In a large room, of the convent of Black Nuns, near Tewksbury, with a
vaulted roof and one window at the farther end, seated at a small
table, and with an open parchment book upon it, was the Princess Mary
or Margaret of Scotland--for she is occasionally called in history by
both those names. She was diligently examining the pages of the
volume, in which seemed to be written a number of names, with comments
attached to them, in the margin, in a different coloured ink. On the
opposite side of the table stood an elderly man in the garb of a monk,
who remained without speaking, and with his eyes fixed calmly upon the
princess, apparently not at all comprehending the object of her
search.
At length, when she had run her eye and her finger down the whole line
of names upon every page, pausing for a moment here and there, to
examine the observations attached to some particular entry, the
princess raised her eyes to the old man's face, saying--
"And these are all the men of note, you are sure, good father, who
fell at Tewksbury?"
"All who are buried here," replied the monk. "There were some others,
whose names you will find, if you turn over two pages, who were borne
away to rest elsewhere. They were not many; for their friends did not
like to come forward and claim them, for fear of being compromised in
what was called the treason. So all that were not claimed were buried
here, and the rest, as I said, removed."
Mary turned over to the page which he mentioned, and found some twelve
or fourteen other names, which, to her at least, were totally without
interest. She then closed the book, and gave it to the monk, saying "I
thank you much, good father. There is something to benefit your
convent, and pay masses for the souls of those who fell."
The old man called down a blessing on her head, and walked slowly
along to the end of the old vaulted room, in order to depart, passing
a gay and sunny-looking girl as he did so. She advanced with a light
step from the door, towards the princess's chair, looking, as she went
by the old man in his sober grey gown, like spring by the side of
winter; and, when she came near the lady, she said, holding up a small
packet in her hand--
"Here is a curious thing, your highness, which has just been shown to
me by an extraordinary sort of man. He wishes you to buy it; and in
good truth it is not dear. I never saw anything more beautiful."
"I am not in the mood for buying gewgaws, child," replied the
princess. "Well, show it to me, not that I shall purchase it; for of
that there is little chance."
The young lady immediately advanced, and placed in her hand a golden
cross, ornamented with sardonix stones, Mary hardly looking at it till
she had received it fully, her mind being probably busy with what had
just been passing. When her eyes at length fixed on it, however, her
countenance underwent a strange and rapid change. Her cheek grew pale,
her beautiful eyes almost started from their sockets, and with a low
cry, as if of pain and surprise, she sank back into her chair.
"Good Heaven, what is the matter, lady?" exclaimed the girl. "Your
highness is faint. Let me fly for help."
But Mary waved her hand for silence, covered her eyes for a moment,
and then bending down her head over the cross, seemed to examine it
attentively. But the girl, who stood by her side, saw clearly tears
drop rapidly from her eyes upon the trinket.
The moment after, the princess dashed the drops away, and, turning to
her attendant with a face full of eagerness, demanded:
"Where is the man? Bring him hither instantly."
The changes of expression in her countenance had been so
lightning-like, so rapid, that the girl stood for a moment like one
bewildered, but then, at an impatient gesture of the princess, hurried
from the room. At the end of a minute or two she returned, followed by
the piper, somewhat better clothed than usual, but still bearing
evident signs of his class, if not of his profession, about him. The
princess fixed her eyes upon his face, with a keen, penetrating,
inquiring look, as if she would have searched his soul, and then said,
turning to the girl who had accompanied him into the room: "Retire."
Still, after the attendant was gone, Mary continued to gaze upon the
man before her in silence. It seemed as if she wished, before she
spoke, to read something of his nature and his character from his
looks. At length, in a low and tremulous but yet distinct voice, she
asked:
"Where got you this cross?"
"That I must not say, lady," replied the piper. "Are you the princess
Mary of Scotland?"
"I am," she answered. "Must not say?--Good faith, but you must say!
This cross is mine; and I will know how you possessed yourself of it."
