"Noble Judges, we are all here now. To whom shall we award the prize in
this day's tilt?"
Sir Nicholas Wadham gave his opinion in favour of the unknown knight,
but the Captain of the Wight produced a scrap of paper, part of which
was torn off in which it was declared, on behalf of the unknown knight,
that he tilted for no prize, looking for a higher guerdon and more
deadly tilt a entrance as his reward hereafter.
"That, then, settles the matter," said Sir John Trenchard, "for the only
other man-at-arms who was not unhorsed was Master Lisle."
"Then, my noble friends, I may take it that we all agree the prize
belongs to Master Lisle?"
The others assenting, the Captain of the Wight made a signal to the
trumpeters, who gave a prolonged flourish, after which, amid dead
silence, the Captain briefly declared the opinion of the Court, praising
the courtesy and generosity of the Breton nobles, and significantly
declaring that "he knew all men there were right wishful to requite
courtesy by courtesy, and would fain send back over the seas such a
goodly company as would show their Breton kinsmen how greatly they
valued their friendship and good fellowship against their common enemy
of France," a sentiment which was received with gravity by the older
knights and esquires present, but was rapturously applauded by the
younger men. After this Lord Woodville handed to Yolande the ruby ring
in its casket, declaring Ralph Lisle to have duly won it by his skill
and hardy prowess.
There was prolonged cheering as Lord Woodville finished, and the shouts
were deafening as Ralph knelt down and received the ring from his
cousin, who handed it him with a sweet smile and gentle words. He took
it rapturously, and stammered a few words of thanks to her, the queen of
the tourney, and to the Breton nobles who had given the prize; and then,
before rising from his knee, he gave it back to his cousin, asking her
to keep it in remembrance of that day, and for his sake. Yolande took
the trinket with evident pleasure, and a well-feigned air of surprise,
thanking Ralph cordially, who rose from his kneeling position, and was
about to retire, when old Sir William Lisle, who was standing by, a
smile of pleasure softening his grim and determined features, said,--
"By'r Lady, Ralph, thou art a damoiseau in sooth, or thou wouldest know
there is another prize thou canst claim, an thou likest, and the
guerdon, by all the laws of the tourney, may not be withholden."
Ralph looked up with a puzzled air, while Yolande held down her fair
head, and pouted with a half-vexed air.
"Nay, father, cousin Ralph knows full well what is best to be done. Go,
fair cousin, 'tis a custom better honoured in the breach than the
observance."
"Humph!" chuckled Sir William. "An thou callest it by that--"
But Lord Woodville hastily interrupted, well knowing the humour of the
old knight.
"Master Lisle," he said, smiling, "Sir William means that by the laws of
the tourney and chivalry the winner the most laud and guerdon may claim
a favour from the Queen of the Tilt, which she may not refuse. In other
words thou mayest--"
"Nay, nay, my Lord Captain," broke in Yolande, "thou hast said enough.
Cousin Ralph, the ceremony is over," she added hastily, and with a
heightened colour; "thou art keeping all the company from their converse
and pastime."
Ralph stood looking on somewhat abashed, and at last, making a low bow,
and dropping once more on one knee, he gracefully took his cousin's fair
hand, and imprinted a kiss of respectful love and homage. Then rising,
amid the hum of congratulation from the company, he retired into the
body of the hall.
"Well, times are changed," said Sir Nicholas Wadham; "I'd never kiss a
fair maid's hand if I could have her lips, and cheek, for the asking or
taking."
"Then you are a ruder man than I took you for, Sir Nicholas, and I shall
tell Lady Wadham what you have said. I am glad my cousin hath learnt
better ways," said Yolande, tossing her head, and giving Sir Nicholas a
severe look.
