To the surprise of Iola, and certainly not less to that of good Ibn
Ayoub, though with Mahommedan gravity he gave no voice to his wonder,
Chartley burst into a violent fit of laughter.
"Good Heaven, what is it?" exclaimed Iola, looking up; and at the same
moment Chartley sprang down from the chair, still laughing.
"Forgive me, dear Iola," he said, taking her little hand and kissing
it, "but did you ever see the devil play on a bag-pipe?"
"I never saw the devil at all," replied Iola, with a bewildered look;
"but I do not understand what you mean."
"I mean, sweet friend, that this is evidently a piper, and, if I
mistake not much, 'tis man I saw in Tamworth this very morning and
yesterday also. He seemed the life and soul of the people round, a
merry happy-hearted fellow, whom they call Sam the Piper, with a
breast without guile, if one may judge by his face, which bespeaks him
no one's enemy but his own. Strange to say, he would drink neither
wine nor ale, though I offered him either, and though his face
betrayed many a potation past, if not present. Stay a while. I will go
out and see. If it be the man I mean, I will bring him in; for by all
means we will have the piper of our faction."
"But are you sure that it is safe?" said Iola, timidly, but holding
his arm to detain him.
"Oh, he will not betray us," exclaimed Chartley; "and besides we can
keep him here as long as we like."
"But if it should prove to be the--the--" said Iola, adding, after a
moment's pause, "some evil being."
Chartley laughed again; and gently putting his arm round her for a
single instant, he said--
"Fear not, Iola. With the angels in those eyes upon my side, I would
undertake to protect you against all the evil spirits in the
universe."
Iola dropped the eyelids over the lustrous orbs below; and a blush
spread over her cheek like the crimson light of the setting sun.
Chartley instantly withdrew his arm; and repeating--"Fear not," he
opened the door and went out of the hall.
A few words were then heard, spoken without; and a moment after he
re-entered, followed by Sam the Piper, with his beloved instrument
still tight under his arm. The good man's steps were not quite steady,
and certainly it was not natural feebleness that caused their
vacillation. Yet his eye was clear and bright; and his merry voice
seemed not in the least thickened by any liquor he might have imbibed.
"Gad ye good night, lords and ladies, gad ye good night," he said, as
he entered, making a low obeisance, and producing at the same time a
lamentable squeak from his chanter. "Gad ye good night, tawny Moor. I
did not think to see your beautiful black face again for many a day.
Gad ye good night, fairest of ladies. To see you and his dark lordship
here, one would think one's self upon the confines of the upper and
the nether world, with angels on the one side and devils on the
other."
"Meaning me for one, knave," said Chartley, giving him a good-humoured
shake.
"Ah, mercy, mercy, noble sir," cried the piper in a pitiful tone.
"Shake me not; for my legs are not made of iron to-night, and my
stomach is as full as my bag when well blown up."
"But your stomach has something stronger than air in it, if I mistake
not," said Chartley, laughing, "Come tell me, sirrah, how it happens
that you, who would take no strong drink yesterday, are well nigh
drunk tonight."
"There's no contradiction in that," replied the man, "though I take no
liquor, liquor may overtake me; and if a man is overtaken in liquor,
the fault's in the liquor, not in him."
"Still, if the fault's in the liquor, and the liquor in him, the fault
is in him," answered Chartley; "for learned doctors say that the thing
which contains another contains all that it contains."
"But, then," replied the piper, who, like many of his class, was
exceedingly fond of chopping logic; "if the fault's in the liquor, and
the liquor in him, he cannot be in fault, for the thing that contains
cannot be in the thing contained. But marry, my good lord, the truth
is, I made a promise to good sister Alice at the convent, not to get
drunk at Tamworth fair, and gloriously I redeemed my word, and
gloriously I got drunk afterwards."
While this dialogue had been proceeding, Iola stood by, marvelling
greatly at all she heard; for it was a scene altogether new to her,
and one of which, in her simplicity and ignorance of the world's ways,
she could have formed no conception. In her ramblings hither and
thither, which her good aunt had permitted pretty liberally, she might
indeed have seen, now and then, a drunken man, for alas, drunkenness
is a virtue of no particular age; but she had never met with the merry
reckless wine-bibber--one of the peculiar character of the good
piper--who has an excuse for his sins always ready, by which he does
not impose upon himself.
