Agincourt Part 13

Isabel trembled violently, and her cheek turned ashy pale.

"It is enough," said Dacre, with a quivering lip; "I am answered! That memory could never be banished from your heart. It is enough!"

"Oh, no, no!" cried Isabel; but, as will almost always happen when a word may make all clear, an interruption came; before she could go on, good old Sir Philip Beauchamp was seen upon the steps of the house, waving them to come back, with a loud "Halloo!"

They both turned, and walked towards the hall in silence. Isabel would fain have spoken, but agitation overpowered her. She wished that Dacre, by a single word, would give her an opportunity of reply; but his over-sensitive heart was convinced of her feelings--reading them all wrong; and he would not force her to speak what he thought must be painful for her to utter, and for him to hear. Twice she made up her mind to explain, but twice her heart failed her at the moment of execution; and it was not till they were within a few steps of the place where her father stood, that she could say, in a low voice, "You are mistaken, Harry; indeed you are mistaken!"

He shook his head with a bitter smile, and walked on in silence.

CHAPTER X.

THE MINSTREL'S GIRL.

At the hour appointed by the King, Richard of Woodville arrived at the palace, and was at once introduced to Henry's presence. The monarch was now quite alone, and seemed in a more cheerful, a less meditative mood, than the day before. "Well, Richard," he said, "how sped you last night? you found room in hall, and a place at board, I trust?"

"I did, Sire," replied Woodville; "and so long as I was here 'twas well; but as I returned homeward to my hostel, I saw that done which grieved me, and would grieve your Highness, too, were it told."

"Speak it, speak it," said the King; "I am now in that station where every day I must hear that which offends my ear, if I would perform the first duty of a king, and render justice to my people. What is this you saw?"

Briefly and accurately Richard of Woodville, as he had previously determined, related to the monarch the facts attending the death of the old minstrel, by the brutal act of Sir Simeon of Roydon, and his companions; and he could see Henry's brow gather into a heavy frown, and his cheek flush. When he had done, the King rose from his chair, before he spoke, and walked twice across the small chamber in which the young gentleman had found him.

"This is bad," he said at length; "this is bad; but I must not interfere with the course of law. The matter will be inquired into, of course. If the law should not punish the offence, I might myself inflict some chastis.e.m.e.nt, and, by banis.h.i.+ng this man from my court and presence, mark my indignation at his rash contempt of human life and suffering, to call it nothing worse. But I have other views, Richard; and if I must strike, I would have it effectually."

"I do not understand you, Sire," replied Woodville, seeing that the King paused.

"No, perhaps not," said Henry; and then falling into a fit of musing again, he remained for more than a minute with his eyes fixed upon the ground. "Call me a page," he continued, at length; "I will see this Sir Simeon of Roydon."

Richard of Woodville obeyed; and when the boy appeared, Henry directed him in the clear brief words, with which even trivial orders are given by men of powerful and accurate minds, to inquire of the sergeant of the gates where Sir Simeon of Roydon was to be found, and then to summon him immediately to his presence.

"He shall make some compensation to the old man's daughter, or whoever she is, whatever the law may say," the King continued, turning to his companion, after having spoken to the page: "but tell me, Richard, was this the only adventure you met with yesterday? Ned Dyram told me, that some one had spoken to you by name in the crowd, bidding you not to let poor Dacre do battle with Simeon of Roydon,--she antic.i.p.ated my commands, it would seem."

"She did so, truly, Sire," replied Woodville; "but I could never discover who it was, though she again spoke to me at the gates of the convent as I came out."

"It is very strange," said the King; "did you not know the voice?"

"It seemed somewhat disguised," answered the young gentleman; "but still it was clearly a woman's voice; and there were tones in it not unfamiliar to my ear, yet not sufficiently strong on recollection to enable me in any way to judge who spoke."

"Have we got fairies amongst us, even in Westminster?" asked the monarch, laughing. "Well, my good friend, you have nothing to do but obey your fair monitor."

"In that I shall not fail, Sire," replied Richard; "for I shall have no cause to prevent or encourage Dacre--Simeon of Roydon will take good heed to that. But I trust neither the lady nor your Highness will forbid my chastising this man myself, if need should be; for, as I have told you, Sire, I cast him from his horse last night, before his comrades; and he will seek revenge in some shape, I am sure."

