Much did the good nuns wonder, why and wherefore such splendid
preparations had been made by the abbess, for the reception of a young
nobleman and his companions, none of whom, as far as they knew, bore
any prominent part in the state. Had it been a bishop, a mitred abbot,
or even a dean, they could have understood such a magnificent
reception. A duke or a prince would have been worthy of it; but, "Who
was Lord Chartley? What claim had he upon the abbey?"
If they were surprised, however, at that which went on in the
kitchen--and they all found out sooner or later what was taking place
there--previous to the arrival of the guests; if they commented upon
the arrangements made for feasting the number of forty in the
strangers' hall, while the abbess herself with the old prioress, who
was as deaf as a post, proposed to entertain the principal visitors in
a room apart, how much more were they surprised when, on its being
announced that the train was approaching, the lady herself went out
into the court, with her two nieces, and her usual attendants upon
state occasions, and waited nearly opposite the principal door of the
chapel to receive her visitors in form. Much did they remark upon
these facts; and much did they whisper among themselves; but still the
abbess pursued her course, though, it must be confessed, it was with
some degree of perturbation, which was very evident, in a slight
degree of nervousness of manner, and in a variation of colour which
was not common with her.
She was not kept in the court long before the first horseman rode
through the portal; and, without waiting for grooms or horse-boys to
come up, the young Lord Chartley himself sprang to the ground, and
advancing with an easy and graceful air, bonnet in hand, paid his
respects to the superior of the convent. Nay, more, with a gay light
sort of gallantry, fitted perhaps rather for the court than the
cloister, he pressed his lips upon the hand of the abbess, and looked
very much as if he would willingly have made them acquainted with the
cheeks of the two beautiful girls by whom she was accompanied.
"A thousand thanks, dear lady," he said, "for your kindly welcome. Let
me crave pardon for having detained you so long; but some business
stopped us by the way. Let me present to you my friends, Sir Charles
Weinants, a wise and sage negotiator, deep in the secret mysteries of
courts, and most discreet in all his doings--trust him with no
secrets, lady," he added, laughing; "for though he may not betray
them, he will use them as his high policy may dictate. Then here is
Sir Edward Hungerford, the pink of all perfection and the winner of
all hearts, the web of whose courtesy is the most superfine, and who
is very dangerous to all ladies not under vows. Then here again is my
friend, Sir William Arden, whose character you must not take from
himself, whose looks are rougher than his intentions, and his words
harder than his heart."
"And his heart harder than your head, my good lord," said the
gentleman of whom he last spoke, who had just dismounted from his
horse. "Marry! my lady abbess, I only wonder how you let such a
rattle-pated young lordling within your gates. I would not, if I were
you; and were he to ride twenty miles further before he got his supper
it would do him good."
"Not so, I think," said Sir Edward Hungerford. "I never knew any good
come to a man by riding without his supper, especially when he left
bright eyes and beautiful faces behind him;" and, after fixing his
look for a moment upon the abbess herself, he glanced meaningly to the
faces of her two companions.
"Peace, peace, my children," said the elder lady. "I must not let you
forget where you are, and what ears hear you. This is no court, or
hall, or place of light amusement. Cease your fine speeches then, and
remember this is the abbey of Atherston St. Clare."
"Ay, he would soon make it a ribald's den," said Sir William Arden,
bluffly; "but you have forgot the priest, my lord. You should make all
reverend people acquainted with each other."
"True, true!" cried Lord Chartley. "This my dear lady, is a very
reverend friend of mine, called Father William, who has lived long in
foreign lands. Let me recommend him to your especial care and
kindness; for he has but feeble health, and will partake of your
hospitality for the night, while we, I grieve to say, are forced to
ride forward by the moonlight."
He laid strong emphasis on some of his words; and the abbess raised
her eyes to the face of the friar, who was gazing at her with a calm
and steady look. A glance however seemed enough, for she instantly
turned her eyes away again, welcoming the priest in vague and general
terms. She then proceeded to explain to Lord Chartley and his
companions, that, as they had come so late, they must put off their
meal till after compline, which would be in half an hour. The service
in the chapel, she said, at which she invited them all to attend,
would occupy about ten minutes, and in the mean time she gave them
over to the lay officers of the abbey, who would attend to their
comfort and convenience. After compline, she added, she would receive
the gentlemen who had been introduced to her, to sup in the small
parlour, while the rest of the party would be entertained in the hall.
Having given this explanation, she was about to retire; but Lord
Chartley, following her a few steps, said something in a low voice, to
which she replied:--
"Certainly, my son. You will find me at the grate in five minutes.
That passage to the left will lead you."
"There now," exclaimed Sir Edward Hungerford, who had remarked his
companion's proceedings. "Chartley is asking her if she can spare him
one of those two fair girls to solace his moonlight ride to Leicester.