After a few more words of the same kind, Chartley moved her chair for
her back to the fire, seated himself as before on the stool by her
side, and, while the Arab resumed his place, pointed to the opposite
side, saying to the piper, "There, sit you down, and tell us what
you've seen in the forest to-night."
"Good faith, I have seen nothing," answered Sam, "for the night's
dark, and I have been somewhat dark too. After I had been to the abbey
for the morning dole, to show good sister Alice that I had kept my
word and was quite sober, I went away to the first tavern, and, with
all the pence I had collected in the fair, bought myself a stoup of
small wine, and a farthing's worth of sugar. Your lordship's groat
helped me wonderfully. Then, not liking the thought of a forcible
division of my property, I brought my wine up here, ensconced me in
the doorway of the little tower, and went on sipping till I fell
asleep. When I woke, it was black night; but there was still something
left in my wine-pot, and I set to again to gain courage, and to keep
out the cold. When I looked abroad, however, I soon saw that somebody
had lighted a fire in the court; and I crept round and round on the
walls, to see who it was, saying Paters and Aves all the time, and
thinking it might be the devil had done it; for he, it is said, keeps
up the best fire in his house of any man."
Lord Chartley gave a meaning and merry glance to Iola; and Iola smiled
in return.
"At length, seeing no one there," continued the piper, "I ventured
down into the court to warm myself, when suddenly your lordship
came upon me, and took me prisoner. I suppose it was my mad pipes
betrayed me, for, like a chattering wife, they are always talking
where they should not, unless I am careful to blow all the wind out
of the bag. However, I am never much afraid of robbers, plunderers,
camp-followers, or anything, for nobody meddles with a piper. You
cannot have more of a cat than her skin, nor of a piper than his
pipes, and neither the one nor the other is of much use to those who
do not know how to handle them."
Chartley mused for a minute or two, and then said in a low tone to his
fair companion:
"Do you not think, dear lady, that we could make use of this merry
ribald, to communicate our situation here to those who could give us
intelligence--ay, and even help in case of need. It is very sweet," he
continued, tenderly, "to sit here by your side, whiling away the
livelong hours of night, with one so fair and gentle. But I must not
forget your comfort in my own happiness. You have passed a weary and
an anxious night, and the sooner I can restore you to your friends, to
tranquillity and repose, the better. I must find some other moment,"
he added rapidly, "brighter and calmer, to say more of myself--I think
that we may use this man, who will not be stopped by the soldiery, to
bear tidings of where you are----"
"Oh yes," exclaimed Iola, "let him go as quickly as possible to the
abbey. My aunt will be sadly anxious about me."
"I fear that would be dangerous," replied Chartley. "Rather let him go
to the woodman, tell him where we are, request him to send us
information and advice, and, if possible, to communicate to the
abbess, that you are quite safe. That I think is the best course to
pursue."
"Perhaps it is," answered Iola; and then in a lower tone, she added,
"if you can quite trust to this man--he seems a libertine and a
drunkard."
"You must not judge him too harshly," replied Chartley. "Most men,
especially of his class, have their peculiar vices; but, though it may
seem strange, from those vices you must not imply others of a
different class and character. Nay, more, there are faults which are
almost always accompanied by certain better qualities; and, from what
I know of the world, I am inclined to think, that this man's good
faith might be better trusted than that of many a sanctimonious friar
or smooth-spoken propriety-loving trader."
"But is he fit?" asked Iola. "To me he seems hardly sober."
"Oh fit enough," answered Chartley. "With daily tipplers a certain
portion of good wine is needful to sharpen their senses. That gives
them wit which takes away the wits of other men; and he is not likely
to find more drink in the forest unless he apply to the pure
stream.--Hark ye, good master piper. Tell me how much discretion is
left in that noddle of yours?"
"Enough to prevent me running my head against a post, or leading
another into a ditch," answered the piper. "Now, good my lord, did I
not come down the stairs, from the little turret into the courtyard,
with every stone step as frail and moveable as the rounds of
ambition's ladder?"
"And thou art trustworthy, methinks," said Chartley, in a musing tone.
