"To, my noble and well-beloved Lord the Earl of Mortimer, greeting. These from the humblest and most devoted of his servants, Richard de Ashby.
"If the time given, my good lord, till three to-morrow, be permitted to run on, the game will escape us, for I doubt not the Prince is already informed; and be you sure that he will set off with all speed, and if he arrive in time, will save the criminal. I therefore send you up a man who is ready to swear that he heard the criminal say to the monk, as they passed through the gates together, that out of De Montfort's ashes would soon rise up a ph[oe]nix to destroy his enemies. The fellow is well tutored in his tale, so that you shall not catch him tripping, and I do beseech you to make use of him before the King without delay, so that, if possible, there may be an axe between our enemy's head and his body before noon to-morrow. If the forfeited estates be divided between you and my good lord of Pembroke, I would advise the one I love best to choose the northern ones. They are worth five hundred marks a year more than the others."
All this was written in a fine and clerkly hand, while the letters below were rough and dashing, and somewhat difficult to read. The words, however, were as follows:--
"TRUSTY FRIEND,--
"The matter is settled. The King has called together all the Barons on the spot--luckily, Gloucester was away, and Talbot's voice was drowned in the rest. He dies to-morrow at daybreak. I have the warrant under the King's hand. Thanks for the hint. The northern estates are mine, and friends shall not go unrewarded by yours,
"MORTIMER."
"Ha!" said Robin Hood, after he had read the letter and the reply--"ha! this is mighty good. Why, what a nest of scorpions have we here; and this is the court of England! Oh, De Montfort!--noble De Montfort! if thou didst want an advocate to plead thy cause and justify thy holy zeal to crush the venomous reptiles that infest the land, this paper has a tongue that would convince the dead. But we will see. May God so help me, as I am at this execution to-morrow--if we find not other means to stay it! and beware, my Lord of Mortimer, how you come within mark of the English yew--for thy breast must be cased in steel, indeed, if I drown not the peacock's feather in your heart's black blood!--Do you hear them coming from the lodge, Miller?"
"Not yet, Robin," replied the man to whom he spoke. "Tom is upon the hill--he will sound his horn."
"We must give the youth warning what we are about to do," said Robin Hood, running his eye attentively over the form of the page before him--"we must give him warning.--Ha! Richard de Ashby! So--so!--Boy, this is news, indeed, you have brought me. Have you aught else to tell?"
"Not now," answered the boy, "for I must be back to Nottingham with all speed, lest I be missed. To-morrow will do for my other tidings--I cannot think he will be so hasty there."
"Nay--nay, if thou hast aught to tell," exclaimed Robin; "tell it now. One never can say to-morrow's sun will rise. There are precipices at every rood on the highway of human life, over which our best intentions fall, and dash themselves to pieces. Speak out--speak out! it will but take thee a spare minute."
"Well, then," replied the boy, "doubtless you love not much the Earl of Ashby?"
"Not much," answered Robin Hood, bluffly, "but his son much less."
"It matters not," rejoined the page; "but I tell you the Earl's life is in danger from secret foes. There is a man--a base, bad man--the betrayer of all that trust in him----" The boy paused, and seemed to gasp for breath. "He seeks the Earl's death; ay, and that of his son also," he continued, "in order that--that--that he may wed the heiress of the house, and himself become its head. If I did know a friend of the Earl, I would beseech him earnestly to watch the old man well; ay, to watch his food--to watch his steps--to have his wine tried before he drinks it--never to let him forth alone, if it be but to taste the morning air upon a sunny bank.--But you are his enemies."
"Yet we will act as friends," said Robin Hood. "He shall have warning, ay, and assistance at hand, in case of need.--And now," he added, in a low and soft tone, advancing a step, and taking the page's hand--"and now what is to become of thee, poor thing?--Dost thou think I do not know thee, Kate?"
She shook terribly, and cast down her eyes, without reply.