'Tis thus he always forestalls the market. Upon my life he should give
us poor knights a fair chance."
"You would spoil the fairest chance on earth, with your foppery," said
Sir William Arden, a strong-built dark-complexioned man of about
forty. "The bargain is soon struck at all events, for here he comes;"
and the young nobleman, having rejoined the rest, followed some of the
servants of the abbey to the rooms allotted to them, where ewers and
towels were prepared to wash before the evening meal.
A very few minutes afterwards, the young Lord Chartley crossed the
court, and ascended to the grate across the parlour. There was nobody
there; and he looked to the great bell, hesitating whether he should
ring it or not. Before he decided, however, a light appeared on the
other side; and the abbess presented herself, preceded by a nun
bearing a taper, who departed as soon as she had set down the light.
Lord Chartley was not a man to hesitate or stumble at any step he was
inclined to take; but, for an instant, he did hesitate on the present
occasion; and, as the abbess hesitated too, the conversation seemed
not likely to begin very soon.
The silence indeed continued so long, that at length the young lord
began to feel there was something ridiculous in it; and, bursting into
a gay laugh, he said, "Pardon my merriment, lady, for I cannot help
feeling that it is very absurd to stand thinking of what I shall say,
like a school-boy, though the subject I wish to speak upon is a
serious one. I almost hoped that you would have helped me, for I could
not but think that there was a glance of recognition in your eyes,
when I introduced to you one of my companions below."
"Nay, my son," replied the abbess; "it was for you to speak. I could
not tell that you yourself had cognizance of what you were doing."
"Then you did remember him?" exclaimed Lord Chartley. "That is all
well! One part of the difficulty is over, and the greatest. You know
that his liberty, if not his life, is in peril, if he is discovered.
Yet it is needful that he should remain in this neighbourhood for some
days, if possible; and he has directed me to ask if you will give him
protection, and, should need be, concealment, on account of
friendships long ago."
"Tell him, my lord, I would do so at peril of my life," replied the
abbess; "but, at the same time, it is right he should know to what
security he trusts. The walls of the abbey are strong and solid; but,
alas, we have not men enough within call, to defend them in case of
need; and I have been warned that King Richard's people are hunting
for him shrewdly. Should they track him here, they may use force which
I cannot resist."
"Then, dear lady, you will be free from all blame, if you are
compelled to give him up," replied Lord Chartley. "Force cannot be
resisted without force; and no one can be censured for yielding to
necessity, just as a very brave dog may well turn tail at a lion."
"Nay, my good lord, not quite so," replied the abbess. "We poor women
know that wit will often baffle strength; and I think I can provide
for his safety, even should the gates be forced and the abbey
searched. There is a way out, which no one knows nor can discover but
myself and two others. By it I can convey him into the heart of the
wood, where it would take an army, or a pack of hounds, to find him. I
can provide guidance and assistance for him, and I trust that we can
set his persecutors at nought, though there may be some peril and some
anxiety. Pray tell him all this, that he may consider and choose what
he will do."
"Good faith, he has no choice," answered Lord Chartley, "but this, or
to go forward to Leicester, into the very lion's mouth. He is brave
enough in a good cause, as you would see, if you knew amidst what
perils he travels even now."
"Ay, my lord, of that I would fain inquire," replied the nun. "'Tis
needful to be cautious--very cautious--in times and circumstances like
these; and not even to you would I have said aught of my remembrance,
had you not spoken first. Now, tell me, do your companions know aught
of who it is that journeys with them?"
"Not one of them," replied the young lord, "unless it be the subtle
Sir Charles Weinants; and he affects to see nothing. I have some
doubts of him indeed; and if it be as I think, he and the bishop have
been playing a game against each other during our whole journey for
somewhat mighty stakes. If you can but give our friend security for
three days he has won the game."
"God grant it," cried the abbess; "and, with the help of the Blessed
Virgin, I hope we shall succeed; but I much fear, my noble son, that
what we are this day doing may call down upon us the wrath of Richard
of Gloucester."
"I trust not, I trust not, dear lady," replied the young lord. "Were I
and my companions and all our train to stay, it might indeed create
suspicion; but no one will or can know that we leave the good priest
here to-night, so that, if any doubts have arisen, pursuit will follow
us in the first place, rather than turn towards the abbey. This is in
truth the reason why I ride on to-night. I would rather lure enmity
away from you, believe me, than bring it upon you. But, I trust there
is no danger. Everything seemed calm and peaceful, when we left
Tamworth--no men at arms about, no appearance of doubt or suspicion."
"I do not know, my son. I do not know," replied the abbess. "I had
warning of your coming last night. I had warning, too, that danger
might follow."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Lord Chartley, with a look of much surprise. "This
is strange news. May I ask who was your informant?"