"Else have I drunk many a butt of good liquor to no purpose," replied
the piper.
"How should that make thee trustworthy?" demanded the young lord.
"Because the liquor was sound and honest, my lord," replied the piper;
"and as by this time it must have penetrated every part, I should be
sound and honest too. Moreover, it was best half drunk in secret, so
that secrecy's a part of my composition also."
"Well, I will trust thee," replied Chartley, "and if thou wilt win a
gold angel, thou shalt have the means of doing so."
"I will not debate upon the question long," said Sam, starting up. "I
am always ready to go upon a pilgrimage, and far readier to worship a
gold angel than a painted saint. Let me see, six stoups, at one
shilling and two pence the stoup, would be--soul of my body, there's
drink for a week in a gold angel."
"There, there, cease your calculations," cried Chartley; "first win
the angel, and then use it discreetly afterwards."
"So shall it be my better angel," said the piper, laughing, and
winking his eye. "But how is the celestial coin to be obtained, my
lord?"
"Listen, and you shall hear," replied the young nobleman; "and be
serious now, for this is a matter of importance. Do you know Boyd, the
head woodman of the abbey?"
"Do I know the great oak of Ashton?" exclaimed Sam. "Do I know the old
tower of Tamworth? Do I know anything that men frequenting this
neighbourhood see every day? Why, Boyd has given me both a beating and
a breakfast, at times, has made my back groan under a cudgel and under
a bacon. That last was a-good deed, for it saved my boy, who is now
over the sea with the Marquis of Dorset, from starving, when he was
hid away in Mount Sorel wood. Oh yes, we all know Boyd; the roughest
tongue, the hardest hand, the clearest eye, and the kindest heart in
the country."
"Well then," said Chartley, "I wish you to find him out, and to tell
him for me, that I am here in the old castle, and have a lady with
me whom he wots of. My name I suppose you have learned from the
horse-boys, by your be-lording me so often; and he will divine who the
lady is; if you tell him that she is with me, and safe, but that we
dare not venture forth without further information, while these
soldiers are watching the wood. Let him send word to the lady's
friends that she is in security, but, above all, give us intelligence
and help if he can."
"Soldiers watching the wood?" said the piper, in a tone of surprise.
"Ay, even so," answered Chartley. "Thou, hast been like one of the
seven sleepers, my friend, and hast dozed, unconscious, while great
events were going on around thee. Half the houses on the abbey green
have been burned; and there are bands now upon all the great roads of
the wood. Does that frighten thee?"
"Not a whit," cried the piper. "How should it frighten me? They could
but slash the sow's stomach under my arm, or my own; and neither the
one nor the other is worth the sharpening of a knife. They'll not harm
me; for all your mud-splashing, sheep-stealing, wench-kissing,
big-oathed, blaspheming horse troopers are fond of a minstrel; and I
will strike up my pipes when I come near the high road, to let them
know who I am. It may be a signal to old Boyd too, if he's wandering
through the wood, as most likely he is; for, like a ghost, he goes
about more by night than by day.--Burned half the houses on the abbey
green! That's serious. By my pipes, some necks'll be twisted for it, I
think."
"I trust there will," answered Chartley; "but now set out upon your
errand, my good man, and when next you see me, my message being
delivered, claim of me a gold angel; but if you say a word of it to
any one else but Boyd himself, when next I see you, you shall have
another sort of payment."
The piper laughed, and, giving the bag under his arm a squeeze, made
his pipes squeak in a very ludicrous manner. Then quitting the hall,
with a steadier step than that with which he had entered, he took his
way down through the wood which had often been his home during many a
warm summer night. Most of the paths were familiar to him; and
trudging on, he entered one of the broader ways, which led directly to
the high road that divided the forest into two unequal parts. After he
had gone on for about half a mile, he heard voices speaking, and
paused for an instant to consider. "I will be very drunk," he said to
himself. "Drunkenness is often as good a cloak as hypocrisy. All men
make their garments out of the skins of beasts, and the smoothest are
not always the thickest. Here go I then;" and, assuming a reeling and
unsteady step, he blew up the bag of his pipes, and soon, from the
various stops, produced a gay wild air, which would have been pretty
enough, but for the continued dull squeaking with which it was
accompanied.