The guests were now all assembled, and the banquet was ready. A
prolonged blast on the silver trumpet of Lord Woodville's trumpet-major
announced the beginning of the feast, and soon the hum of voices gave
place to the clatter of knives and jingle of plate. There was the usual
medley of fish, flesh, and fowl served up in the quaint fashion of the
time, and succeeding each other, with fantastic sweets intervening,
after the mode of the age. Subtleties and jellies, baked meats and
roast; soups of divers sorts, and some resembling rather sweet syrups
than the modern soups, rapidly succeeded each other, or adorned the long
tables set down the hall, while gaily-dressed serving-men and varlets
handed the dishes and washed up the plates, at a large table or dresser
at one end. In a gallery above, the musicians played tunes both gay and
plaintive, according to the taste of the age, for fair ladies were
supposed to be quite as much pleased with the sufferings of their
knights as with their valiant deeds, and a gentle knight who could not
suffer becomingly, had not learnt a very important part of his education
in the court of chivalrous romance. In the intervals of the music a
jongleur recited the adventures of Sir Tristram and the fair Yseult,
while the jester belonging to the household of the Captain of the Wight
interrupted him from time to time with broad jokes, dry remarks, or
riddles which he answered himself.
After the banquet, the tables were hastily cleared, while most of the
company adjourned to the castle-yard and sauntered round the noble
quadrangle, where the soft light of the moon threw quaint shadows down
over the grass and walls of the castle.
The minstrels took up their position on a platform near the wellhouse,
and the gentlemen and ladies paired off in readiness for the dancing to
begin. The music soon struck up, and away the couples went in the
stately "Pas de Brabant."
Ralph was standing in a state of dreamy joy watching the graceful
figures of the ladies, before whom each chevalier bent the knee as he
revolved in the intricacies of the dance. He was thinking how lucky he
was, and how kind and lovely Yolande looked as she danced with sweet
grace in a set with the Captain of the Wight for her partner, and the
Sire de la Roche Guemene, with a pretty girl dressed in exquisite taste,
as their _vis-a-vis_.
As Ralph stood looking on, Newenhall came up to him.
"Lisle, there's a young damsel wishes to speak with thee. She's outside
the main gate, and cannot come in. Jock Osborn's sergeant of the guard;
he'll let thee out, an there's any hindrance."
Ralph's thoughts instantly flew to the events of the tilt. Somehow this
little girl seemed to have a strange influence on his destiny.
He went to the gate. The deep shadows of the huge towers were
impenetrable in their opaqueness. He stepped out of the bright
moonlight, his graceful figure gleaming in its gay attire, and flashing
in the silver light, before he disappeared into the black shadow. The
guards were keeping but a lazy watch. He pushed aside the little
wicket-gate in the huge iron-studded door, and stepped out into the
blackness, rendered all the blacker by the brilliancy of the landscape
beyond. The shadow of the two noble towers and main ward was thrown
clear and distinct across the drawbridge and road outside, while all
beyond shone and sparkled in the moonbeams. A silver haze spread over
the valley in the distance, and the sounds of music and revelry gaily
vibrated behind.
Ralph could see no one. He looked into the shadow of the great gate.
There was a sound there--a faint rustle.
"Little maid, is that you?" said Ralph.
A sharp spasm, a burning pain, was the sudden answer, and Ralph knew no
more.
[Illustration: A SHARP SPASM WAS THE SUDDEN ANSWER.]
Half a minute after, and Dicky Cheke sprang through the door.
"Ralph," he cried, "Ralph, come back, 'tis a trap!" but all he saw was a
figure disappearing in the silver haze over the brow of the steep hill.
*CHAPTER XVII.*
*HOW THEY WERE AT FAULT.*
As Dicky Cheke darted after the figure which disappeared in the mist, he
stumbled over some obstacle on the ground, and nearly fell. Recovering
himself hastily, he stooped down to see what it was. The moon had risen
higher, and the black edge of the shadow of the castle was receding
before the silver light.
"Holy Saints!" gasped Dicky, as he stooped down, and saw with horror
that what had caused him to tumble was the body of Ralph Lisle, the
gleam of his gay dress plainly telling who it was. "I have come too
late."
Then springing up, he called to the guard to bring a light, and run for
a leech. The shouts of the boy soon brought assistance. Three archers
on guard hurried out of the gate, carrying a lighted cresset with them.
By the lurid glare of the smoky light Dicky, who was kneeling down by
his insensible friend, could see a dark stain marring the rich colours
of the tunic, and a black pool under the right side of the prostrate
boy.
"He's been hard stricken," said one of the men.
