It was a dark night; and the appearance of the cottage or hut was, in
the inside at least, gloomy enough. The large wooden boards, which
shut out wind and storm, covered the apertures that served for
windows; and neither lamp nor taper, nor even a common resin candle,
gave light within. Yet it was only a sort of half darkness that
reigned in the first chamber, as one entered from the forest; for a
large fire was burning on the hearth, and a log weighing some
hundredweight had just been put on. The dry unlopped shoots, and
withered leaves which still hung around the trunk of the decayed tree,
had caught fire first, and the flame they produced went flashing round
the walls with a sort of fitful glare, displaying all that they
contained.
The room was a large one, larger indeed than many, in buildings with
far greater pretensions; for the chief woodman had upon particular
occasions to assemble a great number of his foresters under that roof.
Whole deer were often brought in to be broken and flayed, as the terms
were, and prepared for cooking, before they were sent down to the more
delicate hands of the abbey. Besides, the woodman's house was usually
in those days a place of general hospitality; and, indeed, the good
ladies of the abbey always passed right willingly the charges which he
sometimes had to make for the entertainment of strangers and wayfarers
on their lands.
As compared with a poor man's cottage of the present day, that of the
woodman was a large but very wretched abode; but as compared with the
huts of the ordinary peasantry of the time, it was a splendid mansion.
The walls were formed of large beams of wood, crossing and supporting
each other in various strange directions, forming a sort of pattern or
figure inside and out, not unpleasant to look upon. The interstices
were filled up with mud, mingled with small gravel stones and thick
loam; and the floor was of mud, well battened down and hardened,
though, in spite of all care, it presented various inequalities to the
foot. Ceiling, as may well be supposed, the chamber had none. Large,
heavy, roughly hewn rafters appeared above, with the inside of the
thatch visible between the beams. A partition wall, with a rude door
in it, crossed the building at about one third of its length, but this
wall was raised no higher than those which formed the enclosure, that
is to say, about seven or at most eight feet; and thus, though the
lower part of the building was divided into several chambers, a clear
passage for air, or sound, or rats, or mice, existed immediately under
the roof, from one end of the building to the other. The most solid or
massive piece of architecture in the whole structure was the chimney,
with its enormously wide hearth and projecting wings. These were all
built of hewn stone, the same as that of which the abbey was composed;
and before the cottage was raised around it--for the chimney was built
first--the mass must have looked like an obelisk in the midst of the
forest.
Although we have greatly abandoned that sort of building at present,
and doubtless our houses are more warm and air-tight than those of
that day; yet the plan of these large wooden frame-works, with the
beams shown on the inside and the out, was not without its
convenience. Thus nails and hooks, and shelves and cupboards, were
easily fixed in, or against the walls, without any danger of knocking
down the plaster, or injuring the painting. Indeed, I do not know what
the woodman would have done without this convenience, for the whole
walls, on three sides at least, were studded with hooks and pegs, from
which were suspended all sorts of implements belonging to his craft,
and a variety of other goods and chattels. There were axes, knives,
saws, bills, wedges, mallets, hammers, picks; long bows, cross bows,
sheaves of arrows, bags of quarrels, boar-spears, nets, and two or
three pronged forks, some serrated at the edges like Neptune's
trident, and evidently intended to bring up unwilling eels out of
their native mud. Then again there were various garments, such as a
woodman might be supposed to use, leathern coats, large boots, a cloth
jerkin, apparently for days of ceremony, gloves made of the thickest
parts of a buck's hide, and a cap almost shaped like a morion, of
double-jacked leather, which would have required a sharp sword and
strong arm to cut it through. But, besides this defensive piece of
clothing, which was probably intended rather for the forest than the
field, was the ordinary steel cap, back and breastplate of a feudal
archer of the period; for each woodman was bound to serve the abbey in
arms for a certain period, in case of need.
Hanging from the beams above, was a very comfortable store of winter
provision, several fat sides of bacon, half a side of a fallow deer
salted and dried, and several strings of large sausages smoked in the
most approved manner. Bunches of dried herbs too were there, and a
salt fish or two, to eke out the lentil soup and eggs upon a fast day.