"Ha, who goes there?" cried a voice, a minute or two after, as he
emerged upon the road; and two mounted men were immediately by his
side.
"Sam the piper, Sam the piper," he answered, in drunken accents. "And
who are you, jolly boys? What do you keep the king's highway for? Are
you looking to see if any man has dropped his purse? If so, I cry
shares; for by St. Dominic, there's nothing in mine. Now, marry, if a
fat priest were to fall in your way, I would rather be his mule
afterwards than before."
"Why so, knave?" asked one of the men.
"Marry, because he'd ride lighter, I've a notion," replied Sam.
"Ha, say'st thou so, knave?" cried one of the men, lifting up his hand
to strike him; but the other interposed, saying--
"Nay, nay, 'tis Sam the piper. He has a fool's privilege, and means no
harm. Besides the man is drunk."
"Come, tell me, knave," exclaimed the other, "whither thou hast been
wandering in the wood?"
"Nay, Heaven knows," answered the piper, "wherever wine and destiny
led me. I have been asleep half the time; and since I woke, I have
been walking about in the cool, to clear my complexion, and get the
fumes of Tamworth fair out of my head; for I felt my knees weaker than
they ought to be, and a solemn sort of haziness of the wits, just such
as the preaching parson at Ashton must have after writing one of his
sermons, and his congregation do have after hearing one."
The two soldiers laughed, and the fiercer of the two demanded--
"Did'st thou meet any man in the forest?
"Not till I met your reverences," replied the piper. "I do not know
what any man should do here, unless it were to sleep off a tipsy fit,
lose his way, or pick up a purse, though the last has grown a rarity
since the wars came to an end. In former times men might gather purses
like blackberries upon every bush. That was when I was a soldier. But
that whorson poke with a pike I got at Barnet crippled my crupper
joint for life, and made me walk unsteady, which causes the poor fools
to say I am drunk, though all the world knows that I live like an
anchorite, eat herbs and roots, when I can get no flesh, and drink
pure water, when there's neither wine nor ale to be had. Give you good
den, my masters--What's the time o'day?"
"Night, you drunken dolt," replied one of the men. "It's matins by
this time, but are you sure that you have not seen a man in a friar's
gown? If you lie to me, your ears won't be safe for the next month.
"A man in a friar's gown?" said the piper with a hiccup, "ay, to be
sure I did."
"When? Where?" cried the soldiers eagerly.
"Why, in Tamworth, yesterday morning," answered the piper; and one of
the men, giving him a smart blow with his fist, told him to go on his
way, with no very commendatory valediction.
Playing his part admirably well, the piper reeled down the road,
passing two other patroles, each of which stopped and interrogated
him, as the other men had done; somewhat more briefly, however, when
they found he had been stopped and questioned before. At length,
sitting down by the road side, as if his legs refused to carry him
farther, when two of his interrogators had just passed on, he waited
till they had gone to a little distance, and then plunged into the
wood. He soon forced his way on, to one of the lesser paths, but there
he stopped to consider, saying to himself--"How shall I make Boyd
hear, if he be roaming about? I'll go straight to his house; but this
forest is for all the world like a rabbit burrow; and I may be popping
out of one hole while he is popping into another, if I cannot contrive
to send some messenger to his ears, that will run a few hundred yards
on each side of me, at least. I must not try the pipes again, but I
will make the belling of a deer. If he hears that at this season of
the year, he will be sure to come up to see what's the matter."
Accordingly, by placing his fingers after a fashion of his own upon
his lips, he contrived to produce a very accurate imitation of the
peculiar call of the deer at certain periods of the year; he continued
to emit these sounds from time to time, as he walked on, till at
length he heard a rustle in the brushwood near.
"Now that's either a stag," he said to himself, "who, like a young
gallant of nineteen, makes love at all times and seasons, and I shall
have his horns in my stomach in a minute; or else it is Boyd or one of
his men, and I have hit the mark. I must risk the horns, I fancy."
A moment after, a low voice said--
"Who goes there?"
"Sam the piper," answered our good friend, "looking for what he cannot
find;" and the next moment, pushing through the shrubs, the tall and
powerful form of the woodman stood before him.
"Ah, Sam," said Boyd, "what are you seeking, you drunken dog?"