"Here's been foul play. But who'd hurt Master Lisle?" said another.
"Now, none of your talking," said Dicky. "Get some water and cloths."
At the same time he tore up his fine white linen tabard and laid the
pieces over the small puncture from which the blood was welling in
ominous streams. "I' faith, the poor lad will bleed to death, an the
leech comes not."
"Here he comes," said the other archer, as a tall figure in a long fur
gown came out of the wicket-gate, attended by several others, among whom
the weather-beaten face of Sir John Trenchard was visible.
"How's this? how's this?" he inquired peremptorily. "How came the lad
out here?"
No one answered.
"Which of you men was on guard?"
"Please your worship, 'twas my guard," said one of the men, knowing that
Sir John Trenchard would be sure to find out, and thinking it best to
make a virtue of necessity.
"Then how came this about?" said the Seneschal sternly.
"Marry, Sir John, 'tis more than I know. 'Tis parlous dark under the
gateway, and belike he slipped out while my back was turned."
"Get you to the guard-room. There'll be more of this anon," said Sir
John sharply. Then turning to the leech, he asked, "Is the boy dead?"
"Nay, Sir John; 'tis a deep wound, but not mortal. There's no artery
severed, as thou mayest see by the darker colour of the blood. Had it
been of a scarlet colour, 'twould have been useless for me to come. The
flow is already stayed. We must get him to his bed, but that gently."
While the archers were raising Ralph with great care, Sir John Trenchard
closely questioned Dicky Cheke as to how he came to find Ralph, and
elicited from the page how the mysterious warning had been given him by
the little girl, and how Bowerman had been designated as cherishing
vengeful designs on Ralph.
"Where is Bowerman?" said Sir John Trenchard.
"Nay, I have seen him not," answered Dicky Cheke.
"Bid the pages be called to my apartment," said Sir John to one of the
yeomen who attended on him. Then turning to Dicky, he said, "And who is
this little wench?"
"I know not, Sir John. I never saw her before to-day."
"Hast thou any cause to suspect any one? Thou mayest speak freely; 'tis
a case will have to be carefully inquired into."
Dicky Cheke hesitated; he had the natural disinclination all honest,
manly natures have to incriminate any one, or harbour a thought that
might do an injustice to another. Like all the rest of the garrison, he
strongly suspected that Bowerman was at the bottom of the cruel trick
which had been played on Black Tom, and he more than mistrusted him in
this present case.
"Well, Master Cheke, hast thou no answer to give? 'Tis a grave matter.
Thou wilt have to answer. Dost thou mistrust Eustace Bowerman?"
"Yes, Sir John," said Dicky, slowly and reluctantly.
"Ay, marry, and so do I. But we shall see anon."
They had now entered the courtyard. At the sight of the little
procession--the four stalwart men walking in time, and the pale face of
the insensible boy--the dancers all stopped, and came crowding round;
but at a word from Sir John Trenchard, and a polite request from the
Captain of the Wight to continue their festivity, the guests resumed
their dancing, only Yolande insisted on going into the hall with her
injured cousin, and old Sir William Lisle attended her. The leech now
carefully examined the wound, and his verdict was anxiously awaited.
The usual remedies were resorted to for restoring animation, and, to the
joy of Yolande, after a little quiver of the eyelids, they slowly
opened, and Ralph once more looked upon the world.
The leech, seeing that all immediate danger was over, and that the
haemorrhage was yielding to the treatment, directed a bed to be made
ready in a room adjoining the hall, and then dilated upon the
excellencies of his remedies, to the great impatience of Yolande.
"But, Master Leech, will he get well? Is it a dangerous wound?"
"Nay, fair Mistress Lisle, science answereth not such bold questions as
these but with silence. To get well is in the hands of God; we can but
speak of how science and medicine knoweth what is the best course to
adopt. 'Tis well known to those admitted to the occult arcana of the
heavenly influences that the celestial bodies exercise a strange
influence on our poor bodies of clay. Sol draweth unto him during the
day the blood of our systems, gentle Mater Nox appeaseth the heat of our
sanguine flow, and settleth the blood in our extremities. As at the
third hour the bile subsideth, so that its acrid properties be not
blended with the flow of the blood, so also at the second hour the
atrabilis subsides, and in the eventime the phlegm abateth--"
"Marry, Master Surgeon Barber, thy discourse causeth my head to buzz.