Within the wings of the large chimney, on a coarse wooden settle, and
with his foot resting upon the end of one of the iron dogs or
andirons, sat the woodman himself. His arms were crossed upon his
chest. His back rested against the wall of the chimney; and his eyes
were fixed upon the blazing fire, as if one of those musing fits had
seized him, in which eye and fancy are at work, seeing castles, and
towers, and landscapes, and faces in the mouldering embers, while the
mind, abstracted from the outward scene, is busy in the quiet secrecy
of the heart with things of more deep and personal interest. By his
side sat a large wolf dog, of a kind not often seen in England, in
form like a gigantic greyhound, covered with shaggy slate-coloured
hair, thickly grizzled with grey, especially about the head and paws.
His long gaunt jaws rested on the woodman's knee; and sometimes he
turned his contemplative eyes upon the fire, seeming to watch it, and
muse upon its nature; and sometimes he raised them with a sleepy but
affectionate look to his master's face, as if he would fain have
spoken to him and asked him, "What shall we do next?"
Not a look did the poor hound get for some time, however, for his
master had other things to think of; but at last the good man laid his
hand upon the shaggy head, and said "Honest and true, and the only
one!"
He then resumed his musing again, till at length the dog rose up, and,
with slow and stately steps, advanced to the door, and putting down
his nose, seemed to snuff the air from without. The woodman lifted up
his head and listened; but the only sounds which were audible were
those produced by the footfalls of a horse at a distance; and, turning
round to the fire again with a well-pleased look, the woodman
murmured, "Good. He is coming this way."
He did not budge from his settle, however, nor seem to pay much
attention, till the rapid footfalls of the horse seemed to cease
altogether, or turn, in a different direction. Then he looked up and
said, "That is strange. He cannot have missed his way after having
twice found it before."
He listened attentively; but still there was no sound audible to his
ear; and it was the dog who first discovered that a stranger was
approaching. A low growl and then a fierce sharp bark were the
intimations which he gave, as soon as his ear caught the sound of a
step, and his master immediately called him to him, saying, "Hither,
Ban, hither. Down to foot--down, sir;" and the obedient hound
immediately stretched himself out at length beside the fire.
The woodman, in the mean time, gave an attentive ear, and at length
distinguished the steps of a man approaching, mixed occasionally with
the slow fall of horses' hoofs upon turfy ground, where the iron shoe
from time to time struck against a pebble, but otherwise made no
noise. Nevertheless he sat still till the noise, after becoming louder
and louder, stopped suddenly, as if the traveller had paused upon a
small green which stretched out before the door, comparatively open
and free from trees for the space of about three quarters of an acre,
although here and there a solitary beech rose out of the turf,
overshadowing the greater part of the space. No brushwood was there,
however, and the small forest road traversed the green on its way
towards the distant town, spreading out into a wide sort of sandy
track, nearly opposite to the woodman's house.
As soon as the sound of footsteps ceased, the first inhabitant of the
cottage strode across, and threw open the door, demanding, "Who goes
there?"
The answer was as usual--"a friend;" but, before he gave him admission
or credence, the woodman was inclined to demand further explanations,
saying, "Every man in this day professes himself a friend, and is
often an enemy. Say, what friend, and whence?"
The visitor, however, without reply, proceeded to fasten his horse to
a large iron hook, which projected from one of the beams of the
cottage, and then advanced straight towards the woodman, who still
stood in his doorway. The man eyed him as he came near, and then,
seeming better satisfied, retired a step or two to give him entrance.
The traveller came forward with a bold free step, and without ceremony
walked into the cottage, and took a seat by the fire.
"Now let us talk a little, my friend," he said, turning to the
woodman; "but first shut the door."
The other did as he was bid, and then, turning round, gazed at the
stranger from head to foot with a slight smile. After his
contemplation was finished, he pulled his own settle to a little
distance and seated himself, saying, "Well?" while the large hound,
after snuffing quietly at the stranger's boots, laid his head upon his
knee and looked up in his face.
