The starling flew to his mother’s window stane,
It whistled and it sang,
And aye, the ower word of the tune
Was ‘Johnnie tarries lang.’
--JOHNNIE OF BREDISLEE
There had been distrust and dissatisfaction at home for many a day past.
Berenger could hardly be censured for loving his own wife, and yet his
family were by not means gratified by the prospect of his bringing home
a little French Papist, of whom Lady Thistlewood remembered nothing
good.
Lucy was indignantly fetched home by her stepmother, who insisted
on treating her with extreme pity as a deserted maiden, and thus
counteracting Aunt Cecily’s wise representations, that there never
should, and therefore never could, have been anything save fraternal
affection between the young people, and that pity was almost an insult
to Lucy. The good girl herself was made very uncomfortable by there
demonstrations, and avoided them as much as possible, chiefly striving
in her own gentle way to prepare her little sisters to expect numerous
charms in brother Berenger’s wife, and heartily agreeing with Philip
that Berenger knew his own mind best.
‘And at any rate,’ quoth Philip, ‘we’ll have the best bonfire that
ever was seen in the country! Lucy, you’ll coax my father to give us a
tar-barrel!’
The tar-barrel presided over a monstrous pile of fagots, and the
fisher-boys were promised a tester to whoever should first bring word to
Master Philip that the young lord and lady were in the creek.
Philip gave his pony no rest, between the lock-out on the downs and the
borders of the creek; but day after day passed, and still the smacks
from Jersey held no person worth mentioning; and still the sense of
expectation kept Lucy starting at every sound, and hating herself for
her own folly.
At last Philip burst into Combe Manor, fiery red with riding and
consternation. ‘Oh! father, father, Paul Duval’s boat is come in, and
he says that the villain Papists have butchered every Protestant in
France.’
Sir Marmaduke’s asseveration was of the strongest, that he did not
believe a word of it. Nevertheless, he took his horse and rode down to
interrogate Paul Duval, and charge him not to spread the report was in
the air. He went to the Hall, and the butler met him with a grave face,
and took him to the study, where Lord Walwyn was sitting over letter
newly received from London, giving hints from the Low Countries of
bloody work in France. And when he returned to his home, his wife burst
out upon him in despair. Here had they been certainly killing her poor
buy. Not a doubt that he was dead. All from this miserable going to
France, that had been quite against her will.
Stoutly did Sir Marmaduke persevere in his disbelief; but every day
some fresh wave of tidings floated in. Murder wholesale had surely been
perpetrated. Now came stories of death-bells at Rouen from the fishermen
on the coast; now markets and petty sessions discussed the foul
slaughter of the Ambassador and his household; truly related how the
Queen had put on mourning, and falsely that she had hung the French
Ambassador, La Mothe Feneon. And Burleigh wrote to his old friend from
London, that some horrible carnage had assuredly taken place, and that
no news had yet been received of Sir Francis Walsingham or of his suite.
All these days seems so many years taken from the vital power of Lord
Walwyn. Not only had his hopes and affections would themselves closely
around his grandson, but he reproached himself severely with having
trusted him in his youth and inexperience among the seductive perils of
Paris. The old man grieved over the promising young life cut off, and
charged on himself the loss and grief to the women, whose stay he had
trusted Berenger would have been. He said little, but his hand and head
grew more trembling; he scarcely ate or slept, and seemed to waste from
a vigorous elder to a feeble being in the extremity of old age, till
Lady Walwyn had almost ceased to think of her grandson in her anxiety
for her husband.
Letters came at last. The messenger despatched by Sir Francis Walsingham
had not been able to proceed till the ways had become safe, and he had
then been delayed; but on his arrival his tidings were sent down. There
were letters both from Sir Francis Walsingham and from heart-broken
Mr. Adderley, both to the same effect, with all possible praises of the
young Baron de Ribaumont, all possible reproach to themselves for
having let him be betrayed, without even a possibility of recovering his
remains for honourable burial. Poor Mr. Adderley further said that Mr.
Sidney, who was inconsolable for the loss of his friend, had offered
to escort him to the Low Countries, whence he would make his way to
England, and would present himself at Hurst Walwyn, if his Lordship
could endure the sight of his creature who had so miserably failed in
his trust.
