It was in the month of July, often a wet and rainy month, in this good
climate of England; but the rain had exhausted itself, and sunshine
had come back again, bright and clear. The world looked fresh and
beautiful, as if a new spring had come; and light and pleasant air
tempered the heat of the atmosphere; yet the door of the woodman was
shut and bolted; and, in the middle of the summer, a large fire burned
upon the hearth. With his leathern jerkin cast off, his powerful and
sinewy arm bare, and a heavy hammer in his hand, he stood by the fire
turning, from time to time, a piece of iron which lay amidst the
ashes. Then, approaching a sort of moveable anvil, which stood in the
midst of the floor, he adjusted upon it some plates of iron, fastened
closely together by rivets, one of which however was wanting. Next,
bringing the red hot iron from the fire, he passed it through the two
holes where the lost rivet had been, and with heavy blows of the
hammer fastened the whole together, while his large hound stood by and
contemplated his proceedings with curious eyes. Then throwing down the
iron plates by the side of some others very similar, he took up a
bright corslet, grooved and inlaid with gold tracery, and gazed upon
it with a thoughtful and a care-worn look. Through the hard iron, on
the right side, was a hole, of the breadth of three fingers, and all
round it the crimson cloth, which lined the corslet, was stained of a
deeper hue.
"Ay, Ban," said the woodman, speaking to the dog, "those are the holes
which let life out! How is it to be mended? Nay, I will let it be--why
should I care? 'Twere a lucky lance that found twice the same
entrance;" and he cast down the corslet on the floor.
The dog turned round towards the door, and growled; and the next
instant some one raised the latch, and then knocked for admission. In
haste, but yet with no agitation, the woodman lifted the various
pieces of armour which cumbered the ground, removed them to the inner
room, and locked the door. In the mean time the knock was repeated
twice or thrice, and the dog bayed loud. The woodman drew the bolts,
and threw back the door suddenly; but the only figure which presented
itself, was that of Sam, the piper.
"Why, what have you been about, Master Boyd?" he said. "You were
hammering so loud but now, I could not make you hear."
"Mending my tools," said Boyd, with a grim smile. "But what want you,
Sam? Have you brought me any news?"
"Ay, plenty," answered the piper. "First, let me put down my bag, and
give me a draught of beer, if it be but thin penny ale, for I am
thirsty, and my mouth is full of dust."
"It has often been full of other things since day-break," said the
woodman; "but thou shalt have the beer. Sit you down there, outside
the door, and I will bring it you."
The piper sat down on the rude seat at the door; and, while the
woodman departed "on hospitable thoughts intent," the hound came and
laid its head upon the lap of the wandering musician. But Sam, as
curious as any of his class, was seized with a strong desire to see
what the woodman had been really doing, and was rising to look in. The
moment he attempted to move, however, the dog, though he knew him
well, began to growl, and thus kept him there, as if he had been
placed on guard, till Boyd's return.
"Well, now for your tidings then," said Boyd, when the man had drunk.
"Which will you have first?" demanded the piper, "news from the court,
the castle, or the field?"
"It matters not," said Boyd. "Shake them out of the bag, Sam, as they
come."
"Well then, from the court," said Sam. "It should have the place of
honour, though there is but little honour in it. Well, the king is
mighty wroth to hear that the Earl of Richmond has put to sea with a
fleet and army to invade England. He laughed, they say, when he was
told thereof; and, when he laughs, 'tis sure that he is angry."
"But is Richmond on the sea?" asked the woodman. "I doubt it."
"Nay, I speak but what men tell me," answered Sam. "They say he is on
the sea with a great power. Many men refuse to pay the benevolence
too, and declare it is an exaction against the law. All this makes
Richard angry; and he rages at trifles like a mad bear, when the dogs
have got him by the muzzle."
"He'll need a bear-ward, soon," said Boyd; "and he may get one."
"Men say he is insane," continued Sam, "and that his brain has never
been right since his son died at Middleham. However, the queen's
funeral was as glorious as could be; and Richard wept a basin full, I
am told. But yet men have cried more over a raw onion, and never felt
it much at heart."
"Well, well, what is all this to me?" asked Boyd, impatiently. "The
queen is dead and buried. God rest her soul! It had little rest here,
since she married the murderer of her husband. The king might love
her, or might not, may grieve for her, or not. What is all that to me?
She was not my wife;" and, seating himself on the bench, he bent his
eyes thoughtfully upon the ground.
"Well then, my court news is told," said Sam. "Now for my country
gossip. Know you, good man Boyd, that the Lord Chartley, whom you and
I had to do with a good many months ago, when they burned the houses
on the abbey green, is back at Tamworth?"
"Ay, I know," replied Boyd. "He has been here thrice, hovering about
like a fly round a lamp."
"He's a good youth," said the piper. "He promised me one gold angel,
and he gave me two. He has a right loving remembrance of that night
too; for I never see him but I get a silver remembrance thereof, so I
am rich now, Master Boyd. Then, there's his good cousin, Sir William
Arden. He hangs fondly about here too, and is, most days, at the grate
of the convent."
