens of the town, a number of the female relations of
the conquerors of Agincourt, who had come over to the English city, on
the first news of the army's march from Harfleur, were likewise in the
hall.
No pageant or revel, however, was going forward; and, although Henry
could not but feel the vast importance of the deed that he had
achieved, and the great results which might be expected to ensue, both
in strengthening his power at home, and extending it abroad, yet his
countenance was far more grave and thoughtful than it had been before
the battle; and rejoicing, as was natural, at such vast success, he
rejoiced with moderation, and repressed every expression of triumph.
After speaking for some time with the persons round him, he turned to
Sir John Grey, who stood at a short distance on his left hand; and
noticing with a kindly smile the knight's fair daughter, he said,
"Now, my noble friend, you besought me this morning to hear what you
had to bring before me, concerning Sir Richard of Woodville. Ere I
listen to a word, however, let me at once say, that the good service
rendered by that knight upon the field of Agincourt wipes out whatever
offence he may have before committed; and without prayer or
solicitation, I free him from all bonds, and pardon everything that
may be passed."
As he spoke, Richard of Woodville advanced from behind, and standing
before the King, exclaimed, "I beseech you, Sire, to withdraw that
pardon, and to judge me as if I had never drawn sword or couched lance
in your service. If I am guilty, my guilt is but increased by having
dared to break ward, and fight amidst honest Englishmen; and I claim
no merit for what little I have done, except in having brought to your
Majesty's feet the traitor scoundrel, Simeon of Roydon, who doubtless,
with his own lips, will now confess his treason towards you, his
falsehood towards me."
"If he do not," said Sir John Grey, boldly, "I have, thank God, ample
means to prove it. Let him be called, my Liege, and with him a certain
knave, a prisoner likewise in my hands, named Edward Dyram."
"Ha!" cried the King, with a smile--"has our old friend Ned Dyram,
too, a share in this affair? I had thought the warning I once gave
might have taught him to mend his manners."
"They are past mending, my Liege," answered Sir John Grey. "The
villain will doubtless deny all, for he is a hardened knave as ever
lived; but we can convict him notwithstanding."
"Well, call them in," answered Henry, "and have all things ready." And
while Sir John Grey and Sir William Philip, the King's treasurer,
quitted the circle for a moment, Henry turned to Mary Grey, and
addressed her in a low tone, with a smiling countenance. The crowd
drew back to let the King speak at ease; and the only words that made
themselves heard were, "Methinks, fair lady, you have some interest in
this affair?"
"Deep, my Liege," replied Mary Grey, with a glowing cheek.
What the King answered was not distinct to those around; but the lady
raised her bright eyes to his face, replying eagerly, "More for his
honour than for his life, Sire."
No time was lost, for Sir John Grey, expecting a speedy hearing, had
prepared all; and in less than five minutes he re-entered the hall,
followed by a number of persons, some of whom accompanied him to the
end of the chamber where the King was placed, and ranged themselves
behind the circle, while the rest, consisting of prisoners and those
who guarded them, remained near the door by which they entered.
Henry fixed his eyes upon the group there standing, and seemed to
examine them attentively for a moment in silence, then raising his
voice, he exclaimed, "Bring forward Simeon of Roydon, and Edward
Dyram."
The two whom he called immediately advanced, with a man-at-arms on
either side. The knight held down his head and gazed upon the ground;
but the servant looked carelessly around, showing neither fear nor
doubt.
"Sir Simeon of Roydon," said the King, in a stern tone, as soon as the
culprit stood within a few yards of his person, "You have been taken
in arms against your country, and it were wise in you to make free
confession of your acts. I exhort you so to do, not promising you
aught, but for the relief of your own soul."
The knight paused for an instant, looked to Dyram, and then to Richard
of Woodville, and replied, "I have nought to confess, Sire. Unjustly
banished from my country, I had no right to regard myself as an
Englishman; but it was not against you, my Liege, that I bore arms. It
was against my enemy, who stands there. Him I sought, knowing him to
be in your camp."
"A poor excuse," replied the King; "and you must have had speedy
intelligence, since he arrived there but the night before; and you,
fellow," continued Henry, turning to Dyram, "What know you of this
knight, and his proceedings?"
"Very little, may it please your Grace," replied Ned Dyram; "I have
seen him before, I think; but where it was, I cannot justly say."
