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Title: The Red Tavern
Author: Charles Raymond Macauley
Release Date: November 14, 2013 [eBook #44182]
Language: English
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THE RED TAVERN
[Illustration: "'Hast thou peace and provender for a wayfaring knight?'"
[Page 45]]
THE RED TAVERN
by
C. R. MACAULEY
[Illustration]
New York and London
D. Appleton and Company
1914
Copyright, 1914, by
D. Appleton and Company
Printed in the United States of America
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
PROLOGUE 1
I. A WARRANT UPON DOUGLAS 18
II. ON THE WAY TO CASTLE YEWE 32
III. OF A NIGHT IN THE RED TAVERN 44
IV. THE INCIDENT OF THE WOLF-HOUND 59
V. THE INCIDENT OF THE CUTTING OF SAFFRON VELVET 81
VI. THE PAVILION OF PURPLE AND BLACK 94
VII. OF THE AWAKENING OF SIR RICHARD 104
VIII. OF A QUARREL AND A CHALLENGE 117
IX. OF AN AMBUSCADE, A DUEL, AND AN ESCAPE 133
X. OF A NIGHT IN A SHEPHERD'S HUT, AND A SURPRISE IN THE
MORNING 147
XI. OF HOW SIR RICHARD CAME TO CASTLE YEWE 165
XII. OF THE DELIVERY OF THE KING'S WARRANT 187
XIII. OF THE INCIDENT OF THE COBBLER'S FEAST 205
XIV. OF A SERIES OF REMARKABLE DUELS, AND DE CLAVERLOK'S PERIL 217
XV. OF THE GALLERY OF THE GRIFFIN'S HEADS 229
XVI. OF THE RETURN OF LORD DOUGLAS, AND THE COUNCIL OF JACKDAWS 250
XVII. OF A JOUST WITH BULL BENGOUGH, AND THE INCIDENT OF THE
KNIGHT IN BLACK 267
XVIII. OF SIR RICHARD'S MEETING WITH THE FOOT-BOYS, AND HIS
RETURN TO THE RED TAVERN 285
XIX. OF THE RESCUE OF THE MAIDEN 300
XX. OF HOW SIR RICHARD CAME TO THE SHEPHERD'S HUT, AND THE
RETURN OF TYRRELL 320
XXI. OF HOW SIR RICHARD LISTENED TO A STORY IN THE FOREST 335
XXII. OF HOW ONCE MORE THE YOUNG KNIGHT JOURNEYED SOUTHWARD 343
XXIII. OF A VISION IN THE FOREST OF LAMMERMUIR 358
XXIV. OF HOW SIR RICHARD PLAYED THE KING IN HIS LITTLE KINGDOM 369
XXV. OF THE END OF THE RED TAVERN AND ITS FITTING EPITAPH 382
XXVI. OF HOW A FLEDGLING DROPPED FROM THE CONSPIRATOR'S NEST 397
THE RED TAVERN
PROLOGUE
"S-s-st, there, good gossip, wake up, I pray thee! Hearest thou not
voices yonder in our lordship's tent? Methinks I can see between the
trees the glimmer of his council-candle. Even now he doth plan the
attack, whilst this cursed cross-bow is playing the very devil of a
traitor! The stubborn latch balks at speeding the string. Come--come,
wake thee, Jock! Spare me thy deft hand to its mending, or the first
peep o' day will discover me impotent to fly a bolt against our
crook-back enemy beyond the brook."
"Crook-back cross-bow--i' th' s-s-string----" muttered the one
addressed with drowsy incoherence.
"I tell thee, Jock, wake up!" the first speaker persisted. "Listen, I
say! Dost hear the hum of voices in brave Richmond's tent? Fix me this
damned cross-bow! Eftsoons it will come daydawn, man!"
"Daydawn, sayst thou?" returned the other, starting into broad
wakefulness and arising to a sitting posture. "Why, Dickon, thou canst
scarce glimpse thy five fingers before thine eyes; and the stars shine
as merrily in the vault as ever they did yestereve. What's the noise i'
the wood?" he added, sinking sleepily back upon his bent elbow.
"'Tis the sound of the rolling wheels of the crakys of war. Mark how
the blazing links of those who attend upon them weave fantastic shadows
amidst the trees. There! the cross-bow hath repented of its waywardness
and mended itself. 'Tis said of these shooting-cylinders in yon wood
that they can hurl a leaden slug of two score times the weight of a
caliver billet."
"Marry, Dickon," the other said, "and that be not the least part of the
weight of my nether stocks from lying knee-deep in this foul morass,
thou mayst dub me a shove-groat sword and buckler man. Where thinkest
thou," he added, "that King Richard hath gathered his forces?"
"I'll lay thee a round wager, friend Belwiggar, that the morning light
will find him across the brook," replied Dickon, disposing his huge
body for further rest upon the top of his cross-bow.
"I would it were not so," observed Belwiggar, yawning. "For here are we
with our bonnetful of men at the very tail of the triangle. 'Twill be
fight or die, comrade, and tyrant Richard deal with the hindermost."
Whereupon the speaker clambered to a higher point of ground and
prepared to resume his interrupted sleep.
Scenes and dialogues similar to the one here presented were being
enacted in every corner of the field. Especially did a spirit of
disquiet and apprehensive concern pervade that part of it so aptly
termed by Belwiggar "the tail of the triangle." All along the borders
of the morass, the banks of the creek, and within the dense forest were
to be heard anxious whisperings, mingled plentifully with muttered
oaths and threats of dire vengeance against a bitterly hated monarch;
and despite the earliness of the hour, within the leader's tent the
activities of a day destined to be so heavily fraught with historical
significance had already been inaugurated.
The interior of this pavilion was of a considerable amplitude; and,
in keeping with the manner of the period, was fitted out with every
necessary, together with not a few of the luxuries, of the toilet of
a prince of the royal house. Beside the couch with its silken covers
and damask canopies, whereupon the Earl of Richmond was reclining, was
a massive, carven table. Upon it stood a richly chased silver tankard
bearing a profusion of crimson roses. Within their center, singularly
enough, a pure white flower reared its beautiful head, the which served
admirably to enhance the royal splendor of its compeers.
Round about the plush-carpeted floor were seated John de Vere, Earl of
Oxford, Henry's chief of archery; Sir James Blunt, sometime captain of
the Castle of Hammes, in Picardy (the same who had connived at Oxford's
escape from that fortress); Sir Walter Herbert, and Sir Richard Rohan,
Richmond's boyhood companion, squire, and chief of horse. All were
armed at proof and full accoutered for the coming battle.
The last named, though but a youth of nineteen years, would without
doubt have arrested attention above any in the distinguished party.
The red crest of his helmet nodded quite two inches above that of
his tallest compatriot; his features were uncommonly trim and perfect
in the ensemble; and his every gesture abounded in that intuitive and
careless grace appertaining to exuberant health and spirits and a well
disciplined physical strength. As though to complete a picture already
approaching perfection, from beneath the rim of his head-piece a lock
of hair had escaped and shone golden in the mellow light of the wax
tapers guttering in silver sconces above his plume.
"Knowest thou not, Sir Richard," said Henry, bending above the roses
and inhaling their refreshing fragrance, "who sped to us these graceful
messengers?"
"I beseech thee, your grace," warned Oxford, "to observe some measure
of caution when breathing in their odors. 'Tis not impossible that a
deadly poison is lurking within their fair petals. It sits plain upon
my memory how poor Burgondy expired after the smelling of a nosegay."
"For the matter of that," spoke up the fair young knight, "had they
been laden with a secret poison I had not lived to bear them within my
lord's pavilion; for I sniffed of them a score of times whilst riding
hither."
"Then, certes, we are double safe," laughed Henry, "for their sweet
perfume, Sir Richard, hath filtered to our nostrils through thy good
body. But what like, say you, was the messenger by whom they were
bestowed?"
"It ill beseems me to say that I know not," the young knight replied,
"but such is the truth, my lord. I had but finished relieving the guard
at the further side of the wood when I heard a sound as of galloping
hoofs along the road from Market Bosworth way. Approaching, the rider
halted his steed where no ray of light from our blazing links could
reach to raise the veil of his identity. Then, calling my name, he laid
the flowers within my arms. 'For Henry, our noble liege,' he quickly
whispered, and rattled off down the highroad ere I could return word of
thanks."
"Saw you no cognizance upon his sleeve or upon the trappings of his
horse?" queried Blunt.
"Methought there was a rayed sun emblazoned on his arm," the young
knight answered. "Though, in truth, my lord, 'twas all done so quickly
I may not swear 'twas surely so."
"A Yorkist gift, by the rood! Marry, and this be true, my friends, it
is a good omen indeed," observed the Earl of Oxford, rising and going
to the table. For quite a space he leaned above it, gazing fixedly
upon the flowers, as though in the hope that they themselves might
unravel the mystery their presence had aroused. "But this," he added
presently, indicating the solitary white bloom, "doth sore defeat my
understanding. Wherefore, prithee, mingle the white with the red?"
"Methinks I have the solution of that enigma," spoke up Herbert, whose
form was merged in shadow, and who, until then, had taken no part in
the discourse. "I would crave his lordship's indulgence, however,
before adventuring my lame conjecture."
"Surely we would have thy answer to the riddle, Sir Walter," said
Henry, yawning sleepily. "My mind doth refuse to probe its baffling
depths."
"An I mistake me not," Herbert resumed, "my lord of Oxford in the
very profession of his perplexity hath reached a good half way to the
answer. Methinks 'tis meant to typify the peaceful mingling of the
white rose with the red."
"Why--body o' God, I see it now!" Henry exclaimed. "But first, by force
of arms, the red must overwhelm the white."
"Nay--not so, and your lordship, please," interjected Blunt. "But
rather, let us hope, a mingling through the milder expedient of
marriage."
"Ah! Princess Elizabeth!" cried Henry, assuming a sitting posture upon
the edge of his couch. "Sir Walter, thou hast given us a fair answer
and earned a guerdon for thy keen wit. But enough of soft speech, my
noble knights. And now, sirs, to the sterner business of the day! My
Lord of Oxford, where say'st thou camp Stanley's forces?"
"At a point equally distant from thine, most gracious liege, and those
of the infamous Richard. He desires thee to understand that his beloved
son's head hangs upon his dissembling devotion for yet a few hours to
the murderous hunchback's cause."
"Aye--I know. We may depend upon him and his three thousand horse,
think you?"
"With absolute certainty, my lord."
"'Tis well," observed Henry, laying aside his feathered cap and
stooping to allow his young squire to adjust a steel helmet to his
shoulder-guards. "Then do thou, my lord of Oxford," he resumed, "have
thy archers well in hand and ready against the first show of dawn. The
sun, standing in our enemy's eyes, should much confuse their aim. Bend
thy every energy toward staying their advance with a cloud of well
directed bolts. My good Captain Blunt, let our basilisks in the wood
fling their leaden hail above the heads of our kneeling archers. Sir
Walter Herbert, let thy mounted troop to the right and left be ready
for the final charge. And you, Sir Richard, faithful friend, bear upon
my right hand till the battle's done. Do thou each, noble gentlemen,
take one of these roses and entwine it with thy helmet's crest. What,
ho, guards! strip me this tent and bestow it with the camp litter
behind the wood. Now, thy brave hands, noble sirs; and God smile upon
our cause."
Into the dense vapors arising from the morass, which, in the gray light
of daybreak, were rapidly changing to a pearly mist, the leaders then
dispersed upon their several missions.
The droning of subdued conversation, the clanking of swords and steel
gear, the twanging of bow-strings undergoing preliminary trial, and the
tinkling of pewter flagons discharging their liquid cheer into parched
throats could be heard over all the field. Each armed host was alert
and ready, awaiting with tense drawn nerves the flaming signal in the
eastern sky.
From afar off a cock crowed a cheery welcome to approaching day.
"I would the blessed light would discover me an eye-hole across the
brook," one of the burly archers was saying. "I'd flick me a bolt into
its yawning center for God and a better king."
"Yea--truly. And any king, my friend, would be a better king," another
answered. "I would I could but fasten my aim upon the elfish-marked
monster himself. 'Twould be a mark worth finding, i' faith."
"My lord of Oxford is a brave and clever captain, lad. Were it not
for these leather guards our bow-strings would have been no whit more
useful than frayed rope's ends with this cursed damp. As 'tis, they're
fit to send a quiverful of white-hot billets into as many traitorous
gizzards. I, too, would that one of them might make its home within
the green midric of Richard himself."
"Hast heard the latest from the hunchback's camp?" another whispered.
"Nay. What is 't?"
"'Tis said by the outposts along the slough that there were heard wild
shriekings in King Richard's tent during the night."
"Ah! the foul fiends bidding him to their black abode. Mark you, Jock,
once he gets there he'll have the whole dismal brood hanged, drawn, and
quartered before the year's end."
"'Twould be his first gracious deed then, I give thee warrant."
From an opposite point of the compass a second cock crowed; and then
another and another. The day at last was dawning; the mist lifting,
dispersing. Slowly it thinned away, as though one after another of a
myriad of gauzy curtains was being raised from between the opposing
armies.
When eyes could penetrate from line to line hostilities began. A
pallid, ghost-like form, grotesquely exaggerated, would emerge from
the fog. Then would be heard a sharp cry, a groan, a horrible rattling
in an expiring throat, a flinging aloft of a pair of arms, and a
sinking of the spectral figure into the black mire above which it
seemed to have been floating.
These emerging shadows multiplied from one into a score; from a score
into a hundred; from a hundred into a thousand. There was no crash
of sudden onset and meeting. Rather there was that which resembled a
gentle crescendo of death. A blending together of two armed forces with
the melting of the fog. It was as though a peaceful entity had gently
risen to yield place to a warlike one.
By now, the din and crash were become incessant. Wading hip deep in the
reddening waters of the brook and in the crimsoning black mire of the
morass, the men of the opposed armies met and battled, hand to hand.
From the wood belched flashes of fire. Heavy smoke clouds rolled away
among the leaves. The thunder of primitive artillery reverberated
across the meadow, mingling its sound of a new kind of warfare with
that of the decadent.
Wherever a crescendo occurs, a diminuendo is commonly indicated.
The augmenting of Richmond's desperately battling forces by those of
Stanley marked the climax of the crescendo. The downfall of Richard
the Third before the sturdy lance of Richmond, the beginning of the
diminuendo; the fitting finale to the whole.
Wild of eye, disheveled, his charger struck away from beneath him, King
Richard faced his mortal foe. Dauntless to the last gasping breath, he
made one frenzied, vain effort to rally his scattering army.
"A horse! a horse! My kingdom for a horse!" he shrieked aloud; and
then, dying, pitched forward into the dust.
The Battle of Bosworth Field was with the history of things past.
"His kingdom for a horse, quotha!" shouted Stanley. "His kingdom?
Bah! What is his kingdom now, honest gentles?" he added, leaping from
his blood-slavered stallion and contemptuously spurning with his
steel-booted foot the pitiful remains of the dead monarch. "What is
his kingdom now?" Sir William repeated, looking inquiringly about him.
"Why, somewhat above three cubits of unwashed dirt. A full cubit less,
by the rood, than any man of us here shall inherit."
"Body o' God! an he had him a barb now, my lord of Stanley, whither,
thinkest thou, would he be riding?" shouted someone out of the circle
of mailed warriors that was exultingly closing in around the limp,
misshapen figure huddled upon the ground.
"Whither else but to the foul fiend!" returned Stanley, smiling grimly
up into the speaker's face. "'Tis an easy riddle thou hast set me,
a'Beckitt. But he'll need him no barb to fleet him his black soul into
the burning lake, I'm thinking."
"An Crookback sink not a treacherous dagger within the back of old
Charon before he's ferried him across the Styx, I am wide of my guess,"
interrupted a third.
"Or strike off and pole the three heads of Cerberus when he does get
over," suggested another.
"Look you yonder at the redoubtable Cheyney," again spoke Stanley,
pointing toward a gigantic body, sprawled limply, face downward,
over the top of a tangled clump of copsewood. "Him, good gentles, I
saw totter and go down before this lump of bent clay like unto a
lightning-riven oak. I' faith, much doth it marvel me at the furious
strength that kept its abode within this crooked carcase."
Upon an ebon-black stallion, and apart from the men hovering,
vulturelike, above Richard's body, sat the Earl of Richmond, the
fortunate young leader beneath whose lance the tyrant king had fallen.
By reason of a natural eminence of heaped earth and stone he was raised
well above the field, the whole of which he could command by a simple
turning of his head to right and left. Behind him the deep shadows of
Sutton Ambien Wood served picturesquely to emphasize the flash and
glitter of the plated and richly inlaid armor that girded him from head
to toe.
It was then but a brief fortnight and a day since the ship in which
he had embarked at Bretagne had brought him careening through Bristol
Channel to a safe landing upon England's coast at Milford Haven. In
that short time he had succeeded in setting a period to the devastating
Wars of the Roses, and in exchanging his earl's coronet for that which
fortune subsequently decided should be a crown.
The lifeless body stretched before him in the hollow marked the pitiful
end of nearly a century of deadly, internecine strife. Intently he
watched them denuding the stiffening corpse of its costly armor and
kingly vestments.
During these moments that England was without a legal monarch, Henry
Tudor, Earl of Richmond, remained motionless as a statue upon his black
steed, solitary, unheralded, forgotten.
"Body o' God, men! we'll give him a horse," he heard them wildly
shouting; and then impassively regarded them while they lashed the
bent, and now naked body upon the broad back of a lively hackney. It
was the final and brutal expression of a righteous indignation.
From every part of the field there rang in Henry's ears loud cries
of exultation over the dead and vanquished Richard, which merged
presently into a riotous pandemonium of inarticulate sound when the
horse, bearing its gruesome burden, was paraded before the men in the
direction of Market Bosworth Road.
"_Le roi est mort,--vive le roi!_" the clear voice of Henry's squire
made itself manifest above the din.
Something the faintest of smiles broke upon the impassivity of the
Earl's countenance as he turned his head in the direction whence this
cry had come. Sir Richard, bearing a jeweled crown outstretched in his
hands, was just leaping above the clump of copse-wood whereupon the
body of Sir John Cheyney was lying.
Lord Stanley, who, by this time, had resumed seat upon his horse,
quickly stationed himself between the approaching young knight and the
Earl of Richmond. Then, taking the crown that had encircled Richard's
helmet throughout the battle, he set it solemnly upon that of Henry.
Whereupon--"The King is dead, long live the King!" the cry rippled
abroad over the sanguinary field of Bosworth; and the blazing August
sun beat down upon a circle of upraised, flashing swords, unsheathed in
promise of fealty to the new monarch.
CHAPTER I
A WARRANT UPON DOUGLAS
Upon a massive chair of state within the private audience chamber,
which adjoined the throne room in the venerable castle of Kenilworth,
sat King Henry VII, gloomily brooding. An ermine trimmed robe of
softest velvet fell from his shoulders, rippling over the steps of the
raised dais to the floor below; a golden, jeweled crown sat awry upon
his head.
Five years as reigning monarch of a discontented and rebellious people
had borne their weight more heavily upon him than had the whole of the
twenty-nine preceding them. Though yet young, as time relatively to the
man is commonly measured, his hair and carefully pointed beard were
shot with premature gray. His countenance, deeply lined, was overspread
with a sickly pallor. His hands, clutching upon the arms of the
damask-covered chair into which he had thrown himself, and in which he
was now half-sitting, half-reclining, trembled as though palsied with
an enfeebled age.
His royal marriage with Elizabeth of York, daughter of Henry VI, had
marked the consummation of his loftiest ambition. The omen of the white
rose mingling with the red had been pleasantly fulfilled. Outwardly his
position seemed sufficiently secure. But beneath the surface there were
incessant ebullitions of seditious sentiment threatening momentarily to
seethe to the top and engulf him. Always, must dissembling be met with
keen and smooth diplomacy; plot, with adroit and clever counter-plot.
Because of his open aversion to war, his appreciation of the advantages
of negotiation and arbitration, he was stigmatized by his secret
enemies as being greedy and avaricious. Yet, on the other hand,
had he amassed great armies and plunged them headlong into foreign
conflict, thereby burdening his subjects with increased taxation, he
would doubtless have been regarded by these same malcontents as being
extravagant and needlessly cruel.
During the space of the greater part of an hour the King remained
seated in the precise attitude in which the opening of the present
chapter discovered him. His chin lowered upon his breast; his gaze
fixed straight before him; his fingers tapping ceaselessly upon the
arms of his chair.
Then, after the manner of a draped lay-figure imbued with sudden life,
he sprang to his feet, threw aside the purple robes enveloping him and
paced with nervous footfalls across the floor. Occasionally he would
pause, incline his head, and pass his hand fretfully across his brow.
Once he stopped, leaning heavily against a marble image of Kenelph,
Saxon king of Mercia, from whom the castle had its name. The sun of
a September afternoon shining brilliantly through one of the western
windows bathed them, the marble effigy and the man, in squares of
vari-colored light; affording thus a sharp contrast between the old
and the new. In the chiseled head of stone the stamp of an iron will
was predominant in every feature. Those of the living bespoke no less
the possession of a will; but a will that would seek ever to achieve
its purposes through the exercise of crafty cunning. The one had been
grimly determined, brave, and openly cruel and tyrannical. The other
was a secret coward, masking his cruelties beneath the guise of virtue.
Suddenly, looking up into the stone face of the dead king, the living
king smiled.
"Yea," said he. "We will--rather we must--yea, we must command it to be
done. And by doing it in that way, 'twill be transfixing two bullocks
with a single dart."
Thereupon, mounting the steps of the dais and reseating himself in his
chair, he carefully donned his robes of state, composed his features,
and gently pulled a golden tassel depending from a silken cord at his
elbow.
"Command my lord of Stanley instantly to attend me," was Henry's stern
behest to the court attendant, who bowed himself within one of the
curtained entrances.
Very soon thereafter Stanley came in. Approaching the dais, he knelt
upon the lower step, touching with his lips the indifferent and cold
hand extended to him.
"My lord of Stanley," said the King, "fetch yonder stool and dispose
thyself beside our knee. We would have speech of thee--and council."
Then, to the attendant waiting near the entrance, "Ralston," he ordered
tersely, "we would have it known that we will brook no interruption
till this conference be ended. But hold! do thou lay commands upon
lords Oxford and de Vere, and Sir Richard Rohan, to be ready and
waiting against our present summons. Thou mayst go, Ralston."
Silently the attendant withdrew. Folding his arms and looking steadily
into Lord Stanley's eyes, the King resumed.
"Now, Stanley, to the business in hand. From what source hast thou
drawn thy information that secret emissaries are at this moment on
their way hither to acquaint Sir Richard of the facts concerning his
noble lineage?"
"Are they then facts, my liege?" queried Stanley, his arched eyebrows
plainly evidencing his surprise. "Is it indeed true that this youthful,
fair-haired upstart may lay a true and proper claim to the title of
Earl of Warwick, and, through that title, a seat upon this very throne?"
"Presume not upon our indulgence, Lord Stanley," warned the King in a
menacing tone. "Thou hast met question with question. Now, my lord,
the source of thy information."
"I crave thy pardon, liege," Stanley hastened to return. "Full well
thou knowest, august highness, that every foul rebellion doth breed its
fouler traitors. From these coward turn-coats have I stumbled upon this
knowledge. The information thus gained I have supplemented and verified
with that gleaned by thine own honest and tireless servants. 'Tis, I
fear me much, unimpeachable."
"But under God's heaven, Stanley, how came these rag-tag rebels upon
the facts as to Rohan's lineage? Marry, my lord, methought 'twas hidden
as though sunken within the very entrails of the earth."
"Through one Michael Lidcote, a captain of ship in Duke Francis's
fleet. The same, I'll swear, who brought thee to England at Milford
Haven," Lord Stanley explained. "'Twas done, I hear, out of a certain
love for the young knight, and a desire to witness his elevation to
his--true position."
For a considerable space thereafter the King remained silent, his chin
resting upon the fingers of his clasped hands, his pale blue eyes
gazing straight ahead of him into space. In retrospect, his mind had
turned to the contemplation of some happy days in sunny Brittany when
he and Sir Richard were being reared and disciplined together beneath
the eye of the stern but kind old Duke. The images materialized must
have been pleasing to him, for the hard lines of his face softened into
the semblance of a smile. Then, with a sudden, determined lowering of
his head, a straightening of his thin lips beneath his sparse beard, he
turned again toward Stanley.
"Ah! how true it is," said he, "that desire for fame and power is but
an insatiate parasite which gluts and fattens upon the care-free joys
of youth. What is this glittering panoply, pray, but a mask? A shining
veneer, shielding from view the process of decay within? And now, after
yielding nearly all--my health, my strength, my happiness--you ask of
me that I shall spill the blood of my dearest friend. The companion of
my joyous youth. Him, say you, must I offer up on the gory altar of
public expediency. That I must perforce still the one brave heart that
beats with an unselfish devotion to my cause and person."
"'Tis needless to tell thee, my liege," purred Stanley, who was ever
careful to guard his precedence at the throne, "that the peace and
integrity of a nation depend upon thy secure hold upon this very seat.
Even that which but remotely menaces should be rendered impotent. These
expressions of thy tender sentiment, your highness, are attuned in
harmony with thy noble character as a man, but----"
"Yea, Stanley," interrupted Henry, making a show of partial surrender
to the flatterer's wiles, "but am I longer a man? There's the question,
my lord. Dare I think as a man, and not as a fear-stricken, fettered
monarch? Is it not true that the ruler hath swallowed up the mortal,
leaving naught but an outward pageant? An effigy of cold and heartless
clay upon which to drape a tawdry robe; to set a jeweled crown; to hang
a golden scepter?"
Stanley ventured no reply, and a somewhat prolonged interval of silence
followed Henry's theatric outburst.
"Think not that I am mad, my lord of Stanley," the King at length
resumed, and in a tone so low, melancholy, and sad, that its false
note was scarcely to be perceived. "It is indeed true that my first
concern must ever be to safeguard my beloved people. Hath these rumors
concerning the young knight been spread broadcast, my lord? It were an
ill time to essay a cure of the malady, and it had festered over all
England."
"It hath not done so, your majesty," Lord Stanley assured him. "The
aged seaman and all but two of the seditious leaders are now imprisoned
within the tower. The pair who escaped the meshes of my net are now
journeying hither from London in disguise. I have their names and know
well what like they are."
"'Tis well. Thy station be the forfeit, an they elude thee. Still all
their busy tongues, my lord. We lay upon thee royal warrant of their
death, and that speedily. Concerning the young knight's progenitors,
Lord Stanley, it doth please us to make of thee our single confidant.
This noble is in truth the son of the Duke of Clarence--the good Duke,
who came to his untimely end at the gentle hands of our esteemed
father-in-law. Thou dost remember well that he was attainted of high
treason, and that we took measures accordingly to have his issue
pronounced illegitimate. 'Twas done, as thou canst see, to guard
against such a contingency as hath now arisen. But to my tale. Sir
Richard, when but a suckling infant, was carried secretly to Brittany,
and enjoyed there, with me, the powerful protection of Duke Francis.
Why the die of England's sovereignty was cast in my favor, I know not.
God wot, Stanley, I wish that it had not been! Now, my lord, attend our
every word. The weak stripling, whom base Richard the Third believed
to be the true Earl of Warwick hath, under our command, for long been
immured within the tower. It is perhaps the better part of wisdom that
we should lesson thee that an exchange of infants was many years ago
covertly effected by one Dame Tyrrell, wife of Sir James Tyrrell, the
same who was bribed by Richard to strangle his two nephews, the boy
dukes remaining betwixt himself and the throne. Within a fortnight,
Stanley, do thou undertake to have the news of the death of this
changeling early published over all our kingdom. 'Twere the more
seemly, mayhap, and it appeared to have transpired through natural
causes. A return of the sweating sickness, or some like subterfuge."
"And the young knight, Rohan; what of him, most mighty liege?"
"Him, we would have thee to know," said Henry, "we love and trust above
any man, saving thyself, in all the length and breadth of England.
"Aye, marry, but----"
"Hold! have patience, my lord, and attend me. We know well what thou
wouldst say. Him, too, must we sacrifice for the sake of the peace and
safety of a people who love us but little. Do thou this very hour issue
warrant under the Great Seal and give it into Sir Richard's hands to be
delivered by him upon Douglas, in Castle Yewe, in Scotland. Lay royal
command upon Douglas that his courtiers shall engage the young knight
in quarrel and honorable conflict to the end that he return not again
into England."
"By the rood, august highness! wouldst make him the bearer of his own
warrant of death? 'Tis a parlous risky business."
"Yea, my lord. But a risk that we are happy to assume out of a spirit
of fair play, and as a mark of our highest confidence. And know,
too, Stanley," Henry said, smiling shrewdly, "'twill rid us of many a
Scottish enemy. The young man battles tremendously well. And, more in
favor of this plan, 'twould be the death of Sir Richard's own choosing,
mark you."
"Aye, marry, doth he fight well. I can see many a Scot's midriff lying
open to his couched lance or drawn sword. My liege, shall I deliver
warrant here?"
"Here, and now. Let Oxford and de Vere be witnesses of its delivery.
Though, we charge thee solemnly, hint not to either of its purport. On
yonder table thou wilt find parchment. Take point in hand and write.
Send Ralston to me when thou hast done. The Queen doth await our
presence within the Hall of Windows."
For an hour or more after the King had gone, the eagle's quill within
Lord Stanley's fingers moved slowly back and forth across the sheet
of parchment. When he had finished with the body of the document and
signed his name he lifted his head and looked keenly, furtively about
the room. Arising, he moved swiftly from curtain to curtain. Lifting
each, he peered hastily beneath its heavy folds. Whereupon, satisfied
that he was alone, and resuming his seat at the table, he spread before
him another sheet of parchment and proceeded to copy, word for word,
that which he had written upon the first.
So intently did he engage himself upon this task that he failed to
notice the silent parting of a draped entrance, or the King's catlike
tread upon the thick pile of the carpet as he moved stealthily across
the floor. A long hand, very slender and very much be jeweled, moving
across the table before him and taking up the original document, gave
Stanley his first hint of his sovereign's presence.
Without a moment's hesitation, and not the slightest quivering of an
eyebrow, Lord Stanley arose and bowed low before Henry. He met the look
of stern inquiry on the King's face with a quiet smile.
"I crave thy pardon, liege, on the behalf of my sluggish fingers.
Fitter are they to wield sword in thy cause than pen."
"So it would seem. What meaneth this second transcript, my lord of
Stanley?"
"I bethought me that it would be well," replied Stanley upon the
instant, "because of the grave importance of the document, to issue
it in duplicate. The one to give the young knight safe conduct to his
journey's end, the other to secrete within the lining of his cloak or
doublet."
"'Tis a most excellent thought, by my faith!" exclaimed the King, the
black cloud passing from his brow. "Command Oxford, de Vere, and Sir
Richard to our presence. We would have done with the business, and with
all speed dispatch the young knight upon his travels."
CHAPTER II
ON THE WAY TO CASTLE YEWE
The ceremony attending the departure of Sir Richard upon his singular
errand was quickly over; and well within the limits of that day the
massive pile of ivy-grown walls, crenelated towers and copper-tipped
turrets of Kenilworth Castle had dipped beneath the undulating masses
of autumn tinted foliage behind the young knight and John Belwiggar,
whom the King had nominated to be Sir Richard's squire and attendant.
Within Henry's mind the expedient of dispatching the young knight
as bearer of his own death warrant had been conceived in a spirit
of absurd bravado. So far as his calculating and selfish character
permitted, he was fond of him. But if he suffered a regret, it was
wholly personal, and because of circumstances that had compelled him to
part from one in whose companionship he had derived a great deal of
pleasure. In respect of any feeling of genuine sorrow, the entire scene
enacted between himself and Stanley had been a complete farce. Though
he had invested that doughty warrior with many and distinguished honors
and great power, he had never entertained on the behalf of his chief
official that feeling of confidence so essential to the complaisance of
mind of any ruler. It was his intention to set before that individual
an example of integrity and devotion that the King fancied would be
well worthy of emulation. As an additional safeguard, however, he
caused secret spies of his own selection to be dispatched in the
train of Sir Richard. In adopting this course he believed himself
to be keeping the situation well in hand; at once guarding against
any interruption of the final delivery of the unusual warrant, and
providing him with the means of testing Lord Stanley's devotion to his
cause.
Thus, had not Sir Richard taken it into his head to follow an itinerary
entirely different from either the one suggested by Henry, or that
secretly transmitted to him beside the portcullis by Lord Stanley,
some state problems of vast magniture and importance might then have
been solved. As it subsequently transpired, all along and between the
roads that it was definitely supposed the young knight and his squire
would make their pilgrimage, King's emissaries were constantly meeting
and receiving entertainment of Stanley's lieutenants, as well as the
other way about. Obviously, neither the one side nor the other dared
to hint of its purpose of espionage or destination; nor yet dared to
display any undue haste in parting to pursue its secret way. It also
became necessary for them to observe every possible precaution in the
matter of covering up their trails, one from another; and, in this way,
the innocent cause of this rather amusing game of cross-purposes was
permitted to go unmolested upon his way.
The route that Sir Richard had chosen rendered it necessary for himself
and squire to tread paths and by-ways used chiefly by peasant farmers
and sheep-herders. At times, after a heavy fall of rain, such of these
as wound through the low lying valleys would become wholly impassable,
making it needful for our pilgrims to await the draining of the flood
into the rivers, or to make long detours to come upon the other side.
For this reason, it had reached well along into October before they had
passed through the Liberties of Berwick and set foot upon Scottish soil.
It was growing late in the afternoon of their second day in Scotland,
and while they were skirting the edge of a rock-tarn lying in gloomy
seclusion in the middle of a desolate moor, that Sir Richard was
murderously deprived of the services of his squire and brave attendant.
There had been no hint of the approach of the tragedy; no clue as to
the identity or purpose of the cowardly perpetrators following its
occurrence.
Mounted upon his mettlesome charger, which, though uncommonly powerful,
was somewhat fatigued because of the many miles put behind him that
day, the young knight was riding slowly along some two hundred yards
in advance of Belwiggar. The sky was heavy, gray, and lowering; and
the boulder-strewn, monotonously level expanse of moor affording no
pleasant aspect or interesting contrasts to the eye, Sir Richard's
gaze remained fixed upon the nodding head of his stallion. So near the
brink was the narrow path winding along the waters of the tarn, and so
unruffled was its surface, that steed and armored rider were mirrored
faithfully, point for point, beneath.
Hearing a sharp rattling of steel-shod hoofs behind him, and vaguely
marveling as to the cause of this unexpected and unusual burst of
energy upon the part of his squire, the young knight turned, with a
smile upon his face, to greet Belwiggar's approach. To his horrified
surprise he was but just in time to see the honest fellow writhing in
an agony of death, while the horse that he had so lately bestrode in
the prime vigor of rugged health whisked blindly ahead of the young
knight along the road, till, crashing against a huge boulder upreared
within its path, it stumbled, seemed to hang for an instant in mid-air,
and then, neighing with wild affright, disappeared with a tremendous
splash beneath the surface of the tarn.
Apprehending some immediate danger to himself, Sir Richard, upon the
instant, drew his visor close. Just as he had accomplished this move
a bolt struck fair upon the joint of his neck-guard; and, though it
did him no harm beyond causing his head to ring with the force of the
impact, it was the cunning of his armorer alone that had saved him from
a death similar to that of Belwiggar.
Having no means of knowing the exact direction from whence the arrows
had been sped, and the nature of the ground precluding the possibility
of sending his horse over it, the young knight made no attempt to seek
out and punish his assailant. He shot a glance of the keenest scrutiny
from boulder to boulder, but there was no sign of a living being upon
the moor. Satisfied that Belwiggar's death must go unavenged for the
time, he rode back to where he lay with a feathered shaft, still
quivering, protruding from his broad breast.
He dismounted beside the body, tethering his horse in the hollow
between two rocky promontories through which the path swung. He stood
looking around him for a space, uncertain what to do. So overwhelmingly
appalling and strange were the circumstances attending the tragedy,
and to that degree was Sir Richard oppressed by his melancholy
surroundings, that he became filled with a feeling of unspeakable
dread, an almost uncontrollable desire to throw himself upon the back
of his steed and gallop swiftly away. Torn by such emotions, it was
no light task to remain upon the scene for the purpose of making such
disposition of poor Belwiggar's body as his limited means would permit.
By employing the dead warrior's battle-ax in lieu of mattock, however,
he contrived to hollow out a sufficient space to lay him decently
away. Then, piling up a mound of loose stones above the shallow grave,
Sir Richard remounted and pursued his solitary way northward toward
Bannockburn and Castle Yewe.
As he journeyed onward the young knight made many determined efforts to
whistle and sing away a feeling of deep melancholy that persisted in
setting somberly down upon him. In the manner of a gloomy procession
passing in review before his mind's eye, he recalled all of the wild
folklore with which his ears had been beguiled since his advent into
Scotland.
"Scour ye'r hoorse ower the Sauchieburn Pass," a toothless and horrible
old hag had whispered into his unwilling ear upon the morning of that
very day. "Dinna ye ken," she had croaked, "that the deil flees there
at fall o' nicht?" and the bare thought that he would be obliged to
pass the night there alone, with nothing between his head and the
limitless heavens but a possible shelving rock, caused icy shivers of
fear to creep along his back.
There was one weird tale in particular that he had heard repeated with
a stubborn insistence that gave to it some semblance of verity. It was
that concerning a certain red tavern, which, according to the peasant's
lively imaginations, appeared suddenly along lonely and unfrequented
roadways, as though set there by the Evil One. After a time, then, it
was reported to vanish as suddenly and mysteriously as it had appeared,
taking along with it into the Unknown any luckless wayfarer that had
chanced to seek shelter beneath its phantom roof.
"Now, I am free to own," Sir Richard argued with himself, "that there
are certain strange phenomena of which the human mind can give no
proper accounting. But when it comes to tales of gibbering ghosts,
shadowy, phantom shapes and flying taverns--why, by 'r Lady! I'll set a
barrier of common sense against my credulity and refuse to believe."
He was quite aware, moreover, that none of his countrymen had ever
journeyed through Scotland without being bedeviled by somewhat of
these same gruesome tales. While it was true that the wily Lord Bishop
Kennedy had succeeded in effecting a truce of seven years' duration
between England and Scotland, it was obviously beyond him to beguile
the yeomanry into viewing an Englishman with anything approaching
favor. Nor yet, by any possible chance or subterfuge, could he have set
a truce to their wagging tongues. Legends and superstitions were a part
of their daily existence, and in proportion as they were fearsome they
enjoyed spreading them about.
Revolving these matters within an uneasy mind, Sir Richard gave small
heed to his surroundings. By now, he had laid the moor well behind
him. Through a slight rift in the rolling cloud-pall peered the last
segment of the setting sun; and away to the westward could be caught an
occasional glinting of the sea as the waves billowed through its golden
reflection.
Just ahead of him the road dipped into a valley. Along its bowl-like
bed lay a morass, which gave off continuously a heavy, bluish, and
probably poisonous vapor. To the north of the morass the road ascended
in easy gradients till it clipped the sky line at the distance of a
league and a half, or thereabouts, from where he rode.
At the precise point where the road showed bold and clear against the
clouds he fancied that he saw the expiring rays of the sun gleaming
against a point of vivid color. As he descended into the valley to
where the road divided the morass, the point of color disappeared
from view, and all of the landscape resumed its gray and monotonous
appearance.
Not wishing to inhale the miasmic vapor, in which, he feared, might
lurk some dire fever, Sir Richard drank long and deep of untainted
air. So much so indeed that the flesh of his back and breast impinged
strong upon his steel harness. Then, setting spurs to his stallion, he
galloped through the dank cloud without a breath of it reaching into
his nostrils.
As he drew near the northern reaches of the valley and rounded a
gigantic boulder that stood sentinel to the upper plain, he came
full upon a tavern that he at once surmised to be the same of which
he had heard so much. Upon the instant that he did so, he reined in
his steed to a dead stand. Aside from its brilliant though somewhat
weather-beaten coat of scarlet, it differed in many respects from the
taverns then commonly to be seen along the highways. Saving at the very
apex of its steep gable, its front was unpierced by windows. Above its
single, narrow door, which opened beneath the jut of the upper story,
hung a signboard bearing upon its surface the device of a vulture
feeding its young. Withal, however, it appeared to be material enough,
and this made it impossible for Sir Richard to account for a feeling of
unutterable dread that took complete possession of his mind.
Once he had almost decided upon riding straight to its entrance to beat
upon the rude panels of the door for admittance within. But before he
could summon sufficient courage to carry out his half-formed design,
a mortal terror returned strong upon him, and forthwith he sent his
stallion past it at a furious gallop.
It stood a full quarter of a league at his back before the ungovernable
fear within him gave ground to shame. He pulled up sharp, then
wheeled, and rode slowly back to its sinister door.
As he knocked with the scabbard of his sword upon the heavy planks a
drop of rain splashed against his helmet, trickled down over his closed
visor, and dripped through one of its orifices upon his chin.
CHAPTER III
OF A NIGHT IN THE RED TAVERN
As Sir Richard glanced above the jutting cornice he noted that the
clouds had turned to a murky green. Ragged tentacles were trailing
ominously earthward as the storm raged down upon the sea. Appreciating
the need of immediate shelter, and having as yet heard no answering
sounds from within, he sent another fusillade of blows against the door.
Almost upon the instant there followed a loud clanking of iron chains
and bolts. Then, as the door swung slowly inward, there stood revealed
within the open space a singularly odd and striking figure of a man. So
extraordinarily tall was he that he was obliged to stoop to make way
for his head beneath the lintel as he set his foot upon the step. He
vouchsafed no word of welcome or good cheer, but stood silent, waiting
for the traveler to speak.
With his sparse hair streaming in the augmenting wind, his keen eyes
burning within the shadow of a thicket of brows; his veritable beak
of a nose--vying with that of the crudely painted vulture above his
head--and his thin, bloodless lips, he appealed to the young knight
like anything but a picture of a hospitable inn-keeper. It being
habitual to associate with these highway entertainers a certain
rotundity of figure and jollity of demeanor. The one confronting Sir
Richard was attenuated to the last degree, though in despite of this
the breadth of his wrist, and the clutch of his bony fingers upon the
latch, betrayed his possession of a more than usual measure of physical
strength.
"Hast thou peace and provender for a wayfaring knight and horse?" our
astonished pilgrim made out to inquire.
Even then the landlord did not trouble himself to speak. Bowing assent,
however, he signed Sir Richard to dismount and enter. As he complied,
another man, with features very much resembling the first, but whose
figure was grossly misshapen, squat, hunchbacked, and long-armed,
emerged from the obscurity of the room and led away his horse. This
move was not accomplished without a considerable effort upon the
hunchback's part, for the spirited animal pricked up its ears, champed
its bit, and hung back on the bridle at sight of the apparition tugging
at the other end.
It was not without an inward sense of fear that the young knight moved
toward the glowing blaze, after he had seen his horse safely led,
though stubbornly contesting every inch of the way, around the corner
of the building. As he approached the chimney-side, a huge wolfhound
lying upon the hearth half rose upon its haunches.
In the bright light of the fire Sir Richard could see the stiff, wiry
gray hairs elevating along its spine, and the gleaming of white fangs
as it curled its lips from off them and emitted a savage growl.
"Crouch, Demon!" commanded the inn-keeper in a voice which, though low,
seemed by far more menacing than the savage grumble of the beast.
The hound instantly obeyed, resuming its recumbent attitude and
regarding the intruder furtively the while out of the tail of its
yellow eyes.
By now the wind had risen to the strength of a hurricane; whining and
shrieking dismally, it was dashing the rain with tremendous violence
against the northern and eastern walls of the tavern. With an inward
acknowledgment of his indebtedness to a kind providence for having set
a haven of refuge of any description along the highway, the traveler
took his place in a deep-seated bench beside the fire, unloosed the
fastenings of his helm and removed his gauntlets. He made as if to
unlock his greaves, but desisted upon a vivid recollection of the sharp
fangs of the wolfhound.
"By the rood, my good man, but how it doth blow," said he, rubbing his
benumbed hands in front of the warm and cheery blaze. "A stoup of red
wine or runlet of canary would scarce come amiss upon such a night, i'
truth."
With his foot touching the muzzle of the dog, the inn-keeper had taken
his station before the fire; and, whilst the lower portion of his tall
body was bathed in its ruddy glare, his head towered among the shadowy
beams above. By the dim semi-light that barely laid itself against his
pallid cheek, Sir Richard could see that his host was measuring him up
point by point; and in a manner so insolently intent that he became
possessed of a mad itching to attempt a chastisement of his tormentor.
But two words, and these spoken to the hound, had the landlord uttered
since the young knight had dismounted before the door.
"Well!" exclaimed our pilgrim, rapping impatiently upon the table
before him, "an thou hast finished with thy inventorying, man; bring on
a stoup of wine. And be good enough to see to it, sir, that the drink
be advance guard to a bit of supper."
Thereupon the inn-keeper bent the incensed Sir Richard a bow that Lord
Cardinal Bourchier himself might properly have envied.
"Saidst thou not something, sir knight," he returned in the smoothest
of tones, "of a runlet of canary?"
His manner was faultlessly deferential, but the modulations of
his voice conveyed a world of ironical badinage that was wellnigh
intolerable. The young knight was tired, lonely, and, if the truth
be said, half fearful; and for these reasons proved no match at all
for the extraordinary tavern-keeper at that soft game. Losing for the
moment all control of his temper, he sprang petulantly to his feet and
rapped angrily upon the wooden bench with the scabbard of his sword.
"Devil fly away with the canary, sirrah!" he retorted, threateningly.
"I tell thee now, it were the better suited to thy health that thou
shouldst do my bidding, man."
"This tavern, good my knight," said the inn-keeper, apparently not in
the least ruffled, and wholly ignoring his guest's display of anger,
"boasts but a meager fare. Plain venison, I fear me much, must needs
pass muster with thy dainty palate in lieu of larks and pigeons."
A nature prone to sudden disarrangement of poise is usually amenable
to swift reasoning and control. By this time, Sir Richard, repenting
of his burst of passion and appreciating the imbecility of a resort
to violence, had determined in his mind to do his utmost to meet the
inn-keeper upon his own ground. He arose, thereupon, and swept toward
mine host his most profound curtesy.
"Venison from thy cupboard," said he, smiling in a good humor that was
not altogether assumed, "would stand substitute for even Karum-pie."