"Seeking you, master Boyd," answered Sam in a very different tone from
that in which he had addressed the soldiers. "I have news for you."
"Ay, and what may that be?" demanded Boyd, with the utmost
indifference of manner; "some of the gossip of Tamworth I suppose. The
bailiff has beat his wife, or the mercer's daughter has gone off with
the smart apprentice; but I have other things to think of, master Sam,
to-night. Have you heard that the rough bands from Coleshill have
burnt the houses on the abbey green?"
"Yes, I've heard of it," answered Sam; "and there has been a great
fire up at the old castle too."
The woodman started.
"At the old castle! What do you mean?" he exclaimed. "Who should burn
the old castle?"
"I didn't say it had been burned," replied the piper. "I only said
that there was a great fire there; and very comfortable it was too,
considering the cold night and the good company."
"Speak out, man! What do you mean?" demanded the woodman sternly.
"This is no time for fool's play."
"I think not," answered the piper; "and so the plain truth is, that I
was ordered, by a certain young lord, to tell you, that a certain
young lady is up there safe with him and his tawny Moor, and that they
are afraid to stir out while the wood is watched by the soldiers,
without farther information and advice; and they look to you to give
both, and moreover to send intelligence to her friends, that she is
quite safe. There, I have delivered my message, better than ever
message was delivered before, for I have given it word for word, and
you may make the best of it."
"Up there, with him alone throughout the night!" said the woodman, in
a tone of no very great approbation. "Yet he may be trusted, I
think--but still 'twere better not. What will the other feel, when he
hears of it?--No matter. It cannot be helped. There is nothing else to
be done."
"Oh yes, there is," answered the piper; "if you could take them up a
stoup of wine, or a black jack of good strong beer, you would do more;
for, if I judge rightly, they have nothing to keep up the spirits, or
support the body; or amuse the time, unless it be making love, and
that is cold work without meat or drink."
"Listen to this fool now!" said the woodman, "how he hits the nail
aright--I will go up myself."
"They will not thank you if you come empty-handed," answered the
piper; "and you had better take me with you, to show you the way; for
the forest is changed since you last saw it, and there are living
trees on the high road, which stop up the paths, and move to and fro."
"I understand thee, piper," answered the woodman. "Thou art a shrewd
knave with thine enigmas. Come along with me then. I will try to make
thee useful, for the first time in thy life."
"Not useful!" said the piper, as the woodman moved on, taking a branch
of the path that led away to the right. "I am the most useful man in
the whole hundred. What would weddings be without me, or baptisms
either? How many quarrels do my sweet notes allay? How often do I make
peace between man and wife, by drowning her shrill voice by my
shriller notes, and outroaring him with my drone? Go to, you would
never get on without me--Useful, quotha? But where are you going, now?
This is not the way to the castle."
"I am going to take thy sage advice," replied the woodman, "which on
ordinary occasions is not worth a groat. But we may as well carry up
some provisions; and for that purpose, as well as others, I must take
my cottage by the way. But now hold thy peace, man, for I would have
my thoughts clear."
Thus saying, he strode on before, the piper following, till they
reached the broader road, which passed the cottage, and came in sight
of the little green.
"Hist, hist," said the piper. "There is some one before the door. It
may be one of the soldiers who set fire to the houses."
"Then I will cleave his skull with my axe," answered the woodman,
lightly; "but, 'tis only David. Go on--get thee into the house. I want
to speak, to him;" and striding forward, he approached the man, and
spoke a few words to him, of which the piper could only distinguish a
few, though he was all ears.
"By half-past five," said the woodman, "as many as you can, and well
armed."
"At the old castle?" asked the man.
"Yes," answered the woodman, "under the gateway. The sky will be grey
by that time. Quarrel not with the soldiers, if you can help it. Say
you are but doing your needful service; but keep to it sturdily. Nay,
now I think of it, 'twere better to gather in the wood upon the hill
before the castle, especially if the soldiers follow you. There, begin
hewing down the young trees which we marked for cutting out, and run
up to the gate if you should hear my horn. Now away, and bring all you
can; but mind you send Adam up on his pony at once to the abbey."