Lord Walwyn read both letters twice through before he spoke. Then he
took off his spectacles, laid them down, and said calmly, ‘God’s will be
done. I thank God that my boy was blameless. Better they slew him than
sent him home tainted with their vices.’
The certainty, such as it was, seemed like repose after the suspense.
They knew to what to resign themselves, and even Lady Thistlewood’s
tempestuous grief had so spent itself that late in the evening the
family sat round the fire in the hall, the old lord dozing as one worn
out with sorrow, the others talking in hushed tones of that bright
boyhood, that joyous light quenched in the night of carnage.
The butler slowly entered the hall, and approached Sir Marmaduke,
cautiously. ‘Can I speak with you, sir?’
‘What is it, Davy?’ demanded the lady, who first caught the words. ‘What
did you say?’
‘Madam, it is Humfrey Holt!’
Humfrey Holt was the head of the grooms who had gone with Berenger; and
there was a general start and suppressed exclamation. ‘Humfrey Hold!’
said Lord Walwyn, feebly drawing himself to sit upright, ‘hath he, then,
escaped?’
‘Yea, my Lord,’ said Davy, ‘and he brings news of my young Lord’
‘Alack! Davy,’ said Lady Walwyn, ‘such news had been precious a while
ago.’
‘Nay, so please your Ladyship, it is better than you deem. Humfley says
my young Lord is yet living.’
‘Living! shrieked Lady Thistlewood, starting up. ‘Living! My son! and
where?’
‘They are bearing him home, my Lady,’ said the butler; ‘but I fear me,
by what Humfley says, that it is but in woeful case.’
‘Bringing him home! Which way?’ Philip darted off like an arrow from the
bow. Sir Marmaduke hastily demanded if aid were wanted; and Lady Walwyn,
interpreting the almost inaudible voice of her husband, bade that
Humfley should be called in to tell his own story.
Hands were held out in greeting, and blessings murmured, as the groom
entered, looking battered and worn, and bowing low in confusion at being
thus unusually conspicuous, and having to tell his story to the head and
body, and slashed about the face so as it is a shame to see. Nor hath he
done aught these three weary weeks but moan from time to time so as
it is enough to break one’s heart to hear him; and I fear me ‘tis but
bringing him home to die.’
‘Even so, God be thanked; and you too, honest Humfley,’ said Lady
Walwyn.’ ‘Let us hear when and how this deed was done.’
‘Why, that, my Lord, I can’t so well say, being that I was not with him;
more’s the pity, or I’d have known the reason why, or even they laid a
finger on him. But when Master Landry, his French foster-brother, comes,
he will resolve you in his own tongue. I can’t parleyvoo with him, but
he’s an honest rogue for a Frenchman, and ‘twas he brought off my young
Lord. You see we were all told to be abroad the little French craft.
Master Landry took me down and settled it all with the master, a French
farmer fellow that came a horse-dealing to Paris. I knew what my young
Lord was after, but none of the other varlets did; and I went down and
made as decent a place as I could between decks. My Lord and Master
Landry were gone down to the court meantime, and we were to lie off till
we heard a whistle like a mavis on the bank, then come and take them
aboard. Well, we waited and waited, and all the lights were out, and not
a sound did we hear till just an hour after midnight. Then a big bell
rang out, not like a decent Christianable bell, but a great clash, then
another, and a lot of strokes enough to take away one’s breath. Then
half the windows were lighted up, and we heard shots, and screeches,
and splashes, till, as I said to Jack Smithers, ‘twas as if one half
the place was murthering the other. The farmer got frightened, and would
have been off; but when I saw what he was at, “No,” says I, “not an inch
do we budge without news of my Lord.” So Jack stood by the rope, and let
them see that ‘twas as much as their life was worth to try to unmoor.
Mercy, what a night it was! Shrieks and shouts, and shots and howls,
here, there, and everywhere, and splashes into the rive; and by and by
we saw the poor murthered creatures come floating by. The farmer, he had
some words with one of the boats near, and I heard somewhat of Huguenot
and Hereteek, and I knew that was what they called good Protestants.