With a grim chuckle the inn-keeper then took himself off. The hunchback
returned presently bearing upon a broad platter a warmed over venison
pasty and a stoup of wine; which, upon tasting, Sir Richard found to
be of a most excellent vintage. He was disappointed in one particular,
however; for, from the moment of the landlord's exit from the room,
the young knight had entertained the hope that his supper might be
served through the offices of a comely maid. In that event, as was the
habit of the times, he would have enjoyed her companionship through the
hour of eating. He could accordingly scarcely conceal his vexation and
chagrin upon beholding the lugubrious hunchback.
"The Fates defend us!" he exclaimed beneath his breath. "Merely to look
at the fellow doth steal away mine hunger."
Well within the zone of pleasing warmth of the fire, and with the not
untuneful beating of the wind and sleet against the hollow clapboards
singing in his ears, Sir Richard, after he had partaken of his supper,
remained beside the table, his elbows resting upon its top, his head
reclining against his hand. A delightful drowsiness was stealing over
him, causing his head to nod lower and lower. Then, with a relaxation
of every muscle of his body, he fell forward into a deep sleep.
The air of absolute confidence with which the inn-keeper presently
entered the room; the deliberate manner in which he went about
unfastening and intruding his hand within the traveler's wallet seemed
adequately to indicate that the entire circumstance had grown out of
a well meditated plan of action. As he withdrew King Henry's warrant
and clapped his eyes upon the great red seal his eyebrows went up in
token of astonishment. With extreme deliberation he broke the seal and
proceeded to acquaint himself with its purport.
"'Tis a passing strange and untoward business, this," he muttered,
after having read and read again the contents of the singular document.
"Aye, a passing strange business. Is it but an idle frolic of a king?
some cruel wager, conceived in wanton jest? Certes, and this youth
were an enemy to the throne, his fair head, ere this, had fallen beside
the tower block. I would that we could attach men as stanch, devoted
and incorruptible to our great cause. But now, since the young prince
is dead, what cause have we?" Folding carefully the parchment, he
vented a deep sigh. "The labor of these seven years is gone for naught.
Aye, for naught. And the great army that is bivouaced here to-night in
Scotland is like unto an avenging Juggernaut with none to guide its
course. A beast of prey bereft of a head wherewith to devour its enemy."
Concluding his meditations, the inn-keeper, moving toward the fire,
took up a blazing splinter and addressed himself to the task of mending
the broken seal. Having accomplished this to his apparent satisfaction,
he returned the parchment whence it had been taken, seated himself
beside the table opposite to the sleeping young knight and resumed the
thread of his gloomy thoughts.
"'Tis passing strange that I--I, James Tyrrell--wearing the stigma of a
murderer, expatriate and outlawed from my country, should feel toward
this comely youth a sentiment akin to pity. Even would I make attempt
to save him, and I could. But, I fear me, 'tis impossible. The very
nature of his errand furnishes such proof of his stubborn integrity
that 'twere but folly to make trial of dissuading him from going on.
An I had awakened him to display the violated parchment, he would have
had at me with his sword for an arrant traitor. Even as he bent me that
pretty bow, I could see the fighting-man in his gray eye. An I caused
him to be trussed up as he sleeps to hold it before his conscious eyes,
he would dub me liar and base imitator of King Henry's signature to my
very teeth. Reluctant though I am thus to do, I must perforce allow him
to fare away upon his pilgrimage to death."
With that Tyrrell arose, leaning, for a brief instant, upon the table
above the sleeping knight. Upon the instant that he did so his manner
underwent a marked transformation from passive contemplation to that
of intent and earnest scrutiny. Bending his eyes upon the point where
the young man's neck escaped from his steel shoulder-guards, he stood
for some time regarding two small and blood-red moles, which were
curiously joined together by a slender filament of raised flesh. In
any other but the recumbent position that the sleeping man's head had
naturally assumed, the birth-mark would have been hidden from view
beneath the masses of golden-brown hair growing in a profusion of
ringlets behind his delicately modeled ears.
Then: "'Tis a glorious dispensation of Divine Providence," declared
Tyrrell solemnly, straightening to his full height and upraising his
right hand, whilst his left remained upon the unconscious knight's
shoulder. "And we thank thee, merciful God, for thy kindness in thus
sending another to take the place of one whom thou didst see fit to
take away."
Thereupon, with many a halt, and many a backward glance, he stole
quietly from the room.
His advent into another, wherein four armed men were amusing themselves
over a game of cards and conversing together in guarded undertones, was
dramatic in the extreme.
He took his stand in the center of the floor, the flare of a single
torch speeding waves of light and shadow along his tall figure.
"Noble gentles," said he, "fellow conspirators: Know ye all that a
just God hath this night deigned to smile upon our cause. That even
now, in the room without, steeped in sweet slumber 'neath the influence
of one of Friar Diomed's harmless potions, there is a fit and proper
candidate for a throne in which now sits a base usurper."
"Ay--marry, is this true, eh? Well, he is a good enough looking young
fellow. But, 'tis no more than fair that the traveler should well
requite us for thus depriving us of the comforts of a cheery room--eh!"
muttered a bearded warrior, who, because of a conspicuous absence of
stools or chairs, was obliged to take what ease he could upon the
floor. "I would that friend Zenas might fetch bench or stool," he
added, "so that I might listen to thy tale in seemly comfort--eh!"
"Have done with thy grumblings, de Claverlok," spoke up another member
of the quartet. "Pray, Sir James, keep not longer from us the identity
of this God-given substitute. We are all ears to hear."
"Ay, so must we be," de Claverlok interrupted. "But one great ear, for
'tis from a great height we must listen--eh!"
"First," resumed Tyrrell, unheedful of the interruption, "I would hear
thy separate oaths registered that no hint shall escape thee of that
which I am about to tell. This oath of secrecy, noble gentlemen, doth
most of all include the solitary traveler now asleep in the outer
room. Until such time as I shall give thee warrant, him must we keep
in ignorance of our purpose. It is my firm resolve to bring him within
view of our great armed force, before laying bare our plans. Zenas, my
good brother," Sir James pursued, turning to the dwarf, "do thou, for
a time, stand sentinel above our honorable guest. I charge thee, guard
him zealously from harm till I am ready to join thee."
After Zenas had closed the door behind his retreating figure, the
inn-keeper, turning toward the three men remaining, divulged to them at
great length and with fine regard to details our traveler's true name
and titles, as well as the nature of his errand to Douglas.
"My good wife, gentles," he said, concluding the explanation of the
source of his knowledge, "was nurse and godmother to the suckling
infant. Full oft did we, in secret, discuss the significance of these
marks that I have but this moment again looked upon. And, now, Friar
Diomed," he said, addressing himself to the churchman, "art thou
skilled enough in the assembling of herb and root to prepare me a
sleeping potion that for three days or more will not lose its hold upon
the senses?"
"Aye--that can I," replied the monk cheerfully. "An you but set it
to the nostrils thrice in the day 'twill sleep a man safely the week
through."
"Then do thou have it ready betwixt this hour and midnight. De
Claverlok, do thou, with all dispatch, ride to our nearest encampment.
Bring back with thee a dozen mounted men and a covered litter. Whilst
awaiting Sir Lionel's speedy return, we will give our time to the
further discussion of plans and expedients."
By now the storm had abated. The wind, no longer a shrieking tornado,
had died away to a plaintive sighing about the eaves. The rain had
entirely ceased, and in the dead solitude of the night the hoofbeats
of de Claverlok's charger, as he galloped away upon his errand, were
plainly audible to those within the tavern; to all saving Sir Richard,
who, still sleeping beside the fire, was all unconscious of an eye,
a patient, gleaming, malevolent eye, which remained fixed upon the
interior through a narrow window set high in the eastern wall of the
room.
CHAPTER IV
THE INCIDENT OF THE WOLF-HOUND
The eye at the window was the hunchback's, who was perched upon the
top of a boulder, which he had rolled to the side of the building
for the purpose of enabling him to see within. His attitude was as
that of a spider awaiting its victim, and betrayed his anticipation
of a pleasurable event to come. If Sir James could have witnessed
his brother's unaccountable demeanor, he would doubtless have been
convinced of the truth of a rumor that was commonly traded among his
men to the effect that Zenas was of unsound mind, and a menace to his
ambitious plans.
The tottering of Zenas's reason was directly due to the circumstance
of his having been Sir James's intimate confederate in one of the most
brilliant and daring conspiracies in a time when conspiracies were
among the chief products of England's soil. The plot in question
had been conceived in Tyrrell's brain at the time when he had been
commissioned by Richard III to make away with his two nephews in the
room in which they were then imprisoned in the Tower; and involved
the secret transportation of the young princes to a place of safety
till such time as a sufficiently armed force could be gathered to set
the older of the two upon the throne. That one of the boy dukes was
actually murdered and only one so transported, Sir James attributed to
the egregious blunder or willful defection of one Dighton, his groom,
who was bribed handsomely by Tyrrell to assist him in his gigantic
enterprise. Dighton had suffered a summary death as the penalty of
his fault. Zenas, garbed in the habit of a Sister of the Faith, had
received into his charge in one of the by-ways of London a fair-haired
young girl, who was the escaped prince in disguise. Together they
had traveled from hamlet to hamlet till they had come to the haven
of refuge prepared for them in Scotland. From whence he had been so
indiscreet as to return to England and hint, while in his cups, of the
incubation of a vast uprising in the North, in consequence of which
he had been seized, thrown into the torture chamber, and released
only after he had been blinded in one eye and reduced to a repulsive
caricature of his former self. While he had incurred Sir James's stern
displeasure because of his indiscretion, he had also won his highest
regard and confidence because of his stubborn refusal to divulge a
single secret through the whole of his agonized sufferings.
Now, as Zenas patiently maintained his post upon the top of the
boulder, he kept up an almost incessant mumbling. "I'll keep guard
over him," he was saying. "Aye--I'll see that no harm comes to our
_honorable_ guest!" whereupon he would smile craftily and press his
face more closely to the window. "They know not--ha, ha! not one of
them hath divined that it was I--I, Zenas, the detestable hunchback,
who put the quietus to the young prince. Slow poison--that's the thing.
_Slow poison!_ I'll teach them to steal from me the affections of my
beloved and noble brother. Zenas, the crookback, will teach them! Slow
poison put an end to the last, and now 'twill be Demon's turn to finish
this one. At him, good Demon! _At him, sir!_" he concluded, with a
sibilant hiss that penetrated every corner of the interior of the room.
It was just at this moment that Sir Richard awakened with a sudden and
violent start. During the interval of several seconds he remained in
a sort of drowsy stupor, with his gaze fixed upon the curling flames.
Doubtless from that instinct that gives warning of impending peril, he
set his first sentient glance upon the forbidding beast lying before
him upon the hearth. The hound's red eyeballs were glaring straight
into his own. In the dim firelight he could see that its hair was
bristling over its entire savage body, and that slowly and with deadly
menace the brute was gathering its huge paws beneath it and assuming
a crouching posture. Feeling certain that the slightest perceptible
movement upon his part would precipitate the threatened spring, the
young knight's fingers, under cover of the table, crept warily toward
his sword-hilt. Distinctly he could hear the tap--tap--tapping of the
raindrops as they splashed upon the ground from off the eaves. What,
with the deathlike quiet, the red eyeballs and gleaming fangs of the
hound, and the uncanniness of it all, it is a matter of wonderment
that Sir Richard maintained his faculties to the degree that he did.
Inch by inch his hand neared the familiar point where his sword-hilt
should have been. Groping beyond, however, it encountered but an empty
scabbard. His blade was gone!
A crooked mouth beneath the malevolent eye at the window smiled
exultingly.
As the young knight started in a maze of utter bewilderment upon
discovering his loss, the hound, straight and true as an arrow sped
from a cross-bow, sprang full at his unprotected throat. With a light
bound Sir Richard gained the top of the bench, and the powerful jaws
of the bloodthirsty brute closed upon his greaves at the precise point
where his unprotected throat had been but the instant before. It had
been a right lucky stroke for him when he had bestowed a second thought
to the matter of unlocking his stout leg-pieces.
Discovering that it could inflict no hurt upon its enemy at that point,
and not fancying, in all likelihood, the grating of the tough steel
against its teeth, the hound released its hold, gave back, and now,
with jaws afoam, and giving tongue the while to deep, fierce growls,
it crouched low upon the hearth and gathered its body for another
spring. By this time Sir Richard was aware of the circumstance that
he was without a weapon of any description, as his dagger had been
removed with his baldric, which had evidently been unbuckled from
off his shoulder during his sleep. Quick as a flash the young knight
swept up one of his heavy metal gauntlets from off the top of the
table. Again good fortune was with him, for it turned out to fit upon
his right hand. It was but the work of a moment to adjust it, and he
met the brute's second leap with a blow set fair between its eyes and
delivered with every ounce of weight and strength at his command. After
the manner of a doe pierced through by a shaft in mid-leap the hound
crashed lifeless to the floor, with a great spout of blood issuing from
its mouth and nostrils.
The burning eye at the window withdrew its gaze. The crooked lips, so
lately smiling, were now muttering curse upon curse to the sighing
winds.
"Hoa! Well, by my soul, sir knight! I am, indeed, happily come to
witness a blow so true and mightily delivered."
The voice was that of the inn-keeper, and sounded out of the darkness
beyond the semi-circle of wavering light shed by the now expiring fire.
As Sir Richard leapt from off the bench to the floor, Tyrrell strode
into the zone of illumination and, stooping, hung above the still
quivering body of the dying hound. For quite a space he remained thus,
as though graven in stone, with the gentle raindrops tap-tapping
outside for an accompaniment.
"Knowest thou, sir knight," he observed at length, "that thou art the
very first successfully to withstand the onslaught of this savage
brute?" Tyrrell straightened up, folded his arms, and touched the dead
hound lightly with the point of his foot. "Methought," said he, "that
Demon was the nearest thing to me upon earth, and, mayhap, the dearest.
Like me, sir, he was savage, cruel, and unrelenting; and, like me,
expatriated by his kind."
The deep cadence of the inn-keeper's voice, the knitting of his brows,
and a slight, mournful drooping of his shoulders betrayed to the young
knight that his host was touched with a genuine sorrow. Filled ever
with a generous-spirited goodwill, he felt himself entertaining a sense
of regret for the deed that he had been compelled to do.
"In very truth it grieves me," said he, "that necessity bade me to set
a period to a life that you held so precious. I can, good sir, but make
offering of reparation in the way of gold."
Tyrrell turned toward the young knight and smiled sadly.
"Gold?" he softly answered. "It doubts me much whether all the gold
in Christian England could salve the wound made by the death of this
hound. An outcast, sir knight, he came to me, an outcast. I took him
in and suffered him to tarry here till he grew kindred to my every
wish, and the very manner of my likes and dislikes. As I am, noble
sir, he was a bitter misanthrope, and would permit none, besides me,
to approach him but Zenas, my unfortunate brother." He paused in his
speech, regarding Sir Richard intently. As was habitual with this
inimitable conspirator, he was but playing a part. If he had it
in mind thereby to win his way to Sir Richard's sympathies, he was
succeeding admirably.
"Whilst thou wert sleeping," he resumed at the proper moment, "I caused
thy sword and baldric to be removed, so that thy rest might forsooth
give thee a greater measure of comfort. I likewise laid command upon
Zenas to stand guard over thy slumbers. Much sorrow doth it give me
that he should have left thee without the protection of his presence
whilst I was absent. But, marry, noble knight, the deed can now no more
be recalled than can the sped shaft be returned from mid-flight to the
string."
From top to toe Tyrrell was habited in somber black; and, as he talked,
his lank body loomed anon through the half-circle of flickering
light, and then would be blotted out in the deep shadows beyond, as
he continued to pace slowly back and forth before the chimney. To the
imaginative Sir Richard's mind it recalled a play that he had once
witnessed with Henry and his court in London. In it there had been
an actor who had affected to play the part of the devil; and who had
appeared suddenly, and then as suddenly vanished, in a manner designed
to appear miraculous.
"Though, in very truth," decided the young knight, "he did not resemble
that grisly character one half so much as my mysterious landlord."
The scene in which Sir Richard was playing an involuntary part brought
back to him the many evil tales that had been dinned into his ears
since coming to Scotland of this same Red Tavern, together with a
vivid recollection of the reported fate of the unwary, who, through
any misadventure, chanced to seek the hospitality of its shelter. A
dozen times it had been upon the tip of his tongue to make mention of
these rumors, but the words persisted in halting upon the threshold
of utterance. In the light of the reality and substance of his
surroundings they appeared as nothing more than weirdly fantastic
creations, or ridiculous superstitions, and as such he did his utmost
to dismiss them from his mind.
He was just meditating some appropriate subject of conversation by
which the prolonged and somewhat uncomfortable silence might be
interrupted, when the hunchback came into the room, bearing upon his
back a billet of wood that was vastly greater in length and girth than
he.
"Dost know, Zenas," said Tyrrell sternly, "that thou hast committed a
most grievous fault in not remaining to stand watch over our honored
guest? Where hast thou been?"
"I did but go without to fetch this log. The night hath grown cold, and
I was but bethinking me of the sir knight's comfort," Zenas explained.
"'Tis an ill excuse, I tell thee, Zenas. Prithee bestow the log upon
the fire. Then bring in a torch, and a mattock and spade. We will bury
at once the body of yonder hound."
Arching his brows the dwarf looked toward his brother, toward Richard,
and then upon the body of the hound.
"But he does but sleep, good brother," he said, depositing the log
amidst a shower of sparks within the fireplace.
"Aye, 'tis true he sleeps," replied Tyrrell. "And a sleep, Zenas,
from which none shall again awaken him. Our good knight yonder of the
wondrous thews, dealt him a buffet that would have felled the stoutest
ox in broad Scotland. Methinks it might e'en have staggered a Papist
Bull, with such a hearty goodwill was it delivered."
Going to the side of the hound, the hunchback bent above it, fondled
the massive head and shook the fast stiffening paws. Then, with a
furtive look toward his brother, who happened to be unobservant of
his actions, he shot a black look of malignant hate in Sir Richard's
direction.
"And wilt thou suffer this----"
With a finger upon his lips Tyrrell warned Zenas to instant silence.
Then, leading him toward the outer door, he talked earnestly with him
for several minutes. During a pause in their animated conversation the
hunchback stooped and peered at the young knight in something of an odd
manner. Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he took his way without
further ado through the door.
In a little while he returned, carrying a gnarl of pine wood, which
he set to blazing at the fire. Thus did Tyrrell, in a most respectful
manner, beg Sir Richard to carry, whilst he and Zenas, he said, would
drag out the carcass of the hound and make ready its grave.
"'Twould be better that thy brother should bear the light," said Sir
Richard. "I'll lend thee a hand to the carrying of the hound, and then
wield either the mattock or the spade."
"Tut, tut! Of the two, dost think thou art the stronger?" queried the
hunchback sharply, addressing himself to Sir Richard for the first
time. "Then," he added, "let me show thee."
Unceremoniously thrusting the torch within the young knight's hand he
lifted a heavy iron bar standing against the chimney. With but little
more effort, apparently, than one would have bestowed upon the breaking
of a twig he thereupon bent it fair double across his knee. Tossing
aside the twisted rod he looked into Sir Richard's eyes and smiled.
Rather, it was a mirthless leer, cunning, cruel, menacing. The young
knight easily gathered that between Zenas and himself there remained
yet an unsettled score.
"Have done with this childish vaunting of thy strength," said Tyrrell.
"An thou wilt but expend thy energies to the task in hand, 'twill soon
be done."
"But, can our honored guest be of a mind to exchange me a buffet, good
my brother, I should be remiss in the matter of common courtesy did I
not stand ready to favor him," returned Zenas.
"Come, come!" impatiently exclaimed Tyrrell, allowing Sir Richard no
opportunity of answering the implied challenge. "Let us have done at
once with the burial of poor Demon."
He and his brother then led the way outside, carrying between them the
body of the hound. Sir Richard followed them to where they laid it down
at the foot of the jagged rock that, in the daylight, could be seen at
a great distance along the roadway. By this hour the night had turned
keen, as nights are wont to do along the Highlands, and as he stood
idly by watching the inn-keeper and the hunchback busily plying spade
and mattock, he grew uncomfortably sensible of the increasing cold,
which seemed to set its chill touch upon his very bones.
At rare intervals the pale disc of the moon could be vaguely
distinguished when one of the thinner clouds scudded across its face.
But when the heavier clouds rolled beneath it, the land was blotted out
in deepest darkness, which the splotch of light shed by the wavering
torch served well to accentuate.
Fantastic shadows wove themselves about the grave-diggers' feet.
These, as they rippled away, grew to tremendous proportions as they
merged with the circle of gloom that hemmed them in after the manner
of an ebon wall. It was during this dismal half-hour, more than ever
after, that Sir Richard missed the jovial companionship of poor
Belwiggar. The thought came to him that he was a being apart, who had
been set down there alone in a mystic environment, and, willy-nilly,
his mind again became tenanted with calamitous forebodings. He fair
ached again to stretch his legs before the fire, and hailed with
unmingled delight the moment when the inn-keeper and his brother
clambered from out the grave and lowered the hound within.
It was as they were heaving back the loosened earth that he heard
a faint, clear sound steal out upon the silence of the night. It
seemed to him as the sound of a maiden's voice released in song. He
was straining eagerly to catch the next sweet, quivering note when
Tyrrell's deep voice broke suddenly into an English war song, and with
a tuneful lilt that came far from appealing unpleasantly to the ear.
Moreover, with such a hearty goodwill did he sing it that the echoes
of the resonant notes were flung reverberating far across the plain.
So unexpected was this occurrence, and so foreign did it seem to
the inn-keeper's melancholy character, that Sir Richard was no less
startled than surprised. When the young knight turned toward his host
he discovered that grim individual engaged in shoveling great clods of
earth into the grave, and unconcernedly timing each movement of his
body in a rhythmical beat with his song.
Not until the last bit of clay had been firmly tamped above the hound,
and they had started for the tavern door, did he for a moment relax his
stentorian singing.
"Didst thou not hear that sound as of a woman's voice?" Sir Richard
made bold to inquire as they were passing indoors.
"Not I," Tyrrell brusquely replied. "For long, sir knight, my ears hath
grown accustomed to the plaint of bird and beast, and the shrieking of
the wraiths of shipwrecked mariners along the coast. An I had heard a
sound, I should, belike, have attributed it to one of these. Zenas,"
he pursued, thus dismissing the subject of the young knight's inquiry,
"look well to our guest's steed for the night. After thou hast done,
return and conduct the good knight to his bed."
Turning toward Sir Richard as the hunchback took himself from the room,
Tyrrell, linking within the young knight's arm his own, led him toward
the comfortable warmth of the fire.
"Thou hast marked, I know, the shattered form of my brother," he said
sadly, as they seated themselves together beside the table. "'Tis
what remains of the cursed rack and wheel. 'Tis near beyond belief
that Zenas was once as supple and straight as either thou or I. And
this good body, too, Sir Richard" (the young knight started at the
utterance of his name), "they would have drawn, twisted and maimed
like unto his had I not defeated their evil purposes by fleeing the
borders of my beloved country. God's direst curse rest upon them--dead
and living--one and all!" He paused for some moments, looking gloomily
into the fire. "Most humbly do I crave thy pardon for this unseemly
display of emotion, sir knight," he added, "and permit me to requite
thy forgiveness by setting before thee another stoup of wine. 'Twill
certes not come amiss after thy prolonged stay in the crisp air."
He arose from the table accordingly, opened a cupboard upon the farther
side of the chimney and took from a shelf the wine, which he set before
his guest. As he was making fast the door, Sir Richard noted within
the cupboard's shadowy depths the bright points of reflection against
pieces of steel harness--swords, battle-axes, and shields.
"No doubt thou art deliberating now within thy mind," Tyrrell resumed,
again seating himself, "as to the manner, Sir Richard, in which I came
upon thy name?"
Abruptly pausing, he gazed reflectively for quite a space upon the
young knight's puzzled countenance.
"Know then," said he, "that as thou wert sleeping, thy helmet rested
there upon the table. The light of yon blaze shone full upon thy name
and thy armorial bearings, which thou seest fit to carry within that
safe receptacle."
Sir Richard flushed to his temples. He tried his best, despite his
embarrassment, to answer in an indifferent manner.
"Gramercy for thy caution, good my landlord," he returned, with a
careless smile; "and hereafter I shall keep that receptacle upon my
foolish noddle, where, i' faith, 'twill be safe from prying eyes."
"From me, sir knight, thou hast no cause to fear," Tyrrell hastened to
assure his guest. "It may even transpire that the momentary relaxation
of thy caution hath earned for thee a friend. Mayhap, a friend in
need--who knows?"
"In need of nothing at present above a restful pillow, a roof, and a
bite to eat before I fare away in the morning," replied Sir Richard.
"Ah--yea, yea! Art thou so fortunate, sir knight, as to be making
thy lonely pilgrimage upon matters of state? or art merely seeking
lightsome pleasures, as is the manner of many a young court buck?"
"As for making my pilgrimage alone, sir, 'tis the fault of an evil
accident that befell but this very day. Till he was foully murdered
not many leagues from here, I had, for attendant, a squire as faithful
and brave as any in England, mauger the fact that he was a trifle weak
at sword-play. Give him in hand a battle-axe, though, and he would
have cleaved through the stoutest wrought bonnet in all Scotland. Poor
Belwiggar! God rest his bones, say I. Concerning thy inquiry as to my
mission, sir, I am not free to answer," concluded Sir Richard.
"Then, an it be not a further dire impertinence, good sir knight,"
persisted Tyrrell, "lesson me from whom thou hast thy cognizance?
Marry, I, who bethought me acquainted with every scroll in England,
know thine not at all."
"From whom else but my good sovereign," Sir Richard replied. "By his
royal command did the College of Heralds issue it. Thus much do I
please to tell thee. Of my parentage I can lesson thee naught. My
progenitors I have never seen, never known. That I am alive, well, and
the free subject of a generous and noble king is sufficient for me,
sir; and, by my good sword, must be sufficient for all to whom I am
known."
"'Tis well and bravely said," the inn-keeper replied. "But more upon
this subject at a later time, my dear Sir Richard. The night doth grow
apace, and here cometh Zenas, who is now ready to conduct thee to thy
couch." Upon which he arose and bade the young knight a kindly and
respectful good-night.
Bearing a rush-light, the hunchback led Sir Richard up a narrow
stairway to a room immediately above the one he had just quitted.
Bidding his sour visaged guide to set the basin, in which burned the
rush-light, in the center of the floor, he bespoke for him a peaceful
rest and dismissed him from his chamber. Zenas, answering never a word,
backed toward the door. Then, from its threshold, he dropped a curtsey
that would have made a fitting obeisance to a monarch, after which he
silently took himself off.
The room in which the young knight now found himself was of an ample
size, but exceedingly raw and cold, as no fire burned within the
deep-throated chimney. The four walls were roughly coated with mortar.
The rafters overhead were bare. In the gloom of the space between the
steep gabled roof and the skeleton beams he could hear the occasional
whirring of a bat's wings, as it darted hither and thither across the
room. He lost precious little time in speculating upon his surroundings
and, quickly removing his steel gear, sought the comforts of the bed,
which he discovered, with much inward gratification, to be of a good
and easeful kind.
A few vagrant thoughts, some of them being of the wild tales he had
heard of the tavern wherein he was now tarrying, flitted vaguely across
his mind. Then, very soon after laying his head against the pillow, he
sank into the blissful unconsciousness of sleep.
CHAPTER V
THE INCIDENT OF THE CUTTING OF SAFFRON VELVET
The walls of the room adjoining that in which Sir Richard was now
sleeping framed a scene that provided a singular and pleasing contrast
to the bleak and uninviting rooms within the tavern with which the
reader is already somewhat familiar. So beautifully, and in such
exquisite taste were its rich trappings disposed, that a princess might
have found comfort and contentment within its cosy precincts. Indeed,
not anything seemed to be missing that could have been demanded in the
surroundings of the most refined and fastidious of royal personages.
Upon one of the pillowed couches two young maidens were reclining
gracefully at their ease. One was lying at full length and resting upon
her elbows, with her chin pressed against her interlocked fingers; the
other was engaged with needles and some bright colored silk in weaving
a design upon a piece of linen cloth. Without risking hyperbole it may
be said of them that the jewels they wore were scarce an adornment to
their distinguished setting, for it would have offered a difficult task
to have set out to discover two lovelier types of young womanhood. It
was unusual in that between them there existed no conflict of beauty;
rather did the bewitching charms of the one serve the complimentary
purpose of enhancing the pure and almost ethereal comeliness of the
other.
"It would surely be a famous prank, Rocelia," said the one who was
lounging upon her elbows. "I cannot understand why you should oppose
me. Are we not come to an age, my over-discreet cousin, where a
champion should be ours by right?"
"By right of what, pray, madcap Isabel?" queried Rocelia, laying aside
her needlework upon a table that stood near the couch.
"Why--by right of conquest, little dunce," returned Isabel with a
gay laugh. "Here does my stern guardian--and by the same token your
implacable father--see fit to keep us mewed within this dismal,
fly-by-night prison, deprived of every pleasure and innocent pastime
that other maids, similarly stationed, are permitted to enjoy. I tell
you, sweet Rocelia, 'tis nothing less than downright cruel."
"Say not so, ungracious maid," observed Rocelia in mild disapproval.
"Are we not surrounded with everything, my dear, that heart of maid
could wish?"
"Everything, say you? Why--far, far from everything," demurred Isabel,
tossing back a strand of raven black hair that persisted in straying
over her shoulder. "A champion! Give to me a champion!" she cried with
a mock seriousness, raising on high her right arm, from which her
loose robe fell, displaying a dazzling array of captivating curves and
dimples.
Rocelia smiled in a gentle toleration of the other's extravagance of
manner.
"Your wondrous beauty, my dear cousin," she said, "will win for you a
champion all in good time."
"Time?" retorted Isabel, gathering her lips in a pretty pout and
arching her brows. "Time, say you? And what, I pray you, have _we_ to
do with time? Does not time fade and wither that beauty by which, but
a moment ago, you have recommended to me a champion? Is not time our
mortal and deadly foe?"
"Too much of it, mayhap, would be," admitted Rocelia; "but a little
of it should serve well in rounding out our minds, and in providing
us with that sane discretion which, as you remember, Lord Bishop
Kennedy, our kind tutor, has taught us is the most precious of earthly
perquisites."
"Bah! a murrain upon Bishop Kennedy and his dry pedantries. An I had
that old prate-apace inside an oven, right well would I warm his
icy blood for him. Look not upon me, sweet coz, with such wideopen
eyes of ravished virtue! I declare to you, Rocelia, I'll have me a
champion--and before this very night is over. You could never divine,
I'm sure, why I begged you awhile ago to sing without yon open window.
Of a truth, you knew not, or your voice would never have left your
throat. It was vicariously to beguile my brave champion's ears that you
were singing so sweetly, dear. He was then outside with your father and
Zenas burying the hound. Ah! you should have seen him fell the savage
brute, Rocelia. A single mighty blow of his mailed fist and 'twas all
over."
"Were you not afraid? 'Twould have fared ill with you, an Father had
seen you standing at the tap-room door."
"Nay--I was not afraid. Your father was in another room with the men.
Zenas had gone outside. I heard him go muttering through the door as
I crept softly down the steps. I peeped through the split panel--my
champion was there ... sleeping. But, already have I told you the
story. Ah! how brave was he. Not once did he flinch the battle, or look
about him, or call for help. And he is handsome; marry, sweet coz, but
he is handsome! All girded up in shining, inlaid armor. His brown-gold
hair flowing almost to his shoulders. His health-bronzed cheeks smooth
and shapely. And his mouth! Um-m-m! Well----"
"Why, cousin! some wicked witch has cast a spell above you, I fear."
"Nay--'tis not witchery, sweetest Rocelia," said Isabel, seating
herself beside her fair-haired cousin and lovingly entwining her arms
about her slender form. "I am but filled to overflowing with the joy
of living. A something of excitement is both sup and drink to me. Now
listen. Bear with your madcap cousin whilst she discourses with you in
deepest earnest. A champion I must and will have. But he need not know
me, or even look upon my face."
"I cannot understand. You are speaking in riddles, Isabel."
"Nay, give ear till I've finished and you shall see it plain enough.
My knight of the brown-gold curls, an I mistake me not, is even at
this moment slumbering within the next chamber. With a bodkin a cleft
in the wall can be used as a slight avenue of secret communication.
Then a missive, and a bit of cloth clipped from my--no yours, 'tis of
a more enticing color--your saffron gown, I'll say, dear cousin; and
thus I have my champion and no soul but you and I the wiser. Do not say
me nay, good, generous Rocelia. It will be a right merry and harmless
frolic, think you not?"
"'Twould be a sorry one for you, I fear, an my father found you out,"
replied Rocelia, half in jest, half earnestly.
"Enough. Let the hazard be mine, sweet. And now to business. Whilst
I am at work with the bodkin, do you shear me a strip from off your
saffron velvet kirtle."
* * * * *
Sir Richard, sleeping soundly, was all unconscious of the widely
varying activities of which he was now become the center. Beneath the
room in which Isabel, now singing, now laughing, was engaged upon
the wall, Friar Diomed had finished brewing and mixing the herbs and
chemicals of his narcotic.
"My oath on 't, Friar Diomed," Tyrrell was saying from his seat beside
the fire, "your cloth shall not save your shaven pate, an this potion
bring one jot of harm to the young noble."
"An it be administered with your usual skill and caution, Sir James,"
returned the monk, elevating a phial filled with the liquid between
his squinting eyes and the light of the fire, "'twill bring no more
harm than so much _aqua pura_. But, by my church! 'tis beside my
understanding why you must observe all of these dark ceremonies. Let
the young knight but read the King's warrant in his slop pouch, an he
were a long-eared ass not to embrace our cause."
"Have I not already said, my stupid friend, that he would at once
charge us with substitution and false writing? Think you not that the
young noble hath heard a many an evil tale of this tavern along the
way? Marry, an he had not, all our trouble and precaution to shield
the young prince from discovery and harm would have been but of
slight avail. But only once again, good friar, need this phantom inn
disappear, and then 'twill serve as a blazing torch to light the start
of our movement southward."
"Pity 'tis that the young prince died," observed the monk, giving the
phial into Tyrrell's hand and standing with his broad back to the
blaze. "And just at the point, too, when you had gathered a sufficient
power to hurl effectively against Henry. So fire shall consume our
refuge, you say? Well, Sir James, _ab igne ignem_, say I."
"Yea, and I. But regarding the young prince, regret not that which
is beyond mending. In truth, Friar Diomed, I like this young Earl
of Warwick mightily. He's a right goodly youth to look upon, and
brave--aye, as fearless as a lion cub. Nay--let us not regret, but
rather return thanks to a generous God for having thus dropped down
upon us a proper and legal substitute."
"An you'll be good enough to bid Zenas to bring out the flagons, Sir
James, I'll e'en now down a measure or twain to the health of the
new. Which is more to my liking, by my Faith, than the uplifting of
mere dry thanks. _Ad majorem Dei gloriam!_ 'Twill be a good hour ere
de Claverlok and his band return, and I am grievously athirst and,
ah-ha-ha, ho-e-e, sleepy."
"Then why not call your drink night-cup and betake yourself to your
couch? 'Tis not necessary that you should remain abroad to await their
coming. Zenas, the flagon of wine," Tyrrell then called. "Drink, and to
your rest, my good friar. Yea--the blessed pair of you."
Whereupon, with a loud smacking of his lips, the rotund friar
introduced his red and bulbous nose within his tipped cup and made for
his couch. Zenas followed him, leaving Tyrrell to keep solitary vigil
by the side of the crackling fire, and all unaware of the little comedy
which, at that very moment, was being enacted above his head.
* * * * *
For the second time that night Sir Richard awakened with a violent
start. Upon doing so he raised his head from off his pillow. Hearing no
sound, however, he attributed this second awakening to a fanciful dream
of a ponderous battle-ax striking upon his helm, and had just composed
himself for the purpose of resuming his interrupted rest when he became
aware of a distinct rapping upon the headboard of his bed. As he threw
aside the covering and sat erect the strange tapping ceased. With every
sense upon the alert he listened for a repetition of the sound. It came
soon again, distinct, deliberate, unmistakable. He passed his hand
carefully over the smooth headboard, but went altogether unrewarded for
his pains. Concluding, therefore, that the sounds emanated from between
the wall and the bed, he sprang to the floor and pulled aside the heavy
piece of furniture.
The inexplicable rapping was then followed by a dry, scraping noise,
which seemed almost impossible to locate. The room being cast in utter
darkness, his sense of touch was required to answer for his useless
sense of sight. In the passing of his hand along the wall it met with
a slight protuberance. This he instantly grasped, and a part of it
came away within his clutched fingers. He discovered it to be a wisp
of paper, neatly rolled, and surmised it to be a written message. By
the side of the basin upon the floor he found tinder, flint, and steel.
Contriving speedily to have a light, he thereupon read the following
message:
"Whoever or whatever thou art, an semblance of heart of man beats
within thy brave bosom, rescue a maiden from a living death."
This was the message from Isabel. She had been careful to sign no name,
and Sir Richard had no means of knowing by whom it had been inscribed.
But, even so, he was entirely equal to the occasion, and felt his heart
leaping in deepest sympathy with the unknown maiden in distress. So,
then and there, upon the cross of his sword, he made a sacred vow to
adventure her rescue, repeating in a solemn manner the usual form of
oath: "So may God and St. George prosper me at my need, as I will do
my devoir as thy champion, fair maid, knightly, truly, and manfully."
This ceremony concluded, he hurried again to the wall. Protruding from
a narrow aperture in the mortar he noted a thin piece of steel, such
as he fancied was used by women in the shaping of their apparel. Upon
withdrawing it, he discovered it to be of about a length with his
forearm.
Then, placing his lips to the opening thus disclosed, "Courage, fair
maiden," he whispered. "An wilt thou grant the boon of sending a most
willing champion thy colors?"
"Yea, gladly," came back the answer, sweet and low; "and a kiss, too,
my brave knight."
"Ye gods of Love!" exclaimed Sir Richard beneath his breath. "The very
yearnings of Tantalus are at this moment put to the blush! Was ever a
champion avowed under like romantic circumstances? Was ever a maiden
wooed through a two-foot, key-cold wall?"
He then sent the pliant steel back through the wall, which he
erroneously supposed to be constructed out of solid stone. In another
moment there came to his impatiently waiting hand a very small cutting
of saffron velvet, the which he touched reverently to his lips, as was
becoming in a loyal champion, and then placed devoutly next his heart.
He whispered again, and again he whispered, but no answer came.
Observing the precaution of scraping away a bit of mortar from another
wall, he carefully concealed the opening. Upon which he replaced the
bed in its former position, secured the note within the fillet of his
helmet and once more sought his pillow, where he fell asleep presently
in the midst of meditating as to the means through which he might, in
safety to her, effect the deliverance of the fair unknown.
Yet not half so fair, nor yet half so lovely, was the vision that he
materialized from the scrap of saffron velvet as was its beautiful
owner, whom an unkind Fate decreed he should not set eyes upon till
many days crowded with many misadventures had passed away.
CHAPTER VI
THE PAVILION OF PURPLE AND BLACK
It was a trifle past midnight when de Claverlok and the men he had
commissioned to bring with him halted in the highroad before the door
of the Red Tavern. Coincident with their arrival the hitherto deserted
and lonely appearing hostelry was magically metamorphosed into a
hive of buzzing industry. The near vicinity of the building became
brilliantly illuminated with the flare of many links, the iron pikes of
which had been struck into the earth from the roadway to the entrance
of the inn. That the scene was one of martial activities could in no
wise be mistaken, for the yellow light of the torches was reflected
and repeated against a goodly number of steel cuirasses and polished
bucklers.
Beside Tyrrell, near the doorway, stood a thin and rather under-sized
man, wearing an intricately plaited coat of light chain mail, over
which was drawn a white linen tunic, with a crimson Maltese cross
emblazoned upon the breast, after the fashion of the ancient Crusaders.
This individual, conspicuous alone because of the simplicity of his
dress when contrasted with those about him, was the famed diplomatist,
warrior, statesman, shrewd conspirator, and eminent churchman, Lord
Bishop Kennedy, to whom Tyrrell looked ever for council and advice,
and who, in reality, had been the brains and backbone of the movement
that had been designed to set the youthful Duke of York upon the throne
of England. Here was a man possessing that strength of character
that permitted him to remain always in the background. From whence
he was wont to view the vast schemes in which he became involved as
a whole, much as the successful general might select a high eminence
from which to overlook and direct the maneuvres of his army. While
indolence was at times attributed to him, on account of a certain
reserve and unobtrusiveness of manner, to those who knew him well he
was known to be indefatigably energetic. It was said of him, indeed,
that he never slept, saving with an open eye to his tent-flap, or
doorway. In Sir James Tyrrell, Bishop Kennedy had achieved a notably
brilliant confederate--a man of ideas, a born inventor, but visionary
to a perilous degree. Tyrrell was not suffered to be awakened out of
his dream that he was the real leader; though, in point of truth, he
was but nominally such. If, however, the block were to claim its tithe
of vengeance, Tyrrell's head, and not Lord Kennedy's, would have been
among those selected. Kennedy regarded politics as he did a game of
chess, and was marvelously proficient in playing both. "A knight, or
even a despised pawn," he was known to have said, "may say 'check' to
a king, but it is a wise precaution to have a bishop stationed on the
long diagonal."
"Thou art certain beyond all peradventure," he was saying to Tyrrell,
"that thou canst not be mistaken as to the identity of thy find?"
"Aye--marry, am I, my lord," Tyrrell confidently replied. "I could
scarce be amiss in my recognition of the unusual birthmark. Besides,
good bishop, did not the youth make confession of his lack of knowledge
of his progenitors?"
"Yea. But 'tis a common ignorance--that, friend Tyrrell. Of a truth,
the stroke seemeth too timely and well-favored to be genuine," said
Kennedy, who was never ready to accept the semblance of a fact for
the fact itself. "Here hath the earth had scarce time to grow cold
above the young duke, when up crops another candidate every whit
as legitimate and proper. 'Twould appear, my friend, as though an
incipient monarch were being reared in every wayside hovel. Yet--as
thou hast said--thou couldst scarce have been mistaken in the
birthmark. If proven true, 'tis indeed a most providential stroke. But
this very day have I learned that Lord Douglas is meditating a move
like unto thine. Already have I laid plans to gather more intimate
particulars--for thy express benefit, understand me. But I can lesson
thee now that some hint of the young prince's existence and death
hath flown into his yawning ear. Keep a firm hold upon thy wits and
tongue, for there is surely a traitor abroad, Sir James. More; I have
it that Douglas doth lay open claim to the possession of the living
person of the genuine heir, and that there is now a gathering of the
clans for the purpose of raising the counterfeit claimant to the
throne. Emissaries from Castle Yewe will come here to treat with thee
for the combining of thy forces with Douglas's. An this youth of thine
be indeed the Earl of Warwick, son of George, Duke of Clarence, thou
canst laugh in Douglas's teeth. An it were not so, friend Tyrrell, thou
couldst do naught wiser than amalgamate issues. For thy life would be
worth no more than a leaden farthing from the fury of thine own troop,
an they were to be disbanded without chance of giving battle to Henry."
At this juncture four men drew beside the speakers, through the door,
carrying Sir Richard, who had been rendered unconscious through the
medium of Friar Diomed's narcotic. As gently as their rough hands could
accomplish it, the young knight was placed in the covered litter, which
had been standing along the highway awaiting his reception.
"I beg of thee, Sir James," said Lord Kennedy then, "procure for
me from this young knight's wallet the warrant of which thou wert
speaking. I would I might know well its contents." The keen politician
might easily have taken it himself, as it was his intention to travel
northward with the horsemen and litter-bearers, but he desired to
assure himself that the document would not remain behind in Tyrrell's
keeping. The time was likely to come when this piece of parchment would
be an invaluable political perquisite.
When the warrant had been secured and surrendered into his hands,
Bishop Kennedy made quick work of breaking the seal that Tyrrell had
so deftly mended. By the light of one of the links he read it slowly
through, nodding his head the while.
"'Tis well," he said when he had finished; "and I doff my bonnet to
thee, Sir James, for a most fortunate and successful general."
Whereupon he folded up the parchment and thrust it carelessly within
his bosom. Then, grasping Tyrrell's hand, he bade him adieu, swung
himself upon his horse and started in the train of the cavalcade, which
had already begun its march from the inn.
In the light of the single torch remaining, Tyrrell stood beside the
door till the noise of the moving company had dwindled to silence
in the distance, after which he extinguished the blazing link and
disappeared within the lonely tavern.
It was nearing daybreak when the cavalcade, led by de Claverlok and
Lord Bishop Kennedy, filed past the sentinel outposts within the area
of the encampment. The bivouac had been set along the shore, within
sight and sound of the sea, and not above a dozen miles from the Red
Tavern; but, because of the litter-bearers, the men had been put to
the necessity of moving in a slow and deliberate manner, which fact
accounted for their tardy progress in effecting the distance.
As Sir Lionel de Claverlok is destined to play a most important part in
this narrative of tangled conspiracies, it would doubtless be well now
to introduce him to the reader.
To begin with, he was a man who was loved and admired by his enemies,
which, though it may appear anomalous, was nevertheless true. He was as
refreshing as a shower in spring; as open in his manner as a wind-swept
plain. Saving in the arts of warfare, however, of all of which he had
proven himself to be a surpassing master, he was uneducated. Every
rugged feature displayed between the shaggy thatch of his wiry,
silver-shot hair, and the thick tangle of his disordered, curly beard
bespoke at once the good fellow and indomitable warrior. Whilst,
intuitively, one would take him for a person of gentle extraction,
there was about him little, if anything, of the polished courtier.
He had been too industriously engaged upon the business of his life,
which was to conquer a complete understanding of war-craft, to yield
thought or time to the cultivation of the softer attainments of the
court gallant. As to his physical attributes, he was stockily set up,
not above the average in height, and in the noontide of a vigorous and
healthful manhood.
"Men," said Bishop Kennedy as he drew up before his tent, "raise me the
silken pavilion of purple and black upon yonder hill. When thou hast
done, set up the bed thou didst bring with thee, and dispose the young
knight, now asleep in the litter, within. Bid the Renegade Duke to set
a close guard above his slumbers. Haste thee, go!" Then, turning to de
Claverlok, "attend me within my tent, Sir Lionel," he added, "I would
have a moment's speech of thee."