"May I ask one question of the guard, my Liege?" demanded Sir John
Grey. Henry inclined his head; and the knight proceeded--"Have these
two men held any communication together in the anteroom?"
"They spoke together for a few moments in a strange tongue," answered
the man-at-arms whom he addressed; "and when we parted them, they
still talked from time to time across the room."
"Well," replied the old knight, "it will serve them but little. Have
you the papers, Sir William Philip?"
"They are here," said the treasurer; and he placed a roll in the
King's hand.
Henry looked at the first paper casually, saying, "This I know;" but
regarded the second more attentively, and, after reading it through,
turned to Sir John Grey, and inquired, "What is this? I see it refers
to the man before us. But how was it obtained?"
"It is referred to, my Liege, in the question, number four, which your
Grace permitted me to draw up. You will find them further on. The two
following letters I need not explain. The only question is, as to
their authenticity, which can be proved."
The King read them all through with care; and then taking a paper from
the bottom of the roll, which appeared to contain a long list of
interrogatories, numbered separately, and written in a good clerkly
hand, he perused it from the beginning to the end. After having read
it, he turned to Sir Simeon of Roydon, saying, "You are here charged
with grave offences, sir, besides the crime in which you were taken.
It is stated here, that you purchased the arms of Sir Richard of
Woodville, when they were sold in Ghent, on his men leaving the
service of Burgundy to return to England; and that you took his name
while following our army up the Somme, and attacking our straggling
parties with a leader of free companions, named Robinet de
Bournonville. Is it so, or is it not so?"
"This can be proved, my Liege," said Richard of Woodville; "for Sir
Philip Beauchamp here present, saw the arms in which this caitiff was
taken; and he can swear that they were a gift from himself to me."
"I acknowledge, Sire, that I did purchase them," replied Simeon of
Roydon; "and what my companions may have called me, I know not; but if
perchance they called me Woodville, it was in jest; but no man can say
that I was seen following your army from Harfleur hither."
"It is enough, it is enough," said the King. "Of this charge, Richard,
you are free," he continued, turning to Woodville; and then resuming
his interrogatories, he went on to ask, "Did you, or did you not, Sir
Simeon of Roydon, intercept a letter from me to this good knight, and
counterfeiting his signature, write a reply, refusing to obey my
commands?"
Sir Simeon of Roydon started, and turned a fierce look upon Ned Dyram,
as if he suspected that he had been betrayed; but the surprise which
he saw in the man's face, notwithstanding a strong effort to repress
it, convinced him that Henry had other sources of information; but
resolute in his course to the last, he replied in a bold tone, "It is
false. Who is my accuser?"
The King looked round; and a sweet musical voice replied, "I am!"
"Stand forward, stand forward," said the King. "Ha! who are you? I
have seen that fair face before."
"Once, my Liege," said Ella Brune, advancing, dressed in the garments
she had worn immediately after her grandsire's death, "and then your
Grace did as you always do, rendered justice both to the offender and
the offended. I accuse this man of having done the deed that you have
mentioned, and many another blacker still. I accuse him of having made
use of him who stands beside him, Edward Dyram--pretending to be a
servant of Sir Richard of Woodville, long after he had been driven in
disgrace from his train--to obtain from the messenger of the Count of
Charolois the letter which your Grace had sent. Speak," she continued,
turning to Dyram, "Is it not true?"
The man hesitated, and turned red and white, but was silent.
"Speak," reiterated Ella Brune, "it is your last chance. Then read
this letter, my Liege," she continued, "from the noble Count of
Charolois, wherein he states, that he has traced out this foul and
wicked plot, and----"
"I will confess I _did_," exclaimed Dyram; "I did get the letter. I
did aid to forge the answer; but he, he--Richard of Woodville--struck
me, and I vowed revenge."
"What more?" demanded the King, sternly. "If you hope for life speak
truth. _You_ have not defiled knightly rank; _you_ have not degraded
noble birth; _you_ have not violated all that should keep men honest
and true. There is some hope for you."
"Ha, knave!" exclaimed Simeon of Roydon, gazing at him fiercely; but
Dyram hesitated and paused without reply; and Ella Brune proceeded,
pointing with her fair hand to the papers which the King held open
before him, and demanding, while her dark eyes fixed stern on Dyram's
face, "And the letter from the prisoner of Montl'herry, to Sir John
Grey, did you not erase the words with which it ended--they were, if I
remember right, 'touching my ransom,'--and change the Christian name
in the superscription?"
