Let us take up the history of the woodman, after he and the bishop of
Ely had quitted Lord Chartley. They crossed rapidly over the road,
hearing the sound of horses advancing, and of men speaking, as they
did so. Neither uttered a word; and the prelate was hastily directing
his steps towards a spot where, by the dim light, he saw what seemed a
continuation of the path he had just quitted, but the woodman seized
his arm, and drew him on a little way up the road to a place where the
bushes seemed so thick as to afford no passage through them. Putting
aside the branches, however, with his sturdy arm, Boyd dragged rather
than led Morton forward; and, for some way, the good bishop fancied
that they should never find a path again, so thick and difficult
seemed the copse. It extended not fifty yards, however; and, though
somewhat scratched by the brambles, which clung round his feet and
legs at every step, Morton, at length, found himself emerging into an
open part of the wood, where the ground was covered with thick fern,
out of which, every here and there, rose an old hawthorn or the bushy
shoots of an oak or beech felled long ago.
"'Tis a rough road," said the woodman, in a low voice, as he relaxed
his hold of the prelate's arm.
"So are all the ways of life, my son," answered the bishop.
"And the roughest often the safest," answered Boyd. "I know it by
experience. Smooth paths end in precipices."
At that instant something started up before them out of the fern, and
a quick rush was heard through the neighbouring brushwood. The bishop
started, and drew a little back, but Boyd said with a laugh,--
"'Tis but a doe, my lord. If she find her way amongst the soldiers,
there will be more chases than one to-night. Fear not, however. I
will answer for your safety, though not for hers."
"I do not fear," answered the prelate. "Indeed, I am little given to
fear; but, as you doubtless well know, my son, the mind has not always
that command over the body which can prevent the mere animal impulse
from starting at dangers, which calm consideration could meet
unshrinking."
"True," replied the woodman. "So long as life is happy it may be so;
but with the loss of all that makes existence valuable, the body
itself loses its sensibility to all signs of danger. Hope, dread,
anxiety, and the struggle with the ills of life, make us vibrate as it
were to the touch of all external things; but when hope and fear are
dead, when there is neither care nor thought of existence, 'tis
wonderful how this blind horse of the body, ridden by that plodding
wayfarer, the mind, learns to jog on, without starting at anything
that glistens on the way.--But come on, my good lord, for I must take
you first to my cottage, and then send you forward some miles upon
your journey."
Thus saying, he walked forward; and the good bishop followed through
the more open space, musing as he went; for, to say the truth, he was
pulled different ways by different inclinations. Self-preservation,
was, of course, one great object, and that led him to desire immediate
escape; but yet there was another object, which he had much at heart,
and which would have bound him to remain. Nor was he a man who would
suffer the consideration of personal safety alone to make him abandon
what he considered a duty; but, as yet, he knew not fully what were
the risks, and what the probabilities; and, as the only means of
obtaining information, he, at length, after some consideration,
determined to have recourse to the woodman. Boyd was striding on,
however; and it cost the prelate two or three quick steps to overtake
him, so as to be able to speak in that low tone which he judged
necessary in the existing circumstances.
"You think you can insure my safety," he said.
"Beyond a doubt," replied the woodman, laconically.
"But only, I suppose, by instant flight," said the prelate.
"By flight before daylight," replied Boyd.
"But if I tell you," continued the bishop, "that it is absolutely
necessary, for a great purpose I have in view, that I should remain in
this immediate neighbourhood for some few days, do you think it
possible for me to lie concealed here, till I receive the intelligence
I am seeking? Remember, I do not heed a little risk, so that my object
be attained."
"That is brave," answered Boyd; "but yet 'tis difficult to weigh
nicely in the balance, for another man, the estimation of his own
life. If I knew what you sought, I could judge better. However, I will
say this: the risk were very great to stay, but yet such as any one of
courage would encounter for a great and noble object."
"Then I will stay," replied the bishop, firmly. "My object is a great
and, I believe, a just and holy one, and life must not be weighed in
the balance against it."