Whereupon they dismounted, gave their horses into the charge of
waiting equerries and went inside.
"This fanciful plan of our dreamy friend of the flying inn," he
pursued when they had seated themselves, "to keep the Earl of Warwick
in the grip of Friar Diomed's decoction is both impracticable and
dangerous. 'Twould be a good three days ere he could be brought to our
main stronghold in the mountains." So saying, he took from his wallet
the phial that Tyrrell had entrusted to his keeping and emptied its
sparkling contents upon the ground.
"I would, my lord," said de Claverlok soberly, "that I could pour a
phial of it within my tent--eh! Mayhap 'twould put the blessed ants to
sleep, and keep them from crawling beneath my gorget ... eh!"
Bishop Kennedy acknowledged the grizzled knight's sally with a mere
suspicion of a smile.
"Lay our commands upon the Renegade Duke," he pursued, "that he shall
permit the prisoner, for as such we must for the present regard him,
to rest till such time as he may naturally awaken from his stupor. I
desire, de Claverlok, that thou shalt say but little to the duke of
the haps of this night. By all means, keep from his knowledge the
identity of the young earl. My reasons for this are most urgent, I
would have thee to know. Meanwhile, keep a close eye to the prisoner
thyself. We may deem it expedient later to give him wholly into thy
charge. And now, good sir, to thy cot--and may pleasing visions await
thee there."
When de Claverlok issued from Lord Kennedy's tent he glanced upward
toward the knoll whereupon the folds of the purple and black pavilion
were billowing gracefully in the crisp morning air. Betaking himself up
the slope, he waited there till the unconscious Sir Richard had been
comfortably disposed beneath its silken roof, the same, by the way,
which had been intended as a covering for the dead prince.
Then, when he had done with appointing and setting the guard, the
grizzled warrior made in the direction of the renegade duke's tent for
the purpose of imparting to him Lord Kennedy's instructions.
CHAPTER VII
OF THE AWAKENING OF SIR RICHARD
The sun was hanging high above the sea ere the young knight in the
pavilion upon the hill began to arouse himself from his profound
stupor. Being of a healthful body it was his usual habit to start into
broad wakefulness, with every faculty alive, equally upon the alert,
and ready upon the instant for the work or pleasure that chanced to
be forward for the day. So, in this instance, he was wholly unable to
account for an extreme heaviness of the eyelids, combined with a sense
of oppression that weighed painfully upon his chest. He grew conscious
of a foreign odor in his nostrils that seemed to him to be wafted from
an incalculably vast distance; and from the same distance was borne
to his ears the confused murmuring of many voices. It appeared to Sir
Richard that he had been years upon years lying upon his back exerting
a vain though ceaseless endeavor to summon together his scattered
faculties. He would be aware, in a vague sort of way, that his truant
mind was slowly settling upon some solid point of fact. But when it
was just about arriving at the spot where memory awaited it, nothing
remained but baffling space, and he would discover himself to be again
hanging in the awful abyss of Nothingness.
For quite a space Sir Richard struggled thus mightily to recover his
wits from the enthralling opiate. Slowly, now, the events of the
immediate past were coming back to him. The first being that returned
to tenant his recreant memory was the gaunt, tall figure of the
inn-keeper. Then crept in, stealthily, mysteriously, the misshapen
hunchback, Zenas. The fog lifted from off the episode of the hound.
"The voice," he whispered. "Ah! the voice! The note--yea, the note! And
the precious strip of saffron velvet!"
Feebly he thrust his hand within the breast of his doublet and found
it there, whereupon he contrived to open his eyes and struggle to his
elbow.
An expression of indescribable amazement sat upon the young knight's
countenance when his eyes encountered, above his head, the waving
folds of the purple and black pavilion in the place of the uncovered
beams of the room in the Red Tavern in which he had fallen asleep.
He looked at the bed, and noted that it was the same, or one exactly
similar in pattern. Upon a chair alongside his steel gear had been
neatly disposed. De Claverlok had seen to it that it was scrupulously
burnished in every part. Sir Richard's headpiece confronted him
jauntily from its position upon one of the lower bed-posts. He saw, as
he took it up, that its scarlet plume had been daintily curled. Turning
it over, he raised the fillet. The message from Isabel was not there.
Round about the pavilion he could hear men talking and laughing. From
the volume of sound, he estimated it to be a considerable company. They
were conversing together for the most part, however, in the Spanish
tongue, and he could gather nothing above a fragmentary word here and
there. The perplexity was growing upon him as to which was the dream,
the singular circumstance of the night before, or that in which he
then discovered himself. But the cutting of saffron velvet, which he
thereupon withdrew from its hiding place, proved to his apparent
satisfaction that his charming adventure with the imprisoned maid had
been a sweet reality. Examining it minutely, he pressed it once more to
his lips, and then restored it to its place next his heart.
Against one side of the pavilion, which was closely curtained at every
point, stood a bench upon which rested a basin of clear water. He arose
from bed and laved his aching head within its grateful coldness. It had
the effect of clearing it wonderfully. Before buckling on his armor,
it occurred to him to ascertain whether the King's warrant were yet
secure. He discovered, much to his chagrin, that it was missing. He
congratulated himself, however, upon Lord Stanley's foresight in having
provided him with a duplicate copy, which he had taken the precaution
to have sewn within the lining of the skirt of his doublet, and was
overjoyed to find that this had been overlooked. He then finished
buckling on his steel gear, fastened on the casque, drew the visor
close, and in this manner, armed in proof, he walked straight to the
entrance and thrust aside the damask hangings.
The pair of stalwart guards outside tumbled awkwardly together in their
haste to arise, muttering confused sentences in Spanish as they did so
and touching their fingers to their bonnets in a respectful salute.
This rather humorous happening drew the attention of a score or more
of armed men seated about a roaring fire, which burned at the foot
of the steep incline that fell away from the pavilion on every hand.
Upon catching sight of Sir Richard they arose in a body to their feet,
standing at soldierly attention. Several of them bowed. One from among
them started quickly up the hill to where the young knight stood.
He was a man of admirable proportions, and the ease and grace with
which he swung up the sharp slope, all encumbered as he was in a suit
of heavy, inlaid armor, bespoke for him great strength and activity of
limb and body. The guards, obedient to his terse commands, withdrew
themselves beyond earshot. He then approached Sir Richard, removed his
feathered cap that he was wearing in temporary lieu of helmet, and
saluted him with an elaborate bow.
"Good-morrow, sir knight," he gave him greeting. "Thy slumber, I
trust, hath proved as restful as it was prolonged and deep?"
"By'r lady!" the young knight curtly rejoined, affronted by that which
he considered but mock ceremony. "And what meaneth this thing, pray?
Why am I entented here and surrounded by guards and warriors ...
free-lances, outlaws ... i' truth, I know not which? Torment me not
with suspense, sir, but tell me ... where is the Red Tavern wherein I
went to sleep? And, by all the gods, sirrah, who art thou?"
"The last shall be first, good my knight, and the first last," the
other answered flippantly. "As for myself, I am known here in Scotland
as the Knight of the Double Rook. In England I am styled the Renegade
Duke, and the bloody block in the Tower, sir, doth this moment itch for
my head. To bring the history of my variegated and not uninteresting
career down to the present time, I have the distinguished honor to have
been nominated as thy squire and secretary. And as such, sir knight, I
respectfully await thy commands."
"Then," answered Sir Richard upon the instant, "show me now the road to
the Red Tavern. And be good enough to explain the mystery of how I am
come to be here without either my knowledge or consent. Who may it be,
sir, that is at bottom of this damnable piece of device and practice?"
"By St. Peter, sir knight," replied the Renegade Duke, "I miss my shot,
an the Red Tavern be now even three cock-crows removed from here. For
that, good sir, hath been the duration of thy sleep. As to its cause,
... well, Friar Diomed, the secret chymist, could doubtless better
acquit himself of that answer than I."
"But thou canst tell me why I am here," Sir Richard insisted, "and who
is responsible for this stealthy abduction."
"Why thou art here, sir knight, I may not say," declared the Renegade
Duke, "for I have pledged my knightly word to maintain secrecy upon
that point. As to the responsibility," he added boastingly, "I would
fain accept my share of that along with the forty other knights and
nobles who conspired to bring thee here."
"Pray," Sir Richard went on, "of what advantage is a truce, an a loyal
subject of the King may not travel abroad without adventuring the
perils of captivity, detention, or such other discourtesies as thy
august body of forty may have under consideration? Have done with this
errant nonsense, my good Duke ... an, indeed, thou be such ... and
tell me where I shall find my horse, so that I may fare away upon my
journey?"
"Thy steed, sir knight," said the Renegade Duke, apparently not heeding
Sir Richard's unveiled insult, "is now being groomed by an equerry.
After thou hast broken thy fast it shall be led around to thee, wearing
as fine a coat of glossy satin as ever graced my lady's shoulders. Thou
shalt then be at liberty ... or in a manner at liberty, I should have
said, ... to resume thy journey, as henceforth thou shalt travel under
the protection of our estimable body of men here."
There are ways without number of accepting an involuntary and
compulsory situation. Sir Richard chose to embrace it after a lightsome
and cheery fashion, believing thus that the open eye for an opportunity
of effecting his escape would be thus more effectually disguised and
concealed.
"Well, ... so must it be," said he, laughing. "And since, mayhap, we
are to travel in the same direction, I shall be all the gainer by thy
famous company."
After they had breakfasted, the Renegade Duke signified his desire to
escort Sir Richard about the grounds of the encampment.
He found it to be composed of some threescore of tents set in a wide
circle around the purple and black pavilion. These, his loquacious
guide informed him, but served to give shelter to the leaders, the
men-at-arms and archers, of which there were near a thousand, had
thatched, rude coverings beneath the trees and shelving rocks. It was
a perfect morning, the sun blazing upon the sea out of a cloudless
sky. The site of the encampment was matchless in the beauty of its
surroundings. To the north an apparently limitless forest started out
of a purple haze on the line of the horizon, far above; and, slipping
down in terrace beneath terrace of parti-colored foliage, halted
abruptly, as though the red moor had forbidden the trees to trespass
within its boundaries. Southward, one overlooked the gorse-grown plain,
the level monotony of which was broken, at wide intervals, by the
sudden uprearing of an isolated brae.
When Sir Richard and the Duke returned from their circuit of the place
of the encampment, the purple and black pavilion had been struck, and
a cavalcade of fifty horsemen, superbly armed and caparisoned, awaited
but the command to move. An equerry led forward the young knight's
horse, which neighed with joy upon beholding its master. As to the
perfection of its condition, the Renegade Duke had not exaggerated,
for, between its burnished trappings, its ebon coat shone with the soft
and velvety sheen of the finest satin. As he leapt into the saddle a
bugler winded a silvery blast and the company at once set into motion.
The horsemen were equally disposed forward of the noble prisoner and to
the rear. Upon his right hand rode the Renegade Duke, who had mounted
himself upon a gigantic white stallion. To his left rode Lord Bishop
Kennedy, to whom the Duke introduced Sir Richard as they began their
march.
The Renegade Duke's range of subjects of conversation was limited to
the discussion of his wonderful prowess in armed encounters upon the
field of battle and within the lists, and of his innumerable conquests
in that other and fairer field of the heart's affections. Sir Richard
had disliked the fellow from the first, and his feelings toward him
were rapidly undergoing a change into something more robust than mere
dislike. But to have sought a quarrel with him then would have defeated
the purpose that was even then assuming a definite shape within the
young knight's mind. Sir Richard despised the Duke not alone because
of his manner of speaking, but also for the way he had of twisting his
fierce mustachios till they pointed heavenward from each of his round
cheeks.
When he could no longer tolerate listening to his idle boasting, Sir
Richard turned and addressed himself to Lord Bishop Kennedy, who had
spoken no word to the young knight since their first brief interchange
of courtesies at the start of their journey.
"Surely," thought Sir Richard, "if Verbosity attends me upon my right
hand, Taciturnity doth ride gloomily along at my left," for the worthy
Bishop did not even condescend to raise his sharp chin from out of
his white tunic whilst delivering himself of a curt negative or
affirmative in response to the young knight's conversational advances.
Ahead of where they were riding, a jagged spur of the forest, composed
of stunted pines and dense underbrush, swept defiantly down upon the
moor. They were forced to describe a wide detour to the southward in
order to avoid it and come upon the other side. As they were passing
its nethermost point, Sir Richard glanced back to the place of his
strange awakening beneath the sumptuous pavilion. He saw a great ship,
with snowy sails bellying in the wind, making straight for that point
of the coast, and the men, whom they had left behind, were swarming
after the manner of an army of busy ants to the sandy beach.
Passing the spur of stunted pines, they skirted the forest in a
northwesterly direction till they had arrived upon a well defined
road that plunged directly into the dense wood. Up this rocky way the
cavalcade slowly defiled. Far above their heads the maze of branches
met and intertwined, making it seem as though the company had been
swallowed up within the cool mouth of a tremendously lofty green
cavern. The sound of the hoof-beats of their horses was smothered in
the thick carpet of pine needles underfoot, and the rich, sweet scent
of them filled all the air.
Since Sir Richard had displayed a disinclination to give ear to his
cant, the Renegade Duke had drawn ahead to join the leading horsemen,
and for an interval of more than two hours Bishop Kennedy and his
prisoner rode onward side by side without exchanging a single word.
"What road may this be, good Bishop?" he ventured finally to inquire.
"'Tis the continuation of the Sauchieburn Pass," Lord Kennedy briefly
replied.
Sir Richard was more than contented, for he knew then that the way led
to Castle Yewe and Lord Douglas, into whose hands he intended soon to
deliver the duplicate of the parchment that had been pilfered from out
of his wallet.
CHAPTER VIII
OF A QUARREL AND A CHALLENGE
The road through the forest wound steadily upward, and when they had
left behind them the red moors and braes, the heaving, shimmering sea,
they gained no view of the open, and but scant glimpses of the sky,
so thickly interwoven were the leafy branches above their heads, till
they had emerged upon a furzed and brambled down that commanded an
uninterrupted prospect for many miles around.
The scene then spread before them was one of superb grandeur, and well
repaid them for their march of five hours up the long and tedious
slope, of which the point where they were now come marked the extreme
summit. The sea had disappeared out of the range of their vision, and
in every direction the land dipped away in a myriad of mounds and
hills, with splotches of golden gorse dotting their tops and sides,
till the last of them was lost in a purple haze that hung above the
indefinite, circular rim of the horizon; a fleecy wrack of clouds
tossed before the light wind across the deep blue dome of the sky.
These, speeding between sun and earth, sent patches of light and shadow
in a swift pursuit of each other up and down over the breast of the
sweet landscape as though they were playing at some pretty game.
Here, word passed among the men that they might dismount to bait
themselves and their horses and enjoy a brief period of rest before
resuming the march. Amidst resounding talk and laughter they clambered
out of their saddles, tethered their steeds where the grass grew most
abundantly, and proceeded to make themselves comfortable, after the
campaigner's fashion, by sprawling at full length upon the velvety
turf in the agreeable warmth of the sun. Meanwhile, serving-men were
addressing themselves to the work of gathering armfuls of dried hemlock
twigs, building fires over which to warm the pastys, and broaching
casks of stum.
A bright-faced youth, who had evidently been appointed equerry to Sir
Richard, approached and signified his readiness to take charge of
the young knight's horse. Sir Richard dismounted, gave the reins into
the youth's hands, and joined Lord Kennedy, who was leaning against a
curiously stunted cedar that grew from the brink of a steep declivity
near at hand. Within his mind, Sir Richard had applied the nickname
of "Taciturnitus" to his silent companion of the morning, and he
was surprised to observe the grim warrior-churchman drinking in the
glorious scene with a keen zest of which he had deemed him altogether
incapable. For quite a space they stood side by side, silently
contemplating the diversified beauties of the landscape that unrolled
before them from the sky-line to the base of the cliff.
Here and there, filmy pennants of white smoke, indicating the location
of shepherds' cottages, would fling from behind the masses of foliage
upon the farther hillsides. There was but one structure visible,
however; a rambling pile of gray stone, shot with a trinity of
embattled towers, which was nestled along the slope of a down, some
three leagues distant from where they were standing.
"What is that building yonder, my lord?" queried Sir Richard,
indicating its location with outstretched hand and finger.
"That," replied Bishop Kennedy, "is the Black Friar's Monastery. Our
way, sir knight, leads directly beneath its sealed portcullis, which is
opened but once in the year, and then only for the purpose of admitting
its annual quota of novices. The final glance of the probationer's eye
upon a free earth and heaven embraces this bit bonnie scene. When he is
quit of the damp cell and noisome cloister, the crypt, lying within the
belly of the hill, becomes the final repository of his lime-bleached
bones."
While Bishop Kennedy was talking Sir Richard's attention had been
directed toward a solitary traveler, who was drawing near along the
road that wound around the foot of the cliff and swept over the hill
upon which his captors were bivouacing. The pilgrim was mounted upon a
round-bodied, slow moving and remarkably long-eared donkey, which was
exactly of a color with the rider's voluminous, cowled robe. As he came
within easy view it could be seen that he was diligently poring over
some sheets of manuscript. It appeared not to annoy the reader in the
least when the donkey stopped, which it did every little while, to
scratch its underside with its hind hoof.
"Well, by my Faith!" exclaimed Bishop Kennedy, with a display of
genuine enthusiasm upon catching sight of the pilgrim.
"You know him, my lord?"
"Yea--that I do, Sir Richard. Upon the round back of yonder ass rides
a scholar, sir knight, whose fame will one day be proclaimed over all
the land. Aye--and whose name shall live when thine and mine have
been erased along with the epitaphs upon our tombs. Let me crave thy
indulgence, and call another to keep thee company, whilst I go forward
to embrace my friend Erasmus."
"De Claverlok, attend us," he then called to the grizzled knight, who
was sitting beside one of the roaring fires and skilfully balancing a
pasty above it upon the blade of his halberd.
De Claverlok quickly gulped down the remainder of the contents of the
flagon beside him and came toward the two men wearing a good-natured
smile, smacking his lips aloud and wiping his beard with the back of
his broad hand.
"The wine is to thy liking, I perceive," remarked Bishop Kennedy dryly.
"Ah!" exclaimed the grizzled veteran heartily, "there's nothing, my
men, that can equal it. Give me drink with the must in 't every blessed
day of the year, ... eh!"
"Thou art ever filled with ardor, de Claverlok, when the meat and drink
are in question," observed Kennedy with a faint trace of a smile. "But
canst forget thy loves long enough to keep companionship with our guest
whilst I go forward to meet my friend riding below?"
"Certes will I bear the sir knight company," the grizzled knight
instantly agreed. "And I need not desert my loves in doing so, ... eh,
... my boy?"
Whereupon he led Sir Richard to a seat beside a hastily constructed
table, made of two broad planks set lengthwise above a pair of empty
casks. Over it, fluttering and crackling in the crisp, invigorating
breeze that blew across the mountain, was stretched an awning of purple
and black, which the young knight took to be a part of the pavilion
beneath which he had been so mysteriously transported, and beneath
which that morning he had so strangely awakened. The Renegade Duke,
with a partially empty tankard at his hand, was already seated before
a steaming pasty. From the violent red of his nose and cheeks it could
easily be seen that he had been making rather too free with the stum.
Besides painting his round face, it had provided him with the fool's
courage to unmask his hatred of Sir Richard, at whom he glared across
the improvised table with an open defiance. At first he was careful to
preserve a sulky silence, but by the time he had emptied a few more
flagons he grew noisily vociferant, and would likely have opened the
quarrel then and there, had it not been for a now and again lustily
delivered nudge of de Claverlok's mailed elbow.
He was sufficiently himself, however, to relapse into silence when
the Bishop joined them with his youthful friend, whom he addressed
intimately as Gerard, but introduced to the three men as Erasmus.
The scholar's loose robe did not wholly conceal the angularity of
his figure. His cheeks, though almost painfully hollow, were touched
with the olive bronze of winds and weathers. His nose was unusually
prominent, but cut fine at bridge and nostril. His brow, classically
moulded, was deep and broad at its base. Altogether, his physiognomy
was remarkable for its combination of severe austerity and innate
generosity and kindliness.
"It would seem," said he, seating himself beside the table between
Bishop Kennedy and Sir Richard, "that the flower of knighthood is
gathered here to look upon the flower of Scotland's scenery. I wonder,
sir knights, that the restful peace of yonder view does not communicate
itself to your martial breasts and render you brothers-in-love of all
the world."
"Thy business it is to think, dream, and observe, Gerard," said Lord
Kennedy, "and ours to act. The world is yet too imperfect to receive
thy teachings, my friend."
"Yea--that it is," agreed de Claverlok between bites. "With us it's
eat, drink, rest betimes, and then away. I'll wager, though, our gear
sits lighter on our shoulders than your robe, ... eh?"
"Right readily do I grant you that, sir knight," returned Erasmus
smilingly. "This robe, in truth, is one of the heaviest of my burdens.
There would be many a naked back, my lord," he added gravely, turning
toward Bishop Kennedy, "an the robe were to be stripped from every
bigoted hypocrite. It grieves me to admit my belief that steel girded
breasts are uniformly more steadfast to their principles than those
enveloped within the robe and cowl."
Thus, during the hour of eating, Erasmus held Lord Kennedy and Sir
Richard enthralled with the charm and compelling influence of his
colloquy, in the course of which he explained to them that he was then
journeying from a monastery at Stein to enter the services of the
Archbishop of Cambray, and that later it was a part of his plan to go
on to Paris, where he intended pursuing his studies under the continued
patronage of his amiable and generous master.
Had the scholar touched at all upon the subject of battles, or of
deeds of martial gallantry, it is possible that he might again have
enticed de Claverlok to give ear. But as it was, that bluff warrior
yielded himself in his most heartywise to the business of devastating
the remainder of the pasty before him, and maintaining a constant
void within the pewter flagon beside his plate. As for the Renegade
Duke, Sir Richard noted that his vapid smile had resolved itself into
something approaching a drunken leer, and that beneath his vain twaddle
there ran a distinct undercurrent of thinly veiled sarcasm. It grew
apparent that he was striving desperately to mask his quarrel with
the young knight from the understanding of Lord Kennedy. In this Sir
Richard was assisting him to his uttermost. Some time before he had
conceived the idea that a quarrel and subsequent duel, which he hoped
that his blatant guard might secretly arrange, would provide a likely
means of escape.
That their combined efforts were unfruitful of misleading the shrewd
Bishop was soon made apparent; for, before leaving from beneath the
awning with Erasmus, he took the grizzled knight aside, talking
earnestly with him for several minutes.
"I am but going to make Erasmus acquainted with some of our famous
fellows," he was explaining to de Claverlok, "and shall soon return.
Above all things, Sir Lionel," he warned in a whisper, "keep a close
eye on the Knight of the Double Rook. Before we came to yonder table
I had disquieting news from the scholar from Bannockburn way. Douglas
is arming to oppose us, and planning to invade England for a purpose
similar with ours. I fear me that he is familiar with every happening
within our camp, and doubts have arisen within me as to the Renegade
Duke's integrity to our cause. An I am not mistaken, there is a plan
afoot to defeat our purpose of delivering the young noble within our
northern stronghold. There's something mightily wrong, de Claverlok.
Not a breath have I heard from our captive regarding the King's warrant
taken from his pouch by Sir James; and yet is he as eager as an
unhooded falcon to escape and fare away upon his journey. How it would
boot him to go on, I cannot make out. Remember, sir knight," Bishop
Kennedy concluded sternly, "that henceforth thou art held responsible
for the youth's safe detention; ... by thy knightly oath do we hold
thee."
"Aye, my lord," was the extent of de Claverlok's reply, though his tone
and manner indicated his determination to be faithful to the trust
imposed upon him.
While the three men were seated beneath the awning awaiting Lord
Kennedy's return they espied along the road, which wound like a tawny
worm beneath the portcullis of the Black Friar's Monastery, a single
horseman careering swiftly in the direction of the hill upon which
they were stationed. As the rider drew nearer, they could see the
glint of the sun's rays upon the burnished trappings of man and horse.
Without exchanging a speculative word, their glances followed him till
he disappeared at a point where the ochre road was swallowed up in a
patch of brilliantly colored gorse. He had likewise been sighted from
elsewhere upon the mountain top, for a band of horsemen sallied down
from the place of the bivouac and met him precisely at the spot where
he again issued into view from behind the bushes. Then, wheeling, they
bore him company up the declivitous road. Coincident with their meeting
with the men awaiting them above there was a loud shouting of "Douglas!
False Douglas, the traitor!" Whereupon Lord Kennedy could be seen
striding among them, a trumpeter winded a blast "To horse," and then,
amidst a frenzied waving of pennoned lances, the hitherto quiet scene
became alive with the scurrying of mailed feet, the noise of creaking
saddle girths, the hoarse cries of men, and the loud neighing of horses.
Sir Richard, unable to interpret the meaning of this sudden warlike
demonstration, and wondering much at the use of the name of Douglas,
regarded it in the light of a most opportune happening. For one thing,
it had rid him temporarily of the presence of de Claverlok, who was
swinging furiously down the slope bellowing aloud for the Duke's horse,
for Sir Richard's, and his own. The young knight at once availed
himself of the opportunity of resuming his quarrel with the Renegade
Duke; and, as he regarded him scornfully across the board, that
individual arose and bowed low before him. In despite of Sir Richard's
aversion toward the man, he was obliged to pay tribute within his mind
to his singular grace and perfect assurance.
"Why all this mock courtesy," said the young knight quietly, arising
also to his feet, "when your blade, my brave Duke, dangles so near to
your hand?"
The Renegade Duke stole a glance behind him down the hill, and smiled
insolently, coolly, delaying thus his answer for a considerable space.
"The battle-ax, or mace, sir knight," he said then, "would better suit
our deadly purposes." He was not above looking to the advantages of his
superior weight in offering this suggestion. Moreover, horsemanship
played an important part in this kind of warfare, and the Duke was said
to be a master horseman. "Yet----" he added the word and then paused
reflectively.
"Yet what?" returned Sir Richard. "Out with it ere de Claverlok return
to thwart the perfecting of our arrangements."
"Yet--" repeated the Duke slowly, again looking behind him down the
hill, his lips still raised from off his teeth in a maddening smile, "I
dislike me much to remove the single champion of a maiden in distress.
Would you not consent to grant to me the legacy of effecting the fair
one's release?"
The violence of Sir Richard's anger, scattering every vestige of
prudence to the winds, might easily have resulted in defeating his well
laid plan to escape. For, no sooner had the Duke finished, than the
young knight found himself standing with his emptied tankard in his
hand, while his enemy, with a diaphanous lace kerchief, was daintily
wiping the dregs from it off his face. The fact that he missed a
drop of the wine, which remained hanging from one of the ridiculous
points of his upturned mustachios, sent Sir Richard into a paroxysm of
laughter.
"An it comes to the question of a legacy, Renegade Duke," he stifled
his merriment sufficiently to answer, "I shall do my mightiest to have
it from you to me. An I make no mistake, my fine fellow, I shall gain
the missive you have pilfered before the day is done."
While Sir Richard was speaking, de Claverlok was seen to be approaching
at a swift gallop with their horses.
"Till we meet," returned the Duke quickly, "it shall again be yours.
When your bonnet was being burnished this morning it rolled from out
the fillet to the pavilion floor." Whereupon, having explained his
possession of the note, he tossed the bit of paper before Sir Richard
upon the table. Then, as de Claverlok drew rein and called aloud for
them to mount--"Which shall it be," he whispered, "mace, battle-ax, or
sword?"
"Battle-axes, at cock-shut time," Sir Richard hastily answered, moving
in the direction of his waiting horse.
"Battle-axes at cock-shut time," repeated the Duke. Then, with a
sweeping bow, he held the young knight's stirrup for him to mount.
"Battle-axes at cock-shut time," he said again. "Thou hast laid a
command upon me, ... Liege!" he added, with the last word hissed low in
Sir Richard's ear as he vaulted lightly past him into his saddle.
"Liege?" thought the young knight to himself as he rode onward down
the road beside de Claverlok. "Why all these ceremonious bows? This
calling of me a _noble_ knight? This strange captivity? Why should
I--I, Richard Rohan, knight, and lowly messenger of the King be thus
curtseyed to and addressed? And what mean these subdued mutterings
among the men of 'A traitor in camp,' 'Douglas playing false and
arming,' 'Tyrrell outmaneuvered'? Fates defend me. I had liefer set my
lance against the Dragon of Wantley than make an attempt to unravel the
deep mysteries by which I am this moment surrounded."
CHAPTER IX
OF AN AMBUSCADE, A DUEL, AND AN ESCAPE
The Renegade Duke, whose challenge Sir Richard had so openly invited,
and who, through the mishap described, had secured a temporary
possession of the playful note written to the young knight by Isabel,
had quickly surmised by whom it had been inscribed. He was aware of the
maid's dissatisfaction with her surroundings, and that she had chosen
Sir Richard to be her deliverer at once sent the Duke into a ferment of
passionate jealousy.
The Renegade Duke's accidental meeting with Isabel when he had first
come to Scotland to join Tyrrell's projected expedition, had marked the
beginning of a mad desire to arouse within her breast a return of the
sentiment that he entertained toward her. In so far as his superficial
character permitted, his affection for her was genuine. But in the rare
instances in which he had contrived to meet and talk with her alone,
she had rejected his suit with an indignant scorn that would have left
an ordinary man without the shadow of a hope of future success. The
Duke, however, was all egotism and vanity, and remained firm in his
belief that his charms would ultimately prevail. By fair means or foul,
he had determined upon having her within his power; and, as the initial
step toward such an end, he had played the traitor by laying bare
before Douglas the whole of Sir James's plan.
Douglas, himself a conspirator of no mean abilities, had immediately
set about to concoct a scheme whereby to take advantage of Tyrrell's
grave dilemma, caused by the unhappy death of the young prince.
Douglas had already instituted measures to have a substitute candidate
proclaimed in the place of the one dead, being well aware that Sir
James would scarcely dare to incur the ire of his men--from whom he had
kept the circumstance of the prince's death a dark secret--by exposing
the falsity of the Douglas claimant. Rather, did Douglas figure it,
would Tyrrell be under the necessity of joining issues. This would
result in a powerful movement, with the Douglas finger very much in
the juicy pasty that was designed to be served up to Henry VII and
his followers. Had the Renegade Duke been acquainted with the genuine
character of the captive Sir Richard's ancestry he would doubtless
have been in haste to communicate his knowledge thereof to his new
master, with the result that the plot, then taking shape, would have
been infinitely less complex, and probably less interesting than it
subsequently turned out to be. In his selection of Sir Richard to
assume the leadership of his gathered forces, the Duke fell into the
error of supposing that Tyrrell had happened by chance to duplicate
Lord Douglas's clever expedient.
In the early morning of that day the Duke had contrived to get word to
one of Douglas's lieutenants of the captivity of the young knight, and
of Tyrrell's intention to carry him to his stronghold before making
known his plans with regard to him. The Duke anticipated a counter
move upon the part of Douglas along the way; but he calculated that
if he could make himself the instrument of the captive's removal, it
would place him high in the esteem of Lord Douglas; while, at the same
time, he believed that such a move would leave Tyrrell without a prop
wherewith to buttress his tottering conspiracy.
As Sir Richard, around whom simmered this salmagundi of politics, rode
onward with the company, he tried many times, by piecing together odds
and ends of the talk that drifted to his ears, to gather some inkling
of the purpose upon which the company, of which he was a most unwilling
member, was engaged. With recurring frequency he heard the word
"treason," and its kindred, "traitor," "spy," "base informer" traded
from tongue to tongue among the men around him. The march was now being
urged rapidly forward, and a something portending evil seemed to be
hanging in the air about them.
The end they were seeking to attain, and the part his person was
playing in their machinations grew more enigmatical in proportion with
the thought that Sir Richard gave to the matter of burrowing to the
reason for them. He ceased trying, finally, and suffered himself to be
carried along whithersoever chance, or good or bad fortune, listed.
His companion of the morning, now no longer taciturn, was riding well
to the front with Erasmus, whom he had evidently persuaded to remain
with the company. In sullen silence at his left rode the Renegade Duke.
Faithful de Claverlok kept within touch of Sir Richard's hand to his
right.
When he was not engaging the bluff old warrior in conversation, the
young knight would yield himself to the ineffable delights of conjuring
up radiant visions of the maiden of the piece of saffron velvet, whilst
all of the time he was building every manner of chimerical plan for
effecting her delivery from the hands of the keeper of the Red Tavern.
Full often his fingers would seek and caress the soft nap of the
cutting of cloth. He had need of constant assurance that the entire
mysterious happening had not been of the ephemeral fabric of an unusual
dream.
Thinking thus of the unknown maiden to whom he had pledged his knightly
sword, led him naturally to the contemplation of his own freedom,
and the stratagem through which he was hopeful of achieving it. That
his avowed enemy, the Duke, was, at the proper moment, ready to lend
himself to his device, Sir Richard was almost certain. His scheme
involved the arrangement of a secret duel, in which he trusted in his
strength of arm to vanquish his enemy and thereafter make his escape.
But a most substantial and incorruptible barrier offered in the bulky
person of the grizzled knight. As many as a score of times had de
Claverlok been loudly hailed from the vanguard of the line. But without
exception he had laughingly rejoined that he was engaged in keeping
companionship with the honored guest of the company, remaining deaf to
the young knight's fervent assurances that he must consider himself
quite free to ride ahead, if he so desired.
"Aye," he would invariably reply, "I know well that thou art growing
tired of my prattle, ... eh? I wish that it were not so, sir knight,
for I must do my devoir by thy side till the trumpet sounds a halt for
the night."
Once Sir Richard put to him point blank the question of why and how
long he was to be thus forcibly detained.
"Before the sun drops beneath the hills in the evening of to-morrow,"
de Claverlok replied, "thou shalt know all. Would that I were free to
tell thee the story now, Sir Richard," he added with an honest candor,
"but my lips are sealed with an oath most sacred, ... eh! Thou wouldst
not expect me to break my knightly vow, I know," upon which he looked
significantly across at the Renegade Duke, but that immaculate dandy
was busily engaged in polishing his nails against the flowing skirts of
his scarlet _sclaveyn_, and remained wholly unconscious of the implied
warning.
One thing, at least, had drifted clear of the haze within Sir Richard's
topsy-turvy brain. Lord Kennedy was the leader, and had appointed
de Claverlok as his especial consort. He wished heartily that some
accident might befall to win or send the rugged warrior from his close
attendance upon his stirrup, as this was the only means through which
he could hope to achieve the end he had in mind.
The sun, by now, was tinting the western sky a rose glow, with all
across the face of it a sweeping of thin and luminously pink clouds.
The hour had almost come when Sir Richard had promised himself the
felicity of trying conclusions with his braggart enemy at his left; yet
here was de Claverlok riding unyielding alongside, the embodiment of
everything firm and loyal.
Though he was chafing sore under the restraint, Sir Richard could not
but suffer himself to be entertained by the flow of good humored talk
of his companion, which went something after the following fashion:
He had been told that Sir Richard had passed the greater part of his
life in Brittany? The young knight answered affirmatively. He, too, the
grizzled warrior averred, had hunted, fought, and tilted there. There
were maidens in Brittany, ... shy, big-eyed, captivating, ... who had
once regarded him not unfavorably, ... eh! Their daughters, mayhap, had
done the same for Sir Richard? "Thy looks doth certes deny thy age,"
the young knight had politely assured him. Ah! aye--but he was old,
though, ... quite old enough to be the sir knight's father. Why! once
he had split a lance or two with the old Duke Francis himself. And at
the time when Henry, Earl of Richmond, now England's sovereign ruler,
had been but a romping, long-haired boy, ... eh! Yea, ... and the
sturdy Duke had come nearer to unhorsing him than any man across the
Channel. He had been informed that the young sir knight had once been
Henry's playmate; ... was this true, ... eh?
He had indeed been the companion of Henry, Sir Richard told his
friendly guard, and with him had shared the guardianship of Duke
Francis and the bountiful hospitality of his court.
Then it may have been, the grizzled knight went on, that Sir Richard
had witnessed that self-same tournament upon the field of Anjou, at
Vannes? It had been extravagantly rich in prizes, ... that tournament.
He himself had been so fortunate as to win two barbs and three coats
of Tuscan mail, ... fluted, ... sumptuous, ... exquisitely damascened.
But they had long since found their way into the rapacious talons of
the Jews. Everything that he had ever possessed ... of any value, ...
saving that which he was then wearing, ... and his knightly honor,
... had followed at the tail of them into the same far-reaching, ever
greedy claws. Yet he courted no hatred of them, ... eh! Why should one?
Were they not as necessary to a gold-lean knight, these gleaners of
worldly wealth, as were his very bread and wine, ... eh? What excuse
was there for despising one of the prime essentials of life, he wanted
to know?
In something after this manner the warrior rambled on. Touching, with a
ponderous grace, upon any subject that chanced to fall, haphazard, into
his mind, not pausing for a moment to listen to answering comment, or
seeming to expect it: Sir Richard was growing convinced that the crafty
fellow was witness to the passing of the insult between the Renegade
Duke and himself, and that he was merely talking to defeat their avowed
purpose of renewing hostilities till the hour when they should halt for
the night.
There would be no duel that day, and no escape, of this he was by now
almost certain. Disappointed, chagrined, impatient of his strange
thralldom, and desiring above all things else to deliver Henry's
message to Douglas, he rode gloomily along, lending something less than
half an ear to the empty words that his stanch, unwavering guard was
volleying into it.
For a considerable while the road had been threading between a pleasing
succession of furze and thistle-grown downs. It was from a copse
abutting upon the highway, when they were riding between the steeper
of these, that a frightened hare scurried in front of them across
the road. Upon the instant de Claverlok drew rein and swept each of
the hillsides with a swift and keen scrutiny. The trifling incident
of the flying hare was as the first eddy of wind that heralds the
coming tornado; for, in almost the next moment, there followed the
sharp spattering of bolts against bonnet and breast-plate and shield.
One struck fair upon Sir Richard's gorget, causing him to reel in
his saddle and his temples to throb and ache with the shock of the
impact. Among those riding ahead the young knight saw three pitch
heavily off their horses. Clear eyed and iron nerved indeed were these
Scot archers; men who could pick you out with unerring nicety the
crevice between gorget and helm, or the joint between pauldron and
breast-plate. Often, with the beaver drawn, they were known to flick an
arrow through the eye-slit without touching either side of the orifice.
After the first shower of bolts the slopes upon each side of the
company of horsemen became alive with warriors, slipping down the hill
upon them like brown and living torrents. There was a ruddy glare
ahead, where the ardent rays of the sun, now setting, were beating
against the breastplates of an advancing foe. Uprose, then, loud cries
of "Douglas, and the Duke of York!" "Long live the White Rose!" which
was met with shouts of "Death to the traitors!" "Long live Tyrrell and
the Duke of Warwick!"
Sir Richard was just upon the point of yielding to the instinctive call
that would have placed him in the singular position of giving battle
against the enemies of his supposed own foes, when the Renegade Duke's
hand fell heavily upon the bridle of his prancing stallion.
"Cock-shut time is come!" he was shouting in the young knight's ear. "I
am ready to obey thy command of this morning. Ride with me to the left!"
Quick as a flash Sir Richard wheeled, and together they drove upward
along a narrow roadway that debouched from the one over which they had
been traveling, unlimbering their battle-axes as they sped along.
When the wooded summit of the down intervened between them and the
scene of the conflict, they drew rein and went at it. Whatsoever else
the Renegade Duke may have been, Sir Richard was quick to discover that
as a foeman he was not in the least to be despised. Blow after blow
he was parrying, and that with a neatness and cleverness that set the
impetuous young knight somewhat by the ears. Indeed, growing out of the
very frenzy of his eagerness, he realized that his attacks were losing
an alarming measure of their force and accuracy.
There was now need of immediate action, as, upon the further side of
the down, the crash of arms seemed to be subsiding. It was just as he
was charging his antagonist afresh that Sir Richard heard the thunder
of hoof-beats along the narrow road upon which the Duke and he were
fighting for their very lives. Summoning every vestige of energy
and strength at his command, he aimed a blow full at his foeman's
head-piece. When it appeared to be upon the point of striking, the
Renegade Duke executed a swift demivolte. The heavy ax, glancing along
his helm, clove off its jaunty white plume, and crashed fair upon the
chamfron of his mount. There followed then a momentary reeling and
staggering, like a maimed ship in a sudden gale, whereupon horse and
rider fell, furiously plunging and kicking, into a thornhedge beside
the road.
By now the echoes of the approaching hoofbeats were reverberating
clear and crepitant from against the steep side of the opposite hill.
The Renegade Duke had not done sinking into the crackling brush when
Sir Richard wheeled, and, touching rowels lightly to his stallion's
foam-flecked side, made off with all the speed there was left in him.
CHAPTER X
OF A NIGHT IN A SHEPHERD'S HUT, AND A SURPRISE IN THE MORNING
So far as qualities of speed and endurance were concerned, Sir
Richard would have willingly matched his powerful stallion against
any in Scotland. Having no fear, therefore, of the possibility of
his recapture, he settled himself with some comfort in his saddle,
enjoying a great measure of satisfaction in the belief that he would
soon outdistance his pursuers. That he was indeed being followed he was
left in no manner of doubt, as not for a single instant did the ring of
hoof-beats pause at the spot where his late adversary had sprawled so
ignominiously into the brambles.
Being wholly unaware as to the number of miles that might stretch away
between himself and Castle Yewe, he deemed it unwise to urge his mount
to top speed. Besides, the road along which he was forced to travel
was not over-free from scattered boulders and rather steep of descent.
He accordingly contented himself with making haste slowly, as the
saying goes, maintaining a long, easy, sweeping stride, and observing
every possible precaution against the accidental stumbling or laming of
his horse. Moreover, in the thin, clear air of the uplands the rattling
of steel hoofs against the flinty earth would assuredly carry for the
greater part of a league. For this reason he entertained but slight
hope of throwing his pursuers off his trail till the character of the
soil became changed.
Twice within the distance of the flight of an arrow the road swerved
sharply to the left, which rendered it quite impossible, on account of
the tangle of bushes that shot high above his crest on either hand, to
ascertain how closely they were following at his heels, or how many
were engaged in the chase. At times he could have sworn that there was
but one. Then, when he would be just upon the point of drawing rein,
purposing to try conclusions with that which he supposed to be his
single foeman, the surrounding foothills would carry to his ears the
echoes of a battalion of flying horsemen, whereupon he would touch
spurs to his stallion's side and scurry hot-footed up and down dale
until the sounds had dwindled again to a mere faint pattering in the
twilight distance.
Two full hours of hard riding did not suffice materially to alter the
positions of pursuer and pursued. By then the moon had shot clear of
the hills, adding her pallid luster to the clear, star-powdered vault,
and still Sir Richard could catch the faint pounding of persistent
hoofs at his back. Arriving presently at a point where a wider roadway
forked to the left, he decided to take his way along that. He was
gratified to find that it yielded soft to the hoof, muffling to a
considerable extent the hitherto loud noise of his flight.
Sprinting madly for the distance of something near an eighth of a
league, he dismounted and led his tired horse within the shadows of a
thick wood, fringing the highway to the northward. Tethering him to a
tree at a safe distance from the road, he then retraced his way rapidly
but cautiously toward the juncture of the two highroads. Purposing
through this simple stratagem, should chance favor him, to have a look
at his pursuing enemies.
The young knight enjoyed a quiet laugh at his own expense when he
discovered that his flying battalion of horsemen had narrowed down
to one, and that one, de Claverlok. His rugged profile was set fair
against the enormous face of the moon, as he drew to a stand not above
a dozen feet from where Sir Richard lay concealed. Distinctly the young
knight could see his grizzled head, a silhouette of black against a
yellow circle, showing as clear and clean cut as a finely chiseled
statue.
It was easy to gather that de Claverlok was in two minds whether to go
straight ahead, or to turn to his left into the forking roadway. Now
he was inclining his head in a listening attitude. From away in the
distance, and ever so faintly, came the clatter of the galloping hoofs
of a single horseman. This sound set an instant period to the grizzled
knight's perplexity. Forthwith he turned his charger's head straight to
the northward, and in a flash was spurring furiously from the vicinity
of the bushes where Sir Richard lay hidden.
Keeping well in the brush, the young knight waited till the noise of
de Claverlok's flight had merged within the solemn quiet of the night;
then, returning to where he had tethered his horse, he led him to the
highway, mounted, and, after somewhat of a less impetuous fashion than
before again resumed his lonely journey.
He had ample leisure thereafter to indulge himself in meditation.
Indeed the young knight was enjoying his first quiet interval since
his entrance into the Red Tavern and his meeting with Tyrrell, whom he
still regarded as nothing more than a most extraordinary inn-keeper.
Again his mind reverted to the maiden; he recalled with a thrill of
pleasure her soft whisper, and the kiss through the wall. He thought
of the bit of cloth and the note, and immediately grew less lonely
than before. They yielded him a sweet companionship that he was quite
willing to accept without attempting to define. Through his ardent
maze of speculation, however, Nature obtruded with her realities, and
he became conscious of the keen, frost-laden air, and of his fatigue
and hunger. He was ready to admit that the twinkling lights of an inn
would have afforded him a most welcome and agreeable sight.
Sir Richard was destined to be denied this pleasing spectacle, as he
had now ridden as far as discretion allowed without glimpsing a sign of
a habitable shelter. But as he drew clear of the forest he caught sight
of a hut that stood not far from the road within an open meadow. He
rode up to it, discovering it to be an abandoned shepherd's dwelling,
bleak, uninviting, and dreary. Between this and the cosy corner of an
inn abounding in appetizing odors was something of a far cry to be
sure. But it was the best that seemed likely to offer for the night;
and, desolate, lonely, and utterly cheerless as it was, he nevertheless
gave thanks for the mere rude thatch that would at least protect him
from the tingling air. A rough lean-to had been constructed against the
side of the hut beneath which he secured his horse, a great armful of
half-dried grass serving for the animal's feed. Once inside the hovel,
by tearing out a plank or two from the rotting floor and disposing them
within the rude fireplace he soon contrived to kindle a blaze that
warmed him pleasantly to sleep.