"'Tis well," he continued, finding that she did not answer. "But listen to me, Kate Greenly--listen to one that speaks to thee kindly. Thou hast done a good act this night; let it be balm to thy heart; nay, let it be more--let it be but as seed that thou hast sown, to bring forth still more plentiful fruit hereafter. Cast off the villain, whom thy better nature hates; leave him to the deeds which will, ere long, bring down destruction on his head; let him receive the reward of his own wickedness, and then----"
"Die!" said Kate Greenly--"there is nothing else left for me to do. Nay, speak not of my father--utter not his name, for it is worse than fire even to hear it mentioned. Talk not to me of the cloister, where I might linger out long days of miserable memory. My life is near its close--my heart is broken--by my own act, I know; but all the more dreadful is the wound. There is no balm that can heal this--there is no time that can soothe it. He whom I trusted is a villain. Me he might have injured, betrayed, cast off, trampled upon. I might have wept, or raved, and still lived on; but to find him a traitor--a murderer--a fiend--to be forced, as if for my punishment on earth, to betray him who has betrayed me, and to blast his schemes and his fame who has blasted my name and my happiness--this is the cup of death, I tell thee, and a bitter death it is!--But I must go back! Thy people have promised that they will not stay me, and I must go back. Whatever tidings I can give, you shall have; for I have sworn to unravel the dark clue--to frustrate the wicked scheme, and to bring down upon his head the punishment he merits. God will give me strength to tread this path where every step is agony; and, oh! when it is done, may he receive the broken heart and penitent spirit, for the sake of Him who died to save us!"
"Amen!" said Robin Hood. "Yet stay a moment, thou must have some one to guide thee back; thou art nearer the town than thou thinkest for.--I will speak a word with thee by the way."
CHAPTER XXX.
It was an hour past midnight--the sentries had just been relieved upon the castle wall--and Hugh de Monthermer sat by the window, looking out into the depth of sight, and gazing at the far twinkling of the stars. The mind was occupied in the same manner as the body, for it was looking forth into the dark night of death, and marking the small bright shining lights from heaven, that tell of other worlds beyond.
His fate had been announced to him--that he had been judged and condemned without his presence--and that the first ray of the morning sun was to witness his death. He had solemnly appealed against the sentence, telling Lord Pembroke, who had brought the announcement thereof, that such a deed was mere murder. Neither had he left anything undone that behoved him to do, to check the base purposes of his enemies, by apprehensions of after retribution.
But they scoffed at his threats, and heeded not his remonstrances, justifying the illegal course they pursued by declaring that he had been taken in the act of treason. All communication was denied him with the world without, and even the materials for writing were refused--perhaps to guard against the chance of his doom being made known to others who might interfere to stay the execution, or, perhaps, to prevent him from recording for after times the iniquity that was about to be committed. A priest eras promised him in the morning; but in the meanwhile he remained in solitude. He heard his good yeoman, Blawket, driven back from the door by the guards; and, with nought but his own thoughts to comfort and console him, he sat preparing himself for the grave as best he might.
How often had he met the abhorred enemy, Death, in the battle-field? How often he staked life's bright jewel on the chances of an hour? How often had fate seemed near at hand in the burning march through the barren sands of the east, and in the deadly pestilence? But in all these shapes had the grim inevitable Lord of the grave seemed less terrible than when waiting through the livelong night, with the certainty of being murdered, unresisting, on the morning.
Active exertion, gallant daring, the exercise of the high powers of the soul, set at nought the idea of annihilation; and when, with eager fire, man puts forth all his faculties in the moment of danger, their very possession tells him that he is immortal, and makes the open gate of the tomb appear but the portal of a better world. It is the cold, calm, slow approach of the dark hour of passage, when the mind has nought to work upon but that one idea, which smears the dart with all the venom that it is capable of bearing. Then rise up all those dark doubts and apprehensions with which the evil spirit besieges the small garrison of faith. Then come the sweet and lingering affections of the world--the loves, the hopes, the wishes, the prospects, the enjoyments. Then speak the memories of dear things past, never to be again--of voices heard for the last time--of looks to be seen no more. Oh! it is a terrible and an awful thing, even for the stoutest heart and best prepared spirit, to wait in silence and in solitude for the approach of the King of Terrors!
The young knight strove vigorously to repel all weakness; but he could not shut out regret. Twelve hours had scarcely passed, since, in the pride of success and the vanity of hope, he had clasped her he loved in his arms, and fancied that fate itself could scarcely sever them--and now he was to lose her for ever. Would she forget him when he was gone? Would she give her hand to another? Would the gay wedding train pass by, and the minstrel's song sound loud, and the laugh, and the smile, and the jest go round, and all be joyful in the halls of Lindwell, and he lay mouldering in the cold earth hard by? But love, and trust, and confidence said, No; and, though it might be selfish, there was a balm in the belief that Lucy would mourn for him when he was gone--ay, that she had promised to love him and be his even beyond the grave.
Of such things were his thoughts, as he gazed forth on that solemn night; but suddenly something, he knew not what, called his attention from himself; and he looked down from the window of his chamber upon the top of the wall below. The distance was some thirty feet, the night was dark, for the moon had gone early down, but, even in the dim obscurity, he thought he saw something like a man's head appear above the battlement.