"Would that I knew what it is," said the woodman, "for methinks I
might show you that more may be gained by going than by staying. Of
that, however, anon. Let me see if I can divine your object."
The bishop shook his head, saying--
"That is not possible. You are keen and shrewd, I see; but this you
could not discover by any means, without information from others."
"I may have more information than you fancy," answered Boyd; "but at
all events you must tell me fairly if I am right. You were once
esteemed and promoted by Harry the Sixth. The house of Lancaster gave
your first patrons."
The bishop winced a little--
"True," he said, "true!"
"The house of Lancaster fell," continued the woodman; "and, after the
king's death, you continued in office under the opposite faction--I do
not blame you, for the cause seemed hopeless."
"Nay, but hear me," said the bishop, in a louder tone than he had
hitherto used. "You speak somewhat authoritatively; and I must
explain."
"I speak plain truth," replied the woodman. "At this hour of the
night, and under these grey boughs, we are upon a par. Elsewhere, it
is, Morton, Lord Bishop of Ely, and Boyd the woodman. But I have said,
I blame you not. What need of explanations?"
"Yes, there is need," answered the bishop. "I had my motive for doing
as I have done, and that motive sufficient for my own conscience. As
you say, the cause of Lancaster had fallen, and hopelessly fallen. All
efforts in its favour could but produce more bloodshed, and protract a
desolating civil strife. By yielding to the conqueror, by giving him
the counsel of a christian man, not unversed in affairs of state, I
did believe--I do believe, that I could, and did, do more good than if
I had withdrawn from the counsels of the ruler of the country, and
joined with those who sought to throw him from his seat. I never
advised in those affairs where York and Lancaster opposed each other.
It was part of my compact with him, that I should take no share in
acts or councils against a family I once had served. Yet in my humble
way I could do good, in moderating the fury of men's passions, and the
rancour of party strife."
"You plead, my lord, to an indictment I have never laid," replied the
woodman. "I blame you not. I never thought of blaming you. But hear me
on! You became attached to a prince who favoured you greatly--a man of
many high qualities, and also of many great vices; brave, courteous,
graceful, and good-humoured; lewd, idle, insincere, and cruel; a
consummate general, a short-seeing statesman, a bad king, a heartless
kinsman, a man of pleasant converse, and a devoted friend. You loved
him well; you loved his children better, and would not consent to
their murder."
"Nay, nay, not their murder," cried the bishop; "no one ever ventured
to speak of their death. Even now, we know not that they are really
dead; but I believe it. If you had said, I would not be consenting to
their deprivation of their rights, you had been justified."
"'Tis the same thing," answered the woodman; "deposed princes live not
long, where they have many friends in the realm they lose. However,
committed to the Tower, and then to the custody of Buckingham, you
found means to make of your jailor your friend, choosing dexterously a
moment of disappointment to turn him to your purposes. I speak now
only from hearsay; but, I am told, you two together framed a scheme
for choosing a new king from the race you first served, and uniting
him to the heiress of your second lord. It was a glorious and
well-devised plan, worthy of a great statesman--ay, and of a christian
prelate; for thereby you might hope to end for ever a strife which has
desolated England for half a century--but rash Buckingham lost all at
the first attempt. The scheme still lives however, I am told, though
one of the great schemers is no more. The other walks here beside me,
returned in secret to his native land, after a brief exile, and the
question is, for what? Money, perhaps, or arms, or friends, I may be
told. Yet he would linger still for some intelligence, even when his
life is staked! Has he heard of machinations going on in Britanny, for
the overthrow of all his plans, by the betrayal of him on whom their
success depends? Has he heard of secret negotiations between the
usurper and a feeble duke or his mercenary minister? Does he wish to
obtain the certainty of such things? and is he willing to stake his
life upon the chance of discovering the truth?"
He paused as if for an answer; and the bishop, who had been buried in
deep thought--considering less the questions put and the tale told,
for all that was speedily digested, than the character of his
companion--replied at once--
"You are an extraordinary man, sir, and must speak from something more
sure than a mere guess."