So fatigued was he that, in despite of his hunger and thirst, his
slumber was of the soundest. Perhaps the assurance that he would likely
awaken in the same spot where he had closed his eyes contributed
its mite to his comfort of mind and body. At all events he remained
undisturbed till well along in the morning. When he aroused himself and
opened his eyes the slanting rays of the sun were falling fair upon
them through the sashless window that opened upon a fairylike view of
hill and forest. He was stretching and yawning himself more fully awake
when he was startled suddenly into that condition by a huge shadow
moving across the devastated floor. He looked once; then, rubbing his
thoroughly surprised eyes, looked again.
Upon the sagged doorsill sat the ubiquitous de Claverlok. He seemed
quite unaware of the young knight's awakening, being busily intent upon
the burnishing of his helmet, and cocking his grizzled head drolly
from one shoulder to the other the while he held his gleaming bonnet
at arm's length the better to view and admire the result of his lusty
rubbing. The glittering top-piece, catching a ray of the sun, shunted
it straight into Sir Richard's dazzled eyes. For a second or two
thereafter he could see nothing above a brilliant splotch of red, with
the massive outline of de Claverlok looming gigantic in its center.
When he was recovered of his transitory blindness, he made a hasty
examination of the wall against which he had constructed his bed of
leaves and boughs. Saving for a narrow vent-hole set high above the
floor, and in the corner of the room farthest from where he was lying,
it was unpierced by door or window. Sir Richard could not restrain a
smile of quiet amusement as he thought of the famous prank he might
have played upon the unconquerable old warrior had there been a
sufficient opening near at hand to give exit to his body.
As it was, ... "_Well!_" he shouted at de Claverlok upon a sudden, and
at the very limit of his lungs.
Deliberately, and with the most impassive unconcern, the grizzled
knight set his helmet upon his head.
"Give thee a right good-morrow, Sir Richard," said he, smiling broad
and friendlywise over his shoulder. "Judging from the quality of
thy slumber, I should say that thy conscience is mightily clear and
babelike, ... eh?"
"Clearer it should be than thine, ... leech!" Sir Richard retorted.
"Much am I perplexed over thy presence within this hut this morning.
Methought that yester eve I had bade thee adieu for all."
"Aye, ... and good quittance, well riddance, thou didst think, ...
eh? But thou wert remiss, my son, in not bethinking thee to yield me
a parting handclasp. I am come to remind thee of thy discourteous
oversight, and, what's better, to offer thee wherewith to break thy
fast."
"Thou dost but mock mine hunger, de Claverlok, which is most ill
beseeming from an unbidden guest within my door."
"Pooh, pooh! guest within thy door, indeed. 'Tis thou who art jesting
now, ... eh! But, i' truth, I am not mocking thee, sir knight,"
protested de Claverlok. "Why, thinkest thou that these bonnie plains
and downs are barren of grain and fowl, ... eh? Or that my hand and
tongue have lost their cunning? But, tell me, my good Sir Richard, art
indeed bereft of thy nostrils?"
When the young knight raised himself upon his elbow he became aware of
the appetizing odor of a roasting fowl, which had not quite dropped to
the level of his reclining head. In the fireplace behind him he saw
that it had all along been sizzling upon an improvised spit, and that
beside it there was an iron pot that was sending its cloud of steam
merrily up the deep black throat of the chimney.
"I observe," said Sir Richard, rising and going to the door, "that thou
art ever thoughtful of the inner man. But, withal, de Claverlok, I like
thee right well, and were it not that thou hast designed to constitute
thyself my guardian and captor, full gladly would I call thee friend."
"Your hand, Sir Dick, and let us say 'tis so. Your good friend and
true have I been since first I clapt my eyes upon your fresh and open
countenance, ... eh! By Saint Dunstan, but I wish that I dared tell
you a thing or twain as to the reason for my guardianship," he added
fervently. "That I am such is the fault of an untoward circumstance of
which for the present you must perforce remain ignorant. That I am
your captor, ... well," he laughed, "and whose fault is 't, ... eh? You
were a free man but yester night, my boy."
"Aye," returned Sir Richard; "and ill did I conduct the business
of eluding you. But, marry, man! Here's my hand of friendship, for
as friend I insist upon regarding you--and not captor--my good de
Claverlok."
Smiling broadly, the grizzled knight grasped and heartily shook the
young knight's proffered hand.
"From this old tongue," said he, "you shall hear no denial of your
claim. But a truce to soft sayings, ... eh? The fowl doth cry aloud
from yon spit. The ale is mulled to that degree of perfection where it
would tickle the palate of Epicurus himself. The air is growing heavy
with the fragrance of toasting cheese. Let us, I pray you, break our
fasts and be off. Our journey doth stretch long before us, and the day
grows apace."
They thereupon sat down together upon the doorsill, the hollow of
de Claverlok's broad and scrupulously burnished shield serving as
salver for the meat, bread and cheese. They took turns at the ale out
of the mouth of the earthen jug beside them. When they had finished
breakfasting, they went to the lean-to and made ready their horses.
"Do our ways diverge at yonder road?" carelessly asked Sir Richard, as
he swung himself into his saddle. "Or shall I be so fortunate as to
have you for my companion during a part of my journey?"
"Well, ... by the sun that warms us! Marry, but you are a refreshing
youth!" exclaimed de Claverlok, adjusting his breast-plate and
gathering his buckler over his left arm. "An I wot my name, Sir
Richard, you are to journey wherever I lead, ... eh!"
"Be in a hurry then, my friend," suggested the young knight pleasantly,
but firmly, "to become again acquainted with yourself. I go my own way,
sir, e'en an my sword or lance must reckon with the hindrance."
By this time the grizzled warrior was seated in his saddle, and had
gathered his reins in his hand for the start.
"Which direction is it your wish to travel, my son, ... eh?" he
inquired, making as if to submit to Sir Richard's desire.
Withdrawing a chart out of the wallet dangling from his baldric, and
making note of the position of the sun and the length of the shadows,
the young knight indicated, without speaking, a point midway between
north and northwest upon the glowing line of the sky and hill.
"By 'r Lady!" exclaimed de Claverlok, causing his armor to jingle with
the heartiness of his laughter, "but I am fair sorry that you are not
ignorant of every trick of travel-lore and wood-craft, else might I
have conducted you to a place not so imminently dangerous to your
handsome----" He ended the sentence by touching his head and sweeping
his hand in a circular motion around the base of his corded neck.
"Methinks 'tis an easy hazard," returned Sir Richard lightly; "and I
have made choice of accepting it. The choice was made for me before I
started, I should have said. An our ways lie together, though, friend
de Claverlok, mayhap you would spare the time to show me how to pick
up a trail by moonlight. 'Tis a right pretty trick--and after flying
after a false scent, too. A right pretty trick."
"Yea--and the very devil's own time had I to compass it. What with
the going astray, and the getting down on my knees in the dust, I had
scarce an hour's rest between the welcome sight of you asleep within
the hut and sunrise, ... eh! I wot you were watching me beside the
road near the fork, for I saw your marks along the thornhedge. A right
nice prank that was to play on an old campaigner, ... eh? And am I a
night-capped grand-dam, think you, to lose that which has cost me so
much to gain? I'll be damned, Sir Dick, an you are not this moment my
captive, ... eh!"
"Right glad am I to claim you friend, de Claverlok," maintained Sir
Richard, guiding his horse toward the highway; "but I must deny you the
right to call yourself my captor. My first escape was an honorable one,
effected through force of arms. An I must escape again, let it be in
the same manner. Though much do I regret that our friendship should end
thus. I leave to thee, sir knight, the choice of weapons."
"Fiends and furies fly away with every kind of weapon!" roared de
Claverlok; "an they are to be wielded between you and me. Would I be
keeping my knightly vow by spitting you upon my lance's head, ... eh?
By the Rood! You would tempt me to set myself in a class with that
foul toad, the Renegade Duke, ... eh? Ah! but how I did laugh to see
him kicking and cursing amidst the thorns. I would you had put an end
to him, Sir Dick. Yesterday, an I wot myself, began a tale of black
treachery, my young friend, to which the false head of that court dandy
shall furnish an appropriate and bloody period."
By this time they had come to the road where, as though by common
consent, they reined to a halt for further parley.
"An you refuse to give me battle, de Claverlok," said Sir Richard a
trifle impatiently, "you must permit me to take my own way, as I am
determined not to go yours, unless indeed it be in a helpless and
disabled condition, and trussed fast to the back of your barb. How say
you, sir knight?"
"How say I, ... eh?" muttered the grizzled warrior within his curly
beard. "What can I say, would be more to the point, it would appear.
The hungry vultures, I'll swear, would be the only gainers from a tilt
at arms between us. And beshrew me, Sir Dick, an I am of a mind to
strew the sward with your precious body. As for mine--well--I am not so
partial to vultures as to wish to feast them upon my carcase. But tell
me," he added, looking keenly into the young knight's eyes, "why are
you so stubbornly determined upon making your way into Castle Yewe; can
it be that Douglas is your friend, ... eh? You know full well that you
have not the King's paper."
"And a right sorry moment it was for me when I permitted it to be
stolen," returned Sir Richard with an angry frown. "Aye--it is true
that I cannot now deliver the original, but I have a copy, my shrewd
friend--a copy, hear you? And I mean to place it within Lord Douglas's
hand as swiftly as my steed can bear me within the sallyport of Yewe.
Was your hand, de Claverlok, concerned in the purloining of the
original?" he finished sharply.
"Nay--not mine. A copy say you, ... eh? God! what a mess of pottage is
this! You could not be prevailed upon to rip this parchment open and
read its contents, ...?"
"Well, by my soul! What says the man!" exclaimed Sir Richard
indignantly. "Friend or no friend, de Claverlok, another word from you
upon that score and there'll be an end of peace between us"; whereupon,
urging his horse into a swinging canter, he set off in the general
direction of Castle Yewe.
"So, ... lead on, Sir Dick!" shouted the grizzled warrior, setting
spurs to his mount's side and quickly galloping beside Sir Richard. "I
am at once your captor and your slave. Your follower and your guide.
Saint Dunstan grant me the strength to keep your foolish head from
harm. And when you're done with thrusting yourself into hornet's nests,
... eh! then shall I be waiting to lead you to a place of temporary
peace and safety."
"Temporary safety?" queried Sir Richard. "What mean you by that, de
Claverlok?"
"'Twill be but temporary," the young knight's companion asserted
warningly. "There are many things that this moment must seem full
strange to you, ... eh? Yea--but, an I can keep your head upon your
shoulders through this wild adventure, it will be but to yield you into
another hornet's nest awaiting you in the end," he finished somberly.
CHAPTER XI
OF HOW SIR RICHARD CAME TO CASTLE YEWE
The grizzled knight's prophecy of an evil time yet to come provided
the young knight with much material for thought, without, however,
worrying him in the least. He was unable to surmise even remotely
what dire happening it was meant to foretell. Sir Richard was without
vaulting ambitions to achieve distinction or power; had never been
entangled in any political movement; or concerned in any conspiracies;
or acquainted, so far as he was aware, with the instigators of them.
He had always held carefully aloof from matters pertaining to the more
serious business of Henry's court. Seeking only to gather the full
measure of enjoyment out of life, it had always been his wish, withal,
to be regarded as an efficient soldier and faithful and obedient
servant of his king. In his earnest desire to shine among the chivalric
lights of his time, he brought up at the point of being dreamily
visionary. Why he was thus suddenly become the center of a dizzying
maelstrom of mysterious occurrences was quite beyond him to fathom;
but he was none the less keen in his enjoyment of the situation, its
inscrutability appealing forcibly to his imagination.
As he rode onward beside his captor-companion, he gave frequent verbal
expression to the questions perplexing him, but without exception
de Claverlok's replies were the embodiment of remoteness. He was
open, however, in his references to the perils that surely awaited
Sir Richard inside the walls of Yewe. His warnings were poured into
unheeding ears, as the thought uppermost in Sir Richard's mind was
to reach there as quickly as his horse could accomplish the journey.
The veteran warrior had been revolving in his mind the subject of his
oath of secrecy made to Tyrrell, and whether it involved the keeping
of the contents of Henry's warrant from its bearer. He concluded
finally to make use of every other means that came to hand to keep
his young friend, for whom he was already entertaining a sentiment of
real affection, from delivering the parchment to Douglas. Failing of
success, he would, as a last resort, expose the duplicity of the King
by laying bare the purport of the document.
"I have your word, de Claverlok," Sir Richard interrupted the warrior's
thoughts, "that you are well acquainted with the country hereabouts?"
"Yea--that I am, Sir Dick."
"Tell me then," the young knight inquired, "how many leagues is it from
here to Yewe?"
"Marry, and is it true you do not know, ... eh?" returned the grizzled
knight, shooting a shrewd interrogative glance in the direction of his
companion.
"Not I. An I had, my friend, I had not besought your information," said
Sir Richard.
"Aye--eh! Most truly said. Well," de Claverlok replied, hesitating
while he made a count upon his fingers, "not above two days' journey, I
should say," he glibly misled his companion.
"So far as that? Well, by my faith! I wish you had said not above two
hours," remarked Sir Richard regretfully. "But how see you, my friend,"
he thereupon added, pointing his finger directly ahead of them down the
road; "an I mistake me not, in yonder valley beside the fork of the
road doth set an inn?"
"Aye--that it is. The good Stag and Hounds; right well do I know its
jovial keeper. There, Sir Dick, may we dine, drink our fill, and while
away a pleasant hour in reading out of your Tales of--of----"
"Canterbury, do you mean?" suggested Sir Richard.
"Canterbury--aye, of a truth, that's it, my young friend. Beshrew me
an I have not the devil's own time with remembering names, ... eh! You
have this Canterbury business within your saddle-pouch, I heard you
say. I would hear you read somewhat out of it, ... eh!"
"This fondness of yours for written tales is certes something of a
recent acquirement," laughed Sir Richard. "Only this morning, an I
remember me aright, did you scoff at my keeping it beside me; yea--and
did heap scathing ridicule upon the head of the scholar, Erasmus, when
I spoke of my admiration for him."
"I did but say," protested the grizzled knight in all seriousness,
"that the scholar's nose was an uncommon long member, ... eh! And that
his bookish business made him to be devilishly thin and pallid. I have
a strong liking for tales, let me tell you that, Sir Dick. You'll read
me out of them, ... eh?"
"Sorry I am to deny you, my good friend," the young knight replied,
"but I dare not steal the time from the doing of my errand. I shall but
tarry in the Stag and Hounds to feed and rest my barb. But here's a
challenge for you, de Claverlok," he added, gathering his loose reins
well within his grasp. "The last man to dismount before the steps of
the tavern shall foot up score for horse and man. What say you? Come,
my hearty warrior, show me the vaunted mettle of your steed!"
"I have you, Sir Dick!" instantly agreed the grizzled knight; whereupon
they started off together, with dust and pebbles flying thick in their
train from the swiftness of their flight.
De Claverlok's animal was exceptionally deep-breasted and powerful,
and a near match for Sir Richard's in speed. For quite a distance they
clipped it neck and neck along the road. About midway between them
and the goal against which they were flinging there rode a solitary
horseman. He was garbed in the habit of a monk, with the cowl drawn
well down over his head. The mad volleying of hoofs caused the rider
to uncover, as the racers drew near, and shoot a glance of wonderment
in their direction. Even with the fleeting view thus afforded him, Sir
Richard remarked that the rugged, lean, and livid-scarred countenance
appeared singularly incongruous within the brown frame of a monk's
hood. It was like anything but that of a peace-loving ascetic. So
intent was the young knight upon winning his race, however, that he
failed to notice the unusually sharp angles where the robe fell away
from the horseman's knees and elbows. Neither was he sufficiently acute
to observe that his rapidly forging to the fore of de Claverlok was
coincident with the swift uplifting of the traveler's cowl.
He swept on down to the door of the Stag and Hounds, and reining his
stallion to its haunches beneath the creaking sign that hung above
it, he flung himself from off his saddle in time to see the monk look
rather hastily back toward the tavern, mark the stations of the cross
in the air with exaggerated gestures above de Claverlok's bowed head,
and disappear at a round gallop over the hill.
The grizzled knight then rode leisurely down to where Sir Richard stood
waiting for him, his rugged face beaming with smiles.
"Your barb's hoofs spurned the earth too swiftly for us to bear him
company," said he, dismounting beside the young knight, "so I yielded
to you the palm of speed, and added to the total of my score by tossing
yon pious churchman a noble. Mayhap I may be the gainer through
achieving absolution from divers of my recent sins, ... eh? What, ho
there, MacWhuddy!" he shouted at the inn-keeper, who was smiling,
rubbing his pudgy hands together, and bowing within the door. "Send
thy groom, MacWhuddy, and have me these barbs fed and curried whilst
we have somewhat of your best to eat and drink. By my soul, MacWhuddy,
but thou'rt growing of a size," he went on in a robustious way after
the groom had come forward to relieve them of their horses. "Bigger and
fatter than ever, ... eh? 'Tis a right healthful business, this keeping
of an inn, ... eh? Nothing but eat and drink, and drink and eat from
day's end to day's end, and trade jokes from the benchside with the
toiling traveler that gorges thy till. When I get me done with this
fighting, I'll have me a tavern with a warm corner, a soft seat, and a
full flagon ever at hand, ... eh! Sir Dick?"
"I could never picture you, my pugnacious friend, without your ready
sword and buckler," laughed the young knight. "But make haste,
MacWhuddy," he added, turning toward the inn-keeper. "We would quickly
bait ourselves and be away upon our travels. Hold! one moment, my good
fellow. Cannot you tell me whether this road leads to Castle Yewe? and
how many leagues----"
"Pooh--pooh!" interrupted de Claverlok loudly. "And what doth MacWhuddy
know, pray, ... eh? Why, by my faith, scarce his own name, Sir Dick!
Saint Dunstan hear me, an he keeps him not his scores upon a notched
stick, I'll eat him for a flitch of bacon. Get you gone, MacWhuddy," he
roared, when the puzzled inn-keeper made as if to protest. "Bring in
the meat, MacWhuddy, and not a word out of your blessed pate, or I'll
roll you like one of your own wine butts through yon door, MacWhuddy,
... eh!"
"I wish that you would have expended your wasted energies in bidding
the fellow make haste," said Sir Richard, who was much mystified by his
companion's sudden display of irritability.
"Haste? He'll make haste, will MacWhuddy--he's built for 't, ... eh?"
observed de Claverlok with a dry laugh. "But where's the blessed groom,
... eh? I would have him to--ah! here he comes now. Hey, you, fellow;"
he called to the hostler, who was just about to set his foot inside
the door, "bring us a book you'll find in the left saddle pouch upon
the back of the black horse. Why stand you there twirling your cap and
mouthing like a drunken tarry-Jack, ... eh? Fetch us the book, I say!"
"I canna un'erstan' thee, worshipful marster," mumbled the thoroughly
frightened menial. "What are a bo-o-ke, good sir? Be it some'at to eat,
or some'at to drink--or some'at f'r th' hoorses, mayhap?"
"Well, by Saint Dunstan! Know you not what a book is, ... eh?" roared
the grizzled knight, springing up from his seat beside a table and
starting for the dumfounded groom. "I'll have the flat of my sword at
your hinder quarters for a doddering void-pate!" whereupon, with a
great show of anger, he made through the door in a furious pursuit of
the innocent offender. "A book, I tell you--" Sir Richard could hear de
Claverlok having it out with the groom in the yard; "a handful of paper
with a board stuck fast upon each end--do you hear me, ... eh?"
The noise died away presently. Sir Richard supposed that his mercurial
companion was engaged in rummaging for the book; but the grizzled
knight had beckoned the inn-keeper to his side and was threatening him
with every description of chastisement if he but dared to intimate to
his young friend within the location or distance of Castle Yewe.
"An the sir knight asks me again, what shall I tell him?" queried the
landlord.
"Oh, anything, MacWhuddy, and be damned to you! Anything but the truth."
When de Claverlok came into the tap-room he was puffing and blowing at
a tremendous rate and carrying the vellum-bound volume under his arm.
"Come now, Sir Dick," he started off in a wheedling tone, "read me one
of these tales of--oh--how say you that name again, ... eh?"
"De Claverlok," observed Sir Richard dryly, "your love of literature
has grown to be of an intensity indeed. But your laggard memory halts
and stumbles and plays traitor by refusing to keep pace with it. I have
said before, my zealous friend, that it would ill beseem me to tarry
here in idle reading. Nay--another time, good scholar. Another time!
Another time! Here comes our host's pretty daughter with the meat and
drink. Let us refresh ourselves quickly and be away."
"Then," said de Claverlok, "I'll return the book to its place within
your----"
As he spoke he arose from his stool, and just at the moment when the
serving-maid was about to set the platter upon the table. They collided
violently, scattering the food and wine over the sanded floor.
De Claverlok wheeled, straightened, set his hands upon his hips, and
with a look as though all the world was conspiring to do him injury,
regarded the cowering, half-tearful maid.
"Well--what fiend's in this blessed place, ... eh?" he bellowed.
"Look you at this mess upon the floor, you awkward body! And here the
sir knight yonder is fair aching to be upon his way. An you wore not
kirtles, I'd have the flat of my hand at your ears for a blundering
dunce, ... eh!"
The serving-maid turned an appealing glance in Sir Richard's direction.
"I'll fetch thee more, sir knight," she said. "In truth, I meant not to
spill the things, noble sir."
"Fret not yourself, good maid," said Sir Richard kindly. "Nay--I wot
well it was not your fault. I fear me my friend has been struck with
some fearsome sickness. He was not always thus. You may go, maid. But
bring not the food--I dare not wait. Indeed, I was not over keen to
eat. A slice of bread from your hand before I get me in the saddle is
all I crave."
"That shalt thou have," said the maid with returning spirit, starting
for the kitchen door, "and a bit of toasted cheese to keep it company."
"Upon my soul, de Claverlok," remonstrated Sir Richard, "your temper is
growing to be something unbearable. 'Twas not the wench's fault that
the food was overturned. You backed your great body square against the
platter, leaving her no room for escape on either side. You've had your
quarrel with our host, who seems, in sooth, a right peaceable and merry
fellow; you berated the groom, and glowered upon the kitchen-maid--with
whom will you brawl next, my friend?"
"Why, with you, an you stay not here to eat and drink," retorted de
Claverlok.
"Then let the fun begin," said the young knight, starting for the rear
door that gave to the court and stables. "Not another moment do I tarry
here. An you are coming with me--come."
De Claverlok could do nothing but follow, the which he did with obvious
reluctance. Once outside, they ran plump into the inn-keeper, who
was all at sea whether to smile and pass the usual joke, or to keep
his eyes fastened discreetly upon his broad expanse of doublet. Sir
Richard, however, allowed him no choice of alternatives. He stopped
him, setting his hand firmly upon the landlord's round shoulder.
"When my friend interrupted," said the young knight, "you were about to
tell me the distance and direction of Castle Yewe--is it not so?"
MacWhuddy cast a sheepish look in the direction of de Claverlok, who
was scowling fiercely and shaking his fist behind Sir Richard's back.
"'Tis in some'at of that way," he replied, "ower there," waving his
trembling hands to the eastward; "some, ... oh! near--I say near, mind
thee, worshipful knight, ... near twenty--thirty leagues."
According to that, Sir Richard would have been required to travel some
distance out upon the open sea.
De Claverlok strode toward the stable, muttering savage oaths against
the stupidity of innkeepers in general, and poor MacWhuddy in
particular. Meanwhile, the serving-maid, bread and cheese in hand, was
beckoning the young knight from the kitchen window.
"Here is thy bit food, sir knight," she said, as Sir Richard took his
station beneath the casement upon which she was leaning. "Castle
Yewe," she added in a whisper, "doth lie straight along this road in
the way thou wert traveling, and not above six leagues. Turn to thy
right where the road forks in front of the inn. Often, on a clear day,
from yonder hill, have I seen its lofty turrets. Good fortune attend
thee, sir noble knight," she concluded, laying her hand, which was just
out of a pan of flour, upon his shoulder, "and beware of the brute with
the beard on thy way--he means harm to thee, I fear."
When Sir Richard came, whistling a merry tune, into the stable, de
Claverlok was making a great show of rage, cursing and boxing the poor
stable-boy's ears.
"What now, my friend?" asked the young knight as he went on past the
struggling pair toward his horse.
"What now, ... eh?" roared de Claverlok; "why, here has this young cub
gone and mislaid your saddle girth! A murrain upon the loutish tribe,
say I! and you in a sweat to be off, too. I'll----"
"Have done berating the boy, de Claverlok," said Sir Richard. "Now tell
me, man, what have _you_ done with that girth? I know exactly where
lies Castle Yewe, and I wish to ride within its sallyport without
further parley or delay. What have you done with my girth, I say?"
"By Saint George, Sir Dick, what have _I_ done with _your_ saddle
girth, ... eh? 'Tis too much, this, I tell you. Give me nothing above
a padded lance and a sword of lath, and I'd do battle with the whole
of you together. Here have I suffered all manner of insults from every
blessed soul within this tavern--and now you, Sir Dick, must say to me,
what have _I_ done with _your_ girth, ... eh!"
"Mayhap," whined the stable-boy, who was squirming to get loose from de
Claverlok's grasp, "I mislaid me it in yon hay-cock."
"Then I'll go with thee to help find it," de Claverlok said, wriggling
up the great pile of hay behind the boy.
While they were both down on their hands and knees digging, Sir Richard
quickly unbuckled the grizzled knight's saddle and set it upon the back
of his own horse.
"Have you found it, my friend?" he called, when he had made de
Claverlok's strap secure.
"Nay--not yet. Have patience, Sir Dick," called the grizzled knight
without stopping to look behind him.
"Then," laughed Sir Richard triumphantly, "being in sore haste to get
away, I've e'en borrowed thine. Thou canst follow later, sir knight.
Adieu to you--adieu!"
"Fie--Sir Dick!" shouted de Claverlok, starting up red-faced and
sliding down the steep side of the hay; "I pray you, be not in such an
undue haste. Wait! You are leaving with the mark of a powdered hand
upon your shoulder-cape. Hold, I say! Let me brush it from you, boy!"
The young knight was safe upon the highway before de Claverlok got
clear of the hay.
"An I have the mark of the scullery-maid upon my shoulder," he called
back, "I have also the knowledge of the true distance of Castle Yewe
beneath my bonnet. Give you a round good-day, de Claverlok," he added,
laughing gaily, and with that pelted off down the road at top speed.
He had a fine view of the Stag and Hounds from the crest of the next
hill, and saw his companion swing into his saddle and follow after
him at a great pace, with the lost girth strapped securely about his
horse's belly. The race was now on in grim earnest, and the young
knight was resolved, at any hazard, to hold fast to the advantage he
had gained.
The breadth of the hill intervening, he lost sight of de Claverlok for
a little space. But he had another view of him when his pursuer rode
over its summit. The grizzled knight was shouting a string of words
that, because of the roaring of the wind in his ears and the pounding
of his horse's hoofs, he could not at all make out, and waving his long
arms about in the most frantic manner. The young knight was enjoying
the situation to the marrow. It was worth everything to him merely to
have outwitted the crafty veteran.
Sir Richard calculated that he was laying the road behind him at the
rate of five leagues an hour. He was relieved and happy to know that
of a certainty he would soon arrive at his journey's end, and that,
too, in despite of the many obstacles that had been so stubbornly
thrust in his way. "Then," thought he, with a thrill of pleasure, "upon
fulfilling my King's behest I shall be free to retrace my way to the
Red Tavern to deliver the fair maiden from her imprisonment."
Thus much, at least, he meant surely to do. After that was
accomplished, he felt constrained to relinquish the marking of the
sequel into the hands of the kind--or unkind--Fates.
Meanwhile the race was going steadily and swiftly forward. Though
exacting the utmost of speed from his horse, Sir Richard was unable
appreciably to change their positions. With a dogged persistence de
Claverlok contrived to maintain the rapid pace and relative distance,
which, when galloping over the level, was well within sight of the
pursued.
At length, through a narrow cleft between the hills, Sir Richard caught
a welcome glimpse of high, square-built and crenelated towers. It was
the goal for which he was so mightily striving.
He had passed through the cleft and was well up the slope leading to
the portcullis when of a sudden he felt the saddle girth giving way
beneath him. Appreciating that it would be sheer madness to risk a
fall and certain defeat of his purpose of delivering the warrant, with
victory so near, he instantly drew rein, flung himself from off the
back of his panting stallion and began the work of securing the ill
adjusted strap.
While thus feverishly engaged he shouted at the top of his voice for
the guard upon the tower to lower the drawbridge across the wide moat.
Covered with scarlet-flecked foam, de Claverlok's horse came thundering
upon him up the hill.
With the grizzled knight scarce above two lance-haft's lengths behind
him, and wildly calling upon him to wait, that death lay in the King's
warrant, Sir Richard vaulted into his saddle and made for the castle
gate.
When he had laid something near half of the remaining distance behind
him he heard the clear blast of a bugle go singing across the down.
Without in the least diminishing his speed, he turned in time to see
a band of armored horsemen flashing out of the pine forest to the
eastward. Riding in the van he was certain that he recognized the
livid-scarred face of the traveler in the monk's robe.
If the bridge were now but lowered it would be impossible for them
to cut Sir Richard off. Would it fall for him? Now he had reached to
within easy flight of an arrow from the massively buttressed gray
walls; and as yet he could discern no sign of movement among the thick
ropes, wheels, and pulleys sustaining it. There appeared no hint of
life along the face of the great pile. At the very moment when he
was about to wheel to the westward, in the faint hope of eluding his
pursuers through a continued flight, there sounded a creaking of
wheels, and the heavy structure began slowly to move earthward.
De Claverlok's lance, hilt-foremost, went hurtling past the young
knight's shoulder. Distinctly he heard the dull splash of it as it
struck the black waters of the moat, far below.
At every stride the slope was growing steeper, and it seemed to Sir
Richard's straining eyes that the bridge, with its underwork of mossy
beams and rusted iron trusses, was hanging in mid air directly above
his head.
So closely had its fall been timed, however, that there was no margin
left to the young knight upon the side of safety. He was forced to put
his mount to the leap to gain the top of it.
"God wot there be death here for the twain of us!" Sir Richard heard
de Claverlok shout as he, too, took the perilous leap but an instant
behind him.
Through the yawning maw of the arched sallyport they shot together, and
the heavy portcullis, like iron teeth snapping down after gulping their
prey, crashed upon the flagging at their backs.
CHAPTER XII
OF THE DELIVERY OF THE KING'S WARRANT
The main gateway that gave entrance to the outer bailey was
impressively wide and lofty. Once inside, postern gates opening upon
either hand admitted into the great halls, rooms of state, and the
donjon-keep. Besides these, and at regular intervals along the vaulted,
winding passageway, the walls were pierced by iron-clad doors giving
upon the same premises. When the opening of this main artery had been
sealed by the drawbridge, which fitted tight against it, nothing of
daylight filtered in, and it received its only illumination from a
number of huge cressets, two of which were set high overhead at every
turning, and kept constantly filled with glowing coals by the castle
attendants.
Before each of the nail-studded doors stood two guards armed at point,
their halberds planted firm before them, grim and motionless. In the
dim radiation from the iron baskets they assumed the appearance of a
rank of immovable and awesome statues that might well have been hewn
out of the smoke-distained walls before which they were stationed.
When Sir Richard and de Claverlok had ridden past the second turning
they were confronted by a solid line of them, stretching from wall to
wall across the flagged floor directly in their path. To the right,
one of the doors stood wide ajar; a bevy of men and women, sumptuously
garbed, appeared within the bright rectangle. A fool in motley was
posing against the pillared casement. It was like a painted picture,
vivid, touched with brilliant colors, set within an enormous, dark, and
gloomy frame.
A train of pages, dressed in liveries of slashed silk and velvet, stood
ready to conduct the two travelers before the lord of the castle. At
a sign from one, who, because of his distinctive uniform, one would
have taken to be the major domo, they dismounted and relinquished their
horses into the care of equerries; then, bringing up in the rear of
the train of pages, they made their way up the steps and through the
thronged doorway.
"God's sake! Sir Dick," exclaimed de Claverlok in an agitated whisper
as they were traversing the length of the vast hall into which they
were come, "Give not that paper to Douglas. Let me have but a word
with you in private before adventuring an act so deadly dangerous to
your person, ... eh?" In the extremity of his eagerness to gain his
young friend's consent he caught his arm in a viselike grip, as though
meaning forcibly to detain him.
"Take your hand from off my arm," warned Sir Richard sullenly. "'Twould
be most unseemly to have out our quarrel here, de Claverlok."
"Quarrels? What quarrel, ... eh? There's no quarrel between us, my boy."
"Aye--but I tell thee there is," maintained Sir Richard. "Much hath
thy treachery grieved and amazed me, worthy knight, whom I had come to
consider my stanch friend."
"Treachery, ... eh? What the devil! God wot, my son," de Claverlok
hurriedly pursued, "I am not traitor--listen----"
"Have a care, de Claverlok, the guards are looking," whispered the
young knight warningly. "And not a word with you, I say, till I've
delivered the King's paper. Think you I have foughten my way here for
naught? No inkling have I of the purpose of your company in stealing
the parchment and in their attempt to hinder me from reaching here. But
the copy goes to Lord Douglas as fast as----"
"Cannot you but wait an hour, ... eh? Hell and furies! Never can I
forgive me my stupidity in allowing you to come within this house of
death," interrupted de Claverlok. "There's death in that paper, I
say--death!"
"Death; what mean you?"
"Aye, death! Death to thyself, an thou must hear the truth. 'Tis a
warrant for your own execution, Sir Dick."
"De Claverlok, you lie in your bewhiskered throat," returned Sir
Richard in a menacing undertone.
"Never before hath man said that word to me and lived," declared the
grizzled warrior gloomily. "But I forgive you, Sir Dick. Aye, I forgive
you. An you'll but consent to wait an hour, I'll hear you asking my
forgiveness. You can do it, my boy,--you can wait. Say to Douglas that
thou art an emissary of Henry, who hath but journeyed here to yield to
him thy sovereign's good wishes. Tell him that I am your companion and
squire. Mayhap 'twill answer for my present safety."
"First dive within the moat and fetch me your dripping lance. 'Twould
be a most befitting badge of your loyalty to me to lay before him, de
Claverlok."
"You would be at this moment in a far better case," observed the
grizzled warrior bitterly, "an it had taken you in the small of the
back, where I intended it should land. You know damned well 'twas
hurled butt foremost, ... eh? By the Rood, boy, answer me."
Sir Richard hesitated; then, measuring his companion's earnest look,
nodded in the affirmative.
"I'll do it," said he, "though a plague take me, an I think you deserve
it. But whereof be the good, an your act were seen from barbacan or
shot-hole?"
"I'll take my solemn oath 'twas driven at the door," observed de
Claverlok, smiling in open gratification at having achieved his point.
"You'll delay the blessed paper, too, ... eh?"
"Nay--that I dare not do," whispered Sir Richard decisively. "Even
now unmeasured harm may have resulted from my egregious blunder in
permitting the original to be stolen. An ill messenger have I been, de
Claverlok--an ill messenger."
"You'll persist in delivering the paper, ... eh?"
"Upon my soul. Yea."
By now they had reached to the foot of a broad flight of steps leading
to a gallery that completely girdled the hall. Already the pages were
strung halfway up the stairway, awaiting for the two men to follow.
"Await me here, de Claverlok," added Sir Richard in a tone indicating
his determination to finish his errand as he started up the stairs.
"By the gods, you'll not go!" roared the grizzled knight in a transport
of infuriated rage, whereupon he made a sudden leap at Sir Richard,
catching him with a bearlike hug around the middle and dragging him to
the floor of the hall. "Give me that paper," he whispered in the young
knight's ear. "Give it to me, Sir Dick!"
"What meaneth this?" shouted a stern voice from above that rang to the
vaulted dome of the chamber. "Separate me those brawlers, guards!"
In the wink of an eye a cloud of the Douglas retainers had swooped down
and torn the fiercely struggling men apart. There followed a momentary
lull during which the two stood glaring into each other's eyes.
"Which of thee hath an errand with Douglas, and what, pray, may it be?"
resumed the voice from the gallery.
Ranging along the balcony behind him, Sir Richard's eyes fell upon a
burly, broad-shouldered man standing with arms folded on the threshold
of an open door.
"I am bearer of a message from King Henry, my lord," answered Sir
Richard.
"And who is thy combative friend?" queried Douglas. "Why this row
within my very hall, sir knight?"
"'Twas but a slight misunderstanding, my lord," Sir Richard instantly
replied. "May I now bring to thee the paper?"
"Aye, that may you. But who is thy friend? Thou hast not answered me."
"My companion and squire, Lord Douglas. I bespeak for him thy pardon.
Though he meaneth right well, he is ever thoughtless and rude."
"So it would seem. Bring me King Henry's message. Keep me yonder
belligerent in leash, my men," Douglas added, pointing toward de
Claverlok, who was still tossing the guards about in a vain endeavor to
free himself from their smothering grasp.
Sir Richard strode past the struggling, heaving mass of humanity,
and then, on up the stairway. Upon reaching the landing he turned to
his right to where Lord Douglas stood within the door leading off
the jutting balcony. The young knight paused for a moment to glance
downward above the railing toward de Claverlok. The grizzled warrior
had evidently signified his intention of remaining quiescent, for
the guards had loosened their hold of him and he was standing mutely
against one of the columns that shot from floor to ceiling at regular
intervals around the entire length and breadth of the hall. His arms
were folded, and he was gazing straight up into the face of his
young friend. The beribboned courtiers and brightly dressed women
were standing at a discreet distance, gaping at him. It reminded
Sir Richard of an eagle that had dropped its pinions in the midst of
a swarm of brilliant-winged, fluttering moths. He noted as well the
expression of sad reproach with which the veteran was regarding him.
If ever sincerity was stamped in the features of man it was surely
displayed in the rugged countenance of de Claverlok, and from that
instant the young knight divined his erstwhile companion to be as
stanch and true as the steel of the Damascus blade at his side.
"Thou'lt find me here, Sir Richard," de Claverlok called up as the
young knight turned to enter the door through which Lord Douglas had
but just preceded him. When he came into his cabinet, after traversing
a number of curtained passageways, Sir Richard found the bluff Scotsman
pacing impatiently back and forth across the floor. He paused when the
young knight entered, greeting him formally from his station in the
center of the room.
"From King Henry," said he, when the document, fresh from its hiding
place, had been surrendered into his hands.
Signing Sir Richard to be seated near a massive, carved oak desk,
Douglas dropped into a high-backed chair before it, broke the great
red seal and addressed himself to the business of reading. When he had
finished perusing the document he laid it face downward upon the desk
and leaned back in his chair, tugging at his wiry, black beard, and
knitting his fierce brows deeply. During an interval of several minutes
he remained in this attitude, stealing occasional glances of searching
inquiry in Sir Richard's direction and muttering inaudible sentences to
himself.
"That this paper hath reached within the walls of Castle Yewe, sir
knight," he at length said, speaking with a cold deliberation, as
though carefully weighing each word, "is certes an indisputable proof
of thy absolute integrity as a messenger."
"Nay--but----"
"Tut, tut! Say not a word till I have digested this matter within my
mind," interrupted Douglas. Whereupon he took up the parchment and read
it through carefully a second time. Then, getting up from his seat,
he resumed his impatient march across the floor. As Sir Richard sat
studying the Scotsman's movements, he fancied that he had never seen
a combination of features more suggestive of unfaltering determination
and grim pugnacity. Douglas's head was not over large; and his cheek,
chin, and crown were covered with a thick mop of jet black beard and
hair. He moved his burly figure awkwardly, like one who was more
accustomed to riding than walking.
"By the mass!" he suddenly ejaculated. "'Tis, in truth, a riddle far
too deep for me to unravel. Why hast thou delivered me this message,
sir knight?" he queried sharply, halting before the bench whereupon Sir
Richard was sitting.
"Why?" returned the surprised young knight. "Does it not speak for
itself, my lord? At the behest of my sovereign liege have I brought it
here; and much doth it shame me to confess that ill have I requited my
beloved and noble master's trust----"
"Ill requited? What's this the young knight's saying?" Douglas burst
forth. "Beshrew me, young sir, an I wot how!"
"Well--'tis but the duplicate I have rendered unto thee, Lord
Douglas. The original I carelessly allowed to be stolen by a band
of free-lances from whom I did escape but yester eve. Tell me," he
added anxiously, "will harm result because of my unpardonable lack of
caution?"
Douglas, with arms akimbo, was standing directly in front of Sir
Richard and looking straight down into his eyes.
"Save to thyself," he replied slowly, apparently having satisfied
himself as to the truth of the young knight's statement, "no harm
can possibly befall. Mayhap, an thou hadst not lost the original, I
should have adopted another course than the one now forced upon me.
But--wherefore, Sir Richard, didst thou not join issues with Tyrrell
withal?"
"Tyrrell?" the young knight replied in a thoroughly puzzled way; "i'
faith, my lord, I know not the man--though I did hear that name called
by the outlaw band by which I was held captive."
"Well, well--so thou knowest not Tyrrell?" ejaculated Lord Douglas.
"Yet certes, man, you tarried a night under the roof of the Red Tavern,
and rode for a day in his company of conspirators? Either you are the
cleverest of dissemblers, sir knight, or else, forsooth, the embodiment
of sluggishness! Nay--regard me not thus in anger--I accept every
word of your astonishing denial as God's truth--every word. Have
I not before stated that this document here proves your steadfast
honesty? Have you never heard of Tyrrell, hireling of Crookback
Richard--strangler of two drooling boys in the tower? By my soul, man,
where have you been reared?"
"In Brittany, my lord," Sir Richard returned, his face aflame with
honest resentment. "There, in Duke Francis's court I learned my lessons
with the Earl of Richmond, now my beloved King. I do recall that once,
on London Bridge, I saw the head of one, Dighton, slewing on a pole.
'Twas he, methought, who did the tower murders."
"Tut, tut! What ignorance! Somewhat of history, Sir Richard, you have
yet to learn. That fellow was but Tyrrell's tool and groom whom Tyrrell
himself murdered for playing him false. Lady Douglas shall take you in
hand and teach you a thing or two of past events. I would hear now,"
he added, seating himself beside Sir Richard, "your account of your
journey from Kenilworth. I beg of you, omit no incident that may seem
to you trifling, as you love your King. It is a most important and
grave matter, this, Sir Richard."
"I'll do it willingly, my lord," the young knight acquiesced, and
thereupon began narrating his adventures. It took him an hour or more
to finish, during all of which time Lord Douglas sat quietly beside
him, with his elbows planted firmly upon his knees and his face pressed
against the palms of his hands. At times he would run his fingers
through his hair, or tap with the heel of his boot upon the floor.
Sir Richard's tale ran smoothly enough till it came to the point of
accounting for de Claverlok's companionship. Here he stumbled slightly,
being obliged to draw largely upon his imagination. He accomplished
it in a fairly acceptable manner, however, and in a way that he hoped
would seem natural. Though he was unable to see how harm could befall
either the grizzled knight or himself in the event of the truth being
told. Not for a moment had he credited his companion's statement in
respect of Henry's message containing matter inimical to its bearer.
But he paid the veteran the tribute of believing him to be absolutely
sincere, and forgave him accordingly, absolving him from any blame
because of that which Sir Richard supposed to be his misjudged zeal in
attempting to withhold the delivery of the parchment.
When the young knight had finished his story, Douglas arose and took a
few turns across the room.
"Extraordinary," he kept repeating half to himself; "most
extraordinary!"
Presently he resumed his seat before the desk, remaining silent there
for awhile, and tapping with his fingers upon its polished top.
"Thou canst not appreciate, I know," he said at length, "how completely
thy story hath absorbed my interest. I would that I could delve beneath
the surface and unearth some of its mysteries. Tut, tut! What am I
saying? Let them take care of themselves. Full often have I found, Sir
Richard, that the deepest mysteries of to-day become the most loudly
heralded sensations of to-morrow. Now, an thou'lt but sign thy name
across the back of this parchment, I'll take thee into the presence of
the lady of the castle. But--hold! I'll have witnesses."
Then--"MacGregor," he called aloud, and in reply to his summons a lank
individual arose above a tall desk standing in a corner of the cabinet
quite as though he had been materialized out of a world of spirits.
Douglas whispered his instructions in the scrivener's ear, and he
hurried away, presumably to gather them in.
They entered presently--ten of them there were--mumbling, whispering,
shaking their powdered heads in a kind of unison, till the white dust
sifted upon the floor like particles of glittering snow. Standing
somberly in line behind a long table, awaiting turns to set their names
beneath Sir Richard's, they reminded him of a row of solemn, nodding
jackdaws. Not being in a position to appreciate its gravity, the scene
amused rather than awed the young knight. Not in the remotest degree
did he surmise that he was henceforth to be but a wooden image--a
carved knight, if we may be allowed the simile--progressing obediently
from square to square over the checkered board of a complex conspiracy
whenever they extended their lean fingers to make the move.
"Remain," Lord Douglas said, when the last of them had written his name
beneath the young knight's. "Await my return and we'll hold further
council here," whereupon he took Sir Richard's arm, expressing his
intention of presenting him to the lady of the castle.
"Now that I have delivered the King's message, my lord," said the young
knight as they were passing along the gallery and down the stairs, "it
is my desire to be soon upon my way. On the morrow, an there be nothing
further here for me to do, I shall fare southward toward Kenilworth."
"Tut, tut! Sir Richard. Be not in such haste to bid us adieux. We are a
right merry throng here in Castle Yewe, and thou canst pass thy hours
with us full pleasantly. Thy errand, besides, is not yet done. 'Tis
thy sovereign's wish that thou shalt bide in Scotland yet awhile as my
guest. But yonder is Lady Douglas, to whom I shall surrender thee for
the present."
After introducing the young knight, Douglas begged the privilege of
talking a moment with his wife in private. A page led Sir Richard to a
seat within an alcove of the hall, where he remained, looking out of a
window at a company of infantry drilling in the castle yard till Lord
and Lady Douglas had finished their rather lengthy discourse.
"I'll see thee at the wassail board this evening, Sir Richard,"
said Douglas, who had accompanied his wife as far as the curtained
entrance to the alcove. "Thou art indeed happily come. To-day is the
twenty-fifth of the month--the feast of Crispian will be spread in
the state hall. I have made thy squire comfortable in my retainer's
quarters," he added, and then retired to his room above where the
jackdaws were awaiting to hold their council.