"Ay, what does he there?" asked Boyd.
"Why, he talks to the Lady Constance by the hour," answered the piper;
"and they all say it will be a match, although, if he be not well
stricken in years, he has been well stricken in wars. He's a good man
too, and bountiful of silver groats; but his hair is getting mottled
with grey, so that he is not so good a man as the young lord, whose
hair is all brown.
'Oh, give to me the bonny brown hair,
The teeth so white, and the skin so fair,
The lightsome step, and the dainty air,
Of my sweet Meg of the May.'
"No, no. I like Chartley best; and I shall make a fortune by him too,
before I've done. 'Tis the first luck that ever befel me, and I shall
open my cap to catch it."
"Then, will you let it all run out in drink?" said Boyd. "But, how may
this luck come to you?"
"Why, he has promised me," said the piper, "to fill me a gill stoup
with gold pieces, if I can find out for him where liggs the pretty
lass who watched with him in the forest through one live-long night
not long ago. The Lady Iola, they call her. I know not if you know
such a one, woodman; but he has asked high and asked low, asked rich
and asked poor, and employed all sorts of cunning men to know where
the lady is, so that, in sheer despair, he has betaken himself to a
piper--and the piper is the man for his money, for he has found her
out."
The woodman started at his words; and, turning upon him with a stern
brow, he said--
"And thou hast told him?"
The piper paused for a moment, and then laughed.
"No," he said, at length; "I have not told him yet. I thought that I
would first speak with a certain person, who has sometimes odd
thoughts of his own, and who, though a rough man at times, has often
been kind to me, in days of trouble. When I meddle, I like to know
what I am meddling with; and though I be a poor wretch, who rarely
knows from one day to another where I shall get meat, or, what is more
important still, where I shall get drink; yet, to say truth, I would
rather lose a gill stoup full of gold pieces than make mischief which
I cannot mend. I therefore determined to speak first of all with this
person, who knows a good deal of the matter, and who, having hidden,
can find. Am I not wise?"
"Thou art better than wise," said the woodman, laying his strong hand
upon his shoulder. "Thou art good, as this world goes."
The woodman paused thoughtfully for a few moments, and then said--
"Not yet. You must not tell him yet. There is a task for her to
perform, a scene for her to pass through, before there can be
daylight. Said'st thou the earl of Richmond was on the sea?"
"'Tis so confidently reported," replied the other; "notices of great
preparation at Harfleur, and of troops collecting at Rouen, have
reached the court, and are noised about the city; and the rumour is,
that the good earl has sailed, intending to land in Dorsetshire or
Devon."
"Then he must fight or fail at once?" said the woodman; "and he must
be advised. Yet, doubtless, the tale is false; and at all events, it
is too late to stop him. Let me think. To-day is the twenty-eighth of
July, is it not?"
"Ay," answered the piper; "'tis so by my calendar."
But the woodman seemed not to hear him, and went on in the same
meditating tone, saying--
"It is a memorable day--ay, it is a memorable day. Once more in arms
Hark you, my friend, will you be my messenger?"
"What, to the earl of Richmond?" cried Sam, with a start.
"Who said the earl of Richmond, fool?" asked Boyd, sternly. "No, to a
lady."
"Ay, right willing," answered the piper; "if I judge who the lady is;
for she was always kind and good to me."
"Let not your wit run before your knowledge," said the woodman, "or it
will leave truth behind. I send you to a lady, whom you have seen, but
with whom you never spoke--"
He suddenly broke off, and seemed to let his mind ramble to other
things.
"If Richmond has spread the sail," he said, "he may have touched land
ere now. But Richard is unprepared. He has no force in the field, no
muster called, that I can hear of. There must be an error, and there
may yet be time enough. Do you remember a lady who, with a train of
maidens and grooms, passed through the forest several weeks ago?"
"Ay, right well," answered the piper. "She offered at the shrine of
St. Clare, looked through all the church, examined the monuments, and
read the books where strangers' names are written; and, moreover, she
gave bountiful alms, of which I had my share. Then she went to
Atherston, thence to Tamworth, and to many another place besides. She
was at the court too."
"And is now gone to Tewksbury," said the woodman. "It is to her I
intend to send you."
"'Tis a far journey, good man Boyd," replied the piper; "and
princesses are too high for me. They say she was a princess. You had
better send some one more quick of limbs than I am, and softer of
speech."
"I can spare none," replied the woodman; "and 'tis because thou art
not fitted to draw a sword or charge a pike that I send thee. As for
speed, thou shalt have means to make four legs supply a cure for thine
own lameness. Canst thou ride a horse?"
"Draw a sword or charge a pike!" exclaimed Sam. "Art thou going to
make war, woodman?"
"May not the abbey need defence in these troublous times?" demanded
Boyd. "Know you not, that I am bailiff now, as well as head woodman?
Canst thou ride a horse, I say?"