"You are a hospitable man, I doubt not," said the visitor, "and will
give me shelter for an hour or two, I trust. I have ridden hard, as
you may see."
"But not far or long since supper time," rejoined the woodman: "but
what want you with me, my lord?"
"You seem to know me," said Lord Chartley, "and indeed are a very
knowing person, if I may believe all.--Are you alone here?"
"Yes, we are man to man," answered the woodman with a laugh.
"Is there no one at the back of that door?" demanded Lord Chartley.
"Nothing more substantial than the wind," replied the other. "Of that
there is sometimes too much."
"Pray how do you know me?" demanded Lord Chartley.
"I never said I know you," answered the woodman. "Are not your silks
and satins, your gilt spurs, the jewel in your bonnet, to say nothing
of the golden St. Barnabas, and your twisted sword hilt, enough to
mark you out as a lord? But Lord, Lord, what do I care for a lord?
However, I do know you, and I will tell you how far it is marvellous.
I was in Tamworth yesterday, and saw a man wonderfully gaily dressed,
upon a horse which must have cost full three hundred angels, with some
forty or fifty followers, all gaily dressed too; so I asked one of the
cunning men of the place, who the gay man on the fine horse was, and
he answered, it was the young Lord Chartley. Was not that surprising?"
"Not very," replied Lord Chartley laughing; "but what came after was
more marvellous; how this cunning man should have known that the young
Lord Chartley would sup at the abbey of Atherston St. Clare tonight."
"It was," answered the woodman, in the same sort of ironical tone,
"especially as the Lord Chartley mentioned his purpose gaily to Sir
Edward Hungerford, and Sir Edward Hungerford told it to Sir Charles
Weinants, and Sir Charles Weinants to his servant Dick Hagger, who, as
in duty bound, told it to Boyd the woodman, and asked if there were
really any pretty girls to be seen at the abbey, or whether it was a
mere gibe of the good lord's."
"The good lord was a great fool for his pains," said Lord Chartley,
thoughtfully; "and yet not so much so either, for it was needful to
give a prying ass some reason for going."
"Take care, my good lord," replied the woodman, nodding his head
sententiously, "Take care that you don't find the prying ass a vicious
ass too. Those donkies kick very hard sometimes, and there is no
knowing when they will begin."
"Oh, this is a soft fool," replied the nobleman. "I fear him not.
There are others I fear more."
"And none too much," replied the woodman, "though this man you fear
too little."
Lord Chartley sat and mused for several moments without reply. Then,
raising his head suddenly, he looked full in the woodman's face,
saying, "Come, come, my friend, we must speak more clearly. If what
the abbess told me be true, you should know that we are upon no
jesting matters."
"Good faith, I jest not, my lord," said the woodman. "I speak in as
sober seriousness as ever I can use in this merry world, where
everything is so light that nothing deserves a heavy thought. Why,
here the time was, and I remember it well, when taking a man's life
without battle or trial was held to be murder by grave old gentlemen
with white beards. Now heads fall down like chesnuts about the yellow
autumn time of the year, and no one heeds it any more than if they
were pumpkins. Then again I recollect the time when a man confided in
his wife and she did not betray him, and might lend his purse to his
friend without having his throat cut as payment of the debt. Learned
clerks, in those days, sang songs and not lewd ballads; and even a
courtier would tell truth--sometimes. It is long ago indeed; but now,
when life, and faith, and truth cannot be counted upon for lasting
more than five minutes beyond the little present moment in which we
stand, how can any man be very serious upon any subject? There is
nothing left in the world that is worth two thoughts."
"Methinks there is," answered Lord Chartley; "but you touch upon the
things which brought me here. If faith and truth be as short-lived as
you would have it, master woodman, how would you, that either the
abbess or I, or a person to whom I will at present give no name,
should trust you in a matter where his life, ay, and more than his
life, is perilled?"
