I know not whether the architecture of the middle ages--that peculiar
architecture, I mean, which existed in different varieties in England,
from a little before the commencement of the reign of the Conqueror,
till the end of the reign of Henry VII.--can be said to have advanced
or retrograded from the time of Edward III. to the time of Richard.
Every one will judge according to his particular tastes of the merits
of the style; but one thing is certain, that, although the houses of
the lower orders had remained much the same, the domestic arrangement
of the baronial residences had greatly improved. Notwithstanding that
long period of contention, which succeeded the accession of Henry VI.,
notwithstanding constant wars and the frequent summons to the field,
men seemed to have looked for comfort in the laying out of their
dwellings; and the feudal castle, although still a castle, and well
fitted for defence, contained in it many of the conveniences of a
modern house. Perhaps it was, that the struggle of great parties had
taken the place of private quarrels between the great barons
themselves and struggles between mere individual conspirators and the
crown. Thus great towns were attacked more frequently than fortified
mansions; and, during this period, we meet with very few instances of
a simple baronial fortress being subjected to siege.
However that might be, the chambers in a great nobleman's house, the
halls, the lodging chambers, the ladies' bower, were now all more
commodious, light, and airy, than at that former period of few, small,
narrow and deep windows, when light and air were excluded, as well as
the missiles of an enemy. Not only in monastery, convent, and college,
but even in private dwellings, the large oriel was seen here and
there, suffering the beams of day to pour freely into the hall, and
casting the lines of its delicate tracery upon the floor; and, raised
somewhat above the general level of the room, approached by two steps,
and furnished with window seats, it afforded a pleasant and sun-shiny
sitting-place to the elder and younger members of the family.
There was one of these oriel windows in the lesser hall, of Chidlow
castle; and round the raised platform, within the sort of bay which it
formed, ran a sort of bench or window seat of carved oak, covered with
a loose cushion of crimson velvet. The lattice was open, and soft air
and bright light streamed in. The winter had been remarkably long and
severe. The snow had lain upon the ground till the end of March; and,
even then, when one bright day had succeeded, and withdrawn the white
covering of the earth, it was only to be followed by a week or ten
days of sharp frost, which reigned in its full rigour during some of
the events which we have narrated in the previous chapters. Now,
however, winter had departed, and spring commenced with that sudden
and rapid transition, which is often the case in more northern
countries, and is sometimes seen even in England. The air, as I have
said, was soft and genial; the blue skies were hardly chequered by a
fleecy cloud; the birds were singing in the trees; the red buds were
bursting with the long-checked sap; and snowdrop and violet seemed
running races with the primrose and the anemone, to catch the first
smile of their sweet mother spring. The little twining shrubs were
already green with their young leaves; and the honeysuckle strove hard
to cast a verdant mantle over the naked brown limbs of the tall trees
which it had climbed. The scene from the lattice of the oriel window
was one of those fair English landscapes on which the eye loves to
rest; for the castle was situated upon a height, and below spread out
a rich and beautiful country, waving in long lines of meadow and wood
for fifteen or sixteen miles, till sloping uplands towered into high
hills, which glowed with a peculiarly yellow light, never seen
anywhere, that I know of, beyond the limits of this island. Gazing
from that lattice, over that scene, sat two young and beautiful girls,
with whom the reader is already acquainted. Very different, it is
true, was their garb from that in which they were first presented to
you whose eye rests upon this page; for the more simple garments of
the convent had given place to the splendid costume of the court of
that time; and the forms, which required no ornament, were half hidden
in lace and embroidery. But there was still the beautiful face of
Iola, with the bright beaming expression, which seemed to pour forth
hope and joy in every look, but now somewhat shaded with a cloud of
care; and there, the not less fair, though somewhat more thoughtful,
countenance of her cousin Constance, with her deep feeling eyes poring
over the far prospect, and seeming to search for something through the
thin summer mist that softened all the features of the landscape.