Tell me plainly an thou canst, is my cousin in danger of death?"
"Noble lady, to give a short answer becometh not the dignity of my art.
There are hopes in that chaste Luna is in the ascendant, and AEsculapius
ruleth the seventh house, that what is natheless a deadly thrust may
yield to my remedies. But as the learned Averroes--than whom my old
master, the worshipful Master Thomas Morstede, knew no--"
"Beshrew me, Master Barber, thou wilt drive me mad!" cried the impatient
Yolande. "Canst thou not answer me plainly, instead of talking thy
jaw-breaking jargon?"
But the leech or barber was incensed at this want of respect, especially
coming from a young lady, and he briefly replied he must wait before
giving an opinion until Aldeboran reached the third house.
Compelled to be satisfied with this answer, Yolande saw her cousin moved
to his new couch, and then, recognising the absolute necessity of not
disturbing him, she returned to the festivities, over which a cloud had
been cast by this strange event.
Meanwhile Sir John Trenchard had gone to his apartment, and thither
Maurice Woodville, Willie Newenhall and Dicky Cheke followed him.
"Where's Master Bowerman?" inquired the Seneschal.
No one answered.
"Who saw him last?" was the next question.
Newenhall moved uneasily, but looked as stolid as ever.
"Master Newenhall, thou art the eldest; tell me where you last saw
Master Bowerman."
"An it please you, Sir John, 'twas after the banquet was over."
"Well, where was he? Was he dancing?"
"He was dancing."
"How long agone was that?"
Newenhall twisted his cap round, and looked more stupid and vacant than
ever.
"Come, Master Newenhall, brush up thy wits and give a short answer--time
presses."
"Maybe 'twas an hour ago," said the page sullenly.
Sir John Trenchard, seeing that Newenhall, either through stupidity or
on purpose, would give no useful information, turned to Dicky Cheke and
bid him narrate all the circumstances of his finding Ralph.
When he heard of the figure disappearing over the steep declivity on the
other side of the road, Sir John rated Master Cheke soundly for not
having bid one of the archers pursue him; and in spite of Dicky's
protestations that he was so flurried by the sight of Ralph's body lying
bleeding in the road, as to think only of helping him, that young
gentleman was severely reprimanded for his absence of mind.
"One who would be a useful knight, and serve his prince well, should
never forget what is the right course, never mind what may be the
obstacles," said the Seneschal, with stern sententiousness.
Maurice Woodville could give no information; he had been in close
attendance on the Captain of the Wight, and had not seen Bowerman at
all.
Orders were now issued to have the castle searched for the missing page,
but with no result. He was not found, and no one had any doubt that it
was Eustace Bowerman who had struck the blow.
The guests all dispersed to their homes soon afterwards, many of them
being accommodated for the night in the castle as guests of the Captain
of the Wight; among whom Sir William Lisle and his daughter, with the
Abbot of Quarr, were the most honoured.
The next morning, the first visitor to inquire after Ralph was his
cousin Yolande. It was joyful news to her to hear that he had passed a
quiet night, and, although very weak and faint from loss of blood, was
doing well. No one had as yet questioned him on the strange accident,
and it was still a mystery why he had gone outside the castle at all.
"'Tis a rare mischance, Maurice," said Dicky Cheke, as they went
downstairs together to begin the duties of the day; "Ralph might have
gotten the prize of this day's tourney also."
"'Twas Bowerman that dealt the foul stroke," said Maurice, without
heeding the other's remark. "Where can he have gotten to?"
"Ay, where indeed? But he can't escape; I hear there's orders been sent
out to search all boats that leave the island."
"Marry! why he could have gotten clear off before the alarm was raised.
They ought to have scoured the country for him last night, they'd have
taken him then withouten any doubt."
Dicky looked rather foolish. He remembered how he had been rated by Sir
John Trenchard the night before.
"Dost think Newenhall knows aught of the matter?"