"Faith, only as a dire necessity," answered the woodman, in an
indifferent tone, "and because there is none other whom you can trust.
The abbess will trust me, perhaps, because she knows me; you, because
it is too late to think of any other means; and your nameless person,
because he cannot help it."
"I know not that it is too late," replied Lord Chartley. "You have not
got the tally board so completely in your hand, my friend, as to run
up the score without looking at the other side. But, in a word, I have
made a good excuse to leave my friends and servants, in order to see
whether I could obtain some warrant for trusting you, in a matter of
such deep importance as that which may perhaps be soon cast upon you."
"The best of all warrants for a man's good faith, my lord," answered
the woodman, "is the certainty that he can gain nothing by breaking
it. Now to speak plainly, I knew yesterday that good old Father
Morton, bishop of Ely, was housed at Tamworth under the gown of a
friar. To-night I know that he is lodged in the abbey. Had it so
pleased me either yesterday or to-day, I could have brought over as
many of King Richard's bands from Coleshill as would have soon
conveyed his right reverence to the tower, and if reward is to be got,
could have got it. Therefore, it is not a bit more likely that I
should betray him, were he now standing under this roof, than
yesterday in Tamworth, or to-day at Atherston St. Clare."
"There is some truth in what you say," answered Lord Chartley; "and I
believe the best plan is to let a good dog beat the ground his own
way. Yet I would fain know how you were informed that such a person
was with me."
"What has that to do with the matter?" answered the woodman. "Take it
all for granted. You see I am informed. What matters how?"
"Because it is somewhat suspicious," answered Lord Chartley at once,
"that you should gain intelligence having no reference to your calling
or station, while others both shrewd and watchful have gained none."
"I have no intelligence," replied the woodman. "Everything is simple
enough when we look at it close. I saw the bishop dismount, knew him,
and understood the whole business in a minute. He was kind to some
whom I loved in years long past; and I do not forget faces--that is
all. But now, my good lord, you have somewhat squeezed me with
examinations. Let me ask you a question or two, of quite as much
moment. On what excuse did you leave your friends and servants?"
"Good faith, you know so much," replied Lord Chartley, "that methinks
you might know that also. However, as I must trust you in more weighty
matters, I may as well tell that too. I have some doubts of one of our
party, who joined us just on the other side of Tamworth, and has
adhered closely to us ever since."
"Like a wet boot to a swelled ancle, I will answer for it," said the
woodman, "if you mean the knave Weinants."
"I mean no other," answered Lord Chartley; "but however to my tale;"
and he proceeded to relate all that had occurred that night in the
wood. "I did not follow the man, I pretended to follow," he continued,
"because I knew that was in vain. He had got too far away from me;
and, moreover, had I caught him, what could I have done? I have no
power over Sir Charles Weinant's servants, and he had but to name his
lord, and plead his orders, and my authority was at an end; but as the
good lady abbess was very confident she could, by your help, insure
our friend's safety, even should the abbey be searched, I came hither
to make myself more sure, by talking with you myself."
While the young nobleman had been speaking, the woodman had risen up,
with a somewhat eager and anxious eye, but continued gazing upon him,
without interrupting him, till he had done.
"This must be looked to," he said, at length; "there is no time to be
lost. Are you sure these excellent friends of yours have gone on?"
"So I besought them," answered the other.
"Besought them!" said the woodman. "We must have better security than
beseechings;" and, taking a horn that was hanging against the wall, he
went to the door and blew two notes, twice repeated.
"We shall soon have some tidings," he said, returning into the hut. "I
have got my deer-keepers watching in different places; for our rogues
here are fond of venison, as well as their neighbours, and care not
much whether it be in or out of season."
"So then you are head keeper, as well as head woodman?" said Lord
Chartley.
"Ay, my lord," answered the other. "We have no fine degrees and
distinctions here. We mix all trades together, woodman, verderers,
keepers, rangers. 'Tis not like a royal forest, nor an earl's park,
where no man ventures out of his own walk. This Sir Charles Weinants,"
he continued, in a musing tone; "so he joined you on the other side of
Tamworth. 'Tis strange he did not betray you earlier."