"To defend himself is every man's right," replied the King; "but I must insist, that no arranged encounter takes place between you and Sir Simeon of Roydon, without your sovereign's consent." The King spoke sternly, almost harshly; but he added a moment after, in a mild and familiar tone, "The truth is, Richard, that I have resolved, as much as possible, to put a stop, both to the trial by battle and combats at outrance between my subjects. The blood of Englishmen is too precious to their King and their country to be shed so frequently as it has. .h.i.therto been in private quarrels. The evil is increasing; and if it be not stayed, a time will come when every idle jest will be the subject of a combat, and the man of mere brute courage will venture upon any wrong he chooses to do another, because he values his life less than his neighbour. Such a state shall never grow up under me. The day may not be far distant when, in defence of the rights of this crown, I shall give every English gentleman an opportunity of displaying his valour and his skill; but, till then, I will hold a strong hand over quarrelsome folks. As a last resource for honour really wounded, or, under the sanction of the law, for the judgment of G.o.d in dark cases which human wisdom cannot decide, I may consent that an appeal be made to the lance; but not till every other means has been tried. Such is my resolution. Let that suffice you. I know you will obey; and in the court of Burgundy, if I hear right, you will have plenty of occasions, should you be too full of blood, to shed it freely. I have wished to give you some gift, my friend," he continued, in a tone of kindly condescension; "but for the present, I can think of nothing better than this."

He took a ring from his finger, and held it out to the young gentleman who stood beside him, adding, "Take it, Richard; wear it always; and when you look upon it, think of Hal of Hadnock. But should you at any time seek aught of the King of England, seal your letter with that ring, and I will open and read the contents myself, and immediately.

It shall go hard, but I will grant you your boon, if it be such as the Richard of Woodville whom I know, is likely to request. So, farewell, and G.o.d speed you, and lead you to honour."

Richard of Woodville knelt, and kissed the gracious Prince's hand; and then, retiring from his presence, sped back to his inn without adventure.

All traces of the last day's festival had disappeared; the citizens had resumed their usual occupations; the artisan had gone to his work, the merchant to his warehouse, the tradesman to his stall, the monk to his cloister, the priest to his chapel or his church. The streets, though there was many a pa.s.senger hurrying to and fro, seemed almost empty, by comparison; and a scene that was in itself gay, looked dull from the want of all the glitter and pageantry of the preceding afternoon.

The inn, called the Acorn, at which Richard of Woodville had taken up his abode, was a low building, in what we still term the Strand, between the Cross at Charing and a very small monastery, which was soon after attached to the abbey of Roncesvalles in Navarre, and acquired the name of Roncevaux. The entrance to the Acorn was a tall dark arch, and as soon as Richard of Woodville rode in, followed by his two attendants--for Ned Dyram he had not seen since the day before--the host presented himself, saying, with a low reverence and a smile, "There has been a fair maid seeking you, n.o.ble sir. There have been tears in her eyes, too, full lately. I hope you are not a faithless squire, to make the pretty maiden weep."

"Poor thing, she has good cause," answered Woodville, gravely. "She is the poor old man's daughter, I suppose, who was killed by the horses last night. When did she say she would return?"

"She is here now! she is here now!" cried the host's wife, from within. "How can you be such a fool, Jenkyn! I took her in till the n.o.ble gentleman returned. I knew she was no light o' love, but only came from foreign lands."

"I never said she was, good wife," replied her husband. "Shall I bring her up, sir, to your chamber?"

"No," answered Richard; "it wants an hour of dinner yet; let her come with me to the hall, if it be vacant."

"That it is, discreet sir," replied the host. "Now, I warrant you," he continued, murmuring to himself, as he walked away to call the poor girl to her kind benefactor, "he has got some lady love himself, and fears it should come to her ears, were he to entertain a pretty maiden in his own chamber."