CHAPTER XIII
OF THE INCIDENT OF THE COBBLER'S FEAST
"Noble gentlemen," said Douglas when he had returned into his room, "I
am here confronted by a problem that I would fain crave thy learned
assistance in solving. MacGregor," he added, handing Henry's warrant to
the lean scrivener, "recite to us the contents of this parchment."
MacGregor at once proceeded to read the document, which abounded in
pompous tautology and redundant sentences. When he had finished with
the preamble he came to the meat of the warrant, which ran: "Lord
Douglas, friend and ally, we beg of thee the favor that this young
knight, Sir Richard Rohan, Kt., bearer of this paper, shall be engaged
in fair and honorable conflict by men of thine own choice to the end
that he return not again into England. We pray thee further to keep
from Sir Richard Rohan, Kt., all knowledge of the purport of this
warrant upon thee, Lord Douglas. And as thou shalt bear out its intent,
so shalt thy divers affairs prosper before our court. Signed, Henry
VII."
"Well, what think you of it, gentlemen?" inquired Douglas when
MacGregor had finished his sing-song droning of the sentences.
"By thy leave, my lord," said the venerable spokesman of the conclave,
a very aged man, according to all appearances, whose snowy beard
swept to the cord knotted about his waist, "by thy leave and that
of my compeers, I would say that it might be wise to fulfill King
Henry's wishes in so small a matter. This Perkin Warbeck, to whom
Lady Anna is teaching the manners of a noble, is not yet prepared to
assume successfully the part of the dead prince. Not until the youth's
schooling is complete shalt thou, my lord, be justified in setting thy
brave men at his back and speeding them across the borders of England.
And even then it is not thy wish, as we understand it, to be recognized
as the instigator of this movement. To that end it would be prudent, it
beseemeth me, to set the burden of obligation upon Henry by carrying
out his wishes with respect of this Sir Richard Rohan."
"Well and ably said," commented Lord Douglas. "But what cause, think
you, had Henry for dispatching the youth from Kenilworth to Yewe to
accomplish a thing that could as well and more surely have been done
upon the tower block?"
"Marry, my lord, an it be not a senseless wine-wager begot at cock-crow
after a night of wild feasting, I am much mistaken withal," observed
another member of the council.
"Belike it is," Douglas agreed. "Belike it is. But 'tis sinful, I take
it, thus to waste an honest body. I like me the young knight's looks
mightily, gentlemen, and I say to thee now, an he vanquish in single
combat those whom thou shalt choose to be his adversaries, I'll appoint
him chief of horse when the time grows ripe to send our expedition
against the usurper and tyrant, Henry. This is Lady Anna's suggestion,
and in her judgment of character I repose the utmost of confidence.
Now, noble gentles, lay me thy heads together and appoint me a list of
fighting men, each of whom shall, according as thou mayst order, insult
and duel with the young knight. Let Henry be apprised of our intention
to comply with his behest. Counselors, that is all."
The members of the council thereupon bowed gravely and withdrew to
their own room for the purpose of making out the list in compliance
with Lord Douglas's request.
During the whole of this time, in the curtained alcove below, Lady
Anna had been conversing with Sir Richard. From the inception of
their acquaintance, the young knight had accorded to her a sincere
admiration, and in a very short space she had won his confidence to
the extent that he was now narrating to her the experiences of his
journey. When he came to the incident of the cutting of saffron velvet,
which he had withheld when telling his story to Lord Douglas, Lady
Anna displayed a more than passive interest, expressing an earnest
wish to see and examine the bit of cloth. When he obediently gave it
to her, she took it within her shapely fingers, crumpling it into many
wrinkles, arching her fine brows, and making a pretense of feeling
jealousy. In fact, whenever opportunity offered, she set his cup to
brimming with sweetest flattery. Like all men of whom she chose to make
instruments in the furthering of her husband's schemes, Sir Richard
became a mere creature of clay in her deft hands.
"Lord Douglas told you, Richard," said she, when they were done
discussing the subject of his adventures, "that to-day is the day of
the Cobbler's Feast. But he was remiss in not adding that it is also my
birthday, and that we have arranged that you shall have seat at table
between my lord and me, ... the guest of honor. Though the honor shall
be ours in claiming you as such, brave knight." Thereupon she arose
with a pretty show of reluctance from the cushioned window-seat. "How
old would you take me to be?" she concluded with an arch look.
Sir Richard, extremely sensible of the intimacy of Lady Anna's
question, flushed with embarrassment. He begged to be excused from
answering, averring that he had ever been an ill judge of women's ages.
When she pressed him for a reply, which she contrived to do without
seeming to be over bold, he ventured a surmise that she must be nearly
of an age with himself.
"Why, what a flatterer you are to be sure, Richard," she said, laughing
gaily. "Beshrew me for a witch, an you are anything more than a mere
boy! I am thirty-three, sir knight. Thirty-three this day. But come,"
she added, taking his hand, pressing it gently and casting sidelong
glances out of a pair of wonderfully expressive brown eyes; "it is
not my wish to keep you altogether to myself. Permit me to acquaint
you with the company in the hall," Lady Anna pursued, as she led Sir
Richard into the throng of courtiers and maidens. "Till we meet beside
the wassail board, make you merry," she said then. "And forget not to
address a word or two in my direction. I shall esteem each one of them
a ... jewel, Richard."
The young knight perceived, the while he was moving from group to group
receiving introductions, that the council of powdered jackdaws had been
adjourned. Its members were spread out over the hall, singling out men,
one after another, and engaging them in a momentary conversation. He
was curious to know why, after each of these brief exchanges, he at
once became the object of these men's scrutinizing glances. But, though
he recalled the incident later, it was temporarily lost and forgotten
amid the banalities of polite talk to which he was obliged to lend
constant ear. Sir Richard entered wholly into the holiday spirit
pervading the company, however, and served out honeyed words with a
zest quite equal in degree with that which he drank them in. He found
the change from his ardorous and lonely journey to this atmosphere of
good cheer and loud merriment to be most agreeable. His message had
been delivered, his work was now done, and he felt altogether care-free
and happy.
Before the hour set for the feast in the great hall, he was singled
out by a page and conducted to a room, which he was told was to be his
during his stay in Castle Yewe. It was ample in size and magnificently
furnished. Its walls and ceiling were trimmed in deep oaken paneling.
Over the fireplace, which occupied quite two-thirds of the west side of
the chamber, the woodwork was fretted and scrolled from mantel-shelf
to ceiling. Upon the massive oak bed were neatly arranged a suit of
slashed silk and velvet, a fine lace and linen upper garment, and boots
of soft leather to match. There was also an elegantly fashioned rapier
to take the place of the service-blade that he habitually carried at
his side. His saddle-bags were flung across a holder fashioned for the
purpose of bearing these inseparable companions of the traveler.
Sir Richard sat down upon the edge of the bed, and before starting
to change his dress, took out the cutting of saffron velvet from the
breast of his doublet. He held it at arm's length, regarding it for
quite a space with an expression of deep melancholy. He thought again
of the beautiful Lady Anna's parting, whispered words--"I shall esteem
each one of them a ... jewel, Richard." They had recurred to him many
times, and in each instance his heart had undeniably responded in a
tenderly sentimental way. It occurred to his imaginative fancy that
the bit of cloth had eyes, and that they were looking at him with sad,
reproachful glances. He felt less guilty after he had taken up his
sword and solemnly renewed his vow. He made up his mind that never
again would he be untrue to the cutting of velvet and the maid by whom
it had been relinquished into his keeping, but whom he had not yet seen.
With a clearer conscience he went about unbuckling his armor and
bedecking himself in the rich finery that had been so thoughtfully
provided for him. Sir Richard was the last guest to come down the
wide stairway to the floor of the hall. Along each balustrade was a
row of carved sockets in which wax torches had been set, and when the
young knight stepped slowly down between their soft light, full many a
languishing glance sped upward toward him; full many a feminine heart
beat in a perfect rhythm with his tread upon the gray stone steps.
Following Sir Richard's appearance there was a concerted movement in
the direction of the dining hall, with Lord Douglas, Lady Anna, and the
belated arrival in the lead. The room in which the feast of Crispian
had been spread was of vast dimensions. Its ceiling seemed low in
comparison with its great length and breadth, and was paneled in highly
polished red cedar. Wainscoting of the same wood, extending to a height
of five feet above the floor, stretched around its four sides. Above
this the walls were covered with rich tapestries, with designs woven in
arras, representing a brave array of martial scenes, pictures of the
chase and conflicts within the lists. Stretching from end to end of the
hall stood the magnificently decorated table, which had been spread
with lavish and bountiful hands. Forty wax torches shed a bright glow
over the scene of princely festivities.
Sir Richard was indeed the guest of honor, having a seat above the salt
between the lord and lady of the castle. A silken canopy, depending
from gilded chains fastened to the ceiling, swung just above their
heads. Musicians, dressed in the fantastic garb of the troubadours
of that time, filled the room with delightful melodies. Merrily the
feast progressed, with constantly augmenting talk and laughter as
the delicately chased silver flagons emptied their sparkling streams
into the tankards held beneath them. There was wassail on wassail,
downed amid the tinkling of golden cups and the hoarse bellowing of
bearded, tipsy knights. Sir Richard took his full measure of enjoyment
out of the occasion, though he suffered a secret regret because of
his inability to keep up his end with some of the old campaigners
in the matter of the drink. Even now he was sensible of the fact
that surrounding objects were assuming an exaggerated brilliancy and
beauty, combined with a certain vagueness that rendered their charm
indefinably more alluring. He felt his blood coursing like molten
silver through his veins. His only outward manifestations of the wine's
stimulating influence, however, were a fastidious politeness and
solicitous interest on behalf of those about him.
When Lady Anna pressed his foot softly beneath the board, the young
knight again committed the sin of being untrue to the cutting of
saffron velvet.
"'Tis now your turn to give us wassail, Richard," said she, with a
slight uplifting of her brows that went to his head with a greater
effect than the wine.
"Give thee all bonnie Scotland, ... her good sovereign, ... Lord
Douglas, our good host, the lovely Lady Anna, and the King of England,"
Sir Richard shouted, getting to his feet, with brimming glass stretched
half across the table.
A brawny knight, dressed handsomely in brown leather slashed with
crimson velvet, reached across and rudely struck his hand, slopping a
good portion of the wine about among the guests. Without a moment's
hesitation Sir Richard gave his insulter the remainder of it in his
face, amid a transitory silence, profound and tomblike.
Followed then, upon the instant, the excited babbling of many voices,
from which entanglement of sound Sir Richard contrived to isolate the
fact that he had been challenged, and that they were to meet in the
castle yard at dawning of that morning.
"There are here, around this board to-night, a dozen better blades than
he," Lady Anna whispered low in the young knight's ear when something
approaching order had been restored. "For my sake, Richard, you must
not fail to vanquish him," she added, with another pressure of her
dainty foot.
CHAPTER XIV
OF A SERIES OF REMARKABLE DUELS, AND DE CLAVERLOK'S PERIL
Their meeting place was within the larger of the bailey-courts, when
day was just on the dawn. Towering round about them were the rough
walls of the huge castle. Sir Richard noted that every embrasure had
suddenly sprouted a multiple of bright eyes, all gazing down at the
combatants making ready to begin their battle at the bottom of the damp
well.
The meeting turned out to be but the merest trifle for the young
knight. Duke Francis was a past master of the arts of war-craft and had
taught him thoroughly well. Once, Sir Richard was proud to remember,
when the old Duke happened to have been in an uncommonly amiable mood,
he had assured him that he was the most apt of all his pupils. The
young knight fought only when there was a just cause at issue, and
then with his whole heart set upon winning the battle. Upon this
occasion he had very little trouble in disabling his adversary's sword
arm. But not, however, before playing with him a considerable time in
deference to the astonishingly early risers, who had dared the chill
blasts to peer through the open windows.
"Brava, Sir Richard!" the plaudits swept from opening to opening around
the gray walls when the business was over, upon which the young knight
made a slight bow of acknowledgment and went hastily back to his warm
bed, carrying with him there, besides somewhat of an aching head from
excesses of the night before, the regret that he had been unable to
give his auditors a prettier play in return for all their pains.
That morning's encounter, however, proved to be but a drowsy prelude
to a veritable whirlwind of fighting duels. Without so much as a "By
thy leave, sir," they would jostle Sir Richard roughly about, fling
gauntlets at his feet, and hurl insults into his very teeth. Indeed,
dueling grew to be an accepted part of his daily routine, and a day
without its fight would have left him with the feeling that something
important had remained undone. But Fortune continued to smile brightly
upon him; and, saving for a few slight scratches, he carried no mark to
bear him witness of the amazingly great number of personal combats in
which he became engaged.
By nature Sir Richard was of a peace-loving disposition. Only upon
one occasion had he deliberately set out to pick a quarrel, and that
was with the Renegade Duke, for the purpose of aiding his escape from
captivity. He was accordingly much puzzled as to the cause of this
sudden plethora of insults and challenges. That the men were all
envious of the open favors that Lady Anna continued to bestow upon
him, was the only possible reason to which he could ascribe them. He
appreciated that she must have an infinite number of admirers to be
thus jealously guarded. Another circumstance that appealed to him
as most singular, was the fact that once he had finished having it
out with his enemies they became immediately his fast friends. Sir
Richard's encounters were attended by a strangely favorable issue of
events, for only in one instance had he been forced to inflict upon
his adversary anything like a dangerous wound; and Sandufferin, the
unfortunate exception and mightiest wielder of a blade in Scotland,
made an ultimate recovery from his injuries. It grew to be a current
subject of amused talk that when the latest comer had declared his
intention of facing the young knight's deft sword, those whom he had
met and vanquished would gather about him and convey their knowledge to
him of the newcomer's particular methods of fighting.
"Look at them, Anna," Lord Douglas remarked upon an occasion when a
number of men, many with bandaged hands and arms, were gathered close
about Sir Richard. "They are giving points to their master, I take it.
Never, within my knowledge, has there crossed the borders of Scotland a
greater swordsman than this youthful knight. Marry, and how he seemeth
to enjoy it, Anna, preserving the happiest of good humor through it
all! But soon will I call a halt to the saturnalia of fighting and
acquaint him with the contents of Henry's warrant. He'll make us a
right brave chief of horse, Anna--that will he. He grows impatient to
fare away southward. Every day now does he inquire of me whether his
sovereign's business here is done. An he but guessed that he is held
captive, I miss my shot an the gates and bars of Yewe would long hold
him."
"Nay--that they would not," Lady Anna agreed. "'Tis the cutting of
saffron velvet that beckons him away, my lord. Valiantly though I have
striven, I cannot wean his regard from that bit of cloth. Many times
lately have I observed him sitting in lonely corners and regarding it
with soulful eyes. Would that I had him for pupil in the place of that
silly boy, Warbeck."
"Ah! But that _was_ a stroke, Lady Anna!" said Douglas admiringly. "The
oftener I look upon him, the more perfect seemeth his resemblance to
the Yorkist brood. How doth he progress?"
"Slow, my lord--tiresome slow. 'Tis hard to make him to forget his
plebeian ancestors. How fares it with the prisoner--he whom you have
mewed within the dungeon?"
"De Claverlok, mean you? Bah! 'Tis a gruff old warrior, that--with his
ehs! and ehs! Still doth he stubbornly refuse to pledge me his word to
separate himself from Sir Richard. Nor, by my faith, can I gain his
promise to fight beneath our standard."
"What then--the block, my lord?" interrogated Lady Douglas, yawning.
"Aye--the block," replied Douglas, quietly.
On the morning following the day upon which this dialogue took place,
Sir Richard sauntered down the stairs to find Lady Anna reclining
indolently at ease within the curtained alcove where first he had met
her. She had with her a falcon, which she was stroking and feeding
with bits of bread held daintily between her red lips. She looked up,
greeting the young knight's coming with a rare smile.
"By the mass, dear Richard," said she, "and how early we are! Was it
the topsy-turvy going of the men at daybreak that brings you so soon
afoot? Did you hear the sounding of the tucket-sonuance in yonder yard?
Or, tell me, boy, is it but another trifle of a duel?"
Right well was she aware that Sir Richard disliked to be called a boy,
and she appeared to take a secret delight in thus teasing him. As was
usual, he denied the propriety of the name.
"Tut, tut, then--bloody giant," said she, laughing merrily. "Is it, I
beg of you, another play of blades?"
"In the whole of Scotland," retorted Sir Richard, "remains there a
warrior whom I have not met?"
He had encountered three of them the day before, disarming two and
slightly wounding the other.
"Remains yet the mightiest of them all," Lady Anna answered,
surrendering another morsel of bread to the pet falcon.
"His name, Lady Anna?"
"Bull Bengough. Would you dare to break a lance with him in the
approaching tournament ... for me, Sir Richard?"
"One more, or less, what matters it, Lady Anna?" said Sir Richard. "The
game is palling upon me. I swear I will."
"I am growing fair frightened of your magic invincibility," said Lady
Anna. "Which are they--fair spirits, or foul shades, by whom you have
been gifted with a charmed life? In sober earnest, Richard, let me say
to you that a momentous question hinges upon your meeting with Bull
Bengough," she added seriously, pressing the young knight's hand by
way of a reward for his promise, and then went on to fill his head with
gentle flattery.
She told him of how the men-at-arms had sallied out that morning
to give battle to a certain traitorous upstart. Unconsciously Sir
Richard's mind reverted to Tyrrell. After that, for a considerable
space, they sat together in silence, watching the workingmen engaged
upon their task of bedizening the seating-place overlooking the lists
where the coming tournament was designed to be held.
Presently Lady Anna went from the alcove, taking with her a bundle of
books and manuscripts which, Sir Richard had frequently remarked, she
often carried about with her through the galleries.
Since his mad entry through the sallyport of Yewe, this was the first
clear breathing space Sir Richard had been allowed. He suddenly thought
of his companion of that eventful ride. What with the dining and the
wining, and the dancing attendance upon this captivating maid and that,
and the singularly rapid succession of duels, his time had been pretty
well occupied. "But certes," he said to himself, "these are small
excuses for having so absolutely forgotten de Claverlok, whom, by my
faith, I have not clapt eyes upon since leaving him at the foot of the
stairs to go into the presence of Douglas. True, Lord Douglas assured
me that he was to be rendered comfortable in other quarters. I dare
say he is gone by now," he concluded. "But I'll away to the guards to
discover me what has become of the good fellow."
But Sir Richard was counting the spots before his dies had been cast.
He borrowed every guard's ear he could find within the precincts of the
castle, and returned from the long round barren of the faintest hint in
regard to his friend's whereabouts. Not one of them, so they all swore,
had so much as heard a whisper of his name.
Feeling a presentiment that some direful mishap had betided his
faithful companion, and heaping maledictions upon himself for a
thoughtless ingrate, the young knight was walking slowly along one of
the inner galleries. As he parted a drapery he came suddenly upon the
fool, Lightsom, who had discarded his motley and bells for a garb of
black. His habitually mirthful countenance was wearing an expression
entirely in sympathy with his somber habit.
"Give you a good-morrow, Lightsom," said Sir Richard, meaning but to
give the fool greeting and pass on.
"Thou'rt hunting my name by the heels, Sir Richard," Lightsom
answered, pausing to give the young knight speech. "Vanisheth the
motley, vanisheth Lightsom, the laughing fool. Vanisheth as well my
good master, and I discover me without a body whereupon to practise
my cutting art withal. To-day, good my knight, I was to play the
executioner. Till I doff this habit let my name be Gruesom....
Bloodysom.... Anything, forsooth, but Lightsom! Dost take in the dolour
of my visage?"
"Ah! What an end to come by," observed Sir Richard. "An ax, wielded
by a fool. Name me thy unhappy victim--and loose thy hold of my cape,
fellow."
"Marry, sir knight, shudder not thus! Is the touch of a fool less
contaminative than that of the executioner? An it be, I wot not why.
One murders the King's good English, the other the King's good
subjects--both are the slaves of unyielding circumstance. And besides,
good my knight, the head, after its separation from the body, recks not
of the means whereof it was accomplished. Thy sword--my ax--'tis all
the same to 't. So it be a bold, clean, and clever stroke, mark ye!"
"Have done with your parleying, Lightsom, and----"
"Say Grimsom, Sir Richard," the fool interrupted whiningly. "Smear not
my melancholy cloth with grime!"
"Well, ... Grimsom, then, ... give me thy unhappy victim's name?"
Leaning forward till his repulsive face almost touched Sir Richard's,
he skewed his features all awry in a horrible grimace. This was his
only answer. The young knight instantly went cold to the marrow, and
repeated his question tensely, passing the fool a rose noble.
"This," said Lightsom tantalizingly, balancing the yellow disc upon
his raised forefinger, "will purchase thee one letter of his name, ...
just one letter, Sir Richard. I am as hungry for gold as the block is
thirsty for blood. Why need the pair of us be cheated? Say, ... wilt
buy me his full name in these round baubles?"
Without a word Sir Richard counted out and passed the fool sixteen more.
"Have I made the count correctly?" he whispered hoarsely.
Lightsom went then to tallying with his clawlike finger upon his beak
of a nose.
"In truth," he muttered, "I had expected but ten more.... Six....
Six.... Ah! I, by playing just then the fool, have myself disgraced my
somber trappings. I have clean forgotten that his name is Lionel, by
the rood, ... eh!"
This was enough for Sir Richard. In a frenzy of poignant regret and
mortal fear, and leaving the black dwarf crying shrilly for him not to
divulge the source of his information, he dashed away down the long
gallery in a mad search of Lady Anna.
CHAPTER XV
OF THE GALLERY OF THE GRIFFINS' HEADS
Bitterest remorse winged the young knight's feet; apprehension became
the mother of audacity; and without any ceremonious ado he made for
that part of the castle which he knew was apportioned to the exclusive
uses of Lady Anna. Like a hawk winging its predatory flight against a
covey of unprotected and gentle doves, he swooped down upon the lady's
retinue of serving-maids.
The contact, however, was as fugitive as it was tempestuous
and violent, and beyond leaving them all of a-flutter, weeping
hysterically, and earnestly protesting that this was an hour of the
morning during which their mistress forbade the slightest interruption
or disturbance, he accomplished not a single point in the behalf of his
friend.
While impatiently awaiting Lady Anna's appearance, he fell to
wandering through the wide, thronged halls, and narrow, lonely, and
deserted galleries. In opening a door leading from one of these, he
stumbled upon a blind passageway, which, to all appearances, was
devoted to no other purpose than that of a vantage-point, whence were
to be had a view of the open glades and forests, and the towers,
turrets, barbecan, and walls commanding them. Gloomily he stood gazing
through one of the deep embrasures, which pierced the outer wall of
the gallery from end to end, upon the half drawn bridge. It seemed to
him ages gone since de Claverlok and he had thundered side by side
above its moldering planks. "What a brave, unselfish fellow he was,"
mused Sir Richard, "to cast his fortunes along with mine, when, by the
simple tugging of a rein, he might have ridden among his companions and
into safety. Well, ... I'll have him free. I vow I'll have him set at
liberty. Or, by my soul, I'll lay my thoughtless, selfish head beside
his generous one upon the block."
Yet how good it was to live, Sir Richard thought: to be free; to mark
the bright sunshine; to watch the sparkling hoar-frost disappearing in
floating pennants of silvery mist against the purple shadows lurking
within the background of the firs. By thus enumerating to himself some
of the joys of life he was not meaning to qualify the integrity of his
oath. He was sincere at the moment in his determination to free de
Claverlok, or suffer the penalty of death along with him.
Sir Richard was leaning heavily against the outer wall, yielding to a
host of melancholy reflections; his shoulder disconsolately pressing
against the casement of the embrasure. Quite by chance his eyes fell
upon a row of bronze griffins' heads, each occupying the center of
a line of deep oaken panels, which extended along the opposite wall
from the doorway through which he had entered to the end of the sealed
passageway. Doubtless it was the repellant hideousness of their
faces that arrested and fixed his attention. Their curled tongues
protruded in a series of abhorrent grimaces that tended to fascinate
the observer. The young knight singled out the head just across from
him and fell to studying it minutely. He grew sensible of a boyish
desire to attempt to distort his features in a manner similar to it,
to which desire he finally yielded, and talked to it, moreover, as
though its bronze ears were possessed of the power to take in his vain
expostulations.
Not infrequently does it fall out that an inane action is the parent of
a most happy result. This was true in the present case, for, through
looking so long and intently upon the weird head of the griffin, Sir
Richard remarked that its tongue appeared to be more free within its
distended maw than those of its neighbors. He stepped across and laid
his finger upon it. It moved. He tugged at it. There was the sound as
of the lifting of a latch, and the griffin's head, which was secured to
the woodwork by a hinge, swung instantly free of the oaken panel.
Within the circular recess thus disclosed appeared a brass knob, which,
upon being turned, released another fastening. The entire panel then
slid freely to the left, discovering a narrow, crevice-like passageway
that stretched away beyond the range of the young knight's vision.
More with the aim of seeking a momentary distraction from his rueful
thoughts than in the hope of making any new or startling discoveries,
he closed the griffin's head and clambered through the paneled opening.
Upon assuring himself that there was a way of thrusting back the secret
door from inside, he made everything fast and crept cautiously ahead in
the direction of a row of lights, which shone dimly through openings
upon his left hand and splashed against the wall to his right, thus
serving vaguely to illuminate the dusty, cobwebby place.
The lights proved to emanate from mere slits of windows set with
many-colored glass. He peered through the first, which was sufficiently
transparent to disclose to his view a room and everything that was
transpiring within.
The walls of this chamber were covered with the richest of hangings.
Round about were scattered many massive cases filled with books.
Indeed, Sir Richard noted that its furnishings were all patterned after
an exquisite fashion, and arranged, withal, in an uncommonly tasteful
and pleasing manner.
In front of a cheerful fire burning briskly within the wide
chimney-place sat a fair-haired boy. He was reclining at ease upon a
deep-seated chair, and the firelight, playing upon his ruffled, snowy
linen upper garment, his pallid, handsome, aquiline features, and long,
curly, yellow hair, set before the young knight one of the prettiest
pictures he had ever looked upon.
Seated upon a stool beside the youth's knee was Lady Anna, who was
engaged upon reading to him out of a manuscript. That which she was
reading, Sir Richard thought, appeared to hold immeasurably less of
interest for her distinguished looking auditor than the reader thereof,
so greedily was his gaze devouring her. If ever love and devotion shone
through the eyes from the heart, they were shining in that room and
upon that woman then. The young knight became conscious of a feeling of
guilt. It was as though he had profaned a consecrated temple.
Since, however, an accident had brought him there, he regretted that
he was unable to hear what Lady Anna was reading. But he remained,
gathering different impressions of the scene by looking through the
various colored panes, till she arose to leave. This sentence, then,
spoken aloud and firmly from her station beside the youth's chair, came
distinctly to his ears:
"To you," she was saying, "there shall be no such person in all the
world as Warbeck. You must forget even that there was ever such a name.
Your future----"
Her concluding remarks were lost to Sir Richard's hearing. Lady Anna
then brushed aside the drapery and disappeared out of the room. For
many minutes thereafter the youth's eyes remained fixed upon the
swinging draperies, motionless and longingly, whilst down his pallid
cheeks coursed many a bitter tear.
Leaving him to his sorrow, which would have been more poignant had he
been enabled to look into that future that Lady Anna was holding before
him as a lure, Sir Richard continued warily on his journey along the
pinched passageway. By the squares of light thrown at long but regular
intervals against the right wall, he divined that the secret exit was
pierced with windows throughout its entire length. Through each of
these he stole a look as he advanced, being obliged to stand always on
tip-toe to make his brief surveys. He gathered the information that
a suite of six large rooms had been set aside for the uses of the
handsome youth. There was an entrance giving upon the last from the
secret passageway. The young knight made no attempt to open it then,
but crept onward and looked through the next window. Between the floor
of the last room and the floor of the spacious hall into which he was
now looking there was a sheer drop of thirty feet; perhaps even more.
From the long table standing in its center and the chairs arranged
in tiers round about, he took it to be a council hall, a place of
formal meetings of state. It was surmounted by a lofty, domed ceiling,
decorated with multi-colored glass, corresponding with the panes
through which he was having a view of the chamber.
Pursuing his way onward past the row of windows opening upon the hall,
he arrived soon at the end of the passageway, which was marked by a
yawning vent-hole, with the opening at his feet dropping into abysmal
depths of darkness, and the one above his head gaping like a sooty
flue. Iron rungs set securely into the masonry of the wall furthest
removed from him disappeared into the swart obscurity above and below.
Consumed with curiosity and a desire to push his explorations to the
end, he stepped across, set his foot upon the ladder, and clambered
skyward. A trap-door, securely battened from within, stopped his
progress at the top. Surmising that it opened upon a runway of one of
the many embattled towers, he started downward. Past the floor of the
passageway he lowered himself, down, down, till it seemed to him that
he was penetrating into the very belly of the earth. At the bottom he
came upon a kind of square room, with a massive, barred door opening
from one of its sides. The air here was excessively damp, chill, and
fetid with noisome odors.
So noiselessly as might be he shot back the rusty bolts and made shift
to open the heavy door. Slowly it yielded to his violent exertions,
its unused hinges shrilly protesting every inch of the way. When he
had swung it sufficiently wide to admit the passage of his body, he
was confronted by the flare of a single candle. Even this faint light,
upon emerging from such dense darkness, completely dazzled his blinking
eyes, rendering them momentarily sightless.
"Well, ... by the rood!" the most welcome of voices then rang in
his ears. "I was looking to see a grisly phantom shape come gliding
through yon creaking door to devour me! And certes 'tis your own good
self, Sir Dick, ... eh? Give you a very good-morrow, ... or a very
good-even.... I' faith, I know not down here the hours of the passing
day. Everything, as 't were, being of a similar color. But fillip me
for a fat toad, an you're not a most pleasing apparition, Sir Dick; ...
a most welcome ghost, ... eh!"
Sir Richard strode forward and took de Claverlok's hand in a firm grip.
"I'll wager, my boy," said the grizzled knight with his usual hearty
laugh, "that you've fair turned this castle upside down in your
endeavors to unearth me, ... eh? But for long have I been conducting
a quiet truce with Heaven, where, Sir Dick, I fancied that you had
some days since preceded me. How comes it that you're still alive, and
looking as hearty, by my faith, as a prancing yearling. Did you deliver
the paper, ... eh?"
"Certes did I deliver it," replied Sir Richard. "And let us for all
time, my friend, drop the subject of King Henry's message between us.
You can see that you have been led into a sad error as to its contents.
I am now biding in Yewe as Douglas's guest till the business of my
sovereign be completed."
"Guest, Sir Dick? God's sake!" blurted out de Claverlok. "An you're not
as much prisoner as I, though in somewhat of a better case, I'll barter
my knighthood for a battered farthing, ... eh! Tell me, has nothing
untoward happened during your stay?" he added, earnestly. "Sit you down
upon the feathery side of this stone and tell me your story--'tis the
best seat I have to offer, Sir Dick."
"Well, beyond the duels," Sir Richard rather reluctantly admitted,
seating himself beside the grizzled knight upon the stone, "there has
been nothing unusual to mar a most pleasant visit, saving, of course,
your own disappearance from my side," he hastened to add. "I bethought
me though that you had long since fared southward to join your company."
"What--and leave you, Sir Dick? Not any! My knightly vow fetters me
fast to your side. But when did you find out that I was still here, ...
eh?"
"Only this morning. It was through a most fortunate train of accidents
that I have stumbled upon your cell. I have been guilty of an
unpardonable sin in thus long neglecting you, my friend."
"Nay--not so, Sir Dick. Am I not old enough to care for myself, ... eh?
But how about these duels? I would hear you tell of them."
"I will, de Claverlok," agreed Sir Richard, "and a certain matter
besides that I have guarded even from your knowledge. 'Tis of a cutting
of cloth that I got me in the Red Tavern." Whereupon he proceeded to
tell, much to the grizzled knight's amusement, the tale of the piece of
saffron velvet. "And about the duels," the young knight concluded, "I
am somewhat puzzled to know why they have been brought about. Though
I believe that it is because of the many favors that Lady Douglas
continues ever to shower upon me. She is, in truth, a wonderful woman,
my friend--and well worth fighting for. A wonderful woman!"
"Ah!" laughed the grizzled knight. "When love enters, wits leave, ...
eh? But explain more in detail the circumstance of these duels. 'Tis
this that interests me, Sir Dick."
"Oh! 'tis a small enough matter at best, de Claverlok," protested Sir
Richard with a modest carelessness. "But ever since my tarry within
these walls I have had always to keep my sword to the grit-wheel. What
with the spilling of the wine over the table, and the rough jostling of
them against me through the halls and galleries, it has been 'Come out
with me, sirrah, into the castle yard,' from gray morning to twilight
eventide. There was hazard of breaking old fox here on the tough Scot's
head of 'em. And I swear to you, my good friend, that my right arm
has been kept full sore with the swinging of it against their flinty
noddles."
"Pricked you them sore or easy, Sir Dick? Marry, but you must have
a-many an enemy in Yewe, ... eh?"
"Well, I gave it them as easy as might be," replied Sir Richard, "and
it perplexes me much to observe that each of them is now my friend.
Never had I divined, de Claverlok, that there could transpire such a
round of mysterious events. My brain has been fair addled ever since my
coming into Scotland."
"Fret not, Sir Dick," said de Claverlok encouragingly, "these mysteries
will clear away soon enough. But you had better betake yourself now
whence you came. 'Twill eftsoons be time for them to bring me my bread
and sour tipple. Ug-gh! Such food as I've been bestowing within my
belly, Sir Dick. 'Tis unfit for swine, ... eh! But, get you gone, boy,
and deliver me from this dank hole when you can do it in safety to
yourself. There must be two passageways hither, as yon door through
which you came has not before been used. 'Tis through this other that
they bear me food. Good-bye and good luck to you, Sir Dick."
Upon the grizzled knight's reaffirmation of his assurances that he
would possess himself in patience till Sir Richard could hit upon a
safe means of bringing him again into the daylight of freedom, and his
belief that his young friend was as much a prisoner as was he, the
young knight parted from him, secure in the belief that no harm could
befall the veteran till the return of Douglas, before which time, he
swore to himself, he would contrive to have him free.
Once Sir Richard had emerged into the upper and outer gallery he made
everything secure, observing the precaution of counting the number of
griffins' heads intervening between the sliding panel and the door,
whereupon he hurried down to the inner bailey and commanded an equerry
to saddle and bring him his stallion.
"God!" the hostler exclaimed, reddening to the line of his stubby hair,
"an' 'a canna do such for 'e, Sir Richard. Snip, snap! would 'a head
go ... here," touching his neck, "an' 'a did. 'Tis the lord's orders,
worshipful knight, ... the lord's orders. Anything else would 'a do for
'e, sir knight. God wot, an' 'a----"
Sir Richard did not wait to hear the conclusion of the hostler's
apologies, but tossed him a coin and took his way back into the castle.
De Claverlok had been right, after all. The young knight was, like his
friend, a prisoner in Yewe.
Without stopping to plan out a wise course of action, he rushed
straightway into the presence of Lady Anna and impetuously claimed his
right to know the reason for his forcible detention.
"How doth the moth flutter," said she, laughing gaily, "when the
glittering, golden home doth suddenly become a cage! Marry--marry!"
she added, changing her tone, and bestowing upon Sir Richard the most
languishing of glances, "are you tired of my company, dear Richard?"
she asked.
If it had not been for the picture of the fair-haired youth impressed
indelibly upon the young knight's mind, she would doubtless soon have
won him over to her again. As it was, however----
"'Tis not that, Lady Anna," he answered firmly; "but I am dooms weary
of playing the wooden pawn upon the squared board--with no kind of
conception of where or why I am being moved this and that way about!
Yea--or even the kind of game in which I am playing such a stupid and
involuntary part."
"Say not thus, Sir Richard," Lady Anna murmured softly, laying her warm
hand upon his. "Tell me, I pray you, and what becomes of the pawn after
it be advanced from square to square above the breadth of the board to
the farther rank? Tell me, what becomes of it, I say?"
"But scant knowledge have I of the game of chess," Sir Richard
grumbled. "I' faith, madam, I neither know nor care."
"Ah! But you should both know and care, dear friend," Lady Anna
pursued. "Let me tell you then that it gains power according to the
wish of the mind that picked out its zig-rag course. Even it may
become a royal piece, Richard. Have patience yet a little while, ...
but have patience. Worse predicaments there are than that of playing
the moving pawn, I give you warrant."
So far as any definite understanding of his position was concerned,
this was the beginning and the end of everything he was able to achieve
through Lady Anna. He tried his bravest before leaving her to impress
upon her the idea that he was willing to reconcile himself with the
circumstances of his surroundings. Indeed, he entertained something
of a shrewd suspicion that this was not far from true. His position
certainly partook of a most fascinating admixture of unreality and
romance that came near to capturing his imaginative fancy. He was now
inclined to regard the entire series of events as something in the
nature of a gay lark, to which each exciting incident was contributing
its separate thrill of enjoyment. To effect the release of de Claverlok
and make his own escape would furnish a capital finish to the whole.
In order to carry out these purposes he determined in the future
to conduct himself with the utmost circumspection. "An it is to be
a game," he said to himself, "I'll take a hand in the playing of it
myself."
After leaving Lady Anna he strolled carelessly into the tilting-yard,
for the ostensible purpose of viewing the elaborate preparations for
the approaching tournament, which were now nearly completed. He made a
mental calculation of the height of the eastern tower, which was the
one accessible from the secret passageway. He estimated it roughly to
be nearly one hundred and fifty feet.
A line over the battlements would be the only way down. It would be
manifestly impossible to carry a rope of that length through the halls
and galleries. So he hit upon the scheme of concealing lengths of it
beneath his cloak and splicing them together after reaching the secret
exit. By allowing the knotted ends to dangle down the well leading to
de Claverlok's dungeon, he concluded that they would be safe enough
from discovery.
He accordingly started his pilfering expeditions on the next morning
at the hour when Lady Anna was engaged with her pupil. Day after day
Sir Richard kept at his task, and always he would see her beside the
boy, at the same hour and in the same attitude; and always he would
steal a long glance within the room as he crept cautiously by. Twice
during this time he lowered himself down the ladder to visit with de
Claverlok, taking with him a flagon of wine and a few dainties from the
Douglas's table. But the grizzled knight warned him to discontinue his
subterranean excursions, as there was danger of running into the guard
regularly administering to his needs.
Following out the veteran's advice, Sir Richard made, after that, but
one trip in the day, carrying each time something like ten feet of
stout hemp. On but one occasion did he come near to being discovered,
and his escape was then of the narrowest.
While he was in the ordinance room one morning he was startled by
its tubby little keeper coming suddenly upon him just after he had
hidden a rather more generous length of rope than usual beneath his
shoulder-cape. Sir Richard made out to be examining one of the brass
cannons.
"That are a bonnie piece, worshipful knight," said the keeper proudly.
"A right bonnie piece, Sir Richard. She'll a-come you through a
two-foot wall, sir, as smooth as a tup-ny whistle-pipe." Here he
paused, scratching his bullet head, and taking up the end of the coil
of rope from which Sir Richard had cut the piece inside his cape. "'Tis
a muckle strange thing how the good hemp do vanish," he pursued in a
puzzled way, "a muckle strange thing. Once 'a be a-thinkin' as what
every rogue in the castle were a-stealin' o' rope's-ends to choken
their knavish throats. But every rag-tailed son of 'em do answer to the
daily roll. Not one of 'em be a-missin'; not one, sir."
"Mayhap you'll be in trouble for not keeping a closer watch," observed
Sir Richard. "Here will be money enough to buy you a new coil the next
time you get you into Bannockburn."
It was on the morning that the young knight was carrying up the last
splicing of rope but one that he missed Lady Anna from her accustomed
place beside the youth's knee. Hastily knotting and securing the rope
around a rung of the iron ladder he hurried back along the passageway.
Pausing beside the youth's room he again looked through the window.
The boy was still alone, and pacing back and forth across the room
in that which seemed to be a paroxysm of grief and anger, clenching
his blue-veined hands, throwing pillows madly about the floor, and
soliloquizing with a bitter and impassioned vehemence. Experiencing an
indescribable sort of fascination, Sir Richard stopped to listen.
CHAPTER XVI
OF THE RETURN OF LORD DOUGLAS, AND THE COUNCIL OF JACKDAWS
"Ah! Woe is me--woe, woe is me!" the youth was crying bitterly. "To
think that I must forget my home, my generous father, my brothers, and
my dear, kind sister. That I must deny even my good and gentle mother
who bore me into the world and suckled me at her bosom! And here am I
giving her sorrow of my death when I am living! Woe--woe! Better--far,
far better that my final act should be the rescuing of one truth out of
this tissue of black and damning lies! Aye--" he gasped, glaring with
eyes wide distended around the room--"an the means were but at hand,
I could do it even now! But how I tremble when I but think of it....
My hand.... See how it doth shake--palsied with horror of the grisly
phantom! Even now," he whispered hoarsely, "I can see them bringing in
the winding sheet. Nay--nay, I dare not! Fear, that doth withhold my
craven arm, doth set his grinning skull at every exit and bid me stay."
Then, throwing himself at full length upon the floor, the youth
resigned himself to a fit of tempestuous weeping.
Overwhelmed by a feeling of deepest sympathy for the suffering boy,
and oblivious to all things else--his own safety, the safety of de
Claverlok--Sir Richard strode back along the passageway, unbarred the
secret door leading into the youth's apartments, and impetuously gave
himself admittance therein.
In another moment the young knight was beside him, and, stooping,
touched him lightly upon the shoulder.
"Ah! Lady Anna, ... that you should see me thus," murmured the youth
without lifting his head from his arms. "They said to me that you were
suffering of an indisposition and would not visit here to-day. Can you,
... will you grant me pardon?" he added, sighing deeply.
"Fear not," said Sir Richard gently. "I am come to succor thee, good
youth."
Softly though the young knight had spoken, at the first sound of his
voice the youth leapt wild-eyed to his feet. Without uttering a word,
and with hands outspread before his face, he moved slowly backward
against the wall.
"I pray you, be not afraid, good my youth," said Sir Richard
reassuringly. "I can show you now a manner of gaining freedom from your
unhappy imprisonment. A way of winning back to your abandoned home.
Come, permit me to be your friend. Let hope smooth away the wrinkles
from your brow and suffuse your countenance with somewhat of joy.
Escape is at hand."
"But what would she say?" the youth whispered, looking in a frightened
manner toward the door.
"She shall not know," Sir Richard promised.
"Aye--but thou canst keep nothing from her. Nothing! Even she can read
the heavens, and divine the inner workings of a mind. The stars whisper
to her their dark secrets--the stars!"
"Nay, prate not thus. I tell you the way is open. This very night you
may be free."
"But I--I cannot leave her, sir knight. I love her. Pity me, ... but
leave me. And how didst thou come here?" the youth suddenly added.
"Saving Lady Anna and the serving-men, thou art the very first to enter
within these rooms."
Upon gaining the youth's promise to observe an inviolate secrecy, Sir
Richard explained the manner of his coming. When he had made everything
clear, the boy took his arm and led him beside a desk upon which were
scattered many papers.
"Knowest thou what these are, sir knight?" the youth inquired. "They
are messages to my simple home; messages to my sweet mother; messages
full of endearing terms and deep regrets; messages signed with mine own
true and once honest name, Perkin Warbeck; messages which I dare never
send, but write and read; and read again, gaining a sort of comfort
from the double task. Why must I forswear my good name, sir knight? I
know not. Why am I here? I know not--what shall become of me; I care
not. I am but a shadow encompassed by flitting shades--a phantom in the
midst of phantoms, moving in a fog of mystery. Of all, there is but the
one thing potent--my love for Lady Anna. And yet--and yet, sir knight,
I fear her. I must remain! Go! Leave me, I entreat of thee, for, by
thus tarrying, thou art but fruitlessly imperiling thy life."
Earnestly though Sir Richard tried, he was unable to shake the youth's
determination to remain. With much of pity in his heart, the young
knight then took leave of him, retraced his way back through the
secret door and went below. Desiring to take advantage of Lady Anna's
temporary retirement, he secured the final cutting of rope, stole again
into the hall of the griffins' heads, and made everything ready for de
Claverlok's escape and his own, which he meant should be brought off
that night.
It was lucky for him that he did so, for, upon that same afternoon,
about sundown, there was heard a loud blaring of trumpets from the
direction of the wood. Sir Richard at once hurried to the barbecan,
from whence he had a view of Douglas and his company as they came
marching up the slope.
Among their number he noted a knight who was not wearing the Douglas
colors. An oddly tall and lean figure of a man he was, encased from
crown to toe in a suit of black armor. An ebon, horse-hair plume
floated from his closed helmet, of the same somber hue were his mighty
horse and trappings. Sir Richard gathered that he was not a prisoner,
for he was riding free.
"Marry, but he makes him a fine brave show!" the young knight mused to
himself, as the Douglas's company started to defile across the lowered
bridge.
For three days together the air had been of a bitter coldness, and
accordingly there followed a great scurrying up and down stairs, so
that fires might be set to blazing in every chimney-place. The first
inmate of the castle to be greeted by Douglas when he strode within the
great hall was Sir Richard. He shook his hand most cordially, leading
him to the canopied seat beneath the farther pillars, inviting him to
bide at his right hand, and engaging him in conversation for quite an
hour.
"So the lists are at last prepared," Lord Douglas said, taking up the
subject of the games, which were to begin on the next day. "And we
are come in time. 'Twill be the greatest meeting in all Scotland," he
boastingly declared, twisting and untwisting the wiry hairs of his
beard. "The greatest and bravest in all Scotland. My hand on 't,
Richard--and here's hoping you come off with a very surfeit of prizes."
Sir Richard was careful to keep well within earshot of Douglas till
the hour of the banquet. At the same time he maintained a close watch
upon the actions of Lightsom. He meant to brook no transformation of
the fool from his habitual motley to the black. His bells, however,
continued all the evening to ring out a merry tune of de Claverlok's
freedom from immediate peril.
Around the table they all gathered presently, with every one seeming to
be in the happiest of moods. A rare good fortune had evidently attended
the affairs of the lord of the castle. Few around the board had ever
seen him so amiable and gracious. Apparently recovered of her illness,
Lady Anna, agreeable, captivating, beautiful as any of the maids woven
in arras upon the tapestries behind her, beamed engagingly from her
accustomed seat beside Lord Douglas. Sir Richard remarked the absence
of the knight in black from the bright scene of festivity, which set
him to wondering who and where he was.