"He seemed not to know there was anything to betray," replied the
young lord; "looked innocent and unconscious, and talked of points and
doublets, and the qualities of Spanish leather, women, and perfumes,
with Sir Edward Hungerford; or of horses, and suits of armour, cannon,
and such like things, with Arden; or with me of sheep, poetry, and
policy, the fit furnishing of an old hall, or a great feast for
Christmas Day."
"He knew his men belike," said the woodman, with a cynical smile.
"Perhaps he did," replied the young lord, somewhat sternly, "and might
be sure that, if he betrayed my friend in my company, I would cut his
throat without waiting for royal permission, though he had all the
kings in Christendom for his patrons."
"That might have a share in his discretion, it is true," answered the
woodman; "but we must not have him hear our counsels now, and must
make sure that he and his, as well as your own people, have ridden
on."
"How can we learn that?" demanded Chartley.
"We shall hear anon," answered the woodman; and in a minute or two
after the door opened, and a man in a forester's garb put in a round
head covered with curly hair, demanding--
"What would you, master Boyd?"
"How goes all above?" demanded the woodman.
"All well," answered the forester.
"Upon the road," said Boyd; "upon the Hinckley road?"
"The company from the abbey just passed, all but three," replied the
man. "One rode away first, and took the Coleshill road, so Tim Harris
says. The other followed five minutes after, and came hither."
"Who was the third?" asked Lord Chartley eagerly.
The man did not answer for a moment, but looked to the woodman, who
nodded his head, and then the other replied--
"'Twas the tawny Moor. He is up the road there, within sight of the
door."
"Let him rest, let him rest," said the woodman. "Can you trust him, my
good lord?"
"Better than I could trust a king, a minister, or a lover," replied
Chartley. "If ever there was true faith, out of a big dog, it lies
under that brown skin."
"To Coleshill?" said the woodman, musing and turning round the horn in
his hand, as if he were examining it curiously. "Ten miles by the
nearest way. We shall hear more soon, but not for three hours, I wot.
Go along Dick, and get two or three more upon the Coleshill road,
about half a mile or so from the abbey. Set one up in a tree; and if
he sees a band of men coming down, let him sound three notes upon his
horn, over and over, till he is answered. You, yourself, as soon as
you hear the sound, run down to the abbey, and make St. Clare's baby
call out aloud. Tell the portress to let the lady abbess know there
are enemies coming near, and that she had better take counsel
immediately. Then draw altogether here, as many men as you can get,
for we may have work to do. Away with you! And now, my good lord," he
continued, as the man shut the door, "I must have my supper, and if
you like to share it, you shall have woodman's fare."
"I have supped already," replied Lord Chartley; "and methinks you eat
late for a forester. They are always ready enough for their meals."
"I am ready enough for mine," replied the woodman, "seeing that no
morsel has passed my lips this day. I never touch food, of any kind,
till midnight is near at hand. I am like a hunting dog, which, to do
its work well, should have but one meal a-day."
"Your habits are somewhat strange, for a man of your condition," said
Lord Chartley, "and your language also."
"Oh," said the woodman, "as for my language, I have seen courts, and
am courtly. Why, I was for several years a lackey to a great man; but
my preferment was spoiled by the jealousy of other lackeys, so, to
save myself from worse, I ran away and betook myself to the woods and
wilds; but I can be as delicate and mincing as a serving maid should
need be, and as full of courtesies as a queen's ape. I am like every
widow of sixty, and like every parson in rusty black without a parish;
I have had my sorrows and seen my best days, which makes me at times
melancholic; but I haven't forgot my gentility, when it suits my turn,
nor the choice words which one perfunctorily gathers up in courts."
All this was said in a bitter and sneering manner, as if he made a
mockery of the very acquirements he boasted of; and Lord Chartley
replied: "By my faith, I believe your last trade is honester than your
first, my good friend. However, get your supper, and tell me in the
mean while, in plain English, what you think all this will come to."