In a moment after, with a bound as if it had been thrown over by an engine, a human body sprang upon the top of the wall, ran forward to the tower in which he was confined, and struck the stonework with its arm. The next instant, without any apparent footing, he could perceive one leg stretched upwards, while the hand seemed to have obtained a grasp of the wall itself, and then the rest of the body ascended to the height of about four feet from the ground, sticking fast, like a squirrel swarming up a large beech tree. A long thin arm was then extended, far overhead, to a deep window, just beneath that at which the young knight stood, and by it the whole body was drawn up into the aperture of the wall, while a sentinel passed by with slow and measured steps. As soon as the soldier was gone, the arm was again stretched forth in the direction of the casement from which Hugh was gazing down, and the hand struck once or twice against the wall, in different places, making a slight grating sound, as if it were armed with some metal instrument. At length it remained fixed, and then the head and shoulders were protruded from the opening of the window below, the feet resting upon the stonework.
Then came one of those extraordinary efforts of agility and pliability of limb which Hugh had never witnessed but in one being on the earth. By that single hold which the fingers seemed to have of the wall, the body was again swung up till the knee and the hand met, and the left arm was stretched out towards the sill of the casement above.
Although the figure appeared to be humpbacked and, consequently, in that respect unlike the dwarf, Tangel, Hugh de Monthermer could not doubt that it was he, and, reaching down as far as possible, he whispered, "Take my hand, Tangel!"
In an instant the long, thin, monkey-like fingers of the dwarf clasped round his, as if they had been an iron vice, and with a bound that nearly threw the stout young soldier off his balance, Tangel sprang through the window into the room.
"Ha, ha!" said he, in a low tone, "who can keep out Tangel?"
"No one, it seems, my good boy," answered Hugh, "but what come you here for? I fear I cannot descend as you have mounted."
"Here, help me off with my burden," rejoined the boy, "and thou wilt soon see what I come for. But we must whisper like mice, for tyrants have sharper ears than hares, and keener eyes than cats. Here's a priest's gown and a hood for thee, and a chorister's cope for Tangel. Thou art just the height of the king's confessor, and I shalt pass for his pouncet-bearer. Here's a ladder, too, not much thicker than a spider's web, but strong enough to bear up the fat friar of Barnesdale."
The feelings of Hugh de Monthermer, at that moment, must be conceived by the reader, for I will not attempt to describe them. Life, liberty, hope, were before him; and the transition was as great from despair to joy as it had lately been from happiness to grief. He caught the poor dwarf in his arms, saying, "If I live, boy, I will reward thee. If I die, thy heart must do it."
"No thanks to me," replied Tangel, in a somewhat trembling voice, "no thanks to me, good knight. It is all Robin's doing, though I was glad enough to have finger in the pie, and he, great cart horse, could no more climb up that wall than he could leap over Lincoln Church. But, come, come, fix these hooks to the window--get the gown over thee, and then let us look out for the sentinel--he will pass again before we have all ready."
"But there are sentries in the outer court, too," said Hugh de Monthermer. "How shall we manage, if we meet with any of them?"
"Give them the word," said Tangel. "I waited, clinging as close to the wall as ivy to an old tower, till I heard the round pass, and the word given. It was 'The three leopards.' But there he goes now--let us away--quick!--he will soon be back again!"
Letting the ladder, made of silken rope, gently down from the window, Hugh bade the dwarf go first, but Tangel replied, "No, no, I will come after, and bring the ladder with me. I have got my own staircase on the four daggers that I fixed into the crevices. Go down, holy father, go down, and if that book be a breviary take it with you."
"It may serve as such," said Hugh; "but, ere I go, let me leave them a message;" and, taking a piece of half-charred wood from the fire, he wrote a few words with it upon the wall. Then approaching the window he issued forth, and descended easily and rapidly to the battlements.
The dwarf seemed to have some difficulty in unfastening the hooks of the ladder, however, for he did not follow so quickly as Hugh expected; and, whether the sentinel had turned before he got fully to the end of his beat, or his pace was more rapid than before, I know not, but, ere the boy began to descend, the soldier's steps were heard coming round from the other angle of the wall. Hugh gave a quick glance up to the window in the tower, and saw that the dwarf was aware of the sentry's approach, and also that the ladder hung so close to the building as not to be perceptible without near examination. His mind was made up in an instant; and, folding his arms upon his chest, he drew the hood farther over his face, and walked on to meet the sentinel, with a slow pace, and his eyes bent upon the ground.
