THE JOURNEY TO WINDSOR
A great crowd gathered around the gaol at Bedford to see Mistress
Constance Leslie and myself start for London. This was but little
wonder, for the revelation made in the Chapel of Herne had spread like
wildfire, and people had come from the whole country side to see us
depart. I noticed too that we were not regarded with anger, nor treated
with contumely. Rather I judged that Mistress Constance was looked upon
with great favour, and I verily believe that had they been encouraged,
the people would have cheered her with great gusto, for they looked upon
her, not as one who had done aught to be ashamed of, but as one who had
bravely suffered much for another's sake. As for myself they knew nought
of me except my name, for this I had made known in the Court House, and
that I had succeeded in helping Mistress Constance out of prison.
Neither was this regarded as a great sin. Indeed it was believed that I
knew of the truth of what Master Leslie had told, and therefore it was
natural for me to render what help I was able. Concerning our former
meeting I had of course been silent, and although I had been questioned
closely I had given no answer which made any one the wiser.
One thing pleased me beyond measure, and this was the fact that Black
Ben was returned to me, and that I was allowed to ride him to London.
This I suspect was owing to the kindness of Sir William Franklin, who
had known my father and had fought by his side during the first civil
war.
We were, however, carefully guarded, so carefully that quite a company
of armed men rode out of Bedford, making as I thought a good show that
bright summer morning.
We must have travelled at least six miles before I had a chance of
speaking to Mistress Constance, for although we rode side by side in the
midst of those who guarded us, we had no chance of speaking a word to
each other. For that matter I do not think she desired speech, for
either she looked straight forward, or else looked away to the right,
which was in the opposite direction from where I was.
When we had travelled a few miles, however, we were less closely
watched. The constables talked with each other, now and then passing a
jest, and again telling of the fine times they hoped to have when they
reached London. Indeed I saw that while they took care there was no
chance of escape, they paid us less and less heed.
Therefore as I had opportunity, I drew my horse so close to hers that my
right foot almost touched her riding habit.
"I trust I have done nought to offend you," I said, looking into her
face.
But she did not reply for several moments, but rather turned away her
head from me.
"When you speak to me look straight on," she said.
I saw the wisdom of her words, for although the guard was more lax than
when we left Bedford, I knew that watchful eyes were constantly upon us.
I therefore obeyed her, and waited for her answer.
"How can I be offended, when you have tried to be my friend?" she asked;
"but did you not tell me that you spoke the French tongue?"
"Yes," I replied in that language. "I do not speak freely, but perhaps
enough to make you understand."
"Then speak to me in that tongue. You can understand now why I could
tell you nothing when we first met."
"Yes," I replied, "I understand. It has made me very happy."
She gave me a searching glance. It was only for a moment that she
looked, but I felt the beat of my heart quicken.
"There is much that you do not know--cannot know."
"I know enough to make me very happy," I repeated. "Almost ever since I
saw you first I have felt a great burden upon my heart. Now it is gone."
"You believed I was guilty of--of----" here she stammered, and seemed at
a loss how to finish her sentence, but I noticed the bitterness of her
voice.
"No," I interrupted eagerly. "Never for one moment."
I thought her eyes grew softer, for I could not help looking at her as I
spoke.
"Why then have you been made happy?"
"Because I know you are not the wife of that man."
The blood mounted to her cheeks, and the moment I saw this I turned away
my head.
"You have been very good to try and help me," she said, "but it does not
avail, it will not avail."
"I have done nothing," I replied, "nothing to what I would do if I
could."
"Yes, you have done much. You have helped me to save my sister."
"Unconsciously," I replied. "I know nothing of her. If I had known I
should not have cared. It was only you I wanted to help."
"It does not matter about me. She must be saved whatever may happen. I
will see to that."
"Then you do not fear what the king may do?"
"No, I do not fear. But do not speak again, the men are beginning to
watch us."
I pretended to be examining Black Ben's saddle, and to attend to one of
the buckles which kept up the left stirrup.