They were both very silent, and evidently busied with their own
thoughts. Some attendants passed across the hall, and others lingered,
to arrange this or that article of furniture. Others entered to speak
with them and the two girls, from time to time, turned an inquiring
look at those who came and went, showing that they were in some sort
strangers in the home of their fathers.
At length, the hall was cleared of all but themselves, and Constance
said in a low voice, "I wish, dear cousin, that my aunt would come. We
should not then feel so desolate. I think our good lord and uncle
might have left us at the abbey till he was at home himself."
"He would not have made the place much more cheerful," answered Iola,
with a faint smile; "for wisdom is a very melancholy thing, dear
Constance; at least if it be always like his. I fear me, too, even my
good merry aunt would not make this place feel anything but desolate
to me, just at present. She might cheer and support me a little, it is
true; but I have got terrible dreams of the future, Constance. I try
not to think of them, but they will come."
She paused and bent down her eyes, in what seemed painful meditation;
and Constance replied, in a gentle tone, saying: "Why, how is this,
Iola? You used not to look upon the matter so seriously."
"Alack, it gets very bad as it comes near," answered Iola, with an
uncheerful laugh. "It is something very like being sold for a slave,
Constance. However, the poor slave cannot help himself, nor I either,
so do not let us talk any more about it. I suppose I shall soon see my
purchaser. I wonder what he is like. Do you recollect whether he is
white or black?"
"Good faith, not I," answered Constance; "but he is not quite a negro,
I suppose. I have heard people say he was a pretty boy."
"A pretty boy!" cried Iola, raising her eyebrows. "Heaven defend me!
What will become of me if I am married to a pretty boy? Somewhat like
Sir Edward Hungerford, I suppose, lisping lamentable nonsense about
essences, and bestowing his best thoughts upon his tailor."
"Nay, nay! Why should you conjure up such fancies?" said Constance.
"You seem resolved to dislike him without cause."
"Nature, dear cousin," said Iola. "Nature and the pig's prerogative,
to dislike any road we are forced to travel. Yet, it is bad policy, I
will admit; and I will try to shake it off, and to like him to the
best of my ability. The time is coming fast when I must, whether I
will or not; for I think the oath I am about to take is to love him. I
do think it is very hard that women should not be allowed to choose
for themselves, and yet be forced to take an oath which they do not
know whether they can keep or not. Well, the worst of all the seven
sacraments is matrimony, to my mind. Extreme unction is a joke to
it--how can I tell that I shall love him? I don't think I can; and yet
I must swear I will."
"You are making a rack of your own fancy," said Constance. "Wait till
you have seen him at least, Iola; for, after all, you may find him the
very man of your own heart."
Iola started, and then shook her head mournfully, saying, "of my own
heart? Oh, no!"
Constance gazed at her in surprise; and for the first time a suspicion
of the truth crossed her mind. She said not a word, however, of her
doubts, but resolved to watch narrowly, with that kind and eager
affection which two girls brought up from youth together often feel
for each other, where no rivalry has ever mingled its bitter drop with
the sweet current of kindred love. She changed the subject of
conversation too, pointing to some towers in the distance, and saying,
"I wonder whose castle that is."
"Middleham, I dare say," answered Iola, in an absent tone. "It is
somewhere out there--but yet it cannot be Middleham either. Middleham
is too far."
"There is something moving upon that road which we see going along the
side of the hill," said Constance. "I dare say it is my uncle and his
train."
"No, no, Leicester lies out there," answered Iola; "you never can find
out the country, dear cousin; and I learn it all in a minute, like the
leaf of a book. I dare say it is some wild lord, riding to hawk or to
hunt. Heaven send it be not my falcon, just towering to strike me
before my uncle comes. I'll not look at them. They seem coming this
way;" and she turned from the window and went down the steps, seating
herself upon the lower one, and resting her cheek upon her hand.
Constance did watch the approaching party, however, till it became
evident that those whom she saw were coming direct towards the castle.