The moment the soldier turned the angle, and saw him, he exclaimed, "Who goes there? Stand! Give the word!"
"The three leopards," replied Hugh, in a calm tone.
"Pass," cried the sentinel. "Your blessing, holy father! This is a dark night."
"Dominus vobiscum," replied Hugh; "it is dark, indeed, my son. But no nights are dark to the eye of God;" and turning with the sentinel on his round, he added, in a loud tone, as they passed immediately under the window, "You did not see my boy upon your round, did you! He was to come hither with the books; but, marry, he is a truant knave, and is doubtless loitering with the pages in the King's ante-room."
"I saw him not, holy father," said the soldier. "Is the King still up?"
"Ay, is he," answered Hugh, "and will be for this hour to come." And on he walked by the side of the man till they were out of sight of the window.
"The boy is marvellous long in coming," observed the pretended priest.
"Shall we turn back and see, good father?" asked the soldier.
"Oh, no!" replied Hugh; "this is the way he should come; for he has to pass round by the court, you know; unless, indeed, he goes up the steps at the other side." Just as he spoke, the sound of quick feet following was heard, and the sentry turned sharply once more, exclaiming, "Who goes there?"
"The three leopards," said a childish voice, very unlike that of Tangel, but Tangel it proved to be, dressed in his white cope and hood, and bearing a small bundle beneath his arm.
"Thou hast been playing truant," cried the knight, "and shalt do penance for this."
But he did not venture to carry far his pretended reprimand, lest some mistake between him and Tangel might discover the deceit; and walking on by the side of the sentinel to the top of the flight of steps which led down into the great court close by another of the towers; he there wished him good night, giving him a blessing in a solemn tone.
The guard at the bottom of the stone stairs heard the conversation between his comrade and the seeming priest above, and without even asking the word walked on beside the young knight and the dwarf, and passed them to the sentry at the gate.
The large wooden door under the archway was ajar, while several of the soldiery were loitering without, telling rude tales of love to some of the fair girls of Nottingham, who had ventured upon the drawbridge, even at that late hour, to lose their time and reputation (if they had any) with the men-at-arms; for human nature and its follies were the same, or very nearly the same then as now. At the end of the drawbridge, however, was a sentinel with his partizan in his hand, taking sufficient part in the merriment of the others, notwithstanding his being on duty, to make him start forward in alarm at the sound of a step, and show his alertness by lowering his weapon and fiercely demanding the word. Hugh gave it at once; adding, in a quiet tone.
"Ought you not to be more upon your guard, my son, against those who come in than those who go out?"
"Pass on, and mind your own business, Sir Priest!" replied the sentry, who was not a very reverent son of the church. "These knaves in their black gowns," he murmured, "would have no one speak to a pretty lass but themselves."
Hugh had continued to advance, and he certainly did not now pause to discuss the question of duty with the soldier, but hastened into the town through a great part of which it was absolutely necessary to pass, and then through the dark streets of Nottingham, descending the hill rapidly, and breathing lighter at every step.
"Hark!" he said at length, speaking to the boy in a low tone. "Do you not hear people following!"
"It is likely," replied the dwarf; "I am not alone in Nottingham. We may have some difficulty at the gates, however; for the warder at the tower is as surly as a bear, and though we all know him well, yet it is a robe of cendal to a kersey jerkin he refuses to get up and turn the key."
In another minute the question was put to the proof the boy running forward to the town gate, and knocking at the low door under the arch. At first there was no answer whatsoever, and the dwarf, after knocking again, shouted loudly. "Ho, Matthew Pole! Matthew Pole! open the door for a reverend father, who is going forth to shrive a sick man."
"To shrive a harlot, or a barrel of sack!" grumbled an angry voice from within. "I will get up for none of ye; and if I did, I could not open the gate wide enough at this hour of the night for the fat friar of Barnesdale to roll his belly out."
"'Tis neither he of Barnesdale nor Tuck either," cried the boy, "but a holy priest come from the castle."
"Then he had better go back whence he came," replied the warder. "Get you gone, or I will throw that over thee which will soil thy garments for many a day. Get thee gone, I say, and let me sleep, till these foul revelling lords come down from the castle, who go out every night to lie at Lamley."
A noise of prancing horses, and of eager voices, was heard the moment after coming rapidly down the hill; and Hugh de Monthermer, putting his hand under his black robe, seized the hilt of the anelace, or sharp knife, which had been accidentally left with him when his sword was taken away.