Then up comes the farmer with his sons looking mighty ugly at us, and
signing that unless we let them be off ‘twould be set ashore for us; and
we began to think as how we had best be set ashore, and go down the five
of us to see if we could stand by my young Lord in some strait, or give
notice to my Lord Ambassador.’
‘God reward you!’ exclaimed Lady Walwyn.
‘Twas only our duty, my Lady,’ gruffly answered Humfrey; ‘but just as
Hal had got on the quay, what should I see but Master Landry coming
down the street with my young Lord in his back! I can tell you he was
well-nigh spent; and just then half a dozen butcherly villains came out
on him, bawling, “Tu-y! tu-y!” which it seems means “kill, kill.” He
turned about and showed them that he had got a white sleeve and white
cross in his bonnet, like them, the rascals, giving them to understand
that he was only going to throw the corpse into the river. I doubted him
then myself; but he caught sight of us, and in his fashion of talk with
us, called out to us to help, for there was life still. So two of us
took my Lord, and the other three gave the beggarly French cut-throats
as good as they meant for us; while Landry shouted to the farmer to
wait, and we got aboard, and made right away down the river. But never a
word has the poor young gentleman spoken, though Master Landry has done
all a barber or a sick-nurse could do; and he got us past the cities
by showing the papers in my Lord’s pocket, so that we got safe to the
farmer’s place. There we lay till we could get a boat to Jersey, and
thence again home; and maybe my young Lord will mend now Mistress Cecily
will have the handing of him.’
‘That is it the wisest Hands, good Humfrey,’ said Lord Walwyn, as the
tears of feeble age flowed down his cheeks. ‘May He who hath brought the
lad safely so far spare him yet, and raise him up. But whether he live
or die, you son and daughter Thistlewood will look that the faithfulness
of Humfrey Holt and his comrades be never forgotten or unrewarded.’
Humfrey again muttered something about no more than his duty; but by
this time sounds were heard betokening the approach of the melancholy
procession, who, having been relieved by a relay of servants sent at
once from the house, were bearing home the wounded youth. Philip first
of all dashed in hurrying and stumbling. He had been unprepared by
hearing Humfrey’s account, and, impetuous and affectionate as he was,
was entirely unrestrained, and flinging himself on his knees with the
half-audible words, ‘Oh! Lucy! Lucy! He is as good as dead!’ hid
his face between his arms on his sister’s lap, and sobbed with the
abandonment of a child, and with all his youthful strength; so much
adding to the consternation and confusion, that, finding all Lucy’s
gentle entreaties vain, his father at last roughly pulled up his face by
main force, and said, ‘Philip, hold your tongue! Are we to have you on
our hands as well as my Lady? I shall send you home this moment! Let
your sister go.’
This threat reduced the boy to silence. Lucy, who was wanted to assist
in preparing Berenger’s room, disengaged herself; but he remained in
the same posture, his head buried on the seat of the chair, and the
loud weeping only forcibly stifled by forcing his handkerchief into
his mouth, as if he had been in violent bodily pain. Nor did he venture
again to look up as the cause of all his distress was slowly carried
into the hall, corpse-like indeed. The bearers had changed several
times, all but a tall, fair Norman youth, who through the whole transit
had supported the head, endeavouring to guard it from shocks. When the
mother and the rest came forward, he made a gesture to conceal the face,
saying in French, ‘Ah! Mesdames; this is no sight for you.’
Indeed the head and face were almost entirely hidden by bandages, and
it was not till Berenger had been safely deposited on a large carved
bed that the anxious relatives were permitted to perceive the number
and extent of his hurts; and truly it was only by the breath, the vital
warmth, and the heavy moans when he was disturbed, or the dressings of
the wounds were touched, that showed him still to be a living man.