"Assuredly," replied the woodman, "I speak from calculation. He who,
in the calm retirement of a lowly station, removed afar from his
fellow men, has still a fair view of the deeds they do, can often, by
seeing things hidden from the eyes of those who are near the scene of
action, judge of the motives and the result, which the one part of
those engaged do not know, and the other do not perceive. I once stood
upon a high hill, while a battle raged at my feet, and could I have
directed, with the prospect of the whole before me, I could have made
either army win the field; for I saw what neither saw, and understood
what neither understood. Thus is it with a man who stands afar from
the troublous strife of human life, with his eye above the passions,
the prejudices, and the vanities which more or less interrupt each
man's vision on the wide plain of the world where the combat is going
on. But yet you have not answered my question. Have I divined rightly
or not?"
The bishop paused for another instant, and then replied--
"Why should I not speak? My life is in your hand. I can trust no
greater thing than I have trusted. You are right. I have heard of
these machinations; and I have laid my plans for frustrating them, or
at least discovering them. My faithful servant, companion, and friend,
who has accompanied me in all my wanderings, has gone on with Sir
Charles Weinants even now; for that is the man who has been entrusted
with many a secret negotiation between England and Britanny. He, my
servant, will return in disguise to seek me at the abbey; and, if I
should go before he arrives, I carry no definite information with me."
"You must go before he arrives," replied the woodman, "or 'tis likely
you will not go at all; but you shall not go bootless.--Now let us be
silent and cautious, for we are coming near more dangerous ground."
The hint was not lost upon the bishop, who, though bold and resolute,
as I have shown, did not think it necessary to sport with life as a
thing of no value. While this conversation had been taking place, they
had traversed that more open space of forest ground, which has been
mentioned, and were approaching a thicker copse, where sturdy
underwood filled all the spaces between the larger trees. It seemed to
the bishop, in the dimness of the night, that there would be no
possibility of penetrating the vast mass of tangled thicket which rose
sweeping up the side of the hill before his eyes; but still the
woodman bent his step straight towards it, till at length he paused at
a spot where there seemed no possible entrance.
"We are now coming near one of the wider roads of the wood," he said,
in a whisper; "and the little path by which I will lead you runs
within a hundred yards of it, for more than a mile. We must therefore
keep silent, and even let our footfalls be light."
"If we have to force our way through all this brushwood," answered the
bishop in the same tone, "the noise will instantly betray the way we
take."
"Fear not," replied Boyd, "only follow me close and steadily. Leaders
make bad followers, I know; but it must be so just now."
Thus saying, he pushed aside some of the young ash trees, and held
them back with his strong arm, while the bishop came after. Three
steps were sufficient to bring them, through the thick screen, to the
end of a small path, not above three feet in width, but perfectly
clear and open. It was drawn in a line as straight as a bowstring, and
had probably been formed for the purposes of the chase; for arrow or
bolt sent along it could not fail to hit any object of large size,
such as a stag or fallow deer, at any point within shot. The bishop,
it is true, could not see all this, for the boughs were thick
overhead, though cleared away at the sides; and he followed slowly and
cautiously upon the woodman's steps, setting down his feet with that
sort of timid doubt which every one feels more or less when plunged in
utter darkness.
Steadily and quietly the woodman walked on, seeming to see his way as
well in the deep night as he could have done in the full day; and at
length, after having proceeded, for what seemed to his companion much
more than one mile, he again stopped, where the path abruptly
terminated in another thicket. As no sign would have been effectual to
convey his meaning, in the profound darkness which reigned around, the
woodman was fain to whisper to his companion, to remain for a moment
where he stood, while an examination was made to ascertain whether the
great road was clear. He then forced his way forward through the
boughs; and a moment after the bishop heard the whining of a dog,
followed by the voice of the woodman, saying, "Down, Ban, down. Seek,
boy, seek. Is there a strange foot?"
A short interval elapsed; and then was heard the sound of a low growl,
very close to the spot where the prelate himself was stationed.
"Nay, that is a friend," said the woodman, in a low tone. "Come in,
Ban! To heel, good dog."