"I will sell my life dearly," he said, speaking to the dwarf.
"Stand in the dark," whispered Tangel, "and they will not see you;--these are the Lords who sleep out of the town."
Hugh de Monthermer had scarcely time to draw back when a troop of horsemen, who had in fact left the castle before him, came down to the gate having followed the highway, while he had taken a shorter cut by some of the many flights of steps of which the good town of Nottingham was full.
"What ho!" cried a voice, which the young lord recognised right well. "Open the gate. Are you the warder's boy?"
"No, please you, noble lord," replied Tangel. "And I cannot make old surly Matthew Pole draw a bolt or turn a key, although he knows we are in haste."
"What ho! open the gate," repeated the voice in a loud tone. "How know you that I am a noble lord, my man?"
"Because you sit your horse like the Earl of Mortimer," answered the boy.
"You may say so, indeed," said the other, laughing. "But who is that under the arch?"
"That is my uncle," replied Tangel, "the good priest of Pierrepont. He is going to shrive the man that fell over the rock, as your lordship knows, just at sun-down."
"I know nothing about him," exclaimed Mortimer; "but I do know, that if this warder come not forth, his thrift shall be a short one. Go in, Jenkin, and slit me his ears with thy knife till they be the shape of a cur's,--Ha! here he comes at length. How now, warder! How dare you keep me waiting here? By the Lord, I am minded to hang thee over the gate."
The burly old man grumbled forth something about his lanthorn having gone out; and then added, in a louder tone, "I did not expect you, my lord, so soon, to-night. You are wont to be an hour later."
"Ay, but we have some sharp business at daybreak to-morrow," cried Mortimer; "so we must be a-bed by times."
Slowly, and as if unwillingly, the warder drew down the large oak bar, saying, "You must give the word, my lord."
"The three leopards," replied Mortimer. "Come, quick, open the gate, or, by my halidome, it shall be worse for you."
With provoking slowness, however, the old man undid bolt after bolt, and then threw wide the heavy wooden valves; and, without further question, the train of Mortimer rode out, his very robes brushing against Hugh de Monthermer as he passed. The young knight and the boy followed slowly; and before the gates could be closed again, coming rapidly from the neighbouring streets, several other men on foot issued forth in silence, without giving any word to the warder.
"Ah, you thieves!" said good Matthew Pole to the last of them, "if I chose to shut you in, there would be fine hanging to-morrow."
"No, no," replied the man, "there would be one hung to-night, good Matthew, and he would serve for all. You don't think we let the hanging begin without having the first hand in it?"
A straggling house or two on the outside of the gate were passed in a few minutes; a lane amongst trees lay to the right and left, and a little stile presented itself in the hedge, formed of two broad stones laid perpendicularly, and two horizontal ones for steps. Over these the boy sprang at a leap before Hugh de Monthermer, who followed quickly, though somewhat more deliberately.
The moment he was past, a hand seized his arm, and a voice cried, "Free, free, may good lord! By my fay, we shall have all the honest part of the Court under the green boughs of Sherwood ere long. Taking the king's venison will become the only lawful resource of honest men; for if they don't strike at his deer, he will strike at their heads."
"Ah! Robin, is that you?" said Hugh. "This is all thy doing, I know; and I owe thee life."
"Faith, not mine," replied Robin Hood, "'tis the boy's--'tis the boy's! My best contrivance was to get into the castle court to-morrow, by one device or another; secure the gate, send an arrow into Mortimer's heart, and another into the headsman's eye; make a general fight of it, while you were set free, and then run away as best we could. 'Twas a bad scheme; but yet at that early hour we could have carried it through, while one half the world was asleep, and the other unarmed. But Tangel declared that he could run up the wall like a cat, so we let him try, taking care to have men and ladders ready to bring him off safe if he were caught. So 'tis his doing, my lord; for you contrived to get the elf's love while he was with you."
"And he has mine for ever," answered Hugh. "But alas! my love can be of little benefit to any one now."
"Nay, nay, never think so," replied the Outlaw; "as much benefit as ever, my good lord. Cast off your courtly garments, take to the forest-green, with your own strong right hand defend yourself and your friends, set courts and kings at nought and defiance, and you will never want the means of doing a kind act to those who serve you. I ought not, perhaps, to boast, but Robin Hood, the king of Sherwood, has not less power within his own domain than the Third Harry on the throne of England--but, by my faith, I hoped the blessed Virgin has holpen Scathelock and the Miller with their band to get out of the gates, for they are long a coming, and there will be fine hunting in every hole of Nottingham to-morrow morning--I came over the wall with Hardy and Pell."
