Agincourt Part 37

"Do you not know me, Sir John Grey?" he asked: "if so, let me recal to your good remembrance Richard of Woodville, who brought you tidings from the King, and also some news of your sweet daughter."

"I know you well, sir," replied the knight; "would I knew less. I hear you have acquired honour and renown in arms. G.o.d give you grace to merit more. I must ride on, I fear."

His manner was cold and distant, his brow grave and stern; but Woodville was not one to bear such a change altogether calmly, though, for his sweet Mary's sake, he laid a strong constraint upon himself.

"I know not, Sir John Grey," he said, "what has produced so strange a change in one, whom I had thought steadfast and firm: whether calmer thought and higher fortunes than those in which I first found you, may have engendered loftier views, or re-awakened slumbering ambition, so that you regret some words you spoke in the first liberal joy of renewed prosperity; but----"

"Cease, sir, cease!" exclaimed the old knight. "I should indeed regret those words, could they be binding in a case like this.

Steadfast and firm I am, and you will find me so; but not loftier views or re-awakened ambition has made the change, but better knowledge of a man I trusted on a fair seeming. But these things are not to be discussed here in the open street, before servants and horseboys. You know your own heart--you know your own actions; and if they do not make you shrink from discussing what may be between you and me--"

"Shrink!" cried Richard of Woodville, vehemently; "Why should I shrink? shrink from discussing aught that I have done. No, by my knighthood! not before all the world, varlets or horseboys, princes or peers: I care not who hears my every action blazoned to the day."

"But I do, sir," replied Sir John Grey; "for the sake of those dear to us both--for your good uncle's sake, and for my child's."

"You are compa.s.sionate, Sir John!" said Woodville, bitterly; but then he added, "yet, no; you are deceived. I know not how, or by whom, but there is some error, that is very clear. This I must crave leave to say, that I am fearless of the judgment of mortal man on aught that I have done. Sins have we all to G.o.d; but I defy the world to say that I have failed in honour to one man on earth."

"According to that worldly code of honour we once spoke of, perhaps not," replied Sir John Grey.

"According to what fastidious code you will," said the young knight.

"I stand here willing, Sir John Grey, to have each word or deed sifted like wheat before a cottage door. I know not your charge, or who it is that brings it; but I will disprove it, whatever it be, when it is clearly stated, and will cram his falsehood down his throat whenever I know his name who makes it."

"Ha, sir! Is it of me you speak?" demanded the knight, somewhat sharply.

"No, Sir John," replied Woodville, "you are to be the judge; for you," he added, with a sorrowful smile, "hold the high prize. But it is of him who has foully calumniated me to you; for that some one has done so I can clearly see; and I would know the charge and the accuser--here, now, on this spot--for I am not one to rest under suspicion, even for an hour."

"You speak boldly, Sir Richard of Woodville," answered Sir John Grey, "and, doubtless, think that you are right, though I may not; for I am one who have long lived in solitude, pondering men's deeds, and weighing them in a nicer balance than the world is wont to use.

However, as I said before, this is no place to discuss such things; but as it is right and just that each man should have occasion to defend himself, I will meet you where you will, and when, to tell you what men lay to your charge. If you can then deny it, and disprove it, well. I will not speak more here. See! some one seeks your attention."

"Whatever it is that any man on earth accuses me of," replied the young knight, without attending to Sir John Grey's last words, "I am ready ever to meet boldly, for my heart is free. As you will not give me this relief I ask even now, it cannot be too soon. I will either go with you at once to your own house--"

"No, that must not be," cried the other, hastily.

"Or else," continued Woodville, "I will meet you two hours hence, in the hostel called the Garland, on the market place. What would you, knave?" he added, turning suddenly upon some one who had more than once pulled his sleeve from behind, and beholding Ned Dyram.

"I would speak with you instantly, sir knight," replied Dyram, "on a matter of life and death."

"Shall it be so, sir?" Richard of Woodville continued, looking again to Sir John Grey, who repeated, thoughtfully, "In two hours--"

"Sir, will you listen to me?" exclaimed Dyram, in great agitation.

"Indeed you must. There is not a moment to lose. I tell you it will bear no delay. If you would save her life, you must come at once."

"Her life!" cried Woodville, in great surprise. "Whose life? Of whom do you speak, man?"

"Of whom? of Ella Brune, to be sure," replied Dyram. "If you stay talking longer, you leave her to death."

Sir John Grey, with a bitter smile, shook his bridle, and, striking his heel against his horse's flank, rode on.

CHAPTER XXIX.

THE BETRAYER.

The writer must retread his steps for a while, to show the events which had taken place in the city of Ghent since Ned Dyram and Sir Simeon of Roydon were last seen upon the stage. Whether the reader may think fit to do so or not must depend upon himself. All that the author can promise is, that he will be brief, and merely sketch the conduct of the personages left behind till he brings them up with the rest.

The arrival of Sir Simeon of Roydon in Ghent spread the same terror through the heart of poor Ella Brune that the appearance of a hawk produces in one of the feathered songsters of the bush or clouds. Had Richard of Woodville been there, she would have felt no apprehension; for to him she had accustomed herself to look for protection and support, with that relying confidence, that trust in his power, his wisdom, and his goodness, which perhaps ought never to be placed in man, and which is never so placed but by a heart where love is present. Had she been even in London, her terror would have been less; for even in those days--although they were dark and barbarous, although tumult and riot, civil strife and contention, injustice and wrong would, as we all know, take place in every different country--the peculiar character of the English people, the homely sense of justice and of right, which has been their chief characteristic in all ages, was sufficiently strong to render this island comparatively a land of security. Though there might be persons to oppress and injure, yet there were generally found some kind hearts and generous spirits to support and protect; and in short, there were more defences for those who needed defence than in any state in Europe.