"That can I," answered the man. "In my young days I rode the wildest.
Would I had wild or tame to bear me now, for I hobble painfully."
"Well, then, thou shalt have one," said Boyd; "and, when thy journey
is done, keep him for thy pains. But mark me, thou shalt promise, on
thy soul and conscience, to drink nought but water till thou hast
delivered my message----"
"'Tis a hard oath," said the piper. "I took one like it once before;
and I was forced for a fortnight after to double the pint stoup, to
make up for lost time. Well, well, I will take it."
"That is not all," answered Boyd. "Thou shalt promise me, moreover, to
utter no word regarding whom the message comes from, neither to
mention my name, describe my person, nor tell my abode; but simply to
seek that lady, and tell her that the fate of the person for whom she
has so long enquired may still be heard of, and that you can lead her
to one who can give her all the tidings she desires."
"And bring her hither?" demanded Sam.
"No," answered the woodman. "First, let me be assured, if you really
know where the Lady Iola is. Tell me how you discovered her, and
where. Do not hesitate; for it must be told."
"Nay, I hesitate not," answered the piper, "for thou wert there too;
so I can little harm her. One night, as I was passing through the wood
which lies between Atherston and Alanstoke--you know the wood right
well, not the first coppice, but the bigger wood beyond--I heard a
sound of singing. There were many voices; and, as I love music, I
crept up, when in the little glade, beside the stream that runs into
the Tamworth water, I saw some thirty people, men and women too,
singing right sweetly. I know not well what songs they were--assuredly
not the canticles of the church--but yet they seemed pure and holy;
for ever and anon they praised God's name, and gave him honour and
glory. They prayed too, but in the English tongue; and I could not
help thinking it were better if all men did the same in the land. Sure
I am, if they did so, they would know better what they say than when
they pray in Latin; and, though people, no doubt, would call the
meeting Lollardy, I liked it well. Then, when they parted company, I
saw the Lady Iola, for she was one, walk away between two men. One was
about your height, good man Boyd. The other, I knew by his long white
beard--the good old franklin, Elias Ames. There was a lad followed, to
see that no one watched, I fancy; and he seemed to me wondrous like
the son of the gardener at the abbey. But I tricked his vigilance, and
followed round by the other path, till I saw the Lady Iola and the
good old franklin go into his pretty wooden house, with the woodbine
over the door, while the others went their way. Next morning, soon
after day-break too, I saw the lady peep forth from the window,
through the honeysuckles, looking, to my mind, far sweeter than they."
"Well, then," said the woodman, after meditating for a moment, "go to
the lady I have mentioned; tell her what I have said, but not who said
it; and lead her to that house with as few followers as may be. There
she will hear more."
"But how shall I get admittance to her?" demanded Sam. "Why, those
knaves, those grooms of hers, will look me all over from head to foot,
and then drive me from the door. How should a poor piper get speech of
a princess?"
"You shall have the means," answered Boyd. "Wait here for a minute;"
and, retiring once more into his cottage, he was a short time absent.
When he returned, he bore a piece of written paper in hand, and gave
it to his messenger, saying. "There, take that to Sir William
Stanley's bailiff at Atherston. He will help to send you on the way."
"A horse----believe him," said the piper, reading. "Does that mean he
is to believe a horse?"
"No," replied the woodman, gravely, "to believe you, and give you a
horse. I knew not that you could read. Now look here," he continued,
giving the man a large gold cross, of what is called the Greek form,
set with five sardonix stones, and attached to two very beautifully
wrought chains, terminating in the heads of serpents. It seemed of
very ancient workmanship, but was so splendid as greatly to excite the
admiration of the poor piper.
"There, cease gazing!" said the woodman; "but take that cross, and put
it up carefully, where it will be seen by no one, lest you should be
robbed and murdered for its sake. When you meet with the lady's
train--you will find her either in Tewksbury or some of the
neighbouring villages--ask to speak with her chief woman. Tell her to
take the cross to her mistress, and ask if she will purchase it. There
is money for your journey too. Methinks she will soon see you, when
she looks upon that cross."
"But what if she do not?" asked Sam. "What then?"
"Return," replied the woodman, apparently greatly moved; and, without
further words, he was re-entering his cottage, when the piper called
after him aloud, saying:
"Hark ye, hark ye, yet a minute, Master Boyd. There are two words to
the bargain, remember. If I undertake your errand, you must not spoil
mine."
"Thine, man!" exclaimed the woodman, turning upon him sharply. "What
is thine?"
"If I understood you rightly," said Sam, with a tone of deference,
"you said, or meant to say, that the secret of this dear lady's abode
was not to be told to the young lord as yet, but that it might be told
by and by. Now, I must be the teller; for I made the discovery."
"I understand thee," said the woodman. "Fear not, thou shalt have the
gill measure of gold pieces, which is what thou carest about; and no
one shall take it from thee. Now, quick upon thy way; for time
presses, and events are hurrying forward which admit of no delay."