"They are safe enough--they are safe enough, reckless Robin," cried Tangel, "I heard the Miller's long tongue, bandying words with surly old Matthew Pole, as if ever one bell stopped another. But hark! there are their steps, and we had better get on, for I have a call to sleep just now."
"Well, thou shalt sleep as long as thou wilt to-morrow," said Robin, "for thy good service to-night; but by your leave, my lord, you and I must ride far, for it were as well to leave no trace of you in the neighbourhood of Nottingham. Here are strong horses nigh at hand, and if you follow my counsel, you will be five-and-twenty miles from the place where they expect to find you by daybreak. It will be better for us all to disperse, and to quit this part of the county; my men have their orders, and I am ready."
The counsel was one that Hugh de Monthermer was very willing to follow, and ere many minutes more had passed, he and Robin Hood were riding through the dark shady roads of Sherwood, as fast as the obscurity of the night would permit.
CHAPTER XXXI.
It was in the small wooden house in the lower part of the town, to which we have seen Sir William Geary lead his worthy companion Guy de Margan, that unhappy Kate Greenly sat in the recess of a window which looked over the meadows, and through which a faint gleam of the autumnal sun was streaming in upon her. She was as beautiful as ever, perhaps more so, for her face was paler and more refined, and though she had lost the glow of rustic health, her countenance had gained a peculiar depth of expression which was fine, though sad to see.
Her eyes were fixed intently upon those autumnal fields, with a straining gaze, and a knitted brow; but it was not of them she thought--no, nor of any of the many things which they might recal to her mind. It was not of the happy days of innocence; it was not of the companions of her childhood; it was not of the sports of her youth; it was not of her father's house; it was not of the honest lover whose pure affection she had despised, whose generous heart she had well-nigh broken. No, no, it was of none of these things! It was of him who had wronged and betrayed her, it was of him who had trampled and despised, it was of him whom she now hated with a fierce and angry hate--ay, hated and feared, and yet loved--strange as it may seem to say so,--of him whom she had resolved to punish and destroy, and for whom she yet felt a yearning tenderness which made every act she did against him seem like plunging a knife into her own heart.
Oh! had Richard de Ashby then, even then, suffered his hard and cruel spirit to be softened towards the girl whom he had wronged, if he had soothed and tranquillized, and calmed her, if he had used but one tender word, one of all the arts which he had employed to seduce her, Kate Greenly would have poured forth her blood to serve him, and would have died ere she had followed out the stern course which she purposed to pursue. But he was all selfishness, and that selfishness was his destruction.
Hark, it is his step upon the stairs! But she no longer flies to meet him with the look of love and total devotion which marked her greeting in former days. The glance of fear and doubt crosses her countenance; she dare not let him see that she has been thoughtful; she snatches up the distaff and the wheel; she bends her head over the thread, and with a sickening heart she hears the coming of the foot, the tread of which was once music to her ear.
He entered the room, with a red spot upon his brow, with his teeth hard set, with his lip drawn down. There was excited and angry passion in every line of his face, there was a fierceness in his very step which made her grieve she had not avoided him. It was too late, however; for though he scarcely seemed to see her, she could not quit the room without passing by him. He advanced as if coming direct towards her, but ere he had much passed the middle of the chamber, he stopped and stamped his foot, exclaiming--"Curses upon it!" Then turning to the Unhappy girl, he cried--"Get thee to thy chamber! What dost thou idling here, minion? Prepare in a few days to go back to thy father--or, if thou likest it better," he added, with a contemptuous smile,--"to thy franklin lover; he may have thee cheaper now, and find thee a rare leman."
Kate stood and gazed at him for a moment; but for once passion did not master her, and she answered, well knowing that whatever seemed her wish would be rejected--"I am ready to go back to my father. I have made up my mind to it,--Thou treatest me ill, Richard de Ashby, I will live with thee no longer. I will go at once."
"No, by the Lord, thou shalt not!" he cried, resolved not to lose the object of his tyranny. "Get thee to thy chamber, I say; I will send thee back when I think fit--away! I expect others here!" And Kate Greenly, without reply, moved towards the door.
As she passed, he felt a strong desire to strike her, for the angry passion that was in his heart at that moment, called loudly for some object on which to vent itself. She spoke not, however; she did not even look at him; so there was no pretext; and biting his lip and knitting his brow, he remained gazing at her as she moved along, with a vague impression of her beauty and grace sinking into his dark mind, and mingling one foul passion with another.