"What's the matter Master Rashcliffe," said one of the guards.
"Hath some one been meddling with my stirrups?" I asked. "They seem too
short."
"They can be seen to when we stop at mid-day for food," he replied.
After that we rode on for another mile without speaking.
"I think I shall have some favour with the king," I said presently. "If
so, you will soon be free."
"Perchance you will be free, but not I," she replied.
"If I am free you shall be free," I made answer.
"No."
"Why?"
"Because the king's prisons will be guarded too closely. London gaols
are not like Bedford Gaol."
"But why should you be put in a London gaol? You have done nothing."
"No; but then I shall tell nothing."
"Ah," I said, catching at her meaning. "Then you know where your sister
is?"
I spoke the French tongue and in a low voice, but she looked around
nervously, and although she gave no answer I knew I had surmised the
truth.
"Do not expect the worst," I said, "God lives."
"Yes, God lives, and I do not fear. Let the king do his worst."
"He may not suspect."
"But he will. When it is told him that I have--have done these things
for my sister's sake, he will ask me if I know where she is."
"And you will not tell?"
"I shall not tell where she is. Then he will make me bear her
punishment."
"No, I will save you."
Again she looked at me searchingly, and I thought I saw a glad light
leap into her eyes. After that she gave a quick glance round as if to be
sure that no one listened.
"No, you cannot save me. I am my father's daughter. Even now I am told
that the king is planning a terrible vengeance on those who took part in
his father's death."
"I will save you," I said quietly, and confidently. "Do not fear.
Whatever happens do not fear. It may be that I shall not be able to do
this in a day, or in a year--although I think I shall, but I will do
it!"
"Why should you do it?"
"Because I love you."
I saw her start in her saddle, while her hands clutched her bridle rein
nervously.
"That was why I was made so happy when I knew you had not married that
man. I loved you even while I thought you were his wife. I fought
against it because I thought it was a sin. But I could not help it. It
never came to me until the other night when I saw them taking you to
prison. I loved you before then although I did not know it. But I knew
it then. I was glad when they left me alone in prison, because I could
think of you. I did not sleep all the night. My heart was aching with
love, all the more because I thought it was sinful, but I could not help
loving you. Whatever happens now, I shall love you till I die."
"No! No!"
"Yes. I know you do not care for me; but I have my joy, the joy of
loving."
"But you must not--it is wrong."
"Why is it wrong?"
"Because it is foolishness. I have taken another's burden--I may speak
of it now. I have taken it willingly--gladly, but the burden means a
curse to the one who bears it."
"Then I will try and bear some of the curse. Nay, do not deny me this. I
must whether I will or not. Nothing you may say or do will alter me. I
shall love you until I die. Besides, I am going to save you."
She did not say a word to this, but looked straight on. We were passing
through rich loamy lands. All around the trees were in the glory of
their summer garb, while the birds sang lustily from tree branch, and
from hazel twig, but I do not think she either saw or heard.
I had eased my heart in speaking, and so I said no more for the time.
Never perhaps had a man a more doubtful future than I, and yet I could
have shouted for very joy. She heard not the song of the skylark as it
mounted to the heavens, nor the notes of the thrushes as they poured
forth their music to God. But I did, and it seemed to me as though they
were God's messengers telling me not to be afraid to love, for it was
His will. That she could ever love me never came into my heart. How
could she? What was I that a maid so peerless in her beauty, so glorious
in her life of sacrifice for another, should ever think of me save as
one who delighted to do her will? But I had the joy of loving, and
although my love were full of pain, and unsatisfied yearnings, I still
loved, and rejoiced in it.
"Why? Why?" I heard her whisper presently.
"Because God would have it so," I made answer. "He brought us together
that I might love you, and serve you. And this I will do as long as I
have life and thought!"
"But if I am thrown into prison?"
"I shall still love you. Prison is nothing. Love has broken the bolts
from many a prison door before this, aye, and will again."
"But what is the use of loving me?"
"To serve you."