The sound of the stout and stalwart form of his companion, pushing its
way once more through the brushwood, was then heard; and Boyd again
stood by the good prelate's side.
"All is safe," he said; "and now you must force your way forward, at
the risk of tearing your gown. But never mind that, for you must not
travel in this attire;" and he led the way on.
After a struggle of some difficulty with the brambles and thin shoots
of the ash which formed the copse, the bishop found himself in the
midst of a small open space, with the road running across it, and the
woodman's cottage on the other side. The door was open; and a faint
glare, as from a half-extinguished fire, came forth into the air,
showing the tall sinewy form of the woodman, and the gaunt outline of
his gigantic hound. The cottage soon received the whole party; and,
closing and barring the door, Boyd pointed to the threshold, saying to
the dog, "Down, Ban! Watch!" and immediately the obedient animal laid
himself across the door way, and remained with his head raised, his
ears erect, and his muzzle turned towards the entrance, as if
listening for the sound of approaching footsteps.
"Now, reverend father and good lord," said Boyd, "we must not daily.
You must throw away that gown, and put on this common waggoner's
frock. You must cover the tonsure with this peasant's bonnet, and take
part in driving a load of wood a stage on the way to Litchfield. You
will be met with by those who will see you safely to the coast;
and you will have one with you who will in reality perform the
office--unworthy of your profession and name--which you must seem to
fulfil only for the sake of security. I will bring you the garments in
a moment; but first," he continued, "let me place in your hands this
letter, which you must conceal with the greatest care, and contrive to
convey it to the earl of Richmond. How it fell into my hands matters
not; but, if you run your eye over it, you will see that it contains
all the information for which you were inclined to wait.--Stay, I will
give you a light;" and, stirring the fire into a blaze, he lighted a
lamp at the flame.
"Ha, from Landais, himself," exclaimed the bishop, as he read the
letter, "with a promise to arrest the earl and all his companions, as
soon as Richard's ambassador has arrived, and the money is paid!--The
money is paid! What may that mean?"
"Can you not divine, good father?" asked the woodman. "In this good
world of ours, there is a price for everything. We are all merchants,
traders with what we make, or with what we possess. One man sells his
barony, another his honour, another his conscience, another his soul.
One acquires for himself power and sells the use of it, another gains
a reputation and trades on that, as others do on learning or on skill.
There is a difference of prices too; and the coin in which men require
payment is various. A kingly crown is the price which some demand; a
high office the price of others. The crosier or the triple crown is
one man's price; the smile of a fair lady is another's; the sordid
soul requires mere money; and this Landais, this Breton peasant, risen
to be the minister and ruler of his imbecile prince, sells the duke's
honour and his own for hard gold, Ha, ha, ha! He is quite right; for,
of all the things which go to purchase such commodities, gold is the
only solid permanent possession. What is honour, fame, power, or even
woman's smile, but the empty, transitory, visionary deceit of an hour.
Gold, gold, my lord bishop, untarnishable, persisting, ever-valuable
gold is the only proper payment, when honesty, honour, feeling, and
character are to be sold--Upon my life, I think so!--But there is the
letter. Let the duke have it; show him the toils that are around him;
and bid him break through before they close upon him."
"This is important, indeed," said the bishop, who had been reading the
letter attentively; "and it shall be in the hands of the earl as soon
as it be possible to deliver it. One question, however, let me ask
you. Who, shall I tell the earl, has procured and sent to him this
most valuable information? for I do not affect to believe that you are
that which you seem to be."
"Nothing is what it seems to be," replied the woodman; "no, nothing in
this world. It is a place of unreal things; but yet you might have
satisfied yourself at the abbey, that Boyd the woodman is a faithful
servant of the good abbess and nuns of St. Clare, and has been so long
enough for them to have great confidence in him. However," he
continued, in a somewhat changed tone, "tell the earl of Richmond, you
have had it from a man who may ask his reward hereafter; for we are
all mercenary. That reward shall neither be in gold, nor estates, nor
honours, nor titles; but, when the struggle before him is
accomplished, and he is successful, as he will be, then perchance Boyd
the woodman may ask a boon; and it shall be but one.--Now I bring you
your disguise;" and, passing through the door in the back of the room,
he disappeared for a moment or two, and then returned, loaded with
various pieces of apparel. The bishop smiled as he put them on; and
the transformation was certainly most complete, as the frock of the
carter was substituted for that of the monk, and the peasant's bonnet
took the place of the cowl.