When she was gone and the door was closed, Richard de Ashby clasped his hands together, and walked up and down the room, murmuring, "That idiot Mortimer!--When he had him in his hand--to leave him in his chamber which any child could scale!--Out upon the fool! With dungeons as deep as a well close by!--But he cares nought, so that he get the land. How is this step to be overleaped? Ha! here they come!"
In a moment or two after, the door of the room again opened, and four men came in; two dressed as noblemen of the Court, and two as inferior persons. Those, however, whose apparel taught one to expect that high and courteous demeanour for which the Norman nobleman was remarkable, when not moved by the coarse passions to which the habits of the time gave full sway, were far from possessing anything like easy grace, or manly dignity. There was a saucy swaggering air, indeed, an affected indifference, mingled with a quick and anxious turn of the eye, a restless furtive glance, which bespoke the low bred and licentious man of crime and debauchery, uncertain of his position, doubtful of his safety, and though bold and fearless in moments of personal danger, yet ever watchful against the individual enmity or public vengeance which the acts of his life had well deserved.
"Well, Dickon," cried the first who entered, "we have thought of the matter well.--But what makes thee look so dull? Has the Prior of St. Peter's made love to thy paramour? Or the king won thy money at cross and pile, or----"
"Pshaw! no nonsense, Ellerby," exclaimed Richard de Ashby; "I am in a mood that will bear no jesting. What is the matter with me? By my faith, not a little matter. Here, my bitterest enemy--you know Hugh of Monthermer.--He was in Mortimer's hands, doomed to death, his head was to be struck off this morning at daybreak. Mortimer and Pembroke were to divide his lands; and I and Guy de Margan to have revenge for our share----"
"I would have had a slice of the lands too," interrupted Ellerby, "or a purse or two of the gold, had I been in your place.--Well?"
"Well! Ill I say," replied Richard de Ashby. "What would you? the fool Mortimer, instead of plunging him into a dungeon where no escape was possible, leaves him in his chamber, thinking he cannot get out, because the window is some twenty or thirty feet from the top of the wall, with a sentry pacing underneath. Of course the man who knows his life is gone if he stays, may well risk it to fly, and when the door is opened this morning, the prisoner is gone; while on the wall of the room, written with charcoal, one reads--'My Lord the Prince,--Taking advantage of the permission you gave, in case the base falsehood of my enemies should prevail against me, and having been condemned to death unheard, ere you could return to defend me, I have escaped from this chamber, but am ever ready to prove my innocence in a lawful manner, either by trial in court, or by wager of battle against any of my accusers. Let any one efface this ere the Prince sees it, if he dare.'--With this brag he ended; and now Guy de Margan raves--but Mortimer and Pembroke laugh, believing that they shall still share the lands! I threw some salt into their mead, however, telling them that as they had left him with his head on, he had a tongue in it that would soon clear him at the Prince's return, and as he had saved his life would save his lands, also.--Is it not enough to drive one mad, to see such fools mar such well-laid schemes?"
"No, no," replied the man who had followed Ellerby, "nothing should drive one a whit madder than the drone of a bagpipe drives a turnspit dog.--Give a howl and have done with it, Sir Richard."
"I will tell you what, Dighton," said Richard de Ashby; "you men wear away all your feelings as the edge of a knife on a grindstone----"
"That sharpens," interrupted Dighton.
"Ay, if held the right way," replied Richard, "but you have never known hate such as I feel."
"Perhaps not," answered Dighton, with a look of indifference, "for I always put a friend out of the way before I hate him heartily.--It is better never to let things get to a head. If on the first quarrel which you have with a man, you send him travelling upon the long road which has neither turning nor returning, you are sure never to have a difference with him again, and I have found that the best plan."
"But suppose you cannot?" asked Richard de Ashby. "You may be weaker less skilful, may not have opportunity--suppose you cannot, I say?"
"Why then employ a friend who can!" replied the bravo. "There are numbers of excellent good gentlemen who are always ready, upon certain considerations, to take up any man's quarrel; and it is but from the folly of others who choose to deal with such things themselves, that they have not full employment. Here is Ellerby tolerably good, both at lance and broadsword; and I," he continued, looking down with a self-sufficient air at the swelling muscles of his leg and thigh--"and I do not often fail to remove an unpleasant companion from the way of a friend. Then if secrecy be wanting, we are as wise as we are strong--are we not, Ellerby?"