"One whom I can trust well," answered the abbess, "though he be a man
of humble station; none other than our chief woodman, John Boyd. By
one means or another, he learns all that takes place in the country
round; and he gave me notice, not only that you were on the way
hither, but that you had one with you to whom I should be called upon
to give refuge, and for whose safety I must provide. It is to this
very man's care and guidance, in case of need, that I must trust the
bishop."
"Hush!" cried Lord Chartley, looking round. "Let us mention no names.
I am called rash and careless, light and over-gay, but, where a
friend's safety is at stake, I must be more thoughtful than I would be
for myself. Pardon me for my asking if you are very sure of this good
man."
The abbess gave him every assurance in her power, bringing forward all
those strong motives for trusting the woodman, which were quite
conclusive in her eyes, as they would indeed have been in the eyes of
most other ladies, but which did not seem to satisfy her young but
more experienced companion. He asked where the woodman lived, and
mused; then enquired how long he had been in the service of the abbey;
and was still putting questions when the bell for compline rang, and
the abbess was forced to retire.
On descending to the court, Lord Chartley found Sir Charles Weinants
and the priest, walking up and down before the chapel, not conversing
together indeed, for the latter seemed somewhat silent and gloomy.
With him the young nobleman much desired to speak; but he thought that
it might be dangerous to connect his conference with the abbess in any
degree with the priest, even by addressing him immediately afterwards;
and therefore, turning at once to Sir Charles Weinants, he exclaimed:
"Now, Weinants, let us into the chapel. It is quite dark; and I am
somewhat eager for our supper, to fortify us against our evening's
ride."
The priest said not a word, but followed the other two as they
advanced towards the place of worship, from which the light of tapers
and the sweet tones of the chant were beginning to pour forth.
"I am hungry too," replied Weinants, "and agree with you, my good
lord, that a good supper is a very necessary preparation for a long
ride. I hope they will sing quick, for by my faith, even from Tamworth
here, I find, has been a good medicine for a slow digestion. You need
not look round for the others. They are all in waiting eagerly for
this grace before meat--except indeed your infidel, who was lolling in
the stable with his arms round his horse's neck. I should not wonder
if the beast were a princess in disguise, changed into that shape by
some friendly magician, in order that she might share his captivity."
"The most probable thing in the world," replied Chartley, "but
undoubtedly, were I in his place, I should prefer my lady mistress
with less hair upon her face; but come, let us cease our jokes; for
here we are; and you will perhaps scandalize our reverend friend
here."
Thus saying, they entered the chapel and placed themselves by one of
the pillars while the service proceeded.
If the ceremonial observances of the Romish church are many, the
services have at all events the advantage of being brief; and, on this
occasion, the visitors of the abbey were detained for even a shorter
space of time than the abbess had mentioned. As soon as the last notes
of the chant were over, the abbess and her nuns retired from their
latticed gallery; and then, for the first time, she notified to her
nieces that she expected them to assist her in entertaining her
guests.
"Oh, my dear aunt, pray excuse me," exclaimed Iola, while Constance
submitted quite quietly. "I would rather a thousandfold sup alone in
the penitential cell, than with all these men. They have frightened
me out of my wits once to-night already, especially that gay
gossamer-looking youth, whom the young lord called Hungerford."
"I must have it so, Iola," replied her aunt. "I have my reasons for
it, so no nonsense, child. As for men," she continued, resuming a
gayer tone, "you will soon find, when more accustomed to them, they
are not such furious wild beasts as they seem. With them, as with
bulls and dogs, they are only dangerous to those who are frightened at
them. Treat them boldly and repel them sharply, and they soon come
fawning and crouching at your feet. Man is a very contemptible animal,
my dear child, if you did but know all. However, you shall sit beside
the priest--between him and the young lord, so you will escape the
other, who is but one of the empty courtiers of the day, such as I
recollect them in my youth--a sort of thing that a woman of spirit
could squeeze to death as she would a wasp in a hawking-glove. I dare
say Constance does not fear him."
"I would rather not sit near him," replied the other quietly. "His
perfumes make me sick. I would rather not live next door neighbour to
a civet cat. Let me entertain the bluff old gentleman, aunt. His rough
speeches are much more pleasant to my ear than all the other's soft
sayings."
"Don't call him old to his face, Constance," replied her aunt, "or his
sayings will be rough enough, depend upon it. Why I do not think he is
forty, child; and no man ever thinks himself old till he has told up
to seventy, and then he begins to fancy he is growing aged, and had
better begin to lead a new life."
The two girls laughed gaily; and in a few minutes they were seated, as
had been arranged, at the plentiful table which had been prepared for
their aunt's distinguished guests. I will not pause upon the feast.
The reader is well aware of the abundant provision which had been made
by the worthy woodman, and would be but little edified to hear of the
strange ways in which the various dishes were dressed, or the odd
sauces with which they were savoured.