"Humph!" answered Dicky. "He didn't like Ralph, and he wouldn't stop
any harm coming to him, but I don't think he's got the pluck to do him a
wrong himself."
"His ways were odd last night. Didst mark how he couldn't answer old
Jack-in-Harness's questions?"
"Couldn't? Wouldn't, you mean," said Dicky. "Ay, I marked it sure
enough. Well, old Jack's as sharp as a needle--he'll find it all out."
The conversation was interrupted by their arriving at the door of their
lord's apartment, and being ordered to enter by the archer on guard.
The account of Ralph Lisle's favourable condition was joyfully received
throughout the garrison, and the news had already spread to Newport.
"So I hear there was a young lad slain last night in a drunken brawl
after the revels," said the same rough fisherman who had spoken with
Bowerman the day before, to a countryman whom he met coming out of
Carisbroke.
"Ay, so they say; leastways, if it warn't two or three as was killed.
Holy Thomas! they castle folk be a woundy lot of gallants. They'd as
soon kill each other as the French, so long as there's nought else to
kill."
"Marry, and you're right; but I hear there'll be blows anon."
"Ay, sayest so? Well, well; but where away? All's quiet i' the land,
bean't it?
"Seemingly. But there's them as'll be moving soon. They've not done
with the White Rose yet. Howsever, 'tis blows in France as'll soon be
going. 'Tis rumoured over t'other side o' the water that our Captain's
a-going over there with a power of men."
"No! you don't say so; and who's he going to fight?"
"Why the French, to be sure; all along o' the Duke of Bretagne having
helped King Henry when he were in hiding there."
"Then 'tis the King of France as backs the t'other side--eh?"
"Ay, ay; and another powerful princess."
"Oh! and who's that?"
"Why, 'tis the good Duchess of Burgundy, as was sister to our brave
king, to be sure."
"What, she as I heard say gave that Simnel lad so much money? Well,
now, she be a kind lady. But, i' faith! I'm sick o' wars. 'Tis the
ruin of all our lives and fortunes; and surely we've had enough i' the
past years."
"Marry! my lad, there's always a picking when knights are pricking.
'Tis wars makes poor men rich, and rich men poor, an you only know the
way."
"Ay, ay, but you beant as old as I be. I've worked on Swainston Manor
for a matter o' twenty-four year come next Lammas. My lord then were
the great King-maker, as he were called--Old Bear and Ragged Staff. And
what came to him? why, he were slain in battle at Barnet field. Then
arter him, my lord were the Duke of Clarence. Well what came to him?
why, all along o' being a king's brother, and not having such a good
headpiece as t'other brother, he were put i' a butt o' Malmsey--so they
sez, leastways--and so were drowned. And now, who's my master? why him,
poor lad, as they've got mewed up i' Lunnon Tower. And all for what?
because, poor lad, he's his father's son, and bears the name of Warwick,
like his grandfather; and like enough he'll come to a bloody end
too."[*]
[*] He was executed for trying to escape from the Tower with Perkin
Warbeck, in 1498.
"Well, well, I shall be late for the sword strokes an I stop here. Are
you coming, gaffer?"
"Marry am I. There'll be a sight worth seeing, I hear. Who'll win the
prize to-day, think you?"
"Certes, there's not much question. 'Twill be the stout knight in the
plain armour."
"Oh, ay! and who be he?"
"That'll be known soon enough; but come along."
So saying, they walked off to the place of arms, where the tilting had
taken place the previous day.
There was the same concourse of spectators, but the interest was not
nearly so great as it had been the day before, the hand-to-hand
encounter with swords not affording such opportunities for spectacular
effect as the mounted contests.
However, there were some very fierce encounters, Sir Alain de Kervignac
exchanging several hard blows with Sir John Dudley, who had recovered
sufficiently to take part in the proceedings. It was unfortunate that
the only combatants on the assailants' side who could fight at all on
equal terms were incapacitated by the severe wounds they had received;
and in order to prevent the sport becoming too tame, permission was
given by the Judges to Sir Richard Cornwall and the unknown knight to
meet the two Breton knights.
That evening Ralph was so much better that Dicky Cheke and Maurice
Woodville were allowed to see him. The lively account given of the
day's proceedings by the former young gentleman will describe the
fighting better than a mere narrative of the sword-strokes exchanged.