"But if you cannot serve me?"
"Then I shall still have the joy of loving you. This let me say: what
will happen I know not, but you must not be afraid. I shall be always
thinking about you--always."
"But the king may keep me in prison for years."
"He will not; but if he does, what then? He cannot live for ever.
Suppose we never meet again until we are old, I shall still love you."
Again there was a long silence between us, so long that I thought she
had forgotten all I had said, so long that my mind had begun to wander.
I had begun to paint pictures of the future years when we, both grown
old, had met again, and I had renewed my vows to her.
"But if I were to love another, and wed him, what then?" She said this
suddenly, as though the thought had just occurred to her.
"I don't know," I said, and my heart grew cold as I spoke. "Of course
you can never love me, but I shall pray God that you may never love
another."
"Love is not for me," she said presently; and I knew she was thinking of
what might happen to her.
"If I were only worthy it would be," I said. "I have learnt many things
since that night before the trial in the Chapel of Herne. I have learnt
that love laughs at the wisdom of the wise. Do you know that the walls
of Bedford Gaol troubled me not one whit nor did the presence of the
gaolers keep me from seeing your face. We are guarded now on the right
hand, and on the left. We can hear the rough laugh of those who watch
over us, can hear the clanking of their spurs, and the noise of horses'
hoofs, but for two hours I have never thought of them. We have our life
in our own hearts--that is why."
After that we spoke not a word to each other throughout that long day,
for our keepers began to guard us more jealously, especially when they
discovered that they could not understand the language we spoke. My
heart hungered for further speech with her, nevertheless I was happy, I
had told her of my love and she was not angry; nay more, my promise to
help her seemed to give her confidence.
I have thought since that never did a man tell a maid of his love under
stranger circumstances. We were guarded on the right hand and the left,
and we were being taken to judgement for having defied the laws of the
land, yet had I chosen this time to declare the passion of my heart. A
few hours hence prison doors might clank upon us again, while perchance
the anger of those in high places might be so aroused that it might be
made impossible for us ever to set eyes on each other from that day.
Still I told her of my love, while my heart, in spite of pain, sang for
very gladness. After all I was only a boy, and a boy whose heart is on
fire recks not of circumstances.
I noticed presently that we were not going straight to London town, but
that we took a road to the right. I asked the reason for this; but no
reply was given me. For that matter, the constables on guard seemed as
much in the dark as I, and this set me wondering all the more.
We kept up a brisk pace all the day, travelling as I should judge, with
the exception of the time we stopped at a wayside hostelry for food and
refreshment, eight miles an hour. The road, especially when we left the
highway to London, was none of the best, being, in truth, little more
than track. Still we kept up good speed, and presently, when I saw the
towers of Great Castle I judged the reason why we had turned aside from
the high road.
"That is Windsor," I said to myself. "It is as I thought; we are to be
taken to the presence of the king." I looked towards Mistress Constance
Leslie, and I perceived that she had also seen the castle. Perchance she
also had drawn the same conclusion. But she shewed no sign of fear. The
same steady light burnt in her eyes, while I knew from the steady
compression of her lips that although Charles Stuart might be a hundred
times king he would not be able to bend her will.
Even although I thought much of what might befall us when we were
brought into the king's presence, I could not help comparing the
fortunes of Charles Stuart with those of a few months before. Then he
dared not come near the land, which he in spite of his banishment called
his own, while now he reigned in a royal palace. Then, under the sway of
Oliver Cromwell, he could have found but few to do his bidding, but now
each man vied with the other to be foremost in fawning servility. In
like manner, moreover, had the whole tone of the country changed. The
Puritan garb, and the Puritan manner of speech which had been so common,
were scarcely anywhere present. A rollicking devil-may-care attitude had
taken the place of sober seriousness.
I paid but little heed to the happenings near Windsor town, and Windsor
Castle. My eyes were too constantly fixed on the woman I loved, and my
heart was too full of fear lest some discourtesy might be paid to her.