Perhaps some such thought might pa.s.s through Richard of Woodville's mind; but certainly it would never have entered therein, had it not been for the host's first suspicion; and he would have received the poor girl in his own room without hesitation, though the minstrels of that day and their followers were generally a somewhat dissolute and licentious race. It has happened strangely, indeed, in all ages, that those who follow, as their profession, the sweetest of arts, music, which would seem intended to elevate and purify the mind and heart, should be so frequently obnoxious to the charge of immoral life; but so it has been, alas, though difficult to account for.

Finding his way through one or two long ill-lighted pa.s.sages, Richard of Woodville opened the door of the room appropriated to the daily meals of the guests and their host, and had not long to wait for the object of his compa.s.sion. She was not dressed in the same manner as the night before, but still, her garb was singular. A bright red scarf, which had been twined through her black hair, was no longer there; and the rich, luxuriant tresses, were bound plainly round her head, which was partially covered also by a hood of simple gray cloth.

The rest of her apparel was white, except at the edge of the petticoat, which came not much below the knee, and was bordered by two bands of gold lace. Her small, delicate ankles, as fair as alabaster, were, nevertheless, without covering; and her feet were clothed in small slippers of untanned leather, trimmed and tied with gold.

Bending down her beautiful head as she entered, she said, "I have come to thank you, n.o.ble sir."

"Nay, no thanks, my fair maiden," answered Woodville, placing a stool for her to sit, as the host retired. "I did but what any Christian and gentleman ought to do; so, say not a word of that. But I am glad you have come, for I wish much to hear more of you, and to know what will become of you now."

"Ah! what, indeed?" said the girl, casting down her eyes, which had before been fixed upon the young gentleman's countenance.

"Have you no friends, no home, to which you can go?" asked Woodville.

"In this country, no friends that would receive me--no home that would be open to me," replied the girl, the tears rolling over the long black lashes, and trickling down her cheek. "I am not given to yield to sorrow thus," she added; "had I been, it would have crushed me long ago. But this last blow has been heavy; and, like a reed beaten down by the storm, I shall not raise my head till the sun s.h.i.+nes again."

"But you are of English birth?" inquired Richard of Woodville; "if not, you speak our tongue rarely."

"Oh, yes! I am English," she cried, eagerly; "English in heart, and spirit, and birth; but yet, my mother was from a distant land."

"And was that poor old man your father?" demanded her companion; "come, let me hear something of your former life, that I may think what can be done for the future."

The girl evidently hesitated; she coloured, and then turned pale; and Richard of Woodville began to fear that, in the interest he had taken in her, he had been made the fool of imagination. "She is probably like the rest," he thought; "and yet, her very shame to speak it, shows that she has some good feelings left."

But, while he was still pondering, the girl exclaimed, clasping her hands, "Oh, yes! I am sure I may tell you. You are not one who--whatever might be his errors--would deprive a poor old man of blessed ground to rest in, or the prayers of good men for his soul."

"Not I, indeed," replied the young gentleman; "methinks, we have no right to carry justice or punishment beyond the grave. When the spirit is called to its Creator, let him be judge--not man. But speak; I do not understand you clearly."

"I will make my tale short," she answered. "That old man was my father's father; a minstrel once in the house of the great Earl of Northumberland--I can just remember the Earl--and a gay and happy household it was. He was well paid and lodged, much loved by the good lord, and wealthy by his bounty. My father was stout and tall, a brave man, and skilful in arms; and he was the Percy's henchman. Once, when one of the Earl's kinsmen went to the court of the Emperor, my father was sent with him, I have heard; and he returned with my mother, a native of a town called Innsbruck in the mountains. I know not whether you have heard of it; but it is a fair city, in good truth."

"You have seen it, then?" asked Richard of Woodville.

"Not a year since," answered the girl; "but, to my tale. When I was still young, my father fought and fell with Hotspur; and, not long after, the Duke's household was dispersed, and he himself obliged to fly to Wales, or Scotland, I know not which. My mother pined and died, for the people there loved not a stranger amongst them; and, after my father's death, called her nought but _the foreigner_. They laughed, too, at her language, for she could speak but poor English; and, what between their gibes and her own grief, she withered away daily, till her eyes closed. She taught me her own language, however; and I have not forgot it. She taught me her own faith, too; and I have not abandoned it."