"Well, gentlemen, we'll to the council room," commanded Douglas when
the last morsel had been eaten, the last wassail drunk. He arose
then, stalking majestically from the hall, with the flock of powdered
jackdaws following gravely at his spurred and jingling heels.
From the concluding moment of the feast till the time when he found
his way within the pitch dark gallery of the griffins' heads, Sir
Richard moved like one in a dream, incidents and people seeming to
float around him in a filmy, unreal sort of way. He was in a fever to
get de Claverlok and be safely launched upon his journey. He took time,
however, to stop on his way to the secret exit in a secluded corner of
one of the galleries, where he withdrew from its accustomed place and
stole a look at the piece of saffron velvet. He added another to the
countless kisses he had pressed against it, and once again renewed his
vow of unwavering fidelity to the cause of the imprisoned maiden. There
were reasons for his self accusations of inconstancy. But Sir Richard
was determined upon redeeming himself so soon as might be after he had
accomplished his escape from Castle Yewe.
The deep tones of the bell on the watch-tower were droning out the hour
of midnight when the young knight crept stealthily within the gallery
of the griffins' heads. Feeling carefully along the wall, he counted
the protruding tongues, slid open the panel, and stole noiselessly into
the secret passageway. Away ahead of him squares of light, shining from
the windows of the council chamber, splashed fantastically against
the right wall. Every embrasure opening off the youth's room was cast
in utter darkness. In his mind, Sir Richard could picture him tossing
restlessly upon a sleepless bed, and his heart rebuked him for leaving
him there to fight out his melancholy battle alone. "But I, too," the
young knight thought, recalling the boy's sad, parting words, "am but a
phantom in the midst of phantoms, moving in a fog of mystery."
In spite of his anxiety to have done with the business in hand and
be away, the magnificent scene within the great council hall held
Sir Richard fascinated in front of the first window through which he
chanced to peer.
In massive silver sconces round about the walls hundreds of candles
were alight. Standing upon a raised dais, Lord Douglas was engaged in
delivering an earnest oration. The jackdaws around the table marked his
every pause with solemn noddings. Viewed as Sir Richard was viewing it,
from a great height and through a pane of ruby colored glass, it all
appeared grotesquely unreal, weird, and fairylike.
Not a word reached to where he was standing, but the young knight
divined that Douglas must have finished speaking, for the conclave of
jackdaws arose, and, bowing, remained standing beside their chairs.
Then, upon Douglas waving his sword, two pages parted the draperies
from the wide entrance, and the lean, tall figure of the knight in
black moved in a deliberate and stately manner down the steps.
He was not wearing his casque, and when he had drawn within the full
glare of the multitude of lights every feature of his elongated visage
was set vividly before Sir Richard. He could not repress an exclamation
of amazement.
He recognized him to be the mysterious keeper of the Red
Tavern--Tyrrell.
The young knight was not aware of how long he remained standing beside
the window, with his face pressed close against its ruby pane. Though
he did not realize it, the scene then being enacted upon the mosaic
floor far beneath him was one well worth pausing to witness. It was
the assembling of the nucleus of a wonderful movement, the deep, still
center of a wide whirlpool of elaborate conspiracy and action. From
those clear brains were emanating invisible wires and arms of steel,
which, clutching the individual, thrust him mercilessly and inevitably
ahead in the vanguard of the movement. They were not human down there.
Each of them was but a cold, bloodless, and calculating automaton.
Lives, to them, were like pinches of sand upon blood-slippery lists,
serving but to give purchase to the wheels of their tireless juggernaut.
The young knight watched while Douglas seemed to introduce the
inn-keeper to the assembled counselors. Tyrrell's voice must have been
uncommonly resonant, for its deep tones came faintly to the ears of
the observer at the window. It recalled to him the night of the burial
of the hound and the war song. The grace of the speaker's sweeping
gestures, as he continued his oration to the men around the table,
elicited a genuine admiration from Sir Richard. He kept close to the
window till Tyrrell had finished and gone from the hall.
Though the young knight was unable to link himself or his future
with the council below, he was sensible of a vague presentiment of a
something portentous to his welfare that seemed to communicate itself
to him through the walls of the chamber. With an inward sense of
creeping fear he started toward the end of the passageway. He noted the
trembling of his hand as he laid hold of the iron rung of the ladder
leading down to de Claverlok's dungeon. He was afraid of the things
that he could not understand.
It was therefore with a deep sense of foreboding evil that he lowered
himself to the bottom of the deep well and opened the door of the
grizzled knight's dungeon. Upon that afternoon Sir Richard had apprised
his friend of his coming, and, saving that he was not wearing his
armor, de Claverlok was all prepared and waiting for him.
"Put on your suit of mail," said the young knight hurriedly. "I'll help
you to buckle it fast."
"Eh? But I'm not a giant, Sir Dick, that can wade through the moat with
my nose above the water. Nor, by the rood, can I swim it with a load of
iron upon my back!"
"'Tis solid frozen," Sir Richard said. "We'll walk boldly over."
"And the moon, ... eh?"
"There's no faint hint of it, de Claverlok. Make haste! Things have I
seen that have set me all of a-tremble. It may befall that our ways
must perforce diverge; an it do, I'll meet you so soon as may be within
the deserted shepherd's hut; ... remember, my friend."
"Have no fear, Sir Dick. We'll not be separated. The moat frozen, ...
no moon, ... I tell you, my son, that a good fortune is smiling down
upon our little adventure, ... eh!"
"Have you brought everything needful?" Sir Richard inquired, when the
grizzled knight's harness had been adjusted and they were starting
upward.
"Everything. Not even a regret have I left within the damned hole, Sir
Dick!"
As they climbed past the floor of the passageway, Sir Richard took
note of the fact that the lights within the council hall had been
extinguished. Two spots of faint illumination, however, were now
shining from the youth's rooms. "Poor boy, he cannot sleep," the young
knight thought, and passed upward into the yawning flue.
For days he had been pouring oil over the hinges and padlocks of the
trap-door at the top. The bolts yielded noiselessly. Having made
everything free, Sir Richard set his back against the planks and gave
a mighty heave. There followed upon the instant a startled grunt and a
voice rumbled strangely above the door.
"Hi, Jock!" it called. "Didst mark any quaking of the castle just then?
No? Well, be damned to me, an' I thought to mysel' th' whole moldy
tower were a-givin' around our ears. Has't a nippie o' sack in thy
jerkin, Jock?"
Sir Richard divined that the answer to the guard's question must have
been a favorable one, for he at once got up from off the trap-door,
after which he could hear his heavy steps dwindling in the distance
along the runway.
"'Twould agree passing well with the good fellow's health to drink him
a gallon of it," de Claverlok whispered as he stepped out into the
night and unsheathed his sword. "God's sake! Dreaming of a quaking
earth were enough to set a man at tipple, ... eh?"
To knot and make the rope secure around the crenelated apex of the
tower was but the work of a moment.
"Go!" Sir Richard whispered. "When the rope swings free I'll be after
you."
Immediately de Claverlok's grizzled head disappeared over the side
of the embattlements. Sir Richard looked down, watching him as he
diminished and became swallowed up in the surrounding gloom. He kept
a firm grip of the hilt of his blade against the possibility of the
guard's inopportune return.
He waited till he thought enough time had elapsed for de Claverlok to
have set his foot upon the frozen moat. He laid his hand upon the rope.
It was still taut, and vibrating with the warrior's downward scrambling.
Then, though Sir Richard had heard no sound, a soft arm was suddenly
entwined about his waist. A softer voice was whispering close to his
ear.
"Shame upon you, Dick, to requite me thus!" it said. "Are you indeed
upon the point of leaving me?"
It was Lady Anna. Warm, bewitching, clad in a silken robe, all open at
the throat, and loose and light and clinging.
"Yea, Lady Anna, I am going. Let loose of me," Sir Richard said.
"But Sir Richard--Dick, dear, I--I love you. A last good-bye, then,"
she said, twining her arms more firmly about him. "But why leave me? I
tell you truly there an hundred reasons for remaining to one that you
should go. Believe me, ... dear Dick. Stay but a moment and listen."
"By my soul, Lady Anna, unhand me! Much would I regret to tear you from
me by force," whispered Sir Richard between his closed teeth.
"Then ... your lips, first, Dick," she pleaded.
Her two round arms were close about him now. The perfume of her flowing
hair was in his nostrils. The breath of her lips was against his.
Again it was the Woman against the Man. The Man felt that heaven and
earth were rushing together in a glorious combat. The primal instinct
conquered. The Woman had won.
Followed instantly then the thud of a something falling upon the
ice-bound moat. The young knight, now freed from Lady Anna's embrace,
groped wildly for the rope.
It was gone!
CHAPTER XVII
OF A JOUST WITH BULL BENGOUGH, AND THE INCIDENT OF THE KNIGHT IN BLACK
A deep sense of guilt caused by his momentary surrender to Lady Anna's
blandishments stirred a very tempest of remorse within Sir Richard's
mind, which vented itself in a torrent of bitter words directed toward
his fair seductress. All cold and calm and smiling she listened to the
young knight's list of accusations.
"Fickle boy!" she said with a gay laugh when Sir Richard had finished.
"Know you not that a late repentance is like the wind that blows above
an empty sea? But let me tell you, Sir Richard," she added, abandoning
the tone of light mockery in which she had first spoken, "that events
are transpiring right well for you. Have but a mite of patience....
Wait, and see," whereupon she coolly replaced his poniard within the
holder dangling from his baldric, reached for his hand and signified
her desire to have him accompany her below. "'Tis a right bonnie and
sharp blade, that," she said, referring to the poniard, "and did part
the rope full smoothly. But come, Sir Richard. Lord Douglas is waiting
to have speech with you."
"By the mass, Lady Anna, and how came you upon my plans?" Sir Richard
sullenly inquired when they were come at length into the gallery of the
griffins' heads.
He remarked that the sliding panel had been thrown wide open, and that
half a score of attendants bearing flaring rush-lights were awaiting
their mistress's coming. They all grinned within their beards as the
young knight passed before them.
Lady Anna looked up into Sir Richard's eyes and smiled brightly.
"Ah! Sir valiant knight," she returned, "much have you yet to learn.
Never should you confide a secret to a weak and lovelorn boy. Let
me explain: Wishing much to have an immediate audience with you, my
lord dispatched a messenger to the great hall. You were not there. A
round of your accustomed abiding places failed to discover you. Your
private chamber was searched, but without result. Entertaining somewhat
of a shrewd suspicion of my own, which was speedily verified by our
fair-haired, youthful friend, I sought you upon the tower, ... errant
boy! The rest you know."
Sir Richard made no answering comment. His mind was taken up with de
Claverlok. He was wondering what the generous warrior would be thinking
of him. With no more than a curt good-night, he parted from Lady Anna
at the head of the jutting balcony.
He found Lord Douglas awaiting him in his own chamber. The same in
which he had delivered Henry's warrant less than a month ago. Douglas
received him with a gracious cordiality, his red bewhiskered face all
of a-wrinkle with genial smirks and smiles.
"So, so! Sir Richard," said he, rising and extending the young knight
his hairy hand. "You have played the leech, I hear, and have delivered
a suffering old warrior out of the womb of Castle Yewe? Well--well!"
pausing to roar with laughter; "I looked upon the fellow as your dire
enemy, and mewed him up for hurling treacherous lance at you. I pray
you, and why did you not affirm that he was indeed your friend?"
"Said I not so at the foot of the stairs upon the first moment of my
arrival here?"
"Yea--that you did. But I bethought me that you were but reserving
him for your own vengeance. Why--you might have had him free for the
snapping of your fingers. Marry--marry! How often do we struggle
mightily and in secret for a thing that we might gain in the open, and
but for the simple asking."
Deeds that to Sir Richard appeared valorous, and partaking somewhat of
the essence of that chivalry which he strove always to emulate, were
thus dismissed as mere boyish escapades. His embarrassment and chagrin
became more profound than ever.
"By'r lady! An I could but borrow the ears of an ass, I'd be armed at
point device," he ruefully declared.
"Nay, nay, Sir Richard, say not thus," replied Douglas. "An all the
asses' ears were properly bestowed, let me tell you, our four-legged
friends would every one be bereft of those useful appendages. Have
done, my young friend, with vain repining. Your act of this night
pleases me passing well. Though, an you had left us, as you came
perilously near doing, you would have broken your knightly word. For,
in the games of to-morrow, did you not agree with Mistress Douglas to
break a lance with Bull Bengough? But enough upon that subject. Your
head was all awry upon your shoulders. You were not heedful of such
slight obligations. Mark you well, Sir Richard, I wished that you
should be brought hither so that I might tell you that, upon to-morrow
night, following the games, there's to be a conclave held within the
council hall. You shall be present. Something then shall you hear that
will set your eyes wide open. Some things shall you know that will
put you in a better case with yourself than you have ever been. And
then, there is another matter of which I wished to speak," he went on,
lowering his voice to as soft a tone as he was able to command; "'tis
concerning the bit of saffron velvet. You have kept that from me, Sir
Richard, but Lady Anna has told me all. What would you say now, my
friend, an I told you that I had dispatched emissaries to fetch the
maid to your side?"
"What mean you, Lord Douglas? The young lady is imprisoned, and her
jailor is even this moment within Castle Yewe."
"How know you that?"
"I saw him through the window of the secret passageway."
"Aye--true, there is a window," returned Douglas in a tone indicating
his regret that such was the fact. "And did you hear what he said?"
"Not a word could I hear," Sir Richard openly confessed.
Douglas had been nervously twisting and untwisting his beard. Upon
hearing the young knight's negative reply he heaved a deep sigh of
relief.
"'Twould have mattered little, an you had," he said. "Well--'twas
Tyrrell whom you saw. And henceforward our issues are to be joined. At
the meeting to-morrow you shall know everything."
"When will the maid arrive? Through what means will your men effect her
freedom? Does Tyrrell know?" was Sir Richard's volley of questions.
"Nay--Tyrrell does not know. 'Twas at the suggestion of your good
friend, the Renegade Duke, that I sent for her, who has but just this
eve arrived within the castle. He has been laid up with a sickness. But
give you a good-night, Sir Richard, and get you to your bed," Douglas
concluded, getting up to pull the bell cord above his chair and again
tendering the young knight his hand.
Like one walking in a dream, Sir Richard followed the smoking
rush-lights of the two pages who were awaiting to lead him to his room.
For the third time the words of the unhappy youth, Perkin Warbeck, were
recalled vividly to his mind--"A phantom in the midst of phantoms,
moving in a fog of mystery."
A sound body overcame an uneasy mind and conscience, however, and he
slept peacefully through the fog, with nothing more alarming than
a multitude of shadowy de Claverloks to inhabit his dreams. In the
morning he was awake betimes, broke his fast, and then wandered out to
view the lists, which would soon resound with the huzzas of excited
spectators, and the tumult of friendly striving.
To the northward of the walls of the castle tents were thickly dotted
over the hillsides, the blue smoke of their fires rising high into the
keen, clear air. Horses were tethered to almost every tree; oxen were
moving about over the slopes, grazing the frosty grass. In the open
spaces knots of men and women were gathered, eating, drinking, and
singing. Snatches of their rude songs reached to the young knight's
ears as he stood watching the interesting spectacle.
Within the space reserved for the uses of the knights who were to
engage in the games, he noted a pavilion bearing his cognizance
emblazoned above its entrance. He walked across, stopping in front
of it to look up along the decorated stand, with its ribbon-twined
pillars, its manifold pennants, its blaze of multi-colored banners all
snapping and fluttering in the crisp breeze. It was a brave sight, and
sent Sir Richard's blood tingling through his veins. He grew conscious
of a keen desire to feel the first shock of the combat.
By now other knights were passing beside him, many of whom were not
strangers to Sir Richard's prowess with the sword. They gave him
the morning's greeting and passed within their tents. Heralds and
pursuivants, dressed in the brightest and gaudiest of liveries, were
moving busily about the tilting-yard, engaged upon their tasks of
observing that everything was in cap-a-pie order. Presently Lord
Douglas and his retinue of inseparable jackdaws entered the stand
across the covered bridge that gave into it from the castle. They
moved in a body to the front and bowed in concert, wishing him a row
of solemn good-morrows. Sir Richard grew to speculating as to what was
taking place within their teeming brains. He wished that he might have
lifted their coverings for a moment to have a peep within.
Upon returning their ceremonious salutations, he parted the curtained
entrance and walked within his tent.
No sooner was he come inside when a seam opened to the right,
disclosing a hand holding a parchment with ribbons dangling from its
great seal. Sir Richard instantly recognized it to be the document
that had been stolen from his wallet. The seam gaped wider then, and
Tyrrell's grim visage appeared above the hand.
"Hist!" he whispered low. "I essayed to speak with thee last night
within thy chamber, but armed guards were stationed without thy door.
Mark ye well what I say, Sir Richard Rohan, for I must perforce say
briefly. Here is the message from Henry to Douglas, which I took from
thee on the night thou didst tarry within the Red Tavern. Mighty well
is it for thee that it was purloined, ... else thou wouldst not have
been here to-day. But another of similar import is likely any day
to arrive from Kenilworth. Thou art in direst peril. Read it, Sir
Richard. But not now.... After I have gone.... I dare not long remain.
Thy life and mine would pay instant forfeit were I to be discovered
here. Hark ye, ... closer! That red striped lance yonder is worm eaten
to the core. I have one for myself hewn from the same piece of wood.
When we shall be called opposite in the lists, ... mark ye, now, ...
forget not to couch that stick at me. It will shatter to the hilt,
as will mine own. At our next meeting, with fair lances, thou shalt
have the northern stand. When the trumpet winds, plunge rowels into
thy steed's belly and charge at me. But do not engage my shield or
person. Gallop by me and make straight for the gate, which will be open
and packed with gaping peasantry. I have stationed there two score of
brawny men and true, who will part a way for thee. Ride on through
and make southward along the Sauchieburn Pass. I will execute a swift
demivolte and follow closely at thy heels, appearing to give chase. An,
perchance, I fail of getting away with thee, go swift to the Red Tavern
and await there my coming. Zenas will be looking out for thee. An I
come not, ... well, ... Lord Kennedy shall bear thee messages. Hist!
At thy door there. 'Tis the man I have bribed to sew up this rent.
Admit him, Sir Richard, and give thyself to the reading of the warrant.
Adieu!"
Tyrrell thereupon withdrew his head, and the man went about mending
the rent. Sir Richard seated himself upon a stool, holding the
unopened parchment. Even now he hesitated before reading its contents,
believing that it would be a violation of King Henry's trust. He became
convinced, finally, that it was a duty that he owed to himself to
do so, whereupon he unfolded and began perusing the warrant. Having
finished reading, he crumpled the paper and thrust it beneath his
breast-plate. For a long time he sat motionless, with his hands knotted
together upon his knees.
"This--this from Henry!" he thought. "Henry whom I have revered and
loved and called companion from very childhood! This from the comrade
by whose side I fought upon the field of Bosworth!"
A something there was went out of the young knight's life during that
bitter moment which he felt that nothing could ever supplant.
Beyond a certain set firmness of his lips that had never been there
before, however, when he stepped outside his tent, Sir Richard
exhibited no traces of the fierce battle that had been waged within
him. He took the seat that had been provided for him in front of his
pavilion, and apparently surrendered himself to the full enjoyment of
the games, which, by now, were in full swing. He even stamped his feet,
clapped together his hands, and "bravaed!" with as unrestrained a
vociferance as the most boisterous onlooker in the field.
Beginning next the stand, Sir Richard's tent was the first. Immediately
beside it, Tyrrell's had been pitched. The redoubtable Bull Bengough's,
who did not put in his appearance till well along in the day, was set
beside the gate, the final one of the row.
The young knight remarked well his appearance as he shot into the lists
to meet the victor of every preceding combat. The champion up to that
hour.
His horse was a silver-gray stallion, broad hoofed, with fetlocks
sweeping from above them to the ground. In the matter of gigantic
proportions, the warrior bestriding its broad, round back, was in
perfect keeping with the steed. He was harnessed in a suit of highly
polished steel armor, fluted and damascened. He wore his beaver up, and
the features displayed within the opening of his casque were singularly
brutal. His eyes were like two glittering beads, hard and pitiless.
Above them his black brows marked an uninterrupted and nearly straight
line from temple to temple.
When everything was ready and the signal had been given, Bull Bengough
charged, bellowing like his bovine namesake, upon his adversary. By
sheer force of his superior weight and strength he vanquished his
antagonist. Without making the slightest show of acknowledgment of
the loud burst of acclamation that greeted his prowess, he rode on to
the southern extremity of the lists, where he drew rein, disdainfully
awaiting the signal to have at his next opponent.
With the customary long preamble, the heralds announced Sir Richard's
name. Two grooms led his stallion to the front of his pavilion. Leaping
lightly into his saddle the young knight cantered his horse toward his
allotted station in the field.
His name was called through many pairs of lips as he passed beneath the
stand. The young knight had won many friends and fair adherents during
his stay in Castle Yewe. He signified his appreciation of their good
wishes by reining to a halt before the stand and bowing gracefully to
the spectators. There followed a renewed burst of applause and laughter
when his stallion gravely bent his head, as though in a similar
acknowledgment. It was a pretty trick, and one that Sir Richard had
spent a great deal of time and patience to teach.
Now, with casques tight closed, Bull Bengough and Sir Richard were
awaiting the signal to charge. There was a sinking of many-colored
scarves beneath a sea of staring, tense-drawn faces. A profound silence
settled over all the field.
They shot away together at the first note of the trumpeted signal. From
the start Sir Richard couched his lance at Bull Bengough's helmet.
As well might he have attempted to overthrow one of the Pyramids of
Egypt, as to have essayed the upsetting of his burly antagonist through
engaging the center of his impregnable shield. On account of the young
knight's lesser weight, and the superior nimbleness of his horse's
hoofs, he met Bengough a yard or more beyond the center of the lists
and well within his own territory.
The extreme bulk of his great body rendered the impact of Bengough's
treelike lance against Sir Richard's shield like a collision with a
mountain avalanche. The young knight felt himself shaken to the very
backbone. If the wood had held, it might have been that Bengough would
have sustained his wide reputation by sweeping his antagonist off
his seat. Luckily for the young knight, however, it shattered to the
grasp, and, with speed but slightly diminished, Sir Richard rode on
through, with his lance's head wedged fast between the eye-slits of his
adversary's helm.
After that it was like sliding a filled hogshead backward off of
a moving platform. Sir Richard fancied that he was sensible of a
trembling of the earth when Bull Bengough alighted upon it.
Thereupon, amid the loud huzzas of the spectators, the young knight
rode to the front of his pavilion and commanded his squire to bring him
the red-striped lance. Tyrrell, his next opponent, was riding slowly
northward to take his place there at the end of the lists.
Compared with his meeting with Bengough, Sir Richard's contact with the
knight in black was almost featherlike in its softness. Their lances,
couched well and true, both shattered to their grasps.
It became now the young knight's turn to take the northern stand for
the next course. He looked southward toward the open gate. It was
choked with humanity, swaying this way and that in wide, serpentine
curves. The task of clearing an open space there had already begun.
Upon the sound of the trumpet's blast they made for the meeting place
in the lists. But the knight in black was not for a moment in Sir
Richard's eye. He saw but the gate, and within it the crowd of densely
packed peasantry. Beyond opened out a wide sweep of sloping downs, of
free roadways, and welcome forest glades.
He had a fleeting picture as he flashed beneath the arched gateway of
a line of determined, stern-faced, brawny men pushing and thrusting
as though their very lives depended upon it. They contrived to clear
him the narrowest of avenues, which closed together when he had passed
through like the waters of a riven sea.
Sir Richard stole a swift look above his shoulder. Tyrrell, moving at
a snail's pace, was vainly endeavoring to free himself from the living
mass that was eddying about him. Like a pair of long flails, he was
waving his arms above his head, and calling down the wrath of Heaven
upon his late antagonist for not halting. In the present case his
talents as an actor were standing him in good stead. Behind him men
were streaming wildly from the stand. Just as the young knight plunged
within the forest shadows he heard a bugle wind the _tucket-sonuance_.
Throwing aside the now useless lance, Sir Richard stretched low along
his stallion's neck and sent him pounding over the frozen road at top
speed.
CHAPTER XVIII
OF SIR RICHARD'S MEETING WITH THE FOOT-BOYS, AND HIS RETURN TO THE RED
TAVERN
To gain to the abandoned shepherd's hut and rejoin de Claverlok was now
Sir Richard's chief concern. As to what his subsequent course of action
should be he could in no manner determine. He meant, after finding de
Claverlok, to journey onward toward the Red Tavern, either to effect
the imprisoned maiden's release when he reached there, or to win her
away from her abductors should he chance to intercept them on his way.
In carrying forward this enterprise he intended, if it were possible,
to secure the grizzled knight's aid. After that (Sir Richard planned
it all out), a journey to the coast for the three of them, whence
they would take ship for France and push forward to Brittany and Duke
Francis's court. There they might tarry for awhile till he had secured
his patrimony--the which was a something very vague and shadowy to the
young knight--and then, last of all, the great, wide world.
Desiring to minimize the dangers of pursuit and recapture, he took
the first road leading from the main highway, which chanced to be one
winding to the eastward. After about an hour of hard riding, he made
out on the roadway, some distance ahead, the gray figure of a monk
mounted upon a long-eared ass. There seemed to be something quite
familiar to the young knight in the monk's attitude--bent far forward,
with the sharp peak of his cowl alone appearing above his narrow
shoulders.
The churchman turned to give Sir Richard greeting as he was upon the
point of galloping by. It was Erasmus. He arched his brows as though
surprised at thus meeting with the young knight.
"Why," said the scholar, as Sir Richard slowed down and took his easy
pace, "I fancied that long ere this thou hadst joined my good friend,
Bishop Kennedy. We made a vigorous but vain search for thee after that
ambuscade among the Kilsyth Hills. But Lord Kennedy doubted not but
that the good knight, Sir Lionel de Claverlok, would soon fetch up
with thee and bring thee back. Ah! my friend, this fighting! These
direful conspiracies! 'Tis indeed a sad thing for both church and
populace when jealous factions do thus selfishly bestir themselves."
For quite a space thereafter they rode along together in silence.
"Grant me pardon for my seeming impertinence," at length said Erasmus;
"but curious am I to know whence thou hast come, sir knight?"
"I am just riding from Castle Yewe," replied Sir Richard.
"So!" exclaimed the scholar, now lifting his brows in a genuine
amazement. "Methought, sir, that thou wouldst not long survive a visit
there. Ah! But mayhap no message from Henry was delivered to Douglas
during thy stay!"
"Why--friend Erasmus," said Sir Richard, "with my own hand did I
deliver it."
"But----"
"Aye--I know full well what you would say. The original was stolen from
me, I know. In truth, Erasmus, every mother's son in broad Scotland
seems to know. But I had been provided with a copy, the which I
delivered as fast as my horse could bear me to Yewe after my escape
upon the Kilsyth Hills. I know now that it was a warrant upon Douglas
for my undoing, but old fox here stood bravely beside me, and I am
riding beside you to tell the tale. I' faith, since leaving Kenilworth,
Erasmus, much have I learned of the world's merciless cruelties."
"Aye--well mayst thou say so, sir knight," agreed the scholar in a
sympathetic tone. "Listen--and mark well what I have to say," Erasmus
pursued. "There is now, and right here in Scotland, a great conspiracy
upon foot, the which doth involve, sir knight, a throne, and in which
each of two powerful factions is striving mightily to gain but an inch
of advantage above the other. Wouldst listen to the advice of something
of a philosopher, a great deal of thy friend, and a close student of
this question of politics?"
"I would most gladly hear it," declared Sir Richard.
"Then leave this conspiracy-ridden country and embark with me for
France. A right puissant friend thou hast in old Duke Francis, sir
knight."
The scholar's manner was openly and frankly sympathetic and friendly.
Sir Richard was glad to discover one in whom he could confide and in
whom he could repose an absolute trust. He accordingly set out to make
Erasmus acquainted with the story of his pilgrimage from Kenilworth to
Yewe, dwelling, with glowing words, upon the incident of the imprisoned
maid and the cutting of saffron velvet. He gave his vow to do devoir in
her cause as his reason for not adopting Erasmus's advice of sailing
with him for France.
"'Tis a most interesting and thrilling tale," the scholar observed when
the young knight had finished his narrative. "But why imperil thy life
further by remaining here to set free a maid whom thou hast never seen?
A patch of velvet is a dangerously small matter from which to build a
vision of purity and beauty."
"An man wore coat of mail who said thus to me," said Sir Richard with a
smile, "he'd have my gauntlet at his feet upon the instant."
"Nay, nay, my good sir knight--thou knowest well that I am speaking
friendlywise," said Erasmus. "The age of ostentatious chivalry is
passing. Anon will come a time when sane deeds and true shall take the
place of those of bombast and display. I am speaking from my heart and
for thy own good, sir knight. An thou wouldst consent to join me, I
should be most happy."
Sir Richard disavowed any intention of leaving Scotland till he had
accomplished his self-imposed mission. But he was thankful to have
Erasmus for a companion, and continued to ride with him till they came
into the town of Kirkintilloch, where they halted together at an inn,
supping there and making merry till somewhat later in the evening than
Sir Richard had intended to stay. During supper hour they had out their
argument upon the subject of the waning of chivalry. That is to say,
the scholar argued and Sir Richard listened and denied. After that, to
prove to the grave student that chivalry was not in its decline, the
young knight had the buxom serving-maid sew him a cord to the patch of
saffron velvet, whereupon he fastened it above his eye, vowing that he
would not remove it till its fair owner should herself part the string.
About the hour when Sir Richard concluded that he could possibly remain
no longer, there was a sharp driving of sleet against the tavern
windows. Appreciating that there was danger of missing his way in the
darkness and storm, and a warm and comfortable bed appealing more
pleasantly to his imagination than a night ride in the cold, he came to
the conclusion to make a night of it and remain.
When he came down early the next morning there was a thin scattering of
snow on the ground. Upon nearing the tap-room, after instructing the
hostler to bring around his horse, he heard the sound of loud talk and
laughter. He observed the precaution of peering through a window before
venturing inside. He saw, seated about a table therein, a half dozen
guards from Castle Yewe.
Without waiting to receive the inn-keeper's reckoning, Sir Richard beat
a precipitate retreat toward the stables. Ordering his stallion made
ready upon the instant, he tossed the groom a generous handful of coins
and made off at a rattling pace through the dull streets of the little
town.
He soon drew beyond the limits of Kirkintilloch, and came presently
to a road that he fancied would lead him somewhere near to the hut
in which he hoped that de Claverlok would be awaiting his coming. His
search, however, was unfruitful of result. All day he rode, describing
great squares and detours. Upon many occasions he was obliged to plunge
swiftly into nearby forests in order to avoid bands of horsemen, which
seemed to be scouring the country upon every hand. He dared not stop at
another inn, and so took pot-luck in the most remote farm cottages and
herders' huts that he could find. The patch upon the young knight's eye
proved to be a source of infinite amusement to the pastoral folk with
whom he ate and drank.
That night he was forced to seek an asylum within the dismal walls of
a monastery, whereupon he became the unwilling recipient of the good
prior's gentle harangue upon the wickedness of registering licentious
and worldly vows. He charged upon the young knight to seek his Maker's
pardon, and remove the yellow patch, the which Sir Richard quietly
listened to till his head nodded sleepily above the table. The good
father then tendered him his blessing and conducted him to a pallet of
straw in one of the unoccupied cells.
He was away at dawn of the next day to resume his wanderings above the
moors and downs.
When occupying the hut with de Claverlok he had been so intent upon
delivering Henry's warrant to Douglas that he had not troubled himself
to register surrounding landmarks. This, coupled with the fact that
he was now obliged to keep a sharp lookout for straggling guards and
searching parties, rendered his search a most difficult one. Indeed,
though much regretting to do so, he was forced at length to abandon
it, concluding that the wiser plan would be to strike a straight line
in the direction of the Sauchieburn Pass. Upon once reaching there, he
felt confident that he could easily retrace his way to the abandoned
hut.
It was near the hour of compline when, after having ridden a
considerable distance through a forest of pines and hemlocks, he came
upon a road stretching through the wood at a right angle to the rather
narrow trail that he had been following. As he emerged upon this
highroad, which he instantly knew to be the one of which he had been in
search, he heard a sharp noise of crackling and breaking twigs to his
left. With a ready hand upon his bridle, prepared, if need were, to
wheel and bear away, he glanced in the direction whence the sound had
come.
Two mounted foot-boys, wearing the Douglas colors, were upon the
point of leading a third horse--which was caparisoned for a lady's
riding--within the shadows of the trees. Seeking himself to avoid
discovery, Sir Richard was not in fear of those in a similar
predicament.
So--"What, ho there, boys!" he shouted, riding swiftly down upon them;
"can you tell me whether this is the Sauchieburn Pass?"
"Yea, sir knight," one of the foot-boys replied, halting his horse
along the border of the road. "And for a-many a wearisome hour, sir
knight, have----"
"Sh-h-h!" cautioned the other from the bushes. "Remember, Harold, our
heads will surely pay the forfeit of an indiscretion.... Yet, ... 'tis
a tiresome business to be held here for none knows how long in a dark
and dreary----"
"Oh ho!" the first then interrupted angrily, "and who is 't now that's
talking to the ax? Yet--an she would but come--we might return in----"
"Ah ha!" wailed the second; "now you've finished the whole cursed job!
My name's not Thomas, an I give you not a sound buffeting for----"
"A truce to your quarreling," interrupted Sir Richard. "I have other
business, my boys, besides putting your precious heads in jeopardy.
Come ahead, give me your stories after a more complete and less
disjoined fashion. By my knightly sword no harm shall befall either of
you because of the telling--I am ready."
"'Tis thus, good sir knight," spoke the one whom his companion had
called Harold: "Now three days gone our worshipful master, Lord
Douglas, ... on whom may God's blessing rest, ... commanded us to trap
palfrey for a maid, ride upon the Sauchieburn Pass to the southern
extremity of the Forest of Lammermuir and await there her coming.
Upon the maiden joining us we were bade to conduct her, along unused
by-roads, safely back to Castle Yewe. Full two days have we waited
here, sir knight, with nothing better to sleep in o' nights but a thin
tent in the forest. Every hour between dawn and darkness we but stand
here with chattering teeth, idly shivering and watching, without
warrant to sally forward or return. Is 't not, thinkest thou, a sad and
dismal undertaking?"
"That it is, Harold, my boy," Sir Richard heartily agreed. "An you but
give me pause to consider," he added, "mayhap I may find out a way to
aid you in your adventure."
Sir Richard had known at once for whom the boys had been dispatched,
and was relieved to discover that the part of his plan relating to
the imprisoned maiden was turning out so happily. He was puzzled to
understand, however, why the boys had been stationed at such a great
distance from the Red Tavern. It was at least a full day's journey from
that part of the forest to the inn. It occurred to him that Douglas
might have sent guards ahead of the foot-boys, and that when the maid
did put in her appearance, it would be in the company of an armed
band. While he was trying to arrive upon the wisest course of action,
fragmentary whisperings between the foot-boys were carried to his ears.
"By the mass!" one of them was saying, "an it were not for the patch on
the eye, and the scrag o' beard on the chin, I would take my oath that
'tis the very knight who overthrew every fighting Jack in Castle Yewe.
Can'st not tell, Thomas, by the sweep o' the nose o' him, and the sharp
eye--and the brow?"
"Marry! Mayhap, and 'tis," the other said. "I saw him but the once, you
must remember. 'Twas when he cut him down the mighty Sandufferin. He
was certes a----"
"Hark ye, boys," Sir Richard broke in upon their whispered
conversation; "an I agree to yield you somewhat of my assistance, will
you take oath with raised hands not to make mention of this meeting to
thy master?"
Upon such easy terms they both seemed delighted to purchase the young
knight's aid. He thereupon lined them along the road, with uplifted
hands, and caused them to repeat the most solemn oath within his power
to conjure up. Instructing them to await his return, and promising to
do his best to bring along the maiden, he left them smiling by the
roadside and fared on southward.
Within a very short time he had drawn clear of the forest. Looking to
the left, he noted the spur of stunted pines sweeping down over the
moor. Beyond it he could see the bleak dunes and the promontory upon
which had been pitched the pavilion of purple and black. The gray mist
rising out of the sea made an appropriate and effective background for
it all.
His mind was deeply engaged with the subject of his quest, when, upon
rounding a rather lofty brae, he came suddenly upon the Red Tavern.
Surprised beyond the power of speech, thought, or action he reined in
his stallion. For a considerable time he sat motionless, taking in the
different points of the structure. There were left no doubts, when he
had finished with his examination, but that it was the same. With a
redoubled intensity of imagery, the weird tales of the haunted, flying
tavern came trooping back to his mind.
How under the heavens the inn had come there he made no attempt to
fathom. It occurred to him at first that it must have been standing
there all along, but he dismissed this thought when he had noted the
fact that, during his enforced march with Bishop Kennedy's company, he
would have been obliged to pass beside its door. That it was indeed
there, and a palpable something to be accounted for, however, he could
no longer deny.
"Well," Sir Richard at length concluded, "I made my entrance upon this
mysterious series of mishaps through yon sinister door. 'Twould be most
fitting that my exit from them should be by the same route."
Whereupon, like a man in a trance, he rode up, dismounted, and knocked
aloud upon the red-daubed planks.
CHAPTER XIX
OF THE RESCUE OF THE MAIDEN
There was a familiar rattling of chains and sliding bolts. The door
swung cautiously inward, the evil face of Zenas appearing within the
narrow opening.
"Ah! The puppet again!" he exclaimed, his baleful eyes glowering
down upon the traveler. "And where hast thou left Sir James, my good
brother?"
"He was foiled in making his escape with me from Castle Yewe,"
explained Sir Richard. "Are there messages awaiting me from Bishop
Kennedy?" he added.
"Nay. But tarry not without, sir puppet knight. The sharp wind doth
penetrate keenly to my twisted bones. Come thou inside, ... I'll have a
groom to bestow thy horse for the night."
"Get you out of the cold and send him here. I but wish the animal
baited, Zenas. I'll not tarry the night."
In a few minutes the hostler appeared from behind the tavern, received
instructions as to the care of the horse, and relieved the young knight
of the reins; Sir Richard then opened the door and stepped inside.
"Ah ha! with a golden patch upon the eye, by my faith!" growled the
hunchback as the young knight seated himself upon the high-backed bench
beside the chimney-place. "Methinks, sir puppet knight, that I've often
seen that self same color."
Zenas stationed himself with his back to the blaze, where he stood,
rubbing his hands together and laughing shrilly.
"You have seen it. Certes you have seen it!" observed Sir Richard
quietly. "Yea--Zenas, and I mean to bear away the maiden to whom it
once belonged, I give you true warrant upon that."
He arose as he spoke, with his hand resting menacingly upon the hilt of
his sword.
Without a word Zenas thereupon clapped together his hands; three men,
armed at every point, came instantly into the room. Three blades were
unsheathed, flashing in the firelight.
"Not so fast, puppet knight; ... I pray you, not so fast," whispered
the hunchback with an uncanny leer and stretching out toward Sir
Richard his enormously long arms. "Wilt treat with me quietly now, or
shall I have the guards at you for a dangerous interloper? Say the
word, sir puppet knight, say the word," he hissed between his teeth.
"More good men there are where these came from, an these be not enough
to truss thee up and render thee harmless."
"Send the men away," said Sir Richard sullenly. "I'll treat with you."
"Tell me then," resumed Zenas, when the guards had betaken themselves
at his command through the door, "hast ever seen this maid whom thou
art thus eager to rescue?"
The young knight pondered deeply before committing himself to an
answer. It would be obviously improper, he thought, to explain the
manner in which the cutting of velvet had come into his possession.
But he concluded that a portion of the truth would answer as well as a
whole falsehood, so----
"In truth, I have never seen the maid," he replied accordingly.
"Well, thou shalt see her.... Yea--and thou shalt have her! Even this
night, ... now, ... an it be thy wish, sir puppet knight," said Zenas,
apparently in a transport of glee. "She hath been fair eating her heart
out to be gone. But mayhap thou wouldst first down a flitch of bacon
and a tankard or so of stum? A full belly for a hard task, I tell thee!
Belike 'twould embolden thee for the work in hand."
"Nor sup nor drink will I taste till I have the maiden beside me," Sir
Richard declared.
"Wait, ... I'll fetch her to thee," Zenas said, and thereupon went out
of the room, muttering and laughing.
The young knight could hear his catlike footfalls, then, go limping
up the stairs. Apprehending upon a sudden that the dwarf might be
meditating some act of violence or harm, Sir Richard rushed to the door
through which Zenas had made his exit. "Thy life, sir, shall answer for
her safety," he shouted from the foot of the steps.
"Fear not, Sir Richard Daredevil," the hunchback called back from the
landing above. "Fear not, I'll bring her to thee all safe enough."
Zenas's undisguised willingness to relinquish the maiden into his hands
was very puzzling to Sir Richard. Though this perplexity presently
gave way to a sense of delightful anticipation. At last, he mused, he
was to see her; to hold her hand; to listen to the sweet accents of her
voice. He could not control himself in quiet, and went to pacing to and
fro across the floor in a fever of impatience.
Above stairs a scene was being enacted that, could he have been witness
to it, would have proved highly interesting to the young knight. The
half-maniacal hunchback respected and admired his brother, Sir James;
he loved his brother's sweet daughter, Rocelia, but he feared and
hated Isabel, whom he had never been able to intimidate or make to do
his bidding. The maid was indeed possessed of a breezy temper, and
upon many an occasion the hunchback had been made to feel the sting
of her words. When he had discovered that she was secretly preparing
for her departure, he had at once embraced the opportunity to avenge
himself, causing her to be imprisoned in earnest. He had overheard
her conversation with an emissary of the Renegade Duke, during which
Isabel had given her word that she would come to Castle Yewe to join
her champion. Isabel had a mind of her own, and a keen appreciation of
the welfare of number one. She was, besides, a capital conspiratress,
and had availed herself of every chance to acquaint herself with
the true character and title of the one whom she had chosen for her
champion. When she had grown familiar with Sir Richard's history, she
had concluded that through him she might achieve deliverance from
her monotonous life under the guardianship of her uncle, Sir James,
and at the same time elevate herself to a higher plane within the
social world, which were her chief ambitions. She had not been acute
enough, however, to be aware that, in promising to go to Yewe, she was
but falling into a trap set for her by the Renegade Duke. She still
believed that the word was from the Earl of Warwick, by which title she
always referred to Sir Richard within her mind.
The blaze of anger with which Isabel now greeted Zenas's advent into
her presence subsided quickly when he told her who was waiting to see
her below. She made short work of her preparations to depart, promising
to do so secretly, and without stopping to bid her cousin or governess
a farewell. As the hunchback was preceding her below he was exulting
to himself over the circumstance that was to rid him of one of whom he
was jealous and hated, and another whom he feared. He looked upon it
as a happy stroke of fortune that had put it in his way to send them
off together. He chuckled aloud as he thought of how cleverly he was
cheating the young knight.
"I am yielding him the wrong maid," he said to himself; "the wrong
maid. The saffron gown doth belong to Rocelia, by my faith!"
It seemed an age to Sir Richard before he heard again the hunchback's
tread upon the stairs. Another step came to his straining ears, light
and firm, with an accompaniment of gently rustling skirts.
What would his first words be? And what her whispered answer? He
thought of the saffron patch above his eye and the unkempt growth of
beard upon his chin. For but two minutes' service, a barber might have
earned a handful of rose nobles.
Thereupon the door swung open. Without any apparent hesitation the
maid, whom the young knight had always pictured as shy and prettily
diffident, advanced into the ring of firelight. Like an abashed boy, he
hung his head in an utter confusion. If a fortune had been laid at his
feet he would have found himself powerless to look up into her waiting
eyes. It seemed to him that the whole world should be pausing to view
this meeting. Then his hands were caught within the grasp of soft
fingers. "Richard, ... my faithful champion," a voice broke low upon
the dead silence.
Sir Richard then looked up. His eyes fell upon a pair of firm,
curved lips, a row of dazzling white teeth, a wonderful quantity of
raven-black hair, shadowing beautifully marked brows and masterful,
deep-gray eyes. His sight was too blurred to see altogether clearly,
but he knew her to be comely and bewitching withal.
In despite of this, a sort of vague but exquisite melancholy fell upon
his highly wrought spirits. It was as indefinable as a fevered dream,
but it seemed to him to answer to the name of disappointment. He felt
that he would have been more pleased had the maid displayed in her
manner less of assurance and more of timidity and reserve.
Isabel began by busily removing the patch from Sir Richard's eye,
assuring him of her genuine appreciation of his knightly conduct in so
long having worn it. He did not tell her that it had been there but
a day. Then, commanding Zenas to bring food and wine, which he did
without a word of remonstrance, she set the table and bade Sir Richard
to eat. When the hunchback went out of the room he told her of his
meeting with the Douglas foot-boys.
"I divined that they were waiting," Isabel said. "But Zenas locked and
barred the door and would not suffer me to come. It was full kind of
you to send for me, Sir Richard."
"I? But 'twas not I who sent for thee, fair maid."
"Not you? There was a note signed with your name."
"'Twas written by Douglas, or the Renegade Duke then. An I could, I
would have sent for thee, though----"
"Isabel, Sir Richard; ... call me Isabel. 'Twas then but a trap to lure
me within the power of the Duke. Well--we'll attend to him, once we
come to Castle Yewe, Sir Richard."
"To Castle Yewe? It is the one place on earth from which I would remain
away. We'll go not to Castle Yewe, Isabel," Sir Richard declared.
"But has not Douglas a plan on foot to set you high in power? And has
not my uncle gone to him to effect a truce and a combining of forces?
In truth, Sir Richard, will you go to Yewe?" Isabel insisted.
"I know not what plans they may have," said Sir Richard. "But, an there
be such, it is all the more reason why I should get me safely away. I
am come to detest this conspiracy business."
"Well--we'll have that out on the way," observed Isabel. "Come, let us
be upon our journey before the band returns to thwart our going."
They accordingly set out soon, with the moon low and exceedingly bright
upon the far horizon. Zenas had improvised a kind of pillion behind the
young knight's saddle, and upon this Isabel took her seat.