"No, no," cried the man vehemently, knowing that the charge might well
affect his life. "No, I did not--nobody saw me do it; I say I did not."
"Fool!" cried Ella Brune, after giving him a moment to consider; "Your
hate has been dangerous to others, your love has been dangerous to
yourself--Give me that cup! My Lord the King, may I crave to see the
letter I have named?"
Henry took it from the rest, and placed it in her hand; and, dipping
her finger in a cup containing a clear white fluid, which the page of
Sir John Grey brought forward, she ran it over the line immediately
preceding Richard of Woodville's signature. The King gazed earnestly
on the parchment as she did so, and, to his surprise, he beheld the
words she had mentioned reappear--somewhat faint and indistinct, it is
true, but legible enough to show that the meaning of the whole paper
had been falsified by their erasure.
"That wretched man," said Ella Brune, pointing to Dyram, "in a foolish
fit of tenderness towards my poor self, taught me the art of restoring
writings long effaced; and now, by his own skill, I show you his own
knavery."
Henry turned round with a generous smile of sincere pleasure towards
Richard of Woodville, saying, "I was sure I was not mistaken,
Richard;" and he held out his hand.
The young knight took it, and pressed his lips upon it, replying, "You
seldom are, Sire; but there is more to come, or I am mistaken."
"Nay, with him I have done," said Ella Brune, looking at Dyram:
"unless he thinks, by free confession of the whole, and telling how a
greater knave than himself led him on from fault to fault, to merit
forgiveness, the matter affecting him is closed."
"It is vain to conceal it," cried Dyram; "not that I hope for grace,
for that is past; but there will be some satisfaction in punishing him
who was never grateful for any service rendered him."
"It was yourself you served, villain, and your own passions--not me!"
cried Simeon of Roydon, with his eyes flashing fire.
"And how did you treat me?" cried Dyram. "It is true, my Liege, to
gain this girl--devil incarnate as she seems to be!--I would have
sacrificed aught on earth; and when, after laying a plot with this man
to win her--which, by his knavery, had well nigh ended in her ruin--I
confessed my fault to yonder knight, and he spurned me like a dog, I
would have done as much to take vengeance upon him. I found a ready
aid in good Sir Simeon of Roydon, who loved him as dearly as I did. In
turns we planned and executed. He devised the letter touching the
ransom; he prompted the Duke of Orleans and the Count of Armagnac: I
erased the writing, and changed the superscription. Then, again, I
hinted that in the armour he had bought, and under the name of its
first owner, he might follow your camp, and clench the suspicion of
Sir Richard's treason, by proofs that would seem indubitable; never
doubting, indeed, that our enemy would be kept long in Montl'herry,
but little caring whether the sword fell on the one knight or the
other. To make all sure, however, I was sent to Montl'herry; but I
arrived too late to prevent the prisoner's escape; and only discovered
by whose assistance it was effected--by that fair maiden there, now
clerk and now demoiselle. My story is told, and I have nought to
plead. We are both guilty alike; we both loved, and we both hated: but
I would not have willingly injured her, who has now destroyed me. In
that, and that only, am I better than this noble knight."
"Have you aught more to say, fair maiden, concerning Sir Simeon of
Roydon?" asked Henry; "if not, I will at once deal with both of them
as they merit."
"Nay, I beseech you, Sire," exclaimed Richard of Woodville, "before
you act in any way, listen to me for one moment."
"Speak--speak, my good friend," replied Henry; "I am always willing to
hear anything in reason--what would you say?"
"I know not whether your Grace would wish it spoken aloud," said
Woodville; "it refers to a time before your accession to the throne."
"Oh yes! speak, speak!" cried Henry; "I have not forgotten Hal of
Hadnock. What of those days?"
"Why, Sire, you may remember," answered Woodville, "that, as that
noble gentleman you have just named and I rode by the stream near
Dunbury, one night in the spring of the year, we found the body of my
poor cousin Kate drowned in the water. The man before you thought fit
to cast foul doubts on as true and gallant a gentleman as ever lived,
Sir Henry Dacre. He now lies at the point of death from wounds
received near Agincourt, and if aught on earth can save him, it will
be to know that his good name is cleared from all suspicion. If this
man could but be brought to speak, and to acknowledge that the charges
he insinuated were false, it would be balm to a bruised heart."