"If you be the princess Mary of Scotland, and that cross be yours,"
replied the piper, who was now quite sober, and had all his wits about
him, "I was bid to tell you that the fate of the person you seek for
may still be heard of near the abbey of St. Clare of Atherston. You
may keep the cross without payment, for in reality it was sent to you
as a token."
"Keep it," cried the princess, pressing it to her bosom, "that I will!
I will never part with it more. Payment! Here, hold out your hand;"
and, half emptying her purse into it, she added: "Had you brought me a
king's crown, you had brought me nothing half so precious." Then,
leaning her brow upon her fair hands, she fell into a long deep train
of thought, which, perhaps, led her far away, to early days, and
scenes of youthful joy and happiness, while hope, and love, and
ignorance of ill, the guardian angels of youth's paradise, watched
round her path and round her bed. At length, She seemed to tear
herself away from the visions of memory; and looking up, she said, in
a slow and somewhat sad voice--
"St. Clare of Atherston. Ay, it was near there, at Atherston moor.
But, how can that be? I have watched, and enquired, and examined, and
seen with mine own eyes; and there was no trace."
"I cannot tell your highness how it can be," replied the messenger;
"for I know little or nothing; and guesses are often bad guides. But
this I can do. I can lead you to one who can give you all the tidings
you desire."
"Ha!" cried the princess, starting up. "Let us go. Let us go at once. I
will give instant orders."
"Nay, sweet lady," answered the piper. "In good sooth, my horse must
have some time for rest; and my old bones are weary too; for I have
had scanty fare and long riding."
"You shall have refreshment," said the princess. "I would not be
unmerciful, even in my impatience; but yet we must set out to-night. I
will not lay my head upon a pillow till I am upon the way. Now tell
me, before I send you to get food and rest, who is the person to whom
you take me?"
"Nay, that I know not," replied Sam. "I have given my message as I
received it. I know no more."
"Now this is very strange," exclaimed Mary, "and raises doubts. I know
not that I have injured any one, or that there is any who should wish
to do me wrong; but yet I have found that men will wrong each other
full often without a cause, sometimes without an object. Yet this
cross, this cross! I will go, whatever befall. This cannot lie or
cheat. I will go. But one thing at all events you can tell me. Whither
are you going to lead me. You must know the place, if not the person."
"Ay, that I can tell, and may tell," replied Sam. "It is to the house
of a poor honest Franklin, who labours his own land, in the heart of
an old wood. A quiet and a secret place it is, nearly half way 'twixt
Atherston and St. Clare. The man is a good and honest man too, lady,
of more than seventy years of age, who lives in great retirement,
rarely seen but once in every summer month at Atherston market, where
he sells his corn and sheep; and when they are sold, he goes back upon
his way, holding but little talk with any one."
"Seventy years of age," said the princess, thoughtfully. "Nay, that
cannot be then."
"But indeed it is, lady," replied the piper, mistaking her meaning;
"for I have known him twenty years myself and more, and have seen his
hair grow grizzled grey, and then as white as snow."
"Did you ever know or hear," demanded the princess, "of a dying or
wounded knight being carried thither, from any of the last combats
that took place between Lancaster and York--I mean about the time of
Tewksbury?"
"No," replied Sam; "but I was lying ill then, being hurt with a pike
at Barnet, and could not walk for many a month."
"And you can tell no more?" asked the princess.
"No, nothing more," he answered, "but that there you will have the
tidings which you seek, as surely as you see that cross in your hand."
"Come of it what will, I will go," said the princess. "But which is
the safest road? for it is strongly rumoured here, that the earl of
Richmond has landed somewhere on the coast, and that armies are
gathering fast to meet him. We might be stopped."
"Oh no, all is quiet in this part of the land," replied the other;
"and we can easily go by Evesham and Coventry. I heard all the news
as I journeyed on. The earl, they say, has indeed landed in the far
parts of Wales; but his force is very small, and not likely to stand
against Sir Walter Herbert who commands there. A mere scum of that
ever-boiling pot called France, with scattered and tattered
gabardines, lean and hungry as wolves."