"I wish thee a great joy of thy bargain, sir puppet knight!" the
hunchback shouted shrilly after them as they started off. "And believe
me," he added, "I am well and truly requited for the death of poor
Demon."
"He would not dare to say thus, an I were but off this horse," declared
Isabel angrily.
Sir Richard could not divine what the hunchback had meant to convey.
He, therefore, made no reply, but looked back and remarked his squat,
bent figure standing free upon the nethermost point of the brae against
the moonlit sky. He reminded the young knight of a monstrous, black,
and forbidding spider.
Not till they had reached within the cavernous depths of the forest
did it occur to Sir Richard that he now had before him a long and
hazardous journey to the coast, with, for companion, a maiden whom he
had torn from the care of her lawful guardian. But he had pledged his
knightly word, and apparently there was nothing now to do above seeking
a priest, and carrying her with him as Mistress Rohan. He quarreled
and fell out with himself because of his dearth of enthusiasm over the
project.
"Richard, dear?" Isabel interrupted his thoughts, "is it not nearabouts
that the Douglas foot-boys are posted?"
"Yea--in a glade upon our right hand. About here, I fancy," Sir Richard
answered.
"Then stop instantly and summon them to us."
"Indeed, nay!" Sir Richard amazedly exclaimed. "I'm not again for
running my head into a hornet's nest," he said, by way of borrowing de
Claverlok's simile. "But," an inspiration dawning upon him, "do you
wish to leave me and go on to Castle Yewe?"
"Without you--Richard?"
The manner of her reply sent a cold sweat to oozing at his every pore.
He felt himself caught fair.
"Ho, boys!" Isabel suddenly shouted aloud, clapping her hands. "Draw
rein, Richard," she commanded.
"Well, by the mass!" the young knight exclaimed. But he drew rein.
There was a great noise of stumbling horses, and the sharp crackling
of breaking twigs, as the foot-boys hurriedly drew toward the road.
When they had observed the young knight's companion, they were the most
relieved and happy of youths. They immediately set about making Isabel
comfortable upon the back of the housed palfrey, after which the march
was begun, with the foot-boys singing merrily on before.
Harold rode back presently to announce that he knew of a cave something
less than a league ahead where they could be rendered comfortable for
the night. Both Thomas and he would do their best, the youth assured
Sir Richard in extravagant terms, to have them a fresh hare, a crisp
loaf of bread, and a sufficiency of sweet goat's milk wherewith to
break their fasts in the morning. Already, the young knight thought,
their journey was beginning to assume somewhat of the complexion of a
wedding tour.
They then directed their course toward the cave; and by an ingenious
arrangement of the tent, which Harold and Thomas were carrying with
them, they contrived for Isabel a comfortable and perfectly secluded
chamber within its depths.
While the foot-boys were engaged in building a roaring fire just
outside the cavern's broad mouth, Isabel sat upon a boulder and engaged
Sir Richard in an entertaining and animated conversation. It was the
first opportunity he had enjoyed since their meeting of having a quiet
look at her. As she talked, the young knight noted with a certain
satisfaction the ever-changing expression of her fair and mobile
countenance as the filmy veils of light and shadow played across it.
"Certes," he yielded to himself, "she is beautiful. But 'tis beauty,
methinks, of a rather dangerous and sirenlike kind."
When she was near ready to retire behind the curtain she held up a foot
abounding in dainty, graceful curves.
"Unfasten me my boot, sir champion," she said archly.
They were alone, the foot-boys having disappeared within the forest to
gather a fresh supply of hemlock twigs.
"Give thee a right good-night, Richard," said Isabel sweetly, when the
boots were undone. She was becoming of a ravishing loveliness in the
weird light of the flickering fire.
Sir Richard was blind to everything at that moment, saving his
companion's captivating grace.
"Often have I bethought me of that kiss which you sped me through the
wall," said he, catching and holding her hand. "No wall is there here
now but one of darkness, ... and we are within."
She cast him one bewitching glance, raising her hand to his waiting
lips. "Not till we are come within sight of Castle Yewe," said Isabel.
"Then, brave champion of a maiden in distress, you shall have earned
it."
Sir Richard realized all too soon, however, that his had been but a
transitory fascination. The moment that Isabel was swallowed within the
cave he felt the spell leaving him. So when Harold and Thomas returned
with their burdens of fuel, he told them in a purposely lifted voice
that he would help them to gather more. He laid down the law before the
meek foot-boys once he had enticed them beyond earshot of the cave.
They were free to give the lady safe conduct into Yewe, Sir Richard
told them, but he was to make choice of the way. A signal for the
right, one for the left, and another to indicate straight ahead he gave
them. Beside every forking road or path they were instructed to seek
his secret and peremptory command.
"Remember, boys, Sandufferin!" he added, by way of a parting shot. "And
have a care that you fall not foul of old fox here," he concluded,
tapping the hilt of his sword.
"Said I not 'twas the same that cut him down the great Sandufferin?"
Sir Richard heard one of the foot-boys whisper, as he was falling into
a pleasant forgetfulness of his many troubles beside the crackling
blaze.
Agreeable with their sworn promises, the faithful foot-boys contrived
to set before Sir Richard and Isabel an appetizing and ample meal.
Somewhere within the forest they had come upon a spring, and had filled
a deep hollow in the rocks with limpid water. Accordingly, when Isabel
sat down to breakfast, she was looking as fresh and sparkling as any of
the frost-covered fir trees growing round about.
All of that day they pushed steadily forward, halting but once to sup
and drink within a herdsman's cottage. When the evening had fallen
they were among the upland hills, and had journeyed a full two leagues
beyond the Back Friar's Monastery.
They found shelter for that night in a wayside peasant's hut. Here Sir
Richard enjoyed a long talk with Isabel, sitting alone with her by the
chimney-side. He tried to win from her an elucidation of the mystery of
the moving tavern, but she refused to gratify his curiosity. Whenever
she chanced to discover that Sir Richard desired particularly a certain
favor, always she would say, "Not till we are come within sight of
Castle Yewe, ... then you shall have earned it."
She was leading the young knight a merry dance, with her "Richard,
fetch me this," and "Richard, dear, fetch me that"; her "Are you
certain that this is the nearest path to Castle Yewe?" When the young
knight would grow sullen and demur against returning there, "How absurd
of you, my brave champion," Isabel would say, "to set yourself against
those whose only desire it is to put you where you rightfully belong!"
Scarcely an hour passed without seeing its quarrel between them, which
inevitably ended by her riding close alongside her companion, taking
his hand and wheedling him, willy-nilly, into the best of good humors.
Her wonderful eyes during one moment would be flashing cold steel, and
in the next would radiate the warmth and glory of a tropic sun. Isabel
was, indeed, a most extraordinary young woman.
Within his mind Sir Richard had made a complete surrender to her
continued importunings. He was staking his last hope of liberation from
his uncomfortable, and that which he considered dangerous, position
upon the slight chance of finding de Claverlok in the deserted hut. "An
the good fellow happens not to be there," he thought, "why--I'll fare
on and discover me the things that Lord Douglas has in waiting."
Sir Richard's system of secret signals to the foot-boys worked
admirably, and quite as well as he could wish. By giving them the
proper signs he was enabled to follow the path along which the Renegade
Duke and he had so furiously ridden. He even remarked the patch of
broken gorse and brambles that plainly marked his fall.
It was upon the afternoon of the third day of their journey that they
turned into the sandy highway where the young knight had momentarily
outwitted his pursuer. He recalled to his mind the image of de
Claverlok's rugged, honest face set fantastically against the moon, as
he had seen it upon that memorable night. Sir Richard was obliged to
confess that his hope of discovering him at their appointed rendezvous
was sinking in proportion with the nearness of his approach thereto.
At length, as they rode free of the forest through which a part of
the road lay, he made out the little hut standing close beside a down
something near a quarter of a league distant. There was a monk, on
foot, moving in their direction along the highway. As the churchman
drew nearer, Sir Richard noted that he was tallying his string of black
beads and muttering over his open breviary.
Isabel, just then, rode close to his saddle.
"Richard," said she, "here now is our good priest."
The maiden had left Sir Richard in no possible doubt of her meaning.
A thought came to him, though it was not a happy one, for nothing,
now, he fancied, could ever more be happy. Carrying out the thought,
however, he called to the monk to halt and attend upon his words.
"Canst thou go with us, good father, into yonder hut?" he said. "We
would have thy service at a simple service of wedding. See, ... my
witnesses are riding hither, ... and I have papers bearing upon my
knightly reputation."
"Right willingly would I do thee a service, sir knight, but not in that
hut there," replied the monk, looking up at his questioner with eyes
distended with fear. "I am but now come from there, ... the good Lord
forgive him!"
"Forgive who? What is 't, goodman?" cried Sir Richard.
"There abides a great giant there.... Indeed, a tremendous man, ... ill
with some diresome fever, or fiendish obsession. He made threat to slay
me, an I but dared set foot within, bellowing fierce oaths the while
from his pallet of rushes. He will die; ... yea, he will die, for he
had the white drawn look of death upon his bearded face. I shrove him
from the doorway--then came away. The Lord have mercy----"
He got no further with the sentence within Sir Richard's hearing.
Ignoring the road, the young knight went galloping in mighty bounds
away over the gorse-grown meadow.
CHAPTER XX
OF HOW SIR RICHARD CAME TO THE SHEPHERD'S HUT, AND THE RETURN OF TYRRELL
It was not above a few swift winks of the eye till Sir Richard had
flung himself from off the back of his frothing stallion and was within
the hut's door.
"Dick!" exclaimed its solitary occupant, rising upon a lean elbow. "I'm
damned, an it be not yourself, ... eh?" Then, sternly, as the young
knight made toward the pallet of rushes whereupon he was outstretched:
"Betake you out of this accursed place," he shouted. "Do you want to
get you the sweating sickness?"
"An it had been the sweating sickness," said Sir Richard, advancing
to the sick warrior's side and grasping his woefully thin hand, "I'd
have found nothing here beyond a moldering corpse. This four years, de
Claverlok, has the sweating sickness slept. 'Tis but some devastating
fever brought with you from out of the dungeon in Castle Yewe. You'll
get you well, man, I know it."
"Meseems I know it, too, Sir Dick," agreed the grizzled warrior weakly.
"By the mass, 'tis the very first day I've had the courage to swear,
... eh! And a good monk for auditor, too. The Christian fellow shrove
me through yon open door. A murrain upon you, Dick! and how is 't
you're here? And after cutting me some ten stone of stout rope in my
eye, ... Ingrate!"
After this good-natured outburst de Claverlok threw himself back upon
the rush-mat, breathing heavily. Noting that his pallor had somewhat
increased, Sir Richard begged him to remain quiet, the while he would
recount his adventures since parting from him upon the runway of the
tower. "God's sake! but there's a woman for you, ... a king-maker,
Dick," he made a muttered comment, when the young knight gave him the
story of Lady Anna. He went on with his tale, and had just come to that
part of it where he had stumbled so unexpectedly upon the Red Tavern,
when----
"Richard!" a firm and musical voice called from outside; and then
again, "Richard!"
"Wait. 'Tis the maid herself," said the young knight, going obediently
to the door.
"My dearest friend on earth is in that hut, Isabel," he said, stepping
to the side of her palfrey; "and sick well nigh to death. 'Twill be my
duty and pleasure to remain by his side. When I have nursed him back to
health, I shall be free. Until then, you must consent to await me in
Castle Yewe. 'Tis not far, Isabel. But over the hills, there. You'll do
this thing for me?"
"And a right pretty nurse you'd make," observed Isabel breezily,
slipping at once from off the round back of her palfrey. "Why, Richard,
my generous boy," said she, "you have sore trouble in looking after
your own tangled affairs. An he be your friend, right gladly will I
attend to the nursing of him myself. Happily, some experience have I
had of such matters."
Then, in her usual masterful way, she bade the foot-boys strip the bags
off her horse and started for the hut door. With more of admiration for
the maid than Sir Richard had felt since their meeting, he followed her
brisk steps through the door.
After that there was nothing left for him to do but run upon errands.
It would be--"Richard, do you do so?" and "Richard, do you do thus?"
"Richard, ride you to the nearest goodwife and fetch me a gourd of
goat's milk," or a measure of stum, or whatever other toothsome thing
it chanced to be. Sir Richard was soon thinking that his friend's lean
body must have grown to be a receptacle for all of the dainties from
the multitude of hills about them. Almost every hour of the day he
might have been seen careering over their round summits.
The clever foot-boys made over the lean-to into a quite habitable
dwelling, thatching its sides and top with dried grass from off the
meadow. Within its shelter Sir Richard and Harold and Thomas ate,
slept, and loitered away the time.
There was a quaint old Scots herdsman who used often to visit them,
bringing with him upon every such occasion his bagpipes, whereupon
he could play with an uncommon deftness. It was this same simple,
good-hearted herdsman who had looked in on de Claverlok twice or three
times every day while the warrior was alone during the interval of his
sickness. Sir Richard tried in many ways to make him the richer, or
rather the less poor, because of the timely succor he had brought his
friend, but the old herdsman would have none of the young knight's
nobles.
It seemed curious to Sir Richard that, among the countless gruesome
legends and wild tales that Kimbuchie had ever ready at his tongue's
end, there was the same one of the Red Tavern that he had heard so
often repeated whilst riding with Belwiggar along the Sauchieburn
Pass. Good Tammas would not have it that twice the young knight had
been beneath its roof, and was yet there before him to tell the tale.
"Awell, lad," he would say, "awell. I ken well thou'st a muckle lang
tongue betwixt thy teeth, ... a muckle lang tongue."
Following the first two or three days of their arrival, there remained
but little for Sir Richard to do within the sick knight's quarters.
Isabel had both a keen eye and a right willing hand. By stretching the
tent cloth across one side of the room she secured to herself a fair
sized retiring room of her own. She appeared to take a positive delight
in the task of transforming the rude and not over clean interior of
the hut into a place that was neat, cozy, and altogether inviting.
Sir Richard began to wonder why, in such a pleasing environment, de
Claverlok was not making a more rapid progress toward health. They
had been there now nearly a fortnight, and he appeared to have gained
but little, if anything, in the way of weight or strength. Indeed,
after the first day or two the sick knight had fallen into an unusual
and melancholy silence. Often Sir Richard would steal a glance at him
through the window, and always he would see him idly plucking at his
coverings, the while his big, hollow eyes would be bent upon every
movement of his fair nurse.
"Richard!" Isabel called to him one morning while he was having
breakfast in the lean-to. It was just past dawn, with the sun painting
a rose-glory above the eastern hills. When the young knight went to her
she was standing just outside the closed door of the hut. He remarked
to himself how pale seemed her face in despite of the sun's warm
reflection upon it.
"What is it, Isabel?" he inquired, feeling a vague apprehension as to
the welfare of his friend.
"'Tis this, Richard," said Isabel gravely, "one of the foot-boys must
you post me on to Bannockburn. Counsel him to bring instantly a leech,
... the best in the town. I would e'en send you, but you may be needed
here."
"I pray you, Isabel, tell me not that he is worse."
"I fear me.... Ah! Much I fear me that you are soon to lose your
friend," Isabel answered drearily.
In all haste Sir Richard filled Harold's wallet with coins and sent him
clipping above the hills toward Bannockburn, whereupon he sat down upon
a boulder, yielding himself to the gloomiest of reflections. He was
staring, with chin buried deep in his hands, along the winding roadway.
Upon a sudden, looming gaunt against the sky, he saw the familiar
figure of the knight in black riding slowly over the hills. Hurrying to
the opposite side of the hut, Sir Richard stood outside the window and
signed Isabel to come out.
"Make haste; what is it? Your friend has but this moment begged to
speak with you in private," said she, when she had joined the young
knight outside.
"Tyrrell is approaching in this direction," said Sir Richard. "I saw
him but now riding over the northern hill."
"Give thanks to God!" exclaimed Isabel with an earnest and deep fervor,
clasping tightly together her white hands.
"Why, because that you shall now be discovered?"
"Nay; what care I for that, ... now! But because yonder tyrant," she
hurriedly went on, leading Sir Richard to the side of the cabin whence
Tyrrell could be seen, "is a cunning chymist, a famous physician, ... a
student of Linacre. Go, join your friend, ... but have a care, excite
him not. I'll await my uncle here."
For days Sir Richard had noted a change in Isabel's manner. Bit by bit
she seemed to have grown more grave and thoughtful, and less breezily
abrupt in her way of speaking. He had remarked the humility with which
she obeyed de Claverlok's slightest wish. Upon this morning she had
displayed a depth of feeling of which he had considered her quite
incapable. In seeking out the reason as he was making his way into the
hut, the answer dawned suddenly upon him. He understood.
"Well, my good friend de Claverlok," said he, with an attempt to be
cheerful, as he came beside the sick man's bed. "Methought that by now
you would be on horse and a-tilting."
"Hark thee, Dick," de Claverlok whispered. "I'll be a-tilting with the
devil by to-morrow, ... eh!" whereupon he smiled, a wan, brave smile.
Then, looking soberly up into the young knight's eyes--"Dick, ...
friend, ... I have a confession to make ere I lay down my last lance,"
he said. "God's sake! To think that I should play the fool at my age,
... two score and four, come the seventeenth day of next month--" he
paused for a space, drooping his dimmed eyes. "But to my confession:
I meant no harm, ... God wot, my boy, and I intended not to do it,
Dick; ... but I loved the maid with whom your troth is plighted from
the moment her dainty foot stepped across yon sill.... I ask your
forgiveness----"
"De Claverlok, ... dear old friend, ... are you serious?"
"Serious, ... eh?"
"God of my fathers! Do you mean it?" Sir Richard fervently exclaimed.
"An this be imperiling your precious life, take her, man, and let
health return upon you."
Thereupon the grizzled knight discovered a strength wherewith to frown.
"'Tis most unseemly this, ... most unseemly, ... eh! And you, Dick,
with your troth but fresh----"
"De Claverlok," interrupted Sir Richard firmly, "no promises have
passed. She thinks me but a silly youth--which is true.... I am. Isabel
cares not a fig for me, nor, by my faith, do I for her! We shall never
wed. Get you back inside your coat of mail and make her happy, for she
loves you, my friend. I read it in her sad eyes but this moment gone."
"Say you truly, Dick? God's sake, boy, you--you, ... but when I get me
inside my harness I'll have a lance at you, Dick, for saying somewhat
against her."
Sir Richard pressed then the fevered hand that the sick man tried to
lift within his. Whereupon de Claverlok smiled, and, sighing happily,
seemed to fall into a deep and peaceful sleep.
When the young knight stepped lightly through the door he saw Tyrrell
seated upon his horse, with Isabel pleading at his stirrup for him to
dismount and wait upon the sick man.
"Attend upon my words, Sir Richard Rohan," Tyrrell said as the young
knight drew beside them. "This ungrateful maid, having withdrawn
herself by stealth from beneath the shelter of my roof, now desires me
to succor a knight of whom she is enamored. Let her first take solemn
oath, in thy presence, that she will not journey inside of Castle Yewe.
Nor shall she, an she be carried there by force, make known my plans to
Douglas. As to her inheritance: I have it safe invested, and will yield
her warrant to have it delivered into her hands either in Glasgow or in
London. Art thou witness to this?"
"Yea, Sir James, I am."
"Isabel Savoy," resumed Tyrrell, "do thou lift up thy right hand to
Heaven and swear?"
She looked at the two men with big eyes, proudly, her lips firmly set.
It was as though the victory was hers. She took the oath.
"And now, a word with thee, Sir Richard," grim Tyrrell said, turning
toward the young knight. "The man stricken within is thy dearest
friend, I have been told. Mayhap I can save him to thee; mayhap not.
Everything of skill that I possess shall be used in his behalf, an thou
wilt agree upon thy knightly word to return with me anon to the Red
Tavern and listen there to some things that I have to say. Thy honest
word, ... 'twill be sufficient?"
"I give it willingly," Sir Richard said.
"Then assist me to dismount.... I'm sorry, sore, and lame. Friend
Douglas, suspecting something of my conniving at thy escape, Sir
Richard, gave me a bit taste of the torture. Whereupon, learning
nothing from my sealed lips, apologized, and set me free. He would have
done for me for all, an he dared. Beshrew me, though, an I can see how
thou art still abroad, with all of the Douglas forces searching so
diligently for thee. Thy proximity to his citadel it must have been
that hath saved thee."
Sir Richard remarked that he was looking exceedingly pale, seeming old
and decrepit when compared with his sturdy appearance upon the day that
he had shattered lances with him in the lists. The young knight helped
him to dismount and led him, cursing at every step, to the door of the
hut.
"I should have known," Tyrrell said to Sir Richard, upon joining him in
the thatched lean-to about an hour later, "that faithful de Claverlok
would be somewhere in thy vicinity. Prithee, and how is 't? Tell me,
Sir Richard?"
"Suffer me first to hear news of my friend," said the young knight.
"Thinkest thou that he will make a return to his old good health?"
"Methinks he is sore in love with the maiden, Isabel," Tyrrell
answered, nodding his head and smiling grimly. "Well--'tis a most
powerful stimulating nostrum. An I miss not my guess, he'll get him
well."
Thereupon, with a right good heart, Sir Richard recounted to Tyrrell
the story of his travels with de Claverlok.
"And dost tell me that he has been all of these days in thy company
without divulging word of our plans, or of thy part therein?"
"Not one word--his knightly vow withheld his honest tongue. But I am
certes ready to hear them now," declared Sir Richard.
"God wot, but there's a man to maintain his knightly vow! Though
'twould have been better had he broken faith and told thee of some
things. So thou art ready to listen now, Sir Richard? Well, there's a
good reason for thy desire to become acquainted with these mysterious
haps. But, have patience yet a little time. Everything shalt thou know
when we return to the tavern; ... everything, Sir Richard."
After that he sat for a long space, smiling, rubbing his hands
together, and muttering to himself. Upon returning to himself, he
commanded the foot-boy, Thomas, to bring him his saddle-bags. Taking
from them many packages, herbs and powders, he called Isabel to him and
instructed her as to the manner in which they should be administered.
When he was done, she signed Sir Richard with her eyes to follow her
outside.
"He will soon be well, Richard," she said, taking the young knight's
hand. "And now, boy, you are free--and happy, too, I make no doubt.
Ah! What hosts of enemies have my sharp tongue made for me! But I'll
curb it now, Richard--I've found its master," she added, laughing
lightly, and thereupon went tripping through the cabin door.
CHAPTER XXI
OF HOW SIR RICHARD LISTENED TO A STORY IN THE FOREST
When Sir Richard came again into the outer hut Tyrrell was setting a
pot to boil upon the fire. As he bent above the red blaze, dropping
pinches of various herbs within the kettle the while he peered closely,
from time to time, into the open pages of a book lying beside him upon
a stool, he minded the young knight of a black wizard, engaged in
weaving some unholy incantation.
"Bear me company over the hills, Sir Richard," he said presently,
setting the now steaming pot upon the ground. "We must procure us
another herb to complete the nostrum. I' faith, and what a smell is
here!" he added, taking up a staff and starting, lame and halting, for
the door. "But 'tis as efficacious to the body, withal, as the odor is
displeasing to the nostrils."
Sir Richard noted Tyrrell's strange demeanor as they moved slowly from
hillock to hillock. When his keen eyes were not bent upon the earth,
they would be regarding him with an intent and somewhat of an inquiring
glance.
Times he would kick aside a plant, stoop with a painful deliberation,
and convey a fragment of its root or leaf to his lips. If it happened
to be of the kind of which he was in search, he would unearth it with
the point of his mailed foot and continue upon his way. Though by now
he was carrying a considerable quantity of the herbs, he was making no
move to return. Several times he appeared upon the point of speaking,
but always his glance would fall swiftly from that of his companion
and engage the ground at his feet. In this silent manner they drew, at
length, within the shadows of the wood.
"A strange foreboding of some direful happening doth rest heavily upon
my mind," he said then. "Our grasp on life is indeed a slender thing,
and easily broken. Mayhap 'twould be the better part of wisdom to say
some things to thee here ... and now." He paused, measuring the young
knight carefully with his eye.
"Dost know, Sir Richard," he said then, after somewhat of an impulsive
manner, as he went stirring about with his staff among the fallen
leaves, "that in history I shall ever be written down as a base and
cowardly murderer? Thou hast belike heard the dismal story of the boy
princes in the Tower?"
"In very truth, I have," Sir Richard made answer.
"'Tis known of the whole world, I doubt not," he gloomily pursued. "And
yet ... and yet, I was but plotting ... plotting deeply, daringly ...
to save their precious lives. Hark ye, Sir Richard ... and mark thee
well that which I am about to say. An it were not for a fiendish knave,
called Forrest,--upon whom God's direst curse rest!--they had been both
saved to England.
"Forrest, learning of the command laid upon me by King Richard foully
to murder both his nephews whilst they did sleep, procured quittance
of the keys from Brakenbury and smothered the younger prince before
I rushed, with Dighton, my groom, into the Tower room. Commanding my
faithful servant to put pillow lightly above the mouth of the living
prince, the Duke of York, I bade Forrest instantly to carry tidings of
their death to the bloodless rooting hog, who was gnawing his nails and
awaiting news in the palace. With Forrest safe dispatched to the King,
we hastily garbed the prince in kirtles, thus giving him the semblance
of a young maid. My men were waiting by the side of the Tower gate ...
they brought him safe to Scotland."
"But----"
"Nay ... prithee, listen!" he said, seating himself upon a
lightning-riven log, whilst Sir Richard took stand against its
splintered, upright trunk. "The royal youth was fair-haired, pale and
sickly. All my cunning arts were impotent to stay the implacable hand
of death. Thus, Sir Knight, did the young Duke pass into oblivion ...
beneath my very roof, and here in bleak Scotland. I durst not even
acclaim his passing; but laid him, then, within an unmarked, though not
an unmourned, grave. Slowly, stealthily, but surely, I had been massing
a power behind him that would have swept him straight upon England's
throne. Upon either coast, Sir Richard, this power is still augmenting.
Ships speed me soldiers from France and Spain upon the east, and from
Holland and Italy upon the west." He paused for a space, then,--"Dost
find my tale interesting?" he asked.
"Above any I have ever heard," Sir Richard told him.
"And what wouldst thou say," he resumed, raising his hand impressively,
"an I swore to thee that I had found a brave-hearted and goodly youth
whose right to a seat upon the throne of England took precedence over
that of the usurper now sitting there? A tyrant ... who gave warrant
of death into the hands of his God-brother, and laid command upon
him to deliver it upon that brother's executioner ... what wouldst
thou say--Sir Richard Rohan, Earl of Warwick, son of Edward, Duke of
Clarence?"
Sir Richard felt as though the meshes of a far-spread net were dropping
down about him.
"I cannot say.... Even I cannot think!" he cried, burying his face in
his arms.
"Thou art but a brave-hearted, artless youth, Sir Richard ... Sire.
Enough hast thou heard to-day to turn the head of Cæsar. Think upon
what I have said ... upon what I have yet to say ... and make answer
at thy calmer leisure," said Tyrrell in a manner of voice dignified,
pacific, kind. Then, reaching across, he grasped the young knight's arm
and drew him to a seat beside him upon the fallen log.
"Once Lord Douglas," he then resumed, "was sworn ally of mine; but a
craven traitor, whom we now know to be the Renegade Duke of Buckingham,
carried tidings of the prince's death and my untoward interest in thy
welfare into Castle Yewe. Twice since thy coming have the Douglas
forces given me battle.... And yet, without the warrants, he cannot be
acquainted with thy true identity ... 'tis passing----"
"But I had duplicates of the warrants," Sir Richard said to him; "the
which you may be sure I made haste to deliver."
"Duplicates!"
"Sewn within my doublet--they were passed over in thy search."
"God in Heaven absolve me for this inadvertence!" roared Tyrrell,
getting to his feet, and, in seeming forgetfulness of his infirmities,
strode furiously back and forth above the brown and crackling leaves.
"Much, indeed, is now made plain to me. Yet ... after losing his
hold of him," he went on, communing with himself, "why did Douglas so
stoutly maintain his position ... there remains no other claimant ...
'tis passing strange--passing strange!"
For some time thereafter he continued setting restless footfalls amidst
the carpet of dead leaves, clenching his hands and biting his thin lips.
Upon a sudden Sir Richard recalled the circumstance of the fair-haired
youth imprisoned in Castle Yewe.
"Mayhap I can lesson thee of some things, Sir James," he volunteered.
"Then thou wilt discover in me a right willing listener," said Tyrrell,
seating himself again upon the riven log.
So, briefly as might be, and clearly as he could compass it, Sir
Richard related the story of the secret passageway and of Lady Douglas'
daily teaching of the imprisoned youth.
"Ah! what monstrous iniquity!" Tyrrell cried when his companion had
finished, thrusting his staff deep into the black mould. "Now is
everything made transparent ... as plain as the haps of yesterday! So
false Douglas would impose him a counterfeit prince upon the credulous
people of England? Marry! marry! to what depths of dishonor doth self
ambition lead us! But what saidst thou was this youth's name, Sir
Richard?"
"Perkin Warbeck."
"I' faith I know it not. Some yeoman's son, forsooth. Poor boy! an he
follow this adventure to its end, he'll be gazing upon his body from
another view-point than atop his shoulders. But more upon this same
subject when we are come into the Tavern. Let all of that which has
been said to thee to-day assimilate perfectly with thy understanding.
Papers shall be laid before thee in substantiation of all my
statements."
Stooping, Tyrrell took up the herbs which he had gathered by the way.
"Let us now return and finish the brewing of good de Claverlok's
nostrum," he said.
CHAPTER XXII
OF HOW ONCE MORE THE YOUNG KNIGHT JOURNEYED SOUTHWARD
Tyrrell appeared singularly nervous and distraught; and, after
having finished with the brewing of the nostrum, was for setting out
immediately upon his journey with Sir Richard to the tavern. But
the young knight remained firm in his determination not to leave de
Claverlok till he was well assured of his ultimate recovery. His great,
sinewy frame had been sore racked with fever, Tyrrell told him, and it
would be many weeks ere de Claverlok could be expected to regain his
usual health.
It was late in the evening when the foot-boy, Harold, returned from
Bannockburn with a doctor. This good man was a fat, bulbous-faced
person, wearing a flamboyant badge in the shape of an enormous wart
directly upon the tip of his nose. He arrived with a tremendous fuss
and bustle, wheezing so that he was to be heard in every corner of the
place. He subsided upon the instant, however, when he learned that he
was expected to consult with a student of the eminent Linacre.
Soon he came out to take sup with Tyrrell and Sir Richard in their
little hut. When the young knight made haste to inquire as to what case
his friend was in:
"It doth mightily please me," answered the fat doctor from Bannockburn,
"to agree with his worshipful lordship inside ... ahem! I may e'en
say that mine own opinions were exactly one with his ... and him, sir
knight, a celebrated student and co-worker with the famous Thomas
Linacre, of London; who, as thou dost probably know, doth entertain
many a cunning precept somewhat at variance from the accepted standards
of the older ... and ... well--schools ... ahem! Yet did his worshipful
lordship do me the distinguished honor to inform me that my humble ...
er ... prognosis was infinitely similar, if not somewhat superior,
withal,--an thou'lt permit me to say thus--to that which would have
been arrived upon by a great many ... er ... practitioners and chymists
of ... ahem! ... London."
"Gramercy for thy learned opinion," said Sir Richard winking above the
doctor's bald head at the foot-boys. "So! thou'rt of opinion that the
good knight will surely recover?"
"Ah! assuredly will he. Though in cases of this kind, where the ...
ahem!--alimentary passages have become somewhat flabby ... yes ...
flabby, I may say, from long disuse (Sir Richard thought of all his
scourings over the hills for goats-milk, goodies, and wine!)--there may
follow, anon, a more or less ... ahem!--more or less, I say, violent
inflammation of the ... er ... esophagus; which, if not immediately
allayed--but, by the mass, and what a delicious odor is that!"
Harold, just then, had happily uncovered the simmering kettle.
"Yes," said Sir Richard, "art hungry, good doctor?"
"In sooth, an I be not, sir knight, thou mayst call me a fustian
shove-groat shilling! marry! marry! and were not such a ride as I've
had to-day full fatiguing to a gentleman of my avoirdupois?"
Well, after contemplating the widespread devastation which the amiable
doctor wrought upon the viands set before him, right willingly would
anyone have yielded to him the palm of gluttony--though it must be
said of Sir Richard that his own appetite was something not below the
average. And how the man could drink, too! It seemed to Sir Richard
that he would never have done with pouring their hard-fetched wine into
his gullet. He might appropriately have been girded with iron hoops and
set aside as a filled hogshead when the last drop trickled within his
vast interior. A flabby esophagus could never have been attributed to
the good doctor, withal.
But he warmed up famously under the wine's genial influence, and
regaled his hosts throughout the evening with many a merry tale. Sir
Richard misliked him not at all; and, before the good doctor set up his
thunderous snoring before the pleasing warmth of the blaze, the young
knight had secured his promise to remain with de Claverlok till he was
safe on the road to health. It may be said further, too, that he was a
gainer of the half of Sir Richard's remaining nobles because of the
bargain.
The young knight passed a sleepless night, interspersed with fanciful
dreams wrought around the circumstance of his new-discovered ancestry.
He seemed to be always alone and lonely, sitting upon a lofty eminence,
with a ray of dazzling white light, ever broadening, sweeping from
where he sat into illimitable space. The vast area thus brilliantly
illumined ever seemed peopled with a countless multitude of kneeling
beings; reminding him of the glimmering sun of evening lying softly
upon the woolly backs of innumerable sheep.
It chanced that Sir Richard was the last member of their little
company to be abroad the next morning, and when he came out into the
sunshine Harold and Thomas, who had been whispering together, dropped
in concert to their knees. Then Sir James Tyrrell, now more than ever
bent and gray looking, drew toward him, limping around the corner
of the sick knight's hut. He bowed to Sir Richard after a grave and
courtly fashion, and, when the young knight extended his hand, saluted
it deferentially with his lips. Not anyone could have been more abject
in his obsequiousness than the fat doctor from Bannockburn. He begged
Sir Richard but to lay some command upon him so that he might give
proof of his devotion to his cause and person. To the young knight it
seemed to be the beginning of the fulfillment of his visions. Only
good de Claverlok and unconquerable Isabel remained the same; the
which resulted in Sir Richard deriving the greater pleasure from their
companionship.
All of the while it was to be remarked that shrewd Tyrrell's eyes bent
close upon Sir Richard's every action. By reaching out to him a taste
of sovereignty, he felt that he was tempting him to desire it in a
greater portion.
Sir Richard divined that it was to be a silent duel between them;
and he was bound to confess to himself that he was already becoming
conscious of the tightening of the net about him. He was becoming
fearful that the master politician might win.
It was like a transitory release from the clutch of an unseen, iron
hand to get within the larger hut and enjoy a talk with de Claverlok
and Isabel. Though still pitifully weak, it was clearly to be seen
that Sir Richard's faithful friend and squire was now leaving his
illness behind him.
"Think well and deeply, boy, before deciding upon thy course," he
advised Sir Richard when he arose to take leave of him. "'Tis no small
thing to hurl a great power at a sleeping, peaceful nation; thereby
to embroil it in bloody strife and dissensions ... eh. But, once thy
path be laid, follow it without halt or deviation to the end. Thus let
me say," he added, taking the young knight's hand, "'twill be a right
brave day for England when thy consent be won to sit upon her throne."
"But, whatever I do, de Claverlok, and whereever I go," Sir Richard
said, "your own good self shall sure be with me."
"Within this very hovel, Sir Richard, we will await thy further
command," he replied.
"Sir Richard!" Isabel called to the young knight as he was about to
step to the door. "Take this bit packet," she said, handing him the
smallest of parcels. "Guard it next thy heart till thou hast reached
into the Forest of Lammermuir--then, thou mayst open it. But remember,
boy, not before! And now," she added, standing a-tiptoe, "I'll kiss
thee a good-bye ... one for myself--one for Lionel. Thou art a brave,
good youth, Sir Richard."
There were tears in the young knight's eyes when he stepped outside the
hut ready to start with Tyrrell, who was on horse and waiting, upon
their journey.
Sir Richard was surprised to discover that Harold's jennet was trapped
and standing beside his saddled stallion. When he inquired what it
meant, the foot-boy went on his knees before him and besought the young
knight to permit him to become his lowly squire. When Sir Richard
inquired of him what Thomas intended doing, the foot-boy informed him
that his mate had sought a like service with de Claverlok.
"Then get off your knees," Sir Richard told him, "and come along; or,
by the mass! I'll have the broad of my sword this moment at your hinder
quarters."
Whereupon they mounted and started for the road. Sir Richard looked
several times over his shoulder-piece; and always his backward glance
would be met by a waving of Isabel's lace scarf in the doorway, and
two profound bows from in front of the smaller hut. 'Twas a sight well
worth seeing--that awkward curtsy of the fat doctor from Bannockburn.
They were perforce obliged to travel slowly, as Tyrrell's infirmities
seemed fast growing upon him. From the drawn and haggard look of his
thin countenance it could plainly be seen that he was in constant and
extreme pain. Moreover, Sir Richard noted that by now he had ceased
attributing his sufferings to the tortures to which he had been put
in Castle Yewe. Times he would be seized with a fit of coughing of so
violent a nature that Sir Richard bethought him it might well have
shattered his very insides.
Then, for the space of two days, a most unpleasant transition of
weathers set in upon them, marked by incessant and dense fogs, heavy
rains and sharp, driving flurries of snow. So alarmingly was Tyrrell's
sickness increasing that upon the morning of the fourth day, it
appeared impossible that he would have sufficient strength longer
to sit horse. Sir Richard begged him to stay within the herdsman's
cottage, where they had stopped for the night, till he had ridden
ahead to summon help. But Tyrrell stubbornly refused to listen to the
young knight's entreaties.
That day had broken bright, was almost balmy, and brilliantly clear,
the gray storm-pall having rolled seaward during the night.
"'Twill be a salve to my sore lungs, sire ... this blessed warmth,"
Tyrrell said to Sir Richard, lifting his nose into the thin air as he
tottered upon the young knight's arm toward his waiting barb.
With Harold's assistance Sir Richard contrived to seat Tyrrell upon
his horse; though it was no easy task, all encumbered as he was in the
heaviest of armor.
"Put hand upon my shoulder, man," Sir Richard said to him after they
had started, riding close to his side.
"Without aid have I come through life ... alone I'll sit till I fall
... sire," Tyrrell answered gloomily.
"An you call me king rightfully," said Sir Richard sternly, "put hand
on my shoulder ... 'tis a command!"
Tyrrell turned upon the young knight a wan smile and then capitulated.
"Now thou art becoming an apt pupil ... sire," he answered in a whisper.
By now they were riding along a part of the Sauchieburn Pass with
which Sir Richard was not familiar. It was that portion stretching
northward from the point where he had left it to give battle with the
Renegade Duke. The country here was more thickly populated than any
through which they had passed. Drawing upon a high eminence, the three
travelers could see the smoke from many chimney-tops curling above the
downs. Away to the left was a cluster of cottages, surmounted by the
steeple of a church. A good two leagues ahead could be distinguished
that which appeared to be an inn standing alone against the roadside.
Like a yellow and much broken ribbon the highway fell away from their
feet, threading in wide, sweeping curves along the narrow, winding
valley. Upon this roadway, and appearing and disappearing with it
around the bases of the hills, a company of armed horsemen was riding.
For some time the weight of Tyrrell's body had been bearing momentarily
more heavily against that of Sir Richard. It could be noted that his
eyes had lost a great measure of their accustomed brilliancy, and that
his breaths were coming thick and painfully labored. Sir Richard leaned
toward him and told him of the approaching horsemen.
"Canst decipher the colors beneath which they ride?" Tyrrell asked
weakly.
"Methinks I can but just make me out a device in sable upon a field
gules. The banners do so flutter in the wind," Sir Richard added, "that
I cannot guess its form."
"Sable upon gules," Tyrrell whispered, without raising his head. "They
are thine own good men ... sire."
As they drew within easy distance Sir Richard recognized them to be a
part of the company of knights who had bivouaced around the pavilion of
purple and black. When the approaching company made out who the three
horsemen were they set up a great shouting, driving down upon them with
waving swords and lances. They grew quiet upon the instant, however,
when they observed that their leader, Sir James Tyrrell, lifted not his
head, and bore in around him with grave and apprehensive faces.
Suddenly, then, and with a supreme effort of will, Tyrrell straightened
his tall, gaunt form upon his saddle, scowling meanwhile with
deep-knitted brows upon the circle of grim warriors gathered about him.
Sir Richard noted still the pitiful half-haze upon his eyes.
"Knights," he cried, in a deep and penetrating voice; "I have kept my
vows to thee. Here, now, I bring thee thy leader--Sir Richard Rohan,
Earl of Warwick; Son of Edward, Duke of Clarence"--he swayed so it
seemed that he must surely fall. Then, raising himself with that which
seemed to be a superhuman effort high upon his stirrups: "I acclaim
this young knight, before all the world, _King Richard IV_!" he
shouted, and pitched forward, inert, insensible, into the arms of one
of his men.
Right tenderly did they bear him down the hill till they came to the
tavern which Sir Richard had glimpsed from the promontory but a short
while gone.
"'Tis an inflammation of the pleura," he whispered to Sir Richard when
the young knight was standing beside his bed within a small room of
the tavern. "'Tis a dangerous sickness ... God wot, an I may or may
not survive, sire, to witness the fruition of all my labors. But the
torch is now ready trimmed, awaiting but the application of the spark.
Grant me the boon of thy promise to continue on thy journey to the Red
Tavern. Lord Bishop Kennedy shall soon seek thee there. In him thou
canst repose the utmost confidence; I yield thee into his hands. Give
thee adieu, sire," he whispered, saluting Sir Richard's outstretched
hand with his feverish lips.
The dim passageway outside the small room in which Tyrrell had been
disposed was filled with the low humming of voices, a subdued sound of
clanking swords and the pale gleamings of points of light on polished
armor. As Sir Richard stepped through the door, these solemn-visaged
knights moved silently against the wall and balustrade, thus opening
him an avenue down the stairs. They made him obeisance, one by one, as
he passed between; each whispering him a princely name and title, the
which sang loud in the young knight's ears of the fame of many valorous
deeds long since set down in history.
A round dozen of them followed him upon the highway, intending to give
him safe conduct to his destination. Experiencing an intense longing
to be alone, however, Sir Richard summoned courage to decline their
proffered services, and thereupon set his stallion's head again toward
the Red Tavern with none but Harold in his train.
CHAPTER XXIII
OF A VISION IN THE FOREST OF LAMMERMUIR
Now that he was no longer moving under the masterful influence of
Tyrrell, Sir Richard began to feel brave to throw aside the honors
that had been peremptorily thrust upon him. After the manner of an
ill-wrought suit of armor, they were galling and wearing upon his
unwilling shoulders.
Being innately modest and not desiring fame or power, Sir Richard
had always shirked positions in which any obligation of assuming the
initiative was concerned; and certainly now he felt no desire to leap
at once to the very pinnacle of such positions. Contrariwise, he felt a
deep and genuine yearning to be once again, to himself and those about
him, just plain Sir Richard Rohan, knight, free lance, and good fellow
welcome met to all of his friends. He was moved by no impulse to seek
revenge upon King Henry. "For," he argued with himself, "the King
did but attempt to do the thing which I, were I in his place, would
have been deficient of the courage to do; to render my sovereignty
unassailable. An such a momentous matter be at stake, of what slight
consequence becomes a life more, or a life less? and if, forsooth, it
chanced to be the life of a friend ... well, so much the worse for the
friend."
It never dawned upon Sir Richard in his youthful exuberance to consider
that there were two questions involved: the one of claiming the throne,
and the other of securing a seat thereon. His belief was genuine that
the fate of a great empire was suspended upon the slender thread of his
choice.
As to his breaking faith with Tyrrell and stealing away without first
journeying to the Red Tavern, he did not consider that for a moment.
Overburdened with a sense of the grave responsibility thus imposed
upon him, he rode straight through the Forest of Lammermuir without
once thinking to open the parcel that Isabel had given into his hand.
Had this not been so, Sir Richard would doubtless have suspected
a circumstance that was soon to burst upon him in the nature of a
wonderful surprise.
The Red Tavern, which, upon each previous occasion when Sir Richard
had approached it, had appeared so forbiddingly lonely, was now become
a veritable hive of buzzing industry. It was early evening when the
young knight arrived there; and, in the obscure twilight, he could just
make out the shadowy outlines of many horses tethered to the trees upon
both sides of the pass. Scores of blazing, smoking torches set upright
into the ground shed a weird illumination over this scene of strange
activity.
Guards were stationed closely round about. "Richard Rohan, knight
... and squire," the young knight passed word to a pair of them who
halted and challenged him. Plainly he could hear, then, his name passed
swiftly forward from lip to lip. When he rode within the circle of
yellow light and dismounted before the door above which swung the sign
of the vulture, his coming was greeted by an uproarious cheering, in
the midst of which he could distinguish loud cries of "_Long live King
Richard IV!_"
Lord Bishop Kennedy was even then awaiting the young knight's arrival,
welcoming him after a courteous, formal and dignified fashion. The Lord
Bishop laid command upon one of his lieutenants; after which, in almost
the flutter of an eyelid, the noise of talking hushed, the lighted
torches vanished, and, when the dwindling sound of hoofbeats had died
away, the tavern resumed its wonted somber and solitary aspect.
Zenas spread table in the cozy warmth of the chimney-side, where Bishop
Kennedy and Sir Richard took sup and drink together. Since his first
sight of the tavern the young knight had invested it within his mind
with an atmosphere of dark lugubriousness; thus was his surprise all
the more great when, upon Zenas clearing table, the dessert was borne
in by a silvery-haired woman of a most refined and motherly air, whom
Lord Kennedy introduced as grandam Sutherland.
"It doth astonish me," said Lord Kennedy, when she had gone from the
room, "how the good grandam hath preserved her sweetness of temper
throughout all these years of turmoil and dangers. It was the saddest
of haps to her when the young prince died--she was like the gentlest
of mothers to him withal."
"And the young maiden must e'en have been a sore burdensome care," Sir
Richard suggested.
"Why," quoth Lord Kennedy, "she, sire, is the most noble, amiable, and
pretty-mannered of all young maidens I have ever known."