But I believed then, as I believe now, that command had been given for
her to be treated as became her rank, rather than as one who had
offended the king, for during the whole journey I neither saw nor heard
anything which could give her pain.
We went straight to the Royal Palace, the beauty of which impressed me
greatly as I drew near to it. Nought, I think, could be fairer than the
broad park lands, studded with stately oaks, amongst which deer
frolicked and gambolled. Flowers bloomed everywhere, and the air was
laden with their perfume.
As we rode along I heard gay laughter, and I could have sworn I saw the
king with a company of ladies standing by a broad sketch of water,
throwing food to the birds which swam gracefully around.
A few minutes later we were in the Castle itself. This surprised me
greatly, for I fancied we should be taken to one of the houses near, and
lodged there until it was the king's pleasure to see us; but as I said
we were taken straight to the Castle, although not to one of its main
entrances.
Directly I had entered, however, I lost sight of Mistress Constance.
This distressed me sorely, but I comforted myself with the thought that
as she had been treated with such kindness throughout the journey she
would not now receive aught but civility. I noted that I was received
with some consideration. Food was placed before me, and a comfortable
seat at a table. As may be imagined, I was thankful for this, for I was
both weary and hungry. Half an hour later, however, my weariness had
gone. I had been able to appease my hunger, to brush my clothes and to
souse my head in cool pure water, so that instead of desiring rest I
looked and listened eagerly for aught I might be able to see and hear.
As I said I was not treated as a prisoner, although two men remained
near me. I was, however, allowed to move around and take note of what
might happen.
Many persons came and went. Mostly they were gay young gallants,
although now and then I saw gray heads and sober faces. I saw that many
looked at me curiously, and then whispered to each other.
"I hear that when his Majesty hath supped, he hath willed to have this
young couple before him."
This I heard plainly, and I thought the man who spoke looked towards me
as he spoke.
"Ay," replied the man who was by his side, "his Majesty hath been at
Windsor only two days, and yet he is already weary of the place. After
all, eating and drinking, although it be in a king's palace, palls on
one."
"And yet his Majesty is a good trencherman, and loves his wine."
"As to that, yes. That is true of all the Stuarts until their digestion
is gone. But there is not a play to be seen here. In truth, for that
matter the theatres of London, in spite of all that is being done, be in
a shocking condition. As you know the king loves the drama, and already
several are being written for his special delectation. I warrant you
there will be no Puritanism in them save that it will be laughed at. As
for morality--well the saints know we have had enough of that during Old
Noll's time. Faith, I am fairly longing to see and hear one which I hear
Master Tom Killigrew is preparing. It is to be strong meat I hear."
After this they fell to talking about things with which I will not
sully this history, for although the thing soon became common enough, I
have no wish to write of the infidelity of wives, the faithlessness of
husbands, and the duelling and brawling which followed in their train.
It was revealed to me with great quickness, however, that already
looseness of living had not only become the order of the day, but that
it was talked about as though it was something to be boasted of.
Presently they again came back, as I thought, to the king's will
concerning Mistress Constance and myself.
"I hear the king was mightily disappointed when he heard that the
Puritan's daughter did not try to kill Monk."
"Ay, but she did."
"No, not the one that is brought here. Still it is said he is greatly
interested in the beauteous maid who has tried to save her sister. I
hear that both she and the young springald who sought to set her at
liberty are to be brought before him directly after supper. It will be
better than play-acting, he saith, and will give diversion to the
company."
"Are they to be brought before the king's guests?"
"Ay, so I hear. It should be rare sport."
"But a curious way of administering justice."
"Tush, man. Charles Stuart cares nought for Monk, although he hath made
him the Duke of Albermarle, but he doth love diversion. The maid is fair
too, fair as an angel I have been told. Old Leslie hath hidden her from
sight all her life, and this will only make her of more interest to
Charles."
After this they went away, while I tried to understand what it all
meant. Nought happened for wellnigh two hours, however, and then two
lackeys in gaily coloured livery came to me, and bid me follow them.