Very different, however, was the case in Ghent, especially for a stranger; and Ella Brune well knew that it was so. She was aware that deeds could be done there boldly and openly, which in England would require cunning concealment and artful device, even for a chance of success; and the consequence was, that she kept herself immured within the walls of her cousin's dwelling, never venturing forth, even to breathe the air, but at night, and striving to make her companions.h.i.+p during the day prove as pleasant as possible to the worthy dame of Nicholas Brune. To her and to him she communicated the cause of her apprehensions; and it is but justice to the good folks to say, that they entered warmly into her feelings, and did all that they could to mitigate her alarm and give her encouragement. But Ella Brune, in answer to all a.s.surances of safety, constantly replied, that she should never feel secure till Richard of Woodville had returned; and, as it was already beyond the period at which he had promised to be back, she looked for his appearance every day.

From such subjects sprang many a discussion between her and her good cousin, as to her future conduct. "Why, you know, my pretty Ella," he would say, "you could not go wandering after this gay young gentleman, over all the world; mischief would come of it, be you sure. Men are not to be trusted, nor pretty maidens either. We have all our weak moments; and if no harm happen to you, your fair fame would suffer.

Men would call you his leman."

"Ay, that is what I fear," answered Ella Brune, "and that only; for though most men are not to be trusted, he is. But at all events," she continued, willing gently to remove all objections to the plan she was determined to pursue, "he might carry me safely with him to Burgundy, or to Liege, as he brought me here."

Nicholas Brune shook his head; and Ella said no more at that time; but gradually she put forward the notion of obviating all difficulties and objections, by a.s.suming some disguise; and on that her good cousin pondered, thinking it a more feasible plan than any other, yet seeing many difficulties.

"As what could you go?" he said. "If at all, it must be in male guise; and though you would make a pretty boy enough, I doubt me they would find you out, fair Ella."

"Why not as a novice of the Black Friars?" demanded Madam Brune, who entered into the maiden's schemes more warmly and enthusiastically than her prudent husband; "then she would have robes longer than her own, to cover her little hands and feet, and a hood to shade her head.

There is no punishment either for taking the gown of a novice."

"Then, as this man Dyram must be in the secret," added Ella Brune, "he could give me help and protection in case of need."

"Ah, ha! are you there?" cried Nicholas, laughing. But Ella shook her head, no way abashed, replying, "you are mistaken, cousin of mine; but perhaps you have so much respect for these holy men, the monks, that you would object to a profane girl, like me, taking their garb upon her?"

"Out upon them, the lazy drones," cried Nicholas Brune; "you may make what sport of them you like for that. I would put them all to hard labour on the d.y.k.es, if I had my will;" and he burst forth into a long vituperation of all the monastic orders, in terms somewhat too gross for modern ears, not even sparing the Holy Roman Catholic Church; but ending with another wise shake of the head, and an expression of his firm belief, that the scheme would not do.

Nevertheless, Ella Brune and his good dame were now perfectly agreed upon the subject, and worked together zealously, preparing all that was needful for Ella's disguise, while Ned Dyram brought them daily information of the proceedings of Sir Simeon of Roydon, and made them smile to hear how he had deceived the knight into the belief that Ella was far away from Ghent.

"But if he should discover the truth," said Ella Brune, really anxious that no one should suffer on her account, "may he not revenge himself on you, if you give him the opportunity by going every day and working in gold and silver under his eyes? I beseech you, Master Dyram, run no risk on my account. I would rather endure insult or injury myself, than that you should incur danger."

Ned Dyram's heart beat quick, though Ella said no more to him than she would have said to any one in the same circ.u.mstances; but he shook his head with a triumphant air, replying, "He dare not wag his finger against me."

He added no more, but turned to the subject of Ella's disguise, having before this been made acquainted with her project, and being, moreover, eager to second it; for the prospect of having to leave her behind in Ghent, if his young master should be called upon some more distant expedition, had often crossed his mind, producing very unpleasant sensations. Day after day, however, he visited Simeon of Roydon, and generally found him alone. Plenty of work was provided for him; and the payment was prompt and large. Now it was an ornamented bridle that he had to produce, encrusted all over with fanciful work of silver--now a testiere or a poitral arabesqued with lines of gold.

Sometimes he compounded perfumes or essences, sometimes he illuminated a book of canticles, which the knight intended to present to the monastery.

One morning, however, going somewhat earlier than was his wont, he met the monk, brother Paul, coming down the stairs from the knight's apartments. The cen.o.bite gave him a grim smile, but merely added his benedicite and pa.s.sed on. Ned Dyram paused and mused before he entered. More than once he had asked himself, what it was that detained Sir Simeon of Roydon so long in Ghent. The Court was absent--there was little to see, and less to gain; and the visit of father Paul gave him fresh matter for reflection. But Ned Dyram was one who, judging by slight indications, always prepared himself against probable results; and he now divined that the discovery of the truth in regard to Ella might not be far off.

He found no change in Simeon of Roydon when he entered, and the morning pa.s.sed away as usual; but on the following day the knight received him with a smile so mixed in its expression that Dyram felt the hilt of his anelace, and returned him his look with one as doubtful.

"Shut the door, Master Dyram," said Sir Simeon of Roydon.

The man obeyed without the least hesitation; and the knight proceeded, "Think you, fellow, that it is wise and worthy to cheat and to deceive?"

"On proper occasions, and with proper men," replied Ned Dyram, calmly.

"Ah, you do?" cried the knight, with his brow bent; "Then let me tell you that you will deceive me no more."