"Nay," cried the King, "his falsehood is so evident, his knavery so
great, that charges from his mouth are now but empty air. Yet I have
heard how Sir Harry Dacre has suffered the bare doubt to prey like a
canker upon his peace. Speak, Simeon of Roydon; and, if it be your
last word, speak truth. Know you aught of Catherine Beauchamp's
death?--and, if you do, whose was the hand that did that horrid deed?"
"Sir Harry Dacre's," answered Roydon, with a malignant smile; for he
thought to triumph even in death. "No one doubts it, I believe. Does
your Grace?"
"Ay, that I do," answered Henry; "and I have good cause to doubt it.
That man was sent by me to make inquiries," and he pointed to Dyram;
"and everything that he discovered, I pray you mark, gentlemen all,
tended to show that it was impossible Sir Henry Dacre could have done
the deed. I have often fancied, indeed, that the knave had learned
more than he divulged to me. Is it so, sir? I remember your ways in
times of old, that you would tell part, and keep back part. Did you
learn aught else?"
"Oh, no, Sire," replied Dyram, with a laugh, glancing his keen eyes
towards Richard of Woodville; "I know nought; but I suppose that Sir
Henry Dacre did it."
"My Lord the King," said Ella Brune, who had remained silent, with her
dark eyes cast down, while this conversation took place, "I can give
your Grace the information that you seek to have."
"Ha!--you!" cried Roydon, gazing at her with glaring eyes. "This is
all pure hate. Mark, if she do not say I did it!"
"You did!" answered Ella, fixing her eyes upon him. "Do you remember
the night after the Glutton mass?--I was there! Do you remember hiding
beneath the willows on the abbey side of the stream?--I was there! Do
you remember the lady coming and asking for the information you had
promised to give, and your assailing her with words of love, and
seeking to win her from her promised husband?--I was there!"
"False! false! all false!" cried Sir Simeon of Roydon; but his face as
he spoke was deadly pale.
"If you saw all, fair maiden," said the King, "why did you not at once
denounce the murderer?"
"I saw all but the last act, my Liege," replied Ella Brune. "Having
wandered from Southampton with the poor old man, whom that knight
afterwards slew, we found kindly entertainment for our music in a
cottage at Abbot's Ann. Wearied with the noise and merriment, I went
out and sat beneath the trees; I witnessed what I have said; but then,
not to be an eavesdropper, I stole away. When I heard of the murder,
however, I well knew who had done it--for the lady answered him
scornfully--and I should have told the tale at once, but the old man
forbade me, showing that we were poor wandering minstrels, and that my
story against the noble and the great would not be credited; yet I am
certain that his hand did it."
"Out upon it!" cried Roydon; "will a King of England listen to such an
idle tale? will he not drive from his presence, with contempt, a
mountebank singer who, without one witness, brings such a charge in
pure hate?"
"Not without one witness," answered Ella Brune. "I have one."
"Call him!" said Henry; "if this man can clear himself from the
accusation, he shall have pardon for all the rest."
Ella Brune raised her hand and beckoned to some one standing behind
the circle, which had drawn somewhat closer round the spot where this
scene was going on. Immediately--while Sir John Grey made way--a lady
dressed in the habit of a novice, with her face closely covered,
advanced between the King and Simeon of Roydon.
"This is my witness," said Ella Brune; and as she spoke, the other
withdrew her veil.
Simeon of Roydon started back with a face pale as death, exclaiming,
"Catherine!--She is living! she is living!"
"Ay, but not by your will," answered Catherine Beauchamp; "for you
have long thought me dead--dead by the act of your own hand. My Lord
the King," she continued, "all that this excellent girl has said is
true. On a night you well remember, eager to learn from this man who
you really were, I sought him by the banks of the stream, where he had
promised to wait and tell me that and other matters, as he said,
nearly affecting me. It was wrong of me to do so; but I had done much
that was wrong ere then, and I had no scruples. He told me who you
were; and then, seeing that no great love existed between myself and
poor Harry Dacre, he sought to win my wealth, by inducing me to
violate the contract with my promised husband and wed him: what put
such a vain notion in his mind, I know not; but I laughed and taunted
him with bitter scorn; and he then told me that I should be his or
die. At first I feared not: but when I found him lift his hand and
grasp me by the throat, I screamed aloud for help, and struggled hard.