The man replied not, but ran away with a peculiarly quick but easy
trot; and Boyd entered the hut, where he found the piper standing very
near the door. He felt inclined to ask him why he had not gone in,
feeling sure that he had lingered to listen; but there, just before
him, stood the great deer-hound Ban, neither growling nor attempting
to seize the intruder, but gazing at him with a very fierce and
formidable expression of countenance, which might well daunt even a
stout heart in the breast of an unarmed man. The moment the dog saw
his master, however, he dropped his stiffened tail and raised ears;
and the woodman said, "Now, Sam, come you with me, and we will load
ourselves with food for the nonce. Here, sling this great bottle under
your right arm, to balance your bag-pipes, and take this loaf upon
your back. I will carry the rest; but I must leave my right hand free,
in case of need, to use my weapon."
"But how am I to use my weapon, if you load me so?" asked the piper,
making his instrument give a squeak.
"The less you use it the better," answered the woodman.
"I say the same of all weapons," rejoined Sam. "But never mind, put on
the load, and let us go."
Their arrangements were soon complete, and with a rapid pace they
gained once more the edge of the high roads and there paused under the
trees, to watch the proceedings of the enemy. The same vigilant patrol
was kept up; but the woodman marked it with a smile.
"They think the person they seek must have taken refuge there," he
said in a whisper to his companion, "because he could not pass by the
hamlet or the lower road, without falling in with them; but if they
keep their parties so loose, I would pass a hundred men across, one by
one. I will go first, and you follow. He waited till the next couple
of soldiers had ridden slowly by, and then with a silent step crossed
to the opposite side of the road, where he paused for his companion;
but the poor piper had nearly brought himself into a dangerous
situation, by a hankering for the great bottle which hung under his
arm. In extracting, with his stout finger and thumb, the cork from the
mouth, he produced a sound loud enough to make two of the soldiers
stop, and then ride up to the spot; but his bagpipe once more saved
him; for squeezing the bag hard, and running his fingers over the
pipe, he produced a series of sounds only to be equalled by those of
two cats in a gutter; and one of the soldiers exclaimed:
"It is only that drunken piper again. Cease your squalling, knave, or
I'll break your pate."
The sound of the pipe instantly stopped; and the moment the two men
had gone on, the piper passed the road and joined his companion. The
rest of the way was speedily accomplished, and, a little before five,
the woodman approached the gates of the old castle. There he paused,
and, after a moment's thought, turned to his companion, saying:
"It would be a great advantage to us, my good friend, Sam, if we could
get some information of the movements of these bands."
"I'll undertake it," said the piper, whom success had made bold. "You
shall have tidings of any change in their dance. But you must give me
something to wet my mouth first, Master Boyd."
"Well, well," answered the woodman, set the bottle to your lips, but
only drink to the peg, do you hear? Stay, I'll hold my hand upon it,
and stop you; for you must leave some for others, and not take too
much yourself.
The piper took a deep draught, and was only stayed by his companion
snatching the bottle from him. Then followed a consultation as to what
was to be done in the many contingencies which might arise. It was
agreed that, if the piper did not return within half an hour after
day-break, the party in the castle should conclude he had been
detained by the soldiery; that if he came back without being followed,
and having remarked no movement of importance, he should play a low
and quiet air upon his instrument; while, on the contrary, if the
soldiers were at his heels, and danger menacing, he should come on
with a quick loud march.
This being settled, he departed on his errand; and, passing over the
frail remains of the bridge, the woodman entered the great court,
where the embers of the fire were still gleaming in the ashes, like
the eyes of a wild beast through a thicket. Approaching the door of
the hall, he paused and listened, not knowing what might have occurred
since the wandering musician had quitted the place. But all was
silent; and, bending down his head a little, he looked forward into
the interior of the hall through one of the rifts which had been made
violently in the door at the former siege. The party were nearly in
the same position as when the piper had left them, the Arab crouching
upon the ground near the fire, which he seemed lately to have supplied
with wood, and his dark face resting on his darker hand. Chartley was
seated on the footstool, with his feet stretched towards the fire, and
his left side leaning against the arm of the chair. In the chair was
Iola as before, but her eyes were closed. Her hand rested upon
Chartley's arm; and her head drooped upon his shoulder, while her
balmy breath fanned his cheek, as she slept, tired out by emotions and
fatigues.