"They may be found as fierce as wolves," said the princess. "But it
matters not. I will go, even should they be fighting in the midst of
the road. Now, good man, you shall have food, and your horse too. I
give you till four o'clock--time enough for rest. Be you ready; and,
if you lead me aright, you shall have further recompense."
Her impatience somewhat outran the clock. She was on horseback with
her train, some minutes before four; and, ere they paused for the
night, they reached the small town of Evesham. The next day brought
them to Coventry, and thence a short day's journey remained to
Atherston. They arrived in the evening; but still there were two or
three hours of light; and as soon as the princess had entered the
small inn, to which she had sent forward harbingers, she ordered her
guide to be called, and told him that in half an hour she would be
ready to set out.
"The place cannot be far," she said, "for I remember the road well;
and 'tis not a two hours' ride hence to St. Clare."
"Were it not better to wait till morning?" demanded Sam, with a look
of some doubt. "It will take you well nigh an hour and a half to reach
the place we are going to, and--"
"And what?" demanded Mary, seeing the man pause and hesitate.
"I was going to say," replied Sam, "that you must take but two
attendants with you--men to hold the horses; and it might be as well
to wait till morning, as I hear troops are gathering fast, and tending
towards Nottingham, so that 'tis better to ride by daylight."
Mary gazed at him with some suspicions rising again in her mind; but
yet the very wish to travel by daylight seemed to speak honesty of
purpose.
"Was that what the man told you, whom I saw speaking to you at the
door?" she asked.
"Yes," replied Sam. "He told me there were troops moving about in all
directions."
"And why must I have only two men with me?" she demanded.
"I know not," replied the piper. "So I am told. But, if you have any
fears, I will remain in the hands of your men, while you go in. They
can easily drive a sword through me, if any evil happens to you; but I
only say it is better to go in the morning, lest we should meet any of
the roving bands which always flock to the gathering of armies. Be it,
however, as you please."
Mary thought for two or three moments, but then rose, saying--
"I will go, and at once. I cannot rest in uncertainty. Let them bring
forth the horses as soon as they are fed. We will ride quick, and make
the way short."
From Atherston, for about half a mile, the little party pursued the
highway, till shortly after crossing the little river Anker, from the
banks of which they turned through lanes and by-paths, till they came
to a piece of sloping ground, where two hills crossed each other with
a low dell between them. A small stream ran in the valley; and beyond
the opposite slope, towards the north west, extended a considerable
mass of wood-land, over which were seen, rising at the distance of
five or six miles, the ruined walls and towers of the old castle near
St. Clare. The sun was already on the horizon, and the spot over which
they rode was in shadow; but the sky was beautifully clear, and the
golden light of the setting sun caught the high distant ruins, and the
young trees upon the hill on which it stood.
"Here," said the piper, who was riding beside Mary to show her the
way, "here was fought the last skirmish of the war. It was one of the
most bloody too; for little quarter was given, and many a brave
soldier and noble gentleman fell here."
"I know it well," said Mary, with her eyes full of tears. "I have been
here to weep before now. Oh, that my eyes could pierce those green
grassy mounds, and know who sleeps beneath."
"They were not all buried here," said Sam, in a low tone. "Some were
buried at the abbey, and some at Atherston. Those were the knights and
captains. The common soldiers lie here."
Mary rode on in silence; and more than once she wiped the tears from
her eyes. A mile farther brought them to the wood; but from this side
the distance to the franklin's house was farther; and the last quarter
of a mile was ridden in twilight. At length, however, while they could
still see, they came in sight of the low house, with its single story,
and the cultivated ground around it; and pointing with his hand, the
piper said, in a low voice--
"That is the house. Now you must go forward alone, lady; and when you
reach the door knock hard with your hand, and they will give you
admission. Ask to see the lady."
"The lady!" said Mary, in a tone of surprise.
"Yes," replied her guide, "the lady. I will stay here with the horses,
in the hands of your servants. There you will get the tidings which
you have long sought."
The lady dismounted, and, bidding the servants wait, walked along the
little path. They could see her approach the house, and knock with her
hand at the door. It was opened instantly, and she disappeared.