"'Tis a pity, Ralph, thou wast not there. 'Twas rare sport. Sir
Richard Cornwall caught the Breton--the Sire de Kervignac, I mean--such
a crack over the costard, I thought he had split his skull; but he's a
tough little wight, that he is. He no more minded it than if it had
been a fleabite. Up he sprang, and waving his sword in the air, he
brought it down like a flash of lightning right athwart Sir Richard's
sword, which he held to guard his head; he hit so hard that he cut it
right in two, and then, swinging it round, he gave him a buffet on the
side of his salade--for he wore a salade and not a burgonnet
to-day--that, big man as Sir Richard Cornwall is, he staggered, so that
I verily bethought me he was going to fall to the ground, and thou
knowest how big a man Sir Richard is. And all the while Sir Richard had
no sword to smite in turn; but he made a brave fight of it, for he
rushed out round the barrier and seized the small Breton in his arms.
Then we did shout; oh, how I shouted!"
"Yea, and got rapped over the costard for doing it," said Maurice
Woodville. "And serves you right, too; I felt quite grieved for thy
want of manners."
"Now that is a scurvy tale! Why, Maurice, thou knowest thou wast going
to shout too, only thy mouth was so full of apple puff that thou hadst
filched from Polly Bremeskete's basket, which was open as thou chancest
to pass, that thou couldst not make a sound saving a gruesome, pig-like
snort. Come, that won't do."
"Marry will it. I did not make a braying jackass of myself, as thou
didst."
"No, because thou hadst already made a pig of thyself. But there!
'twill be long ere I finish my tale, if thou breakest in in this way."
"Then cut it short, Dicky, or, better still, I'll go on. Well, Ralph,
the Marshal stopped them. He bade Sir Richard let go, and said both had
done their devoir full well. But the best sport of the whole was when
the Rusty Knight--I marvel who he is--tackled the other Breton--him whom
thou toppledst over, thou knowest. There was a slashing and rashing!
The sparks flew like the sparks at the armourer's forge when Tom works
the bellows, and at last the Rusty one smote the Breton so fierce a blow
that he fell to the ground and never moved, and all men thought him
dead. Then the people shouted, and--"
"Yes! and thou hadst finished thine apple puff then, so thou shoutedst
too," broke in Dicky, who was fuming and fidgetting at the story being
taken out of his mouth.
"Thou wert told to be still, and not make a noise, Dicky. We shall have
old Mother Trenchard after us an thou art not quiet. Well, as I was
saying, the Rusty Knight having no--"
"You weren't saying it!" broke in Dicky again. "You were saying--"
"What an egg thou art, Dicky! Wilt thou be still, and let me finish?"
"Why, 'twas I who began, and I ought to finish."
But here Lady Trenchard was attracted by the rising voices, and coming
in, bade both the boys begone.
Placing her cool hand on Ralph's brow, the kind lady remarked she was
glad to see him looking so well; and then, sitting by his side, she went
on with her work, while she told him, in a more connected way, the
events of the day.
Ralph was relieved to hear that Sir Amand de la Roche Guemene was not
seriously hurt, only stunned by the terrific blow of his antagonist.
"But who is he, Lady Trenchard?--knowest thou?"
"'Tis a deadly foe to the Lord Captain, for he openly challenged him to
mortal combat," said Lady Trenchard gravely.
"What! he dared to challenge the Captain of the Wight?" cried Ralph, in
amaze; "and what said he?"
"He accepted his challenge."
*CHAPTER XVIII.*
*HOW THE RUSTY KNIGHT LET THE SUN GO DOWN ON HIS WRATH.*
On the evening of the last day of the jousts, just as the sun was
setting in a blaze of stormy grandeur, tingeing crag and headland and
far-off swelling down and beetling cliff with fiery glow, two men were
making their way from the steep summit of the high down above the dark
fissure in the cliffs where Ralph Lisle had so nearly met his death.
"'Vengeance is mine, I will repay,' saith the Lord," the older and less
active figure was saying to his companion.