It was the first scintilla of emotion Sir Richard had observed
displayed by Bishop Kennedy. His championship certainly appeared
genuine. The young knight gathered that the goodman was not
particularly well acquainted with her volatile tempers. He bethought
him also that it would ill become him to speak belittlingly of one who,
by now, was doubtless become his dearest friend's wife. He made shift,
therefore, to take up another subject, and one that for long had been a
sore weight upon his mind.
"My lord," said he; "an thou wouldst consent to enlighten my
understanding of the mysteries surrounding this tavern wherein we sit,
I would consider it right kind of thee."
"In respect of what, sire?" he asked, between sippings of his wine.
"An it be not a fantasy," said Sir Richard, "when I first tarried
beneath its roof it was surely three days' journey removed from where
it now stands."
Bishop Kennedy answered not by word of mouth, but, clapping together
his hands, summoned Zenas and bade him to fetch them a lighted torch.
Then, leading the way through the rear door, he depressed the blazing
rush-light till it revealed a great hole in that which had appeared to
be a solid foundation of stone. Its rays discovered to Sir Richard a
pair of broad and heavy wheels set firmly beneath the tavern sill.
"Let these clear away that mystery, sire," Kennedy said. "There are
seven more similarly disposed beneath the building, which is parlous
lightly set up. By the dual aid of long, dark nights, and a multitude
of tugging horses, the Red Tavern became soon a weird and haunted
thing; moving magically from place to place, discussed in lowered
whispers by the yeomanry, and shunned by passing wayfarers. Thus, not
alone was the lamented prince afforded a safe asylum, comparatively
free from the dangers of discovery, but we were provided as well with a
meeting place for the captains of our gathering hosts. It has served
right happily its purpose, sire; and I would that my life had been as
useful to those about me. Now its work is done. Eftsoons its blazing
timbers shall proclaim a new light to a tyrant-darkened people."
After that he took his leave to join the army, which was stationed some
nine miles to the eastward upon the shores of the sea.
By now the moon, a pallid disc, was sailing high in the greenish-blue
heavens. Feeling the need of an hour or two of solitude wherein to
meditate upon the wonders by which Sir Richard discovered himself to be
surrounded, and, if possible, to reconcile his vacillating mind with
the new complexion which the face of the world had turned upon him,
he gathered his cloak about his shoulders and walked alone into the
forest. Once there, he laid himself down upon the soft, dry carpet of
pine needles, and resigned his thoughts to the ineffable delights of
fantastical castle-building.
How long Sir Richard lay thus, with his face upturned to the sky, he
had no means of knowing. It seemed that his eyes began playing a kind
of game with the interwoven branches of the trees and the moon. Then
he fell into a sort of doze, where everything withdrew into a haze of
oblivion till the moment he became suddenly conscious that his ears
were being ravished by the strains of a charming melody. For quite a
space he remained like one dreaming; passively drinking in each sweet,
pure and quivering note. He was dimly aware that this same glorious
voice had been for days and days singing its wonderful song of love to
him.
Then, like a flashing of intense light, it came upon Sir Richard that
this was the voice which he had heard steal out upon the night at the
moment when Tyrrell, Zenas, and he were burying the dead hound.
Cautiously getting to his feet, and dodging warily from tree to tree,
he made his way in the direction whence the voice seemed to be coming.
As he ever after regarded it, all of the adventures through which
he had passed, and which are here set down, were but the prelude to
the vision of fair loveliness which suddenly presented itself to his
dazzled eyes.
With her arm linked within that of the silvery-haired old lady, she
was walking slowly along the forest road, her head uplifted in song. It
seemed to Sir Richard that the soft moonlight enveloped her lovingly,
imparting to her wondrous beauty an essence of unreality. The golden
nimbus encompassing her head added immeasurably to the impression that
he was but gazing upon an ephemeral picture,--fairy-painted--the which
must become soon a floating radiance above the roadway and then blend
insensibly with the air before his captive eyes.
Silently the young knight stood there, with the better part of him
going out to vie with the silvery moonbeams in tenderly caressing her.
That grosser portion of him stationed beneath the tree remained, as
though hewn in stone and clutching deep into the rough bark, till the
maiden turned to retrace her way into the tavern. When she had gone he
rushed madly back, stealing furtively to the rear of the building, and
tremblingly tore open the covering of Isabel's packet.
In it was the cutting of saffron velvet.
Then, impatiently biding his time till they should again draw nigh, he
sauntered around the corner of the building with his gaze fastened
upon the moon. He could have made oath that he saw, first, a dozen of
them, and then none at all.
"Give thee a fair good-night, dame Sutherland," Sir Richard said in an
agitated voice, "art thou, too, enjoying the moon?"
The grandam dropped him a pretty curtsy, the while the other stood with
drooping and averted head.
"Thank thee much, sire; I am," the old lady gave him answer.
"'Tis a bonnie night, i' faith."
"Yes, sire, 'tis," curtsying again.
"And the moon--'tis extraordinary bright?"
"Yes, sire, 'tis," curtsying once more.
"I trust the ... young lady--may not suffer an indisposition from the
dank airs?"
"We have grown accustomed, sire," with another curtsy.
Sir Richard noted for the first time that the aged grandam's head, as
well as that of her beautiful young companion, was uncovered.
"Yet ... 'tis parlous dank," said he, edging between them and the door.
"I have the honor to present to thy august notice, sire, my beloved
granddaughter--Rocelia Tyrrell," dame Sutherland yielded.
Sir Richard knew not what he answered. He took her hand, he remembered
afterward, turned instantly light-headed, and made out to salute it
rather awkwardly with his lips.
When the young knight came to himself he was intently watching the door
through which Rocelia had disappeared.
"I wonder whether her robe was of a color saffron?" he kept mentally
repeating over and over again.
CHAPTER XXIV
OF HOW SIR RICHARD PLAYED THE KING IN HIS LITTLE KINGDOM
Sir Richard broke his fast in the main room below, sitting by the
fire in the broad chimney. He concluded that the chamber to which he
had been assigned upon the first night of his visit to the Red Tavern
was now surrendered to the uses of the ladies; it being the only one,
so far as he could see, that could boast of a coating of mortar. The
walls of the remaining rooms abounded in cracks and crannies, the
which admitted the chill blasts in discomforting volumes. To the
weary young knight, the roaring blaze by the table's side was a most
agreeable accompaniment to a very excellent repast. Often afterward
it recurred to Sir Richard that he ate during that day because of an
habitual predilection to line his inwards. In solemn truth, however,
the wine set before him seemed without hint of zest or bouquet, and
the toothsome viands provided by Zenas might as well have been so much
sawdust for all the taste that Sir Richard got out of them withal.
With the sun drawing toward the zenith, the earth warmed into a
semblance of balminess, and the young knight loitered about outside
in the hope that Rocelia would walk out presently to take the air. It
entered Sir Richard's whirling head that the hunchback had divined
the cause of his excessive restlessness; the which the impetuous
young knight resented by soundly tongue-lashing the fellow. He scarce
answered Sir Richard a word, but received his acrimonious outburst with
queer leers, and winks, and knowing smiles. The young knight was fair
tempted to take the flat of his sword to him.
"I fear me much that Isabel has soured thy accustomed sweet temper ...
sire," Zenas said, with an intonation that was unmistakably satirical.
The young knight noted that this was the first occasion upon which the
crook-back had actually avowed him sovereign.
"Ah! and right willingly would I play the king," Sir Richard thought,
"an I could but wield empire over one dear subject. And why not,
forsooth?" his ruminations carried him along. "By'r Lady! who's to
prevent me from asserting my sovereignty by commanding this young woman
to be summoned into my presence?"
It was as Sir Richard was striding toward the tavern door to carry out
his mad project that he glimpsed Rocelia through an upper window. She
looked out upon him, inclining her head and smiling. Deferentially Sir
Richard doffed his helm, his courage vanishing from him like rime on a
mid-August day. The young knight noted that she was wearing a gown of
saffron velvet.
Then, quickly entering the tavern, Sir Richard commanded Zenas to fetch
him ink, paper and a quill. "Henceforth," said he to himself, "I'll
surely play the king; and here shall be my kingdom." But he made up his
mind to temper his rule in the meantime with somewhat of diplomacy and
cunning.
"Summon Harold hither," said he to the hunchback; "I'll have speech of
him."
Directing the note which he then wrote jointly to dame Sutherland and
Rocelia, he gave it into the foot-boy's hands and bade him to deliver
it at their door. Then, going outside, he directed the groom to trap
his stallion; whereupon he started swiftly northward along the forest
road. Glancing backward as he swept around the point of the brae, Sir
Richard was pleased to discover both of the ladies at the window waving
him their adieux.
It was well along in the afternoon when the young knight arrived at
the inn where Tyrrell was lying. Stretching east and west from the
little building were long, double lines of white tents. The inn-keeper
had established him a tap-room in the stable, the which was crowded
with boisterous, brawling soldiers. It reminded Sir Richard of another
Babel, so varied were their manners of speech.
Within the tavern, however, all was orderly and quiet, with a strong
reek of medicines in every corner. For long the young knight seated
himself by Tyrrell's bed, the while Sir James stormed and raved in a
frightful delirium of fever; cursing King Richard III.; describing the
horrible tortures to which his brother had been put; condemning Henry
for a base usurper, and railing against Douglas and his traitorous
defection. It must have been a full hour before his mind merged into
a brief period of calm sanity. Coolly then he counted the pulsings of
his heart, whereupon he told the young knight that he was sore feeble.
"'Twill be a week at least," he said, "ere the fever shall have run
its course. If I am alive after that, perchance I might come safely
through." He looked at the young knight askance when Sir Richard spoke
to him of Rocelia, but gave him a word of cheer to deliver to her. The
young knight remained by Tyrrell's side till again the fever gripped
him; then took his way downstairs, bestrode his stallion, and clipped
it along the pass toward his little kingdom.
They must have been harkening eagerly for his coming, for Sir Richard
found the women both awaiting him in the main room.
"How noble it is of thee, sire," said Rocelia sweetly, when Sir Richard
had repeated her father's message, "to bethink thee of our grave
anxiety. How can we ever requite thee?" Whereupon she cast upon Sir
Richard a shy glance that repaid him upon that instant an hundred fold.
The which, however, did not prevent the young knight from saying: "By
bearing me company at table, dear Rocelia. I have been dooms lonely
these two days gone."
Sir Richard noted that Rocelia looked appealingly toward her grandam;
and, by the same token, so did the young knight. But not appealingly,
withal. He was not unmindful at that moment that he was indeed playing
the king.
Sir Richard never afterward forgot that meal in the vague, warm light
of the chimney-corner; with Rocelia, in a rose-glow of maidenly
confusion, seated where he could feast his eyes upon the delicate
transitions of expression upon her beautiful countenance. She was
garbed in the robe a cutting of which was even then resting against his
much disturbed heart, though the young knight lacked the resolution
to tell her so. Perhaps she knew it though, he thought. Whereupon he
became quite intoxicated with the knowledge that there existed between
them a bond of secret understanding. They talked, God knows of what, he
never knew. The dame had fallen into a doze upon one of the high-backed
benches, for which blessing the young knight offered thanks to
Morpheus. It gave them a good hour more together than they should
likely otherwise have had.
Soon after that the good dame snored loudly once or twice and then
awakened suddenly from the noise of it. She rose immediately and begged
permission to retire.
"Dost thou not take the sun and air of the morning?" Sir Richard asked
Rocelia when they were about to leave.
"When the men are not here, and good grandam is not suffering of a
gout," she answered. "I do so enjoy to wander through the forest, sire."
"Then," said Sir Richard, "upon the morrow, wilt suffer me to be thy
escort upon such an excursion?"
There followed then a second triangular duel of the eyes. The result
was similarly happy with the first.
Sir Richard went contented and singing to his bed.
For several glory-filled days thereafter it would be a walk with
Rocelia in the morning through the forest glades; after which the
young knight would ride northward to seek tidings of her father's
condition. Times there were when it seemed impossible that he could
recover. But, on the eighth day, Sir Richard found him wholly rational
and well quit of his fever.
He would soon be upon his feet now, he told the young knight, in a weak
whisper. After that they would set out for Wales, he said, gathering
their forces along the way, and then march down on London. Sir Richard
was in no mind to say him yea or nay; his thoughts being every one upon
Rocelia. When Tyrrell learned of the young knight's daily ride to his
sick-bed he rendered him the heartiest of thanks.
"'Tis indeed seldom, sire," he said, "that an humble servant is
permitted the satisfaction of laboring for a grateful king."
Tyrrell was once again become the shrewd and wily politician.
Sir Richard remembered that all the way homeward (he called it home
within his mind, it being the only place worthy of the name of which he
knew), his heart was singing a merry lay within his breast, because of
the good news he was carrying to Rocelia.
What a joyous evening it was they spent together, sitting at the table
in the chimney-side with Dame Sutherland soundly sleeping upon the
bench! Sir Richard insisted that Rocelia hum over song after song for
him; the which she did, trilling them low and sweet. At length she
struck upon the one for which he had been waiting; the song he had
heard steal out upon that lonely night when he was engaged with Sir
James and Zenas in the task of burying the hound.
When she had finished the last note Sir Richard told her of the weird
circumstances surrounding his first acquaintance with it.
Thereupon, for the first time, the young knight made bold to tell
her that he had ever since that night carried that same song within
his memory--and a certain cutting of saffron velvet next his heart
(forgetting to mention, however, that part of the time when he had worn
it above his eye).
"Ah! sire," said Rocelia, "can it be that it is thou----" and then
she paused with lips all of a quiver, her fair head turned toward the
glowing fire.
"Why!" said Sir Richard, "and did you not know, dear Rocelia, that
since that night I have been avowed champion of yours?"
"Sire----"
"Call me not sire, dear. Name me Richard," the young knight whispered,
trying vainly to imprison her hand. "God wot, an you still wish to
leave, I will bear me away this time the proper maiden!"
"Then ... was it indeed thou," Rocelia whispered, half weeping, half
laughing, "who bore away my cousin Isabel?"
"Did you not know?" said Sir Richard.
"I but knew that she had gone ... with some knight, I thought it was
... and that it had been her choice to go. She was ever unhappy after
we came from London. Oh! sire ... much do I regret that thou hast been
made the target of one of her mad pranks."
"Let me but once hear Richard on your lips, Rocelia," pleaded the young
knight.
"I dare not," said she, with an affrighted glance toward her sleeping
grandam.
"I lay command upon you," said Sir Richard feigning to be stern.
"Well, then ... Richard," said she in the softest of whispers.
Silence for a space.
"It seems," said the young knight then, smiling, "that I have been
victim of every madcap prank and conspiracy in all Scotland. What quip
was this of Isabel's?"
"I should not have known, sire----"
"Richard," the young knight corrected her gently.
"Thou saidst but once ... Richard," she whispered, smiling. "I should
not have known, I say, had it not been for the piece of cloth snipped
out of my robe. I was sleeping when she sent it through the wall."
"And the note--said she something of a note, Rocelia?" Sir Richard
asked.
"No, nothing, sire."
"Then here it is," said he, diving into the leathern pouch hanging at
his baldric and laying the scrap of paper before Rocelia upon the table
top. The while she was reading it Sir Richard got him out the cutting
of velvet.
"And here is the other," he said, laying the crumpled bit of cloth
beside the note, which by now Rocelia had finished reading. "This may
go to feed the blaze," he added with a light laugh, tossing the note
into the fire. "The other ... may I have it now from thy dear hand? I
would renew my knightly vows."
"But thou art now a king ... and may not," she gave Sir Richard answer,
he thought in a tone and manner of sadness and regret. Suddenly she
took it up then and thrust it quickly within the lace at her bosom.
"But I am not a king, Rocelia ... or ever shall be," Sir Richard
protested. "That bit of yellow cloth it was that kept me posting back
and forth above this barren, dreary country. It drew, and held me
willing prisoner here. Now I have lost it. To-morrow I will go."
"But, no!" said she, "how canst thou leave when everything is waiting?
Already hast thou been proclaimed."
"Everything was waiting before I came," he answered. "When I am
gone 'twill be as though Richard Rohan had never been. As to the
proclamation ... 'twas but a thing of empty words. I played the king
here, because thou wert of my kingdom. An I have not thee for subject,
I am no longer monarch. To-morrow, I say, I take my leave of Scotland."
"But, pray you, not to-morrow ... Richard," cried Rocelia aloud,
clutching at the cloth upon the table.
There was a look in her eyes that brought the young man bounding to
his feet. He had meant to gather her within his arms. But he swiftly
interpreted her frightened backward glance in sufficient season to
transform the gesture into a sweeping bow.
Grandam Sutherland had but just awakened, and was blinking at the two
after a confused fashion. She had been aroused by Rocelia's cry.
"God's mercy upon us!" exclaimed the old lady; "it must be near upon
the stroke of eleven?"
"An the weather hold, we'll walk to-morrow morning?" said Sir Richard,
taking Rocelia's hand.
"To-morrow morning, sire," she answered, softly pressing his fingers.
The young knight slept no wink that night because of the tender caress.
CHAPTER XXV
OF THE END OF THE RED TAVERN AND ITS FITTING EPITAPH
A score of times during the next morning Sir Richard berated the
sun for a laggard orb. When he was not stationed in front of his
narrow window gazing out upon the reddening sky, the filmy rags of
undulating mist floating above the moor, and the round summits of the
downs blushing rosily above them, he would be polishing up his gear
and industriously brushing the kinks out of his horse-hair plume. In
lieu of a Venetian glass, he trimmed his beard to a proper point by
reflecting his image against his glittering breast-plate, which he hung
from a nail in the wall beside the window.
Zenas was but just kindling a fire when Sir Richard came down into the
main room, the while the hunchback was cursing roundly at Harold for
refusing to bring in more logs. It was their habit to begin quibbling
the moment they clapt eyes upon each other. Being in the merriest
of tempers, the young knight soon contrived to straighten out their
quarrel, posting the foot-boy, happily whistling, in quest of an
armload of wood. He even succeeded in enticing somewhat of a grin into
the sullen visage of the crook-back.
"An thou canst keep me in this gallant humor, sire," said he, "thou
mayst buy me a garb of motley and call me thy fool. See! this twisted,
gnarled form ... these masque-like features ... and the yellow
fang-teeth, all loose and tottering.... By'r Lady! sire, they were a
right famous complement of the cap and bells, quoth 'a."
"An I am king, good, my Zenas," said Sir Richard, "why, thou shalt even
play the fool."
"An thou be ever a king ... with a proper throne," said he, grinning
and rubbing his hands together, "then I _am_ a fool. These be parlous
undertakings, sire ... parlous, deadly undertakings. An I mistake not,
there'll be a pretty row of poled heads on London Bridge to mark the
end."
The young knight had it on his tongue to tell him that there'd be
no heads lopped off on his behalf, but he thought better of it and
remained silent.
"And the appetite ... the appetite, prithee," Zenas went on croaking,
as Sir Richard sat beside the loaded table, idly dreaming. "'Tis a
right savory pasty, this," said he, cutting through its brown covering.
"I'll have naught of sup now, Zenas," the young knight said. "But keep
it warm ... mayhap later I'll be an hungered."
Downing a goblet of canary, to calm his shaking inwards, the young
knight went outside. Ordering his stallion instantly to be made ready,
he galloped madly then against the face of the rising sun, hoping in
this manner to cool his heated temples.
The light air coming into his nostrils, the swift moving against the
wind, made him soon feel like a puffed giant upon a pigmy land; an
enchanted prince upon a magic road.
Sir Richard must have ridden after this fashion something above two
leagues. Then he came suddenly within sight of the sea, which rolled
vast above him, like a shimmering green curtain hanging pendant from
the sky. Hull down on the vague horizon, he saw a ship that seemed to
be making from the coast.
Upon the beach there remained less than a score of tents to mark the
encampment of an armed host. One after another, as he looked, they were
sinking between the white sand dunes. Black spots, reminding him much
of scurrying sand-crabs, were moving hurriedly in and about them.
The young knight rode down to meet a solitary horseman approaching
along the road. Presently, by the red cross flaming out of a white
tunic, he made out that it was Lord Bishop Kennedy. "Give thee a
good-morrow, sire," the Bishop called out to Sir Richard as they drew
within hailing distance. "Thou art early abroad, I see?"
The young knight returned his salutation and made answer: "Yes."
"Our forces here," pursued Kennedy, as Sir Richard wheeled and rode
beside him, "are now withdrawing for the purpose of massing above the
forest. In a fortnight Sir James will belike be able to sit horse;
whereupon we shall at once begin our march southward. After to-night,
but a pile of charred timbers will remain to tell the tale of the Red
Tavern. And right happy am I withal that the enterprise doth draw
to a point of focus. 'Twill mark the end of intrigue, jealousy, and
treachery; the beginning of war-like action."
Conversing in this wise, they drew, at length, within sight of the
doomed tavern. The young knight glanced upward as he rode toward the
door and saw Rocelia flash away from the window as she observed that
Sir Richard was not riding alone. A wave of ineffable emotion surged
over him as he divined that she had been awaiting his return. It seemed
an age before Harold came to relieve him of his horse.
When he came inside Sir Richard saw that the table was as he had left
it.
"Lord Kennedy will take sup with thee," Zenas told him, smiling
craftily and rubbing his hands together the while.
"I care not to eat," said the young knight. "Where's Lord Kennedy?"
"He begged of thee to yield him but a moment till he had speech of the
ladies, sire."
Wearing a countenance as impassive as that of a graven image, Lord
Kennedy came down presently and said that the maiden was suffering of a
slight indisposition and would not walk with Sir Richard that morning.
There was an appreciable air of constraint about him which revealed to
the young knight instantly that something was gone wrong. He noted,
moreover, Zenas' smile of cunning triumph, and guessed that he had been
the cause thereof.
"I'll have it from her own lips," suddenly declared Sir Richard, his
hand upon the hilt of his blade.
"Sire!"
"Avaunt with thy empty titles!" he cried. "Dost hear me?... I have
said!"
"'Tis impossible," said Lord Kennedy, sternly, albeit his manner was of
the quietest.
"Was that truly her message?" asked Sir Richard.
"It was," said Kennedy, opening him coolly an egg.
"Setting thy bishop's mitre aside," said the young knight quietly, "I
say that thou liest in thy throat, an this be the maiden's answer!"
With a bound, which overturned his chair and brought the litter of the
table-top crashing upon the floor, Lord Kennedy was on his feet, his
naked blade flashing before Sir Richard's eyes.
Kennedy, with the play of blades, was like a child in the hands of the
young knight. There were scarce above a half dozen passes before his
sword went humming through the window, taking glass and sash with it to
the ground.
Sir Richard turned upon hearing a sharp cry in the direction of the
stair door. Rocelia, all white and trembling was framed within its
casements. Thinking alone of her, he started for the steps.
"Sire," Lord Kennedy called to him.
The young knight wheeled. With tunic split from chin to skirt, Bishop
Kennedy was standing in the middle of the floor; grave-faced, ashen,
but wonderfully calm.
"I have turned traitorous sword against my king," he said. "Thou owest
me a death, sire."
"Then I'll remain ever in thy debt," Sir Richard made answer. "'Twas
the fault of my unruly tongue. I ask thy forgiveness, Lord Kennedy.
And now, come, Rocelia," he said to the frightened maiden, "we'll have
earned our walk."
Thereupon he went over to where she was standing, placed her yielding
arm within his and together they walked through the outer door.
"One word with thee, sire," Lord Kennedy called after them when they
had started for the forest.
"Thou meanest fair by that maiden?" he said, when Sir Richard came back
to the door. "She is the bonniest in all Scotland, sire," he added,
with a great sincerity of tone.
"Thou hast spoken truth, Lord Kennedy," the young knight answered,
reaching out his hand. "And, sir, by the cross of this, my sword, I
would liefer have her than any proffered kingdom atop of earth."
"And thou wouldst certes be the gainer," Kennedy answered. "God wot how
this may end, sire," he added, shaking his head. Then, grasping Sir
Richard's hand for a moment, he turned sadly back into the tavern room.
Before setting out upon their walk the young knight summoned Harold to
him and laid injunction upon him to trap his stallion, the jennet, and
a third palfrey for a lady.
"It will be for a long journey, mayhap. Lead them so quickly as may
be," he told him, "along the road where I first came upon you, and
await there my coming."
A little corner within the wood there was which Rocelia and Sir Richard
had come to look upon as all their own. Thither in silence they took
their way. Upon reaching there she sat down upon a log, leaning her
back against a tree; whilst the young knight disposed himself upon the
moss at her feet.
Rocelia's eyes bore plain evidence that she had been weeping. Indeed
she seemed in the most melancholy of moods; and, when Sir Richard made
bold to comfort her, would not suffer him even to take her hand. Then
with many halts and sighs she repeated to him what Bishop Kennedy had
said to her. Which, in effect, was, that it would be wrong for them
to be another time alone together. That Sir Richard, being the lawful
heir to the crown, must have a care of the proprieties, and seek
companionship among those who were his equals. All this and much more
Rocelia told him, bravely, with her soft eyes looking sad into his; her
sweet lips never once faltering from the difficult task imposed upon
them.
"But," said Sir Richard, "did I not swear to you last night, Rocelia,
that I would never be king? I am seeking now, and in you, dear, a
companion through life. Whether you say me yea or nay, 'twill be all
the same. I mean to leave upon this very day. Will you not trust----"
"Ah! Richard," she said, sweetly, "speak not that word. All trust do I
impose in you. It is not that, dear," laying her hand lightly upon his
bared head; "no, 'tis not that. It is that I--I love you too well and
dearly to assist in this sacrifice of your splendid future. No--no! you
must not, Richard ... indeed, you must not. I may never lay lips upon
yours, dear. But, mayhap, you will remember me for a while as a simple
maid who dared to tell you that she loved you; and who, loving you,
surrendered you to her country ... and begged you, prayed you to assert
your rightful position within its boundaries."
"But I cannot, Rocelia," Sir Richard protested. "Got wot an I despise
not the whole vile conspiracy. An you'll not go with me, I'll go alone
... and with a heart fair breaking for love of you. Come!" he pleaded;
"let me bear you away out of this turmoil-ridden land to a place of
safety, and peaceful quiet, and contentment."
"Ah! and how sweet it would all be, my dear," said she, allowing Sir
Richard to take and keep her hand, but keeping him firmly at a distance
withal. "I am so tired of it all. Naught have I known but strife and
danger since I came out of girlhood. But, ah, no! it may never be. 'Tis
your duty, Richard, to claim your own; and mine to prevail upon you not
to abandon it. Never let it be said that my champion was a deserter of
his colors."
"I held faithfully to the saffron color," declared Sir Richard, "and,
i' faith, I'll hold to it still."
She smiled sadly, stroking his hair.
"But these other colors, Richard," said she, "were marked upon your
escutcheon at your birth. You may not desert them."
Sir Richard had been all along looking up into Rocelia's face. He
dropped his head disconsolately when she set him in the light of a
deserter. He never knew what he would have answered. He knew only that
she shrieked suddenly aloud and drew him swiftly close to her bosom.
"For the love of God, dear heart, turn!" she cried. "'Tis Zenas with a
poniard!"
The young knight wheeled in time to see the murderous crook-back
plucking his long blade from the earth, where it had buried itself to
the very hilt under the impetus that was meant to have been expended
upon Sir Richard's body.
In another moment the young knight had grappled with him; and then they
went rolling and threshing over the ground in the throes of a deadly
encounter. "God! what a strength is there in this grossly misshapen
body!" Sir Richard thought, and though he kept tight hold of the
hunchback's knife hand, every moment Sir Richard feared that he would
succeed in turning the blade and driving it home in his neck. So narrow
was the margin between the young knight and death withal, that once the
keen point traveled across his throat and opened a slight scratch.
"You will kill my hound? you damned sword-and-buckler knight!" Zenas
kept hissing in Sir Richard's ear. "You abominable puppet, you would
cheat my good brother of his head to set you on a throne!--you fustian,
lack-linen pretender!--you flap-dragon tippler!--I'll send you whirling
straight to hell, an I get me this poniard home!"
It happened by the merest stroke of fortune that, in their furious
tumbling about, the hunchback's head struck with a great violence
against the log whereupon Rocelia had been sitting. His forbidding form
grew instantly limp and insensible, and the young knight leaped quickly
to his feet. A drop or two of blood was trickling down his breast-plate
from the scratch across his neck.
The moment that Sir Richard was fairly up Rocelia was in his arms, with
her lips laid close upon his. Then, thrusting him impulsively from her,
she tore open her cloak, ripped a quantity of lace from her gown, and
began binding it around his neck.
"You'll not be very much hurt, Richard ... dear Dick?" said she,
kissing him again.
He did not say her too strong a nay (for which he was soon forgiven!),
for Sir Richard discovered that when he but so much as hesitated he
had another kiss.
"Oh, Richard, my love," said Rocelia, "take me away. I understand it
all now--this murderous treachery, this stabbing in the back ... these
fearsome, dark conspiracies! But take me, dear, to that place of rest,
and peace, and sweet contentment. Even now I am ready."
Thus, with his arm clasped tight about her, they sought the road and
their waiting horses. Eftsoons they were on their way, taking the
narrower road to the left, which would lead them the more directly to
the hut where the young knight had left de Claverlok.
It was late that evening when they drew out of the deep forest, far
above and to the northwest of their starting point.
Many leagues behind them, and rising high into the heavens, they could
see a lurid splotch of light, glowing red and yellow in the mystic
darkness.
"'Tis the end of the Red Tavern," said Sir Richard.
"Well," whispered Rocelia, "it brought you to me, dear Richard."
"And to me, sweet Rocelia," said the young knight earnestly, "it
brought you."
"Have I thy permission to speak, Sir Richard?" begged Harold, who was
standing by.
"Certes, you have, my boy," replied Sir Richard.
"Then let me wish that all of thy troubles shall be as the smoke of
it," said Harold earnestly.
"'Tis a fitting epitaph," Rocelia said, her hand stealing within that
of the young knight.
Then, for a little space, they stood there upon the summit of the hill,
watching the glare of the burning tavern fading and dying away.
"Yes ... a most fitting epitaph," Sir Richard made answer. Whereupon
they resumed their journey lightsomely, happily, northward.
CHAPTER XXVI
OF HOW A FLEDGLING DROPPED FROM THE CONSPIRATOR'S NEST
The happy travelers found shelter for that night in the kind herdsman's
cottage where Sir Richard had tarried whilst journeying with Isabel.
The simple folk displayed a quite lively surprise upon observing that
the maid with whom the young knight was now traveling was not the same.
Sir Richard thought that mayhap they imagined that he was engaged upon
the business of depopulating Scotland of her famous beauties. "There is
just cause for such a supposition, i' truth," he added to himself.
"I ken weel," the good man said, a glint of Scot's humor in his eyes,
"that 'e braw English laddies be unco daft. The muckle Auld Hornie be
in 'e all! But 'e hae yin bonnie lassie with 'e, now, sir knight ...
yin muckle cantie jo!" and with that he winked at Sir Richard in a
knowing fashion.
His goodwife, a white-capped dame, busied herself in setting before
them a "gigot" and a "bit kebbuck"; which translated and assimilated
into English leg-o'-mutton and cheese. Bearing well in mind the company
in which it was eaten, it would be a profanation to tell how thoroughly
the young knight enjoyed that meal withal. But it must be confessed as
well that the mulled ale was like a goblet of nectar to his palate.
They passed a long and happy evening, Rocelia and Sir Richard, sitting
by the fire's side beneath the smoke-browned beams of the low-ceilinged
kitchen. Intently she listened, with her soft eyes bent lovingly upon
the young knight, the while he recounted the adventures through which
he had passed. She laughed right heartily when he came to that part
of his tale where he had rescued her cousin Isabel out of the Red
Tavern; and told him how bitterly her uncle Zenas had misliked her
cousin, though all the while standing in somewhat of fear of her sharp
tongue. Rocelia had known of but three, she said, who had ever held
the slightest place within Zenas' morbid affections. Of the three, she
named first the hound, to whose life Sir Richard had put a quietus on
that first night; then her father; and, last, herself. "Revenge and
jealousy, I make no doubt, hath armed the crookback's hand against
thee, dear," she said.
"Richard ... dear Dick," she whispered afterward, when it came to
parting for the night, "since learning of all these base intrigues,
these petty jealousies, these crafty plottings and counter-plottings,
I am no whit sorry to see you leaving them all behind you. I would
rather that my king should sit ever upon a three-legged stool than
upon a velvet-tufted and silken-canopied throne won after these wicked
fashions."
They were out betimes the next morning, albeit the day was none of the
pleasantest; a thick fog having set in from the sea during the night.
As they moved slowly over the downs Sir Richard remarked that the
members of their little party seemed like gray and misty shadows moving
against a pearly cloud.
Before the middle of the day they drew near the little hut where de
Claverlok and Isabel would doubtless be waiting. It was fair blotted
out in the mist, but Sir Richard could make out a vague and shadowy
form sitting desolate upon a huge boulder by the roadside. Upon a
nearer approach he recognized it to be the foot-boy Thomas. When he
caught sight of the approaching company of three he came sliding down
off the boulder, running to the young knight's side and embracing his
greaved leg for very joy.
"Oh, sire!" he hoarsely whispered, "the very devil's to pay back
there," jerking his thumb above his shoulder.
"And now, prithee, what is 't?" asked Sir Richard.
"Came yester morn, sir," he answered, "a great, tall, bearded
knight,--with the two points of his mustachios turned skyward ...
so,--vowing that he'd bear Mistress de Claverlok away with him or kill
everyone in the place. My worshipful master was for having his sword
at him upon the instant (and he, sire, but just able to be out of his
bed). But Mistress de Claverlok bars the door and holds the murderous
knight without. Even I may not be admitted. Hark ye!... I can hear him
cursing even now. Thus does he carry on all the day. Why, sire, he
stuck the good doctor from Bannockburn right in the middle ... here,
sire ... like he were cutting him a cheese. By Saint Peter! but 'tis a
parlous business!"
"Said you his name, Thomas?"
"He called himself the Renegade Duke ... and vowed that he ate sick
knights for breakfast. Mistress Isabel doth mightily strive to keep the
worshipful master indoors. An he could, he would get out, sire, and
have him pinned like the fat doctor from Bannockburn."
"Vowed him he ate sick knights for breakfast, did he?" said Sir Richard
grimly. "Mayhap, then, he'll relish a well one for dessert." Whereupon,
in despite of Rocelia's admonishing cry, the young knight spurred into
the mist toward the hut.
He saw the fellow clambering upon his saddle when he heard Sir Richard
drawing near. The moment that he saw who was riding down upon him, the
craven coward set spurs against his steed and made off at the top of
his bent up the steep hill and quickly was swallowed up in the fog.
But what a boisterously glad reunion was there when, upon Sir Richard
halloaing out his name, the hut door was unbarred and set open!
"By the mass, Sir Richard, but it doth mightily comfort me to clap eyes
again upon thee ... eh! Weak as I am, boy, I'd have given yon miscreant
somewhat of a battle ... eh. But Isabel would e'en padlock the door and
thrust key in her bosom ... didst thou not, Dame de Claverlok? But tell
me, Sir Richard, where hast thou been the while?"
By way of an answer Sir Richard went back and fetched Rocelia out of
the fog cloud; whereupon the two maids fell into a rapturous embrace,
shedding some happy tears whilst Sir Richard made haste to explain to
de Claverlok the case in which they stood.
"Certes, boy, and I can procure thee a priest," shouted de Claverlok,
responding to a whispered question in his ear.
Then; "Thomas! Thomas!" he bellowed; "post you hot-foot to the goodman
who tied us a fine knot the week gone. Speed! Avaunt, boy! Have him
here within the hour's quarter on your horse's back.... Begone!"
"They'll be after thee ... God! but they'll not let thee get free of
their king-making clutches, an they can help. We'll be ready to journey
coast-ward, Sir Richard, when the ceremony is over."
Happily, the foot-boy returned soon with the monk, whom de Claverlok
and the rest succeeded in persuading to do office at Rocelia's and Sir
Richard's wedding, placating him with a promise of another ceremony
more in keeping with the dignity of the Church when they should have
arrived at Bretagne. Besides requiting him quite handsomely for that
day's services, they paid him to have masses said for the dead doctor
outside; providing as well for a fitting burial of his body.
It set in to rain before the company of six was ready to start for
Glasgow. As there had been even now too much precious time consumed,
they decided to brave the weather and be at once upon their way. To
their journey's end it was but something above five leagues, but the
heavy roads made the going a slow and difficult task. By stretching
a tent-cloth over a rude frame, upheld by four poles, the foot-boys
contrived for Isabel and Rocelia a passing shelter from the rain,
which was by now pelting hard and steadily against the helmets of Sir
Richard and de Claverlok.
They had ridden after this cumbrous fashion near half the distance when
Sir Richard thought he heard the dull rumbling of a carriage to their
rear. Adventuring the hazard of a hidden bog, the party turned aside
and rode upon the moor till they had set an impenetrable curtain of
mist between themselves and the highway. Leaving his horse in Harold's
keeping the young knight crept back, stationing himself behind a thick
clump of gorse growing by the roadside.
Accompanied by a score or more of outriders streaming water, shedding
loud curses, and flogging their tired mounts for everything that was
in them, came a great lumbering coach and six, looming gigantic as a
castle in the weird fog. As it passed where Sir Richard was lying, he
noted that its wheels were three quarters sunken in the deep mud, which
rolled off them as they turned after the manner of a miniature cataract.
"How far, sayst thou, it will be from Glasgow?" He heard a voice,
which he knew well for that of Douglas, roaring from within its depths.
"Said I not that they would be after thee, Sir Richard ... eh?" de
Claverlok observed when the young knight went back and told them what
he had seen.
They were perforce obliged to give the coach a good start, for, by
now, the mist was rapidly thinning; and they durst not put themselves
within sight of Douglas' men. Before reaching the gates of Glasgow they
divided their little party in twain. Three entering from the north,
three from the south, with an arrangement to foregather at King's Dock,
upon the River Clyde. It was decided upon that Sir Richard, having
nothing to do within the town, should make his way at once to the
harbor and seek berths on shipboard for France. Whilst de Claverlok and
Isabel, having to attend to the business of Isabel's inheritance, would
join them later at the river's side.
They were in no trouble to enter the town, and made shift to take the
narrower and less frequented streets leading to the water-front. As
they were riding through, Rocelia pointed to a fellow, garbed in the
Douglas livery, who was nailing a proclamation, writ in great, glaring
letters, against a plank fence.
It was an offer of a reward of two hundred and fifty pounds for Sir
Richard's arrest and detention; the which was followed by a neat and
accurate description of his person and apparel. Before they got to the
next corner there were a dozen idlers, with mouths agape, standing
before it and taking it in.
Knowing well that Sir Richard's chances of getting safely away were
diminishing in proportion with the number of placards that were being
then posted over the town, they made all haste to reach the river and
get safely aboard ship.
Without mishap our travelers came anon to King's Dock. Sir Richard was
most gratified to discover that there was a great ship, above which
rose three towering masts, riding at anchor in the midst of the harbor.
He gazed longingly across at her, wishing that they were all safe
bestowed upon her lofty and much ornamented poop.
Dismounting, and bidding Harold to do the same the while the young
knight lifted Rocelia to the rough paving stones, he sent them both
posting into a tavern. "The sooner we draw free of the streets the
better," he thought. Beckoning a sailor then, who was watching them
from the quay, Sir Richard handed him a shilling and told him to
tie him the three horses in a dark and narrow alleyway near hand.
"I' faith, 'twill be the last I shall ever see of them," he said to
himself; and not without a feeling of regret that he would never again
bestride the strong back of his faithful stallion.
"Where can I find me the captain of yonder ship?" Sir Richard asked of
the sailor, as he came slouching out of the dark alleyway.
"Thou'll find him in there--where the sack flows thickest," the sailor
answered, pointing to the tavern wherein Rocelia and Harold had taken
shelter. "The ship's ready and all laden for the sea now, sir knight,
with the tide flowing strong. I swear to you the master's boat's
a-riding at the dock-side now ... but he be right bravely liquored up,
quoth 'a, and no one dare go a-nigh 'im to tell it. 'Tis a damned bad
thing ... the sack ... but, begging your pardon, sir knight, an this
shilling be good siller, I bethink me I'll buy me a swig or two."
"Of what name may your ship be?" queried Sir Richard.
"She'll be the 'Trinity,' sir knight," said he, "and the bonniest hulk
that ever cut water down the Firth."
"See you here, my man," said the young knight, as he was starting for a
tap-room upon the opposite side of the street. "Are you wanting to line
your pocket with a rose noble or two?"
"With nothing but this bit shilling ... and the town fair flooded with
rum? God wot, and I am not!" said he.
"Then do you keep stand here," said Sir Richard; and, hurrying to the
tavern door, he bade Harold and Rocelia to join him outside.
"Now, hark ye well," resumed Sir Richard, to the waiting sailor. "Lead
this lady and my squire to the dock there, bestow them safely within
the captain's boat, and wait you there till I come ... here," he added,
handing him the promised coin. "There'll be another, an you do this
thing to my taste."
"I'm a-thinking as what you don't know my master, sir knight,"
observed the sailor, gazing hard at the tavern door.
"No. But I will in another moment," said the young knight, going for
the door.
"Captain of the 'Trinity,'" he shouted when he had swung it wide.
"The very devil and all! and what's this, prithee?" the drunken captain
shouted, rolling heavily down upon Sir Richard and quite filling the
open space.
In a very few words the young knight told him just what he wanted,
making offer of all his remaining nobles, saving one, if he would
consent to bear them all safely into France.
"Six, sayst thou? Any women?" the seaman asked.
"Two," Sir Richard replied.
"Then ... damn thy nobles!" he bellowed, slamming the door in the young
knight's very face.
"But I tell you that you must do this thing," Sir Richard persisted,
again setting open the door.
"What! hell, man!" he shouted, turning purple in the face.
"I say you must."
"I'll pitch thee headfirst out, an thou sayst that again!" the captain
bawled.
"I repeat, sir captain, that we must take thy ship," said Sir Richard.
"Moreover, I tell thee to thy teeth thou canst not pitch me out."
"I'll wager a noble," he returned, peeling him off his cloak and
great-jacket.
"An I put thee out," said Sir Richard, "wilt thou take six on ship and
fifty nobles in hand?"
"An thou goest out ... what then?" said he.
"Ten golden discs for thy trouble," the young knight made laughing
rejoinder.
"Done," said the captain.
Sir Richard did not much like the curious crowd gathering closely
around them, but he knew well that he must accept the hazard. It was
the only way to win to the ship.
Well, they went at it then, and how the chairs and tables standing near
did tumble, roll and clatter about their flying heels! The captain was
of a similar size and build with Bull Bengoff, and it was somewhat like
tugging at an enormous animated hogshead to get him moving withal. But
Sir Richard got him started rolling toward the door presently, and
then, with one mighty heave, he sent him tumbling over and over down
the stone steps.
"What saidst thou was thy name, sir knight?" the captain asked, sitting
prone upon the paving stones and rubbing the top of his pate. There
went a loud laugh around at his earnest manner of asking the question.
Walking down the steps, Sir Richard stooped, whispering it close to his
ear.
"God's mercy upon me!" he shouted, getting as quickly as might be to
his feet and winding his great arms about the young knight's neck. Sir
Richard at once set again to tugging, bethinking him that they were
again to have at it.
"No, no!" shouted the captain, laughing, "I've had my belly full of
that---- God! dost thou not know, man? That ship in the offing yonder
doth belong to him whose wealth and titles were left all to thee ...
are even now thine. Right glad will old Duke Francis be to have me
fetch thee back. Thou art of age now, and can claim thy inheritance."
"My benefactor ... who is he?" asked the young knight in an amazed
whisper.
"Who _is_ he? Why, he's dead, Sir Richard, these nineteen years ...
'twas the man after whom thou wert named--Richard Neville, Earl of
Warwick ... often styled 'king-maker.' But come! come inside," he
cried, taking the young knight's arm; "we'll have a bowl or two of sack
and a right juicy pasty together, Sir Richard. Let the damned ship
wait!"
"But, listen," Sir Richard whispered, "I'm in the direst peril. 'Twould
be well an thou couldst get me on board thy ship at once."
Just at that moment they saw de Claverlok, Isabel, and Thomas ride upon
the King's Dock out of a side street. Looking away from the river, Sir
Richard saw a band of horses, with Douglas at their head, coming above
the hill at a breakneck speed.
"Come!" the young knight shouted, clutching the good captain's arm; "do
not tarry for thy cap--there's not one tick of the clock to spare."
Which indeed there was not, for they had but just tumbled into the boat
and drew clear of the quay when Douglas and his horsemen rode furiously
upon it.
"Come hither, Sir Richard ... sire!" Lord Douglas called. "Prithee, do
return. I have here the messages to show thee. The messages thou didst
bring me from Henry. All signed, thou dost remember, by thy good self
and my councilmen. Come back! but a moment's speech would I have of
thee ... sire."
"I wish thee well of thy enterprises, Lord Douglas," the young knight
shouted back. "Make kings an thou wilt, I'll have none of it. Thou
canst give me nothing.... I have beside me here, my lord, the best that
Scotland has to give."
Then, he remembered afterward, Rocelia took his hand, standing beside
him in the captain's boat, and together they waved the great Douglas a
last farewell.
When they had climbed to the topmost deck of the great ship they saw
another cavalcade of armed men riding down to the river front from
out another street. Sir Richard noted above their plumed helmets a
bedraggled banner, bearing a device sable upon a field gules.
"They are your father's men, Rocelia," Sir Richard said, gathering her
close to his side.
"Yes, Dick," said she. "God keep him from all harm and bring him safe
to us some future day."
Soon, then, with great brown sails bellying in the wind, they dropped
down the Firth of Clyde, with the twinkling lights of Glasgow fading
dim in the distance.
* * * * * *
Transcriber's note:
Punctuation and spelling were made consistent when a predominant
preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed.
Simple typographical errors were corrected. Occasional unmatched
quotation marks were corrected when there was no ambiguity.
Ambiguous hyphens at the ends of lines were retained.
Page 142: Spurious closing quotation mark removed after: he wanted to
know?
Page 173: Missing opening quotation mark added at start of: "But
where's the....
Page 189: Spurious closing quotation mark removed after: What quarrel,
... eh?
Page 333: "with her eyes to follow" was misprinted as "eves".
Page 340: Double-quote mark changed to apostrophe at start of: 'tis
passing----
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