There proved to be no less than four wounds--a shot through the right
shoulder, the right arm also broken with a terrible blow with a sword,
a broad gash from the left temple to the right ear, and worse than all,
_‘le baiser d’Eustacie,’_ a bullet wound where the muzzle of the pistol
had absolutely been so close as to have burnt and blackened the cheek;
so that his life was, as Osbert averred, chiefly owing to the assassin’s
jealousy of his personal beauty, which had directed his shot to the
cheek rather than the head; and thus, though the bullet had terribly
shattered the upper jaw and roof of the mouth, and had passed out
through the back of the head, there was a hope that it had not
penetrated the seat of life or reason. The other gash on the face was
but a sword-wound, and though frightful to look at, was unimportant,
compared with the first wound with the pistol-shot in the shoulder, with
the arm broken and further injured by having served to suspend him round
Osbert’s neck; but it was altogether so appalling a sight, that it
was no wonder that Sis Marmaduke muttered low but deep curses on the
cowardly ruffians; while his wife wept in grief as violent, though more
silent, than her stepson’s, and only Cecily gathered the faintest ray of
hope. The wounds had been well cared for, the arm had been set, the hair
cut away, and lint and bandages applied with a skill that surprised her,
till she remembered that Landry Osbert had been bred up in preparation
to be Berenger’s valet, and thus to practise those minor arts of surgery
then required in a superior body-servant. For his part, though his eyes
looked red, and his whole person exhausted by unceasing watching, he
seemed unable to relinquish the care of his master for a moment, and
her nunnery French would not have perceived her tender touch and ready
skill. These were what made him consent to leave his post even for a
short meal, and so soon as he had eaten it he was called to Lord Walwyn
to supply the further account which Humfley had been unable to give. He
had waited, he explained, with a lackey, a friend of his in the palace,
till he became alarmed by the influx of armed men, wearing white crosses
and shirt-sleeves on their left arms, but his friend had assured him
that his master had been summoned to the royal bedchamber, where he
would be as safe as in church; and obtaining from Landry Osbert himself
a perfectly true assurance of being a good Catholic, had supplied him
with the badges that were needful for security. It was just then that
Madame’s maid crept down to his waiting-place with the intelligence that
her mistress had been bolted in, and after a short consultation they
agreed to go and see whether M. le Baron were indeed waiting, and, if
he were, to warn him of the suspicious state of the lower regions of the
palace.
They were just in time to see, but not to prevent the attack upon their
young master; and while Veronique fled, screaming, Landry Osbert, who
had been thrown back on the stairs in her sudden flight, recovered
himself and hastened to his master. The murderers, after their blows
had been struck, had hurried along the corridor to join the body of
assassins, whose work they had in effect somewhat anticipated.
Landry, full of rage and despair, was resolved at least to save his
foster-brother’s corpse from further insult, and bore it down-stairs in
his arms. On the way, he perceived that life was not yet extinct, and
resolving to become doubly cautious, he sought in the pocket for the
purse that had been well filled for the flight, and by the persuasive
argument of gold crowns, obtained egress from the door-keeper of the
postern, where Berenger hoped to have emerged in a far different manner.
It was a favourable moment, for the main body of the murderers were at
that time being poster in the court by the captain of the guard, ready
to massacre the gentlemen of the King of Navarre’s suite, and he was
therefore unmolested by any claimant of the plunders of the apparent
corpse he bore on his shoulders. The citizens of Paris who had been
engaged in their share of the murders for more than an hour before the
tragedy began in the Louvre, frequently beset him on his way to the
quay, and but for the timely aid of his English comrades, he would
hardly have brought off his foster-brother safely.
The pass with which King Charles had provided Berenger for himself and
his followers when his elopement was first planned, enabled Osbert to
carry his whole crew safely past all the stations where passports were
demanded. He had much wished to procure surgical aid at Rouen, but
learning from the boatmen on the river that the like bloody scenes were
there being enacted, he had decide on going on to his master’s English
home as soon as possible, merely trusting to his own skill by the way;
and though it was the slightest possible hope, yet the healthy state
of the wounds, and the mere fact of life continuing, had given him some
faint trust that there might be a partial recovery.
Lord Walwyn repeated his agitated thanks and praises for such devotion
to his grandson.
Osbert bower, laid his hand on his heart, and replied--‘Monseigneur is
good, but what say I? Monsieur le Baron is my foster-brother! Say that,
and all is said in one word.’
He was then dismissed, with orders to take some rest, but he obstinately
refused all commands in French or English to go to bed, and was found
some time after fast asleep.