"Maybe, maybe," said the other testily. "And I never counted much of
disputation, but I know this, that even in Holy Writ evil-doers were
punished, and made to atone for their wrong-doings."
"But their punishment came not from those who were wronged. 'Evil shall
hunt the wicked man,' it is true, but it says not we are to be the
instruments of our revenge--and, as I have often-times told thee, there
is not the least proof that thou hast received any wrong at his hands."
"Man, man, talk not with me thus!" broke in the other with hot passion.
"She loved him or ever she saw me--and she hated me from the time she
took me for her lord and master, even if she hated me not from the time
of first seeing me; and when a woman hateth one and loveth another, and
the one is her husband and the other her--"
"Listen, my son," interrupted the older man in turn, "and thou wilt
learn how little thou reckest of all he hath done for thee, in his
knightly courtesy and chivalrous forbearance, framing his conduct on the
model of the most noble of Christian champions."
"I will not listen, an thou art going to give him, my mortal foe, laud
and honour. I have sworn to have his blood, and his blood I will have,
or he mine; and he hath given me his word he will meet me," added the
speaker, with an evil glitter in his flashing eye. "So say no more,
worthy friend; I know my duty, and I will do it. In slaying him, I
shall be doing my devoir to my liege lord, my country, and to my own
honour. And slay him I will, ere this moon shall have run her last
course, for to this end he hath plighted his word as a belted knight."
"My son, I have been a knight, as thou well knowest, and in mine hot
youth I also bore a feud against one who, in sooth, had wronged me. I
slew him, and albeit there was no question of his evil-doing, yet I rue
me of his blood, and in my lonely orisons I implore mercy for my
blood-guiltiness. I would fain spare the lonely hours of sorrow and
remorse that will await thee, if thou livest,--him, if he slay thee.
For the dolour to him will be great; and as I well know his knightly
heart and gentle and joyous nature, so--"
"Now beshrew me for a soft-hearted chitling an I hearken to aught more
of his laud. If thou hast no more but this to say, I will e'en take my
leave, holy father. The sun is set, and I have matters to hasten
withal."
"Fare thee well then, my son," answered the old man, with a sigh. "At
least be mindful of thy daughter; and if evil betide thee, see that as
little as may be befall her, pretty innocent. But fear not. As is my
bounden duty, all that I know of thy party, thy plots, and thine hopes
is sunk deep in the inmost chambers of my mind, and thou needst not fear
that I will bewray thee. I urged but thy duty as a Christian, and
minding well the words, 'Blessed are the peace-makers.' Mayhap the time
will come soon, sooner than thou or I know, when thou wilt wish thou
hadst hearkened to the voice of the Lord, through me, and hadst not
hastened thy feet to shed blood. Farewell, my son, and fain would I
that I could say, with any hope of its being true, _Pax vobiscum!_"
So saying, the old man turned away, and took the path, or rather
sheep-track, which led over the down behind him. When he had climbed
some distance up the steep, wind-shorn slope of brown grass, he paused,
and turned to look over the lovely view behind him.
The sun had set, and storm-clouds were working up on the horizon. Above
their deep, livid masses a clear, pale yellow sky, flecked with golden
and purple patches of wind-torn vapour, told of the change that would
shortly come.
The wide-stretching "wine-dark sea" lay far below, as yet still and
glassy, its surface only heaving with the long swell which rolled into
the Channel, telling of a storm far off in the mysterious deserts of the
yet boundless Atlantic.
The roar of the surf, grinding among the rocks on that iron-bound coast,
surged up to the giddy height whence the Hermit of St Catherine gazed
out to the west and mused on the monotony of earthly passions, their
dreary recurrence, and how they are blotted out by death and eternity.
"'Lord, what is man that Thou art mindful of him, or the son of man that
Thou so regardest him? Man is but a thing of naught, so soon passeth he
away and he is gone.' Ay, truly! but Thy word abideth."
And with a weary sigh the old man once more turned to climb the
steep-backed hill.
Meanwhile the other had disappeared over the edge of the cliff. A path
scarcely to be made out led down the face of the western wall of the
fearful chasm. Tufts of grass, and a few wind-cropped, stunted bushes,
gave foothold or hand-grasp to the hardy climber. When he had nearly
reached the middle of the chasm, and was but half-way down, he paused
and looked about him.