"We must get rid of your sandals, my lord," said the woodman; "and
that is the most difficult part of the matter; for my foot is well
nigh twice as large as yours, so that my boots will fit but ill."
"We will manage it," answered the bishop, "for I will thrust my feet
in, sandals and all, and that will fill them up."
The woodman laughed; but the plan seemed a good one, and was adopted.
"Here is a little Venice mirror," said the woodman. "Now look at
yourself, my good lord. I will not ask, if your best friend would know
you, for dear friends always forget; but would your bitterest enemy
recognise you, though hatred has so long a memory?"
"I do not think he would," answered the bishop, smiling at his own
appearance; "but yet I fear, if we should be met in the wood by any of
these people, and detained, they may discover me by the tonsure."
"We will not be met," answered Boyd. "Now, follow me; but first stick
this axe into your girdle, which may serve, both as an ensign of your
new trade, and a means of defence."
The woodman then led his companion through the door in the back of the
room into another large chamber behind. Thence, after locking the
door, he took his way through a shed, half filled with piles of
firewood; and then, proceeding through an orchard, surrounded on three
sides by the forest, he entered a little garden of pot-herbs, at the
farther end of which was a fence of rough-hewn oak.
On approaching the paling, the bishop found himself standing on the
edge of a very steep bank, at the bottom of which he could catch the
glistening of a stream; and, after a warning to take good heed to his
footing, the woodman led him down a flight of steep steps, cut in the
bank, to a small path, which ran along by the side of the water. The
dell, which the stream had apparently channelled for itself, and which
was flanked by woody banks, varying from twenty to forty feet in
height, extended for nearly a mile through the wood, and at length
issued forth from the forest screen, at the edge of a rich and
well-cultivated tract of country.
At this spot there was a bridge, over which ran one of the roads from
the abbey; but the little path, which the woodman and his companion
were following, passed under the bridge by the side of the river; and
Boyd continued to pursue it for two or three hundred yards farther. He
then ascended the bank, which had by this time become low and sloping,
and took his way across a field to the right, so as to join the road
at some distance from the bridge. A few yards in advance was seen a
lantern, and a wood-cart with its team of horses, and two men standing
by its side. To one of these the woodman spoke for a few moments in a
low voice; and then, turning to the other, he said, "You understand
your orders, David. Here is the man who is to go with you--Now, my
lord," he continued, in a whisper; "you had better get up on the front
of the waggon. I must here leave you; for I have the security of some
others to provide for."
"I trust my fair guide from the abbey has met with no peril on her
return," said the bishop in a whisper. "It would be bitter to me
indeed if any evil befel her in consequence of her charity towards
me."
"I trust not," said the woodman; "but yet I now find she could not
return to the abbey, and has taken refuge elsewhere. There were eyes
watching her she knew not of, and help at hand in case she needed it.
But I must go and provide for all this; for a fair girl like that
ought not to be trusted too long with a gay young lord. He seems a
good youth, 'tis true, though wild and rash enough."
"Oh, he may be fully trusted," replied the prelate. "I will be his
sponsor, for he was brought up under my own eye, and I know every turn
of his mind. His rashness is but manner, and his light gaiety but the
sparkling of a spirit which has no dark thought or memory to make it
gloomy. If he is with her, she is safe enough; for he would neither
wrong her nor see her wronged."
"Nevertheless, I must see to the safety of both," replied the woodman;
"so now farewell, and peace attend you--Stay, let me help you up."
Thus saying, he aided the bishop to mount upon the front of the cart;
and at a crack of the waggoner's whip the team moved slowly on.