He mastered me, however, in an instant, and plunged me in the stream.
As I fell, I vowed that, if Heaven would send me help, I would make a
pilgrimage to St. James of Galicia. The waters, however, soon closed
above my head, and in the one dreadful moment which I had for
thought--as if the past had been cleared up and illumined by a flash
of lightning--all the faults and follies of my former life stood out
before me distinct and bright, stripped of the vain imaginations with
which I had covered them. I rose again for a moment to the air; and
then I vowed that, if God spared me, I would pledge myself to the
altar, and renouncing all that ensnared me, live out the rest of time
in penitence and prayer. I soon lost all recollection, however, and
when first I woke as from sleep, in great feebleness and agony, I
found myself in a litter, borne on towards the abbey. Consciousness
was speedily gone again: and when next I roused myself from that dull
slumber, my good uncle Richard, the abbot, and an old monk of his
convent, were the only persons near. As soon as I could speak, I told
them of my vows, and engaged them to keep my recovery a profound
secret, till I had taken the veil. The deeds that have been done,
however, compel me to come forward now, and tell the truth. I have
told it simply and without disguise; but yet I would fain plead for
this man's life. To him, as well as to others, I have had great
faults, and towards none more than poor Sir Harry Dacre. In a month,
however, my vows will be taken, and he will be free; but I would fain
not cloud the peace with which I renounce the world, by bringing death
on my bad cousin's head; and you, Sire, after such a mighty victory,
can well afford to pardon."
But Henry waved his hand: "Not a word for him!" he said; "loaded with
so many crimes, I give him up to trial; and by the sentence of his
judges will I abide. Remove the prisoners, and keep them under safe
ward; one word more, fair lady," he continued, as the men-at-arms led
Simeon of Roydon and Ned Dyram from the presence, "how has it so
fortunately chanced that you are here to-day?"
"I have travelled far, my Liege," replied Catherine Beauchamp, in a
gayer tone; "have made my pilgrimage, and passed part of my noviciate
in a cell of the order I have chosen near Dijon. Coming back I met
with some Canonesses, who were travelling under the escort of some
troops of Burgundy, and with them journeyed to Peronne, whence, under
the escort of Sir Richard of Woodville, and accompanied by this good
maiden, I came hither. I will not waste your time, my Liege, by
telling all the adventures that befel me by the way; but I have to ask
pardon of my noble cousin Richard, here, for teasing him somewhat in
Westminster and Nieuport, and doing him a still worse turn in Ghent by
a letter to Sir John Grey. But, good faith, to say the truth, I
thought he was a lighter lover than he has proved himself, and now
that I know all, I crave his forgiveness heartily."
"You have it, sweet Kate," answered Richard of Woodville; "but you
have several things to hear yet," he continued, in his blunt way, "and
some perhaps that may not be very palatable to you."
"Nay, I have heard all," answered Catherine Beauchamp; "but I stand no
more in the way of that love, which I had long seen turning to
another, when I spurned it from me myself. My vows at the altar will
remove all obstacles; and I trust that Dacre will see me as a sister
and a friend, though it be but to bid me adieu for ever."
"And I, Woodville," said the King, turning to the young knight, "I,
too, would ask you pardon, if I had ever truly suspected you. Such,
however, is not the case; and there are many here who can testify,
that though I was willing that you should be made to prove your
innocence, I never doubted that you could do so. For services
rendered, however, and high deeds done, as well as in compensation for
much that you have suffered, I give you one half of the forfeited
estates of the traitor Sir Thomas Grey, to hold for ever of us and of
our heirs, on presentation of a mace, such as that which beat down the
adversary of my brother Humphrey upon the day of Agincourt. Sir John
Grey, my good old friend, I think you, too, have a gift to give. Come,
let me see it given;" and leading forward Richard of Woodville, he
brought him to the side of Mary Grey. The old knight placed her hand
in his, and the King said "Benedicite."
Ella Brune turned away her head. Her cheek glowed; but there were no
tears in her eyes; and, ere many months were gone, she was a
cloistered nun in the same convent with Catherine Beauchamp.
THE END.