"Ay, ay," he muttered, "'tis all right. They've not come back yet.
There's the plank, where it ought to be."
The man then climbed down a little further to where a ledge in the cliff
allowed a little more room to move. Against the face of the precipice
was a somewhat larger bush of stunted thorn. Protruding from underneath
its boughs was the end of a plank. The man drew it out. It was long and
heavy. With ease, however, it was drawn to the edge of the little
platform, and balanced for launching out to rest on the edge of a
similar platform in the face of the opposite precipice.
After swinging the plank backwards and forwards two or three times, the
man at last darted it violently forwards, and with such vigour and
dexterity that it rested some inches on the opposite ledge. He then
proceeded to walk steadily across it, and, having reached the further
side, he drew the plank over after him. In this way he cut off all
access to his standing-place. Behind him were a few bushes; stepping up
to the largest of these, he disappeared behind it.
Had any one been observing him, it would have seemed that he had
vanished into the face of the cliff, so close did the bush grow, and so
bare and beetling did the face of the rock seem.
But behind the bush was a narrow rent in the cliff, wide enough to allow
one man to pass through, and opening out inside into a space of
sufficient size to accommodate three or four people.
Striking a light with a flint and steel, the man soon kindled a fire,
the smoke of which, instead of curling out through the entrance, found
its way to the upper air by some other exit.
Having thrown more fuel on the fire, the man sat down on a spar, which
looked as if it had come from some wreck, and fell into a deep reverie.
The flickering light fell full upon his face and figure, showing dark,
weather-beaten features, marked with deep lines, but bearing evidence of
a strong will, high courage, and pride. His frame was very powerful,
although the rough dress he wore did little to set it off. But the
sinewy hands and strong neck, combined with great breadth of chest,
showed a man capable of vast exertion. In spite of the rude dress,
there was a certain air and look which told at once of superior
position, and any stranger meeting him would at once have addressed him
respectfully, in spite of his surroundings and attire.
"And so the hermit bids me lay aside thoughts of revenge," he muttered.
"'Tis easy to say that, when he himself confessed that he had taken his
revenge. Can I have been mistaken? Did she not run to him? The pretty
wanton, having made me her sport, she spread her wings to other lures.
But now he shall atone for it. Dead is she? 'Tis all a lie; part of
the false fooling of his wanton wit. Traitor hath he been to his party,
to his king, and to the cause. But his day is over. Mistrusted by
Henry, he will be led away by his own conceit. Abandoned by a subtle
and cold-blooded tyrant, he will die on the scaffold, or on the
battlefield, sold to France, to secure his master's ends, if he die not
by my own hand, as I devoutly pray he may. And as for me? What hath my
life been, and what hath been his? Because I have been true to my king
and cause, I am disinherited by my father, and am a beggar, a fugitive,
and an exile. Because he hath a fair sister, forsooth, he rises into
favour, then changes sides when he sees which way the wind blows,
abandons his party, and becomes a noble, a high power in the land, and
Captain of the Wight. But his day will soon be over. And what hath life
left to offer me? My father hath cast me off, my friends are mostly
slain, and there are dark rumours of traitorous practices among such as
are left. The gold of Henry of Richmond is doing its deadly work. But
there's Simon's voice," he broke off, as a loud halloo interrupted his
sombre thoughts.
Getting up, he went to the door of the cave. It was now dark, and no
objects could be distinguished in the depth of that gloomy chasm. The
tide had risen, and the damp mists from the sea mingled with the spray
which dashed among the fallen boulders far below. One step, one false
move, and the man would have been dashed to pieces on the rocks beneath.
"Sir Knight, art there?" bawled a gruff voice out of the blackness
opposite.
"Ay, Simon; I'll place the plank anon."
The wind had now risen a little, and whistled and moaned amid the
fissures of the gorge; but above it, or in lulls of the breeze, the
knight thought he heard sobs.
"Marry, Simon, whom hast thou there?"
"'Tis the little wench, master. She would come. I found her on the hill
yonder coming from Appuldurcombe."
"Why, what's come to her?"