They were now seen and now lost among the trees and hedges; but every
time they reappeared they were nearer.
At length Constance turned her eyes to Iola, and said, "they are
coming hither, whoever they are; and my uncle is certainly not one of
the party. They are only five or six in all, and seem young men. Had
we not better go away to our own chamber?"
"No," answered Iola, starting up. "I will stay and face them.
Something seems to tell me, that I know who is coming. You shall see
how well I can behave, Constance, wild as you think me, and untutored
in the world's ways as I am."
"They may be mere strangers after all," said Constance; "but here they
are; for I can hear the dull sound of their horses' feet upon the
drawbridge."
Iola sprang up the steps again with a light step, and twined her arm
in that of her cousin. Both movements were very natural. We always
like to stand upon a height when we meet those of whom we have any
fear or any doubt; and Iola felt the need of sympathy which the very
touch of her cousin's arm afforded her. A pause followed, during which
Constance sought to say something and to look unconcerned; but words
she found not; and her eyes as well as Iola's remained fixed upon the
door. At length it opened; and, preceded by one of the officers of the
castle, but unannounced by him, two gentlemen entered with a quick
step. One was instantly recognized by both the fair girls who stood in
the oriel, as Sir Edward Hungerford. The other was a stranger to them
both. He was a dark handsome-looking young man, of some two or three
and twenty years of age, dressed in somewhat of a foreign fashion,
which, had they been much acquainted with such matters, they would
have perceived at once to be the mode of the Burgundian court; but
Iola's eye rested not upon his dress. It was his face that she
scanned; and Constance felt a sort of shudder pass over her cousin's
frame, as she leaned upon her arm, which pained and grieved her much.
She saw nothing disagreeable, nothing to dislike in the countenance or
air of the stranger. His step was free and graceful, his carriage
dignified and lordly, his look, though perhaps a little haughty, was
open and frank. In fact he was a man well calculated to please a
lady's eye; and again Constance said to herself--"There must be some
other attachment."
The stranger came on at an equal pace with Sir Edward Hungerford; but
it was the latter who first spoke.
"Permit me," he said, "dear ladies, to be lord of the ceremonies, and
introduce to you both my noble friend Arthur, Lord Fulmer."
The other seemed not to hear what he said; but, mounting the steps
into the oriel at once, he took Iola's hand, saying--
"This must be the Lady Iola."
With a cheek as pale as death, and an eye cold and fixed, but with a
firm and unwavering tone, the fair girl answered--
"My name is Iola, my lord. This is my cousin Constance. We grieve that
my uncle is not here to receive you fittingly."
"I bring you tidings of your uncle, dear lady," replied Fulmer, still
addressing her alone. "A messenger reached me from him at an early
hour this morning, telling me that he would be at Chidlow during the
evening, with a gay train of guests, and bidding me ride on and have
everything prepared for their reception. He spoke indeed of sending a
servant forward himself. Has no one arrived?"
"No one, my lord," replied Iola, "at least no one that we have heard
of. But, having lived long in close seclusion, we are, as it were,
strangers in my uncle's house, without occupation or authority. I pray
you use that which my uncle has given you, to order all that may be
necessary. As for us, I think we will now retire."
"Nay, not so soon," exclaimed Fulmer, eagerly. "This is but a brief
interview indeed."
Sir Edward Hungerford too, in sweet and persuasive tones, besought the
two ladies not to leave them, but to stay and give their good advice,
as to the delicate preparation of the castle for the expected guests;
but Iola remained firm to her purpose; and Constance, when she saw
that it would distress her to remain, joined her voice to her
cousin's; and, leaving the two gentlemen in the hall, they retired to
Iola's chamber.
With her arm through that of Constance, Iola walked slowly but firmly
thither; and it was only as she approached the door that anything like
agitation showed itself. Then, however, Constance felt her steps waver
and her frame shake; and, when they had entered the room, Iola cast
herself on her knees by the side of the bed, hid her face upon its
coverings, and wept.