The woodman took down a large bowl from a shelf on the one side of the
room, and poured a part of the milk that it contained into an iron
pot. This he suspended over the fire, by a hook which hung dangling
over the blaze, and when the milk began to boil, scattered a handful
of oatmeal in it, stirring it round at the same time, till it was of a
tolerable thick consistency. Upon this mess, when he had removed it
from the fire and placed it on the table, he poured the rest of the
milk cold. But it must not be supposed that all this time he had
refrained from speaking. On the contrary, in brief and broken
sentences, he replied to the young nobleman's question, saying, "What
will become of it? Why, simply Richard's bands will be down about the
abbey in an hour or two, and will search every corner of it--or set it
on fire, perchance, or any thing else that they please to do."
"They will hardly dare, I think," said Lord Chartley. "This abbey, I
am told, has the privilege of sanctuary, and if King Richard has a
quality on earth, on which he can justly pride himself, it is his
strictness in repressing the lawless violence which has risen up in
times of long and fierce contention."
"Ay, lawless violence in other men," said the woodman; "but crimes
committed in our own cause become gentle failings in the eyes of
tyrants. The man who punishes a robber or assassin, rewards a murder
committed on the king's behalf. Was princely Buckingham the other day
judged by the laws or sentenced by his peers? No, no. The king's word
was warrant enough for his death, and would be for the sacking of the
abbey. There is but one respect which could save it. This king would
fain be thought religious; and he has respected sanctuary before
now--where it served the purposes of a prison as well as a refuge; but
he is cunning as well as resolute; and he will find means to hide his
share in the deed he profits by. Look you here now, my good lord;
suppose some band of mere plunderers attacks the abbey, as was done
not very long ago; then an obnoxious bishop may fall into the king's
hands, without his avowing the deed."
"But his officers would be recognised," replied Lord Chartley.
"True, if the deed were committed by regular troops under noble
leaders," said the woodman; "but these bands at Coleshill are mere
mercenaries, gathered together in haste when the report first ran that
the earl of Richmond was coming over hither. Since then, the king
knows not what to do with them; and there they lie, living at free
quarters upon the people. These are men, easily disavowed. But it will
be as I have said; of that be you assured. If the bishop is now within
the abbey, it will go hard but they will seek him there. Then, if the
abbess is wise and follows counsel, she will send him forth to me, and
I will provide for his safety."
"But where? But how?" demanded Lord Chartley. "This forest is not of
such extent that you could shelter him from any keen pursuit."
The woodman looked at him with a smile, and then replied: "We do not
trust all its secrets to every one. They are more intricate than you
imagine. There are a thousand places where he might be hid, not to
mention the old castle on the hill. It was a stronghold of the family
of the Morleys, taken and sacked in the civil wars, under the fourth
Harry, and the lands given over to the abbey. There is many a chamber
and many a hall there, which would puzzle the keenest-scented talbot
of all the king's pack, to nose out a fugitive therein. You might
almost as well hunt a rat through the cript of an old church as seek
for any one hiding there. That is one place; but there are a dozen
others; and whither I will take him must be decided at the time.
However, rest you sure that, once out of the abbey walls, and in my
charge, he is safe."
"We must trust so," replied the young nobleman; "and your goodwill and
intentions, I doubt not; but fate is out of any man's keeping, my good
friend, and indeed we are all in hers. However, we must do as we can,
and leave the rest to God's good will, who shapes all things as seems
fit unto him, and often overrules our wishes and designs for excellent
purposes that we cannot foresee. While you take your supper--a
somewhat poor one for a strong man--I will go out and tell my good
Arab, Ibn Ayoub, that I am safe and well. Otherwise, having marked me
hither, he will stay watching near, till I or the sun come forth."
"Well bethought," answered the woodman. "'Tis strange how faithful
these heathens sometimes are. Bring him in hither, and let him stable
his horse and yours in the shed behind the cottage. He will find the
way there, round to the left."