The meal, as was usual in those days, lasted a long while; and the
conversation was somewhat more gay and lively than one would be
inclined to imagine was common within the walls of a convent. At
first, indeed, it was somewhat stiff and restrained; but there was a
gay, careless, happy spirit in the bosom of the young nobleman, who
sat beside the abbess, which soon banished the restraint of fresh
acquaintance, and made every one feel as if they had known him for
years. This was less difficult to effect with the elder lady than with
Iola who sat on his other hand; but even she could not resist the
current long; and a certain degree of timidity, the natural fruit of
retirement from the world, gave way under the influence of his
cheerful tone, till she caught herself laughing and talking gaily with
him, and suffering unconsciously all the fresh thoughts of a bright
pure heart to well forth like the waters of a spring. She paused and
blushed deeply, when first she suddenly discovered that such was the
case; and, bending down his head, for the conversation at the moment
was general and loud, he said, with a kind and graceful smile, but in
a low tone--
"Nay, nay, close not the casket! The jewels are well worthy of being
seen."
"I know not what you mean, my lord;" she said, blushing more deeply
than before.
"I mean," he answered, "that, judging by your look and sudden pause, I
think you have just found out that the door of the heart and the mind
has been partly opened to the eye of a stranger,--though it is but by
a chink,--and I would fain have you not close it against him, with the
key of cold formality. In a word, let us go on as if you had not made
the discovery, and do not draw back into yourself, as if you were
afraid of letting your real nature come abroad lest it should take
cold."
Whether she would or not, a smile came upon her lip; and, after a
minute's pause, she answered frankly--
"Well, I will not. It is but for a little time that it can take the
air."
At that moment the general conversation seemed to drop; and Lord
Chartley saw the eye of the abbess turned towards him.
"It is excellent good," he said aloud, "made into a pie; but, I hate
pasties of all kinds, if it be but for hiding under a thick crust the
good things they contain. Nevertheless, it is excellent good."
"What?" asked the abbess.
"A squirrel," replied Lord Chartley. "Oh, there is nothing like your
gay clambering nutcracker, who scrambles about from branch to branch,
drinking the dew of heaven, leaping through the free air, and feeding
on the topmost fruits, of which he must ever crack the shell to get at
the kernel. He is excellent in a pasty, I assure you. Is he not,
Hungerford?"
"Exceeding good," answered the knight, from the other side of the
table; "but a young pea-fowl is better."
In this sort of conversation passed the time; and Iola, to say sooth,
was amused and pleased. She did not, however, forget to show kind
attention to the friar on her right; and he, on his part, seemed
pleased and interested by her manner towards him. He spoke little,
indeed; but all that he did say was powerful and pointed. Iola,
however, could not but remark that he eat hardly anything, while the
others seemed to enjoy the dainties prepared for them highly; and she
pressed him kindly to take more food.
"I am much fatigued, my daughter," he said aloud, "and do not feel
well to-night. The less, therefore, I take perhaps the better."
Lord Charley instantly caught at the words--
"Nay, good father," he said, "were it not better for you to take a
little repose in your chamber, before we ride? I have marked all the
evening that you seemed ill."
"Perhaps it were as well," answered the friar, rising; "but let me not
abridge your enjoyment. I will find my way to my lodging and lie down
for a while;" and, thus saying, he quitted the room.
The slightest possible smile curled the lip of Sir Charles Weinants.
It passed away instantly; but it had been remarked; and, being the
most discreet man in the world, he felt that the smile was an
indiscretion, and, to cover it, asked in a gay but ordinary tone--
"Why, what is the matter with the friar? You have knocked him up, my
excellent lord, with your quick travelling. The poor man, I should
think, is not accustomed to the back of a hard-trotting horse; and we
rode those last ten miles in less than an hour."
"He seems, indeed, a good deal tired," replied Chartley; "but I think
it was yesterday's journey, rather than to-day's, that so much
fatigued him. We rode full forty miles before we met with you, and
five or six afterwards. You know, I never think, Weinants, or I should
have had more compassion."
Here the conversation dropped; and, after sitting at table for about
half an hour longer, the whole party rose, and Lord Chartley bade a
graceful adieu to the abbess, saying--
"I trust that my poor friend, father William, is by this time well
enough to proceed."
"Can you not leave him here, my son?" said the abbess. "He shall be
well tended, and gladly entertained."
"Oh, no, no;" replied the young nobleman. "I dare say he is well
enough now; and I am bound to my own paternal castle, dear lady, and
about to establish for the first time therein a regular household. I
must take him with me; therefore, if it be possible, for an almoner is
the first great requisite. Farewell then, with many grateful thanks
for your hospitality. I will not forget the subjects on which we
spoke; and they shall have immediate attention."