"To be sure," answered Ellerby, in the same swaggering manner, "we are perfect in everything, and fit for everything--as great statesmen as De Montfort, as great soldiers as Prince Edward, as great generals as Gloucester, as great friends as Damon and Pythias."
"And as great rogues," added Richard de Ashby, who was not to be taken in by swagger--"and as great rogues, Ellerby, as--But no, I will not insult you by a comparison. You are incomparable in that respect at least, or only to be compared to each other."
"Very complimentary, indeed," said Ellerby, "especially when we come here to do you a favour."
"Not without your reward present and future," replied Richard de Ashby; "You come not to serve me without serving yourselves too."
"Well, well," cried Dighton, who carried the daring of his villany to a somewhat impudent excess--"we must not fall out, lest certain other people should come by their own. There's an old proverb against it"--for the proverb was old even in his day. "But to overlook your matter of spleen, dearly beloved Richard, and forgetting this Monthermer affair, let us take the affair up where Ellerby was beginning. We have thought well of the business you have in hand, and judge it very feasible indeed. We are willing to undertake it. If we can get the old man once to come out of sight of his people alone, we will ensure that he shall never walk back into Lindwell gates on his own feet. However, there is a thing or two to be said upon other affairs;--but speak you, Ellerby--speak! You are an orator. I, a mere man of action."
"Well, what is the matter?" asked Richard de Ashby; "If you can do the deed, the sooner it is done the better."
"True," said Ellerby, "but there is something more, my beloved friend. The doing the deed may be easier than getting the reward. When this old man is gone, there still stands between you and the fair lands of Ashby a stout young bull-headed lord, called Alured, who having ample fortune and fewer vices, is likely to outlive you by half a century, and bequeath the world a thriving race of younkers to succeed to his honours and his lands."
"Leave him to me," replied Richard; "his bull-head, as you call it, will soon be run against some wall that will break it, as I shall arrange the matter."
"But even if such be the case," rejoined Ellerby, "how can we be sure that Richard Earl of Ashby will not turn up his nose at us, his poor friends--as is much the mode with men in high station--refuse us all reward but that small sum in gold which he now gives, and dare us to do our worst, as we cannot condemn him without condemning ourselves likewise? We must have it under your hand, good Richard, that you have prompted us to this deed, and promise us the two thousand pounds of silver as our reward."
Richard de Ashby looked at him with a sneering smiles though his heart was full of wrath, and he answered--
"You must think me some boy, raw from the colleges, and ready to play against you with piped dice. No, no, Dighton! Ellerby, you are mistaken! Being all of us of that kind and character of man who does not trust his neighbour, we must have mutual sureties, that is clear. Now hear me:--I will make over to you by bond, this day, my castle in Hereford, with all the land thereunto appertaining.--You know it well.--In the bond there shall be a clause of redemption; so that if I pay you two thousand pounds of silver before this day two years, the castle shall be mine again. Such is what I propose. But, in the meantime, you shall give me a covenant, signed with your hand, to do the deed that we have agreed upon. Then shall we all be in the power of each other."
"And pray what are we to have?" asked one of the two inferior men, who had followed the others into the room, and who seemed to have been almost forgotten by the rest.
"What you were promised," replied Richard de Ashby; "each of you fifty French crowns of gold this night, when the deed is done!"
"Ay," cried the spokesman; "but we must have a part of that two thousand pounds of silver."
But Dighton took him by the breast, in a joking manner, saying, "Hold thy tongue, parson! I will settle with thee about that. If thou art not hanged before the money is paid, we will share as officer and soldier. You and Dicky Keen shall have a fourth part between you, and we two the rest."
This promise appeared to satisfy perfectly his worthy coadjutor, who seemed to rely upon the old proverb, that "there is honour amongst thieves," for the performance of the engagement. Such, however, was not the base with Richard de Ashby and the two superior cutthroats, who proceeded to draw up the two documents agreed upon for their mutual security.
The bond of Richard de Ashby was soon prepared, and the only difficulty that presented itself regarded the written promise he had exacted from his two friends; for Dighton boldly avowed that he could not write any word but his own name, and Ellerby was very diffident of his own capacity, though either would have done mortal combat with any man who denied that they were gentlemen by birth and education. Richard de Ashby, for his part, positively declined to indite the document himself, even upon the promise of their signature; and at length Ellerby, after much prompting and assistance, perpetrated the act with various curious processes of spelling and arrangement.
"And now," said Richard de Ashby, when this was accomplished, "all that remains is to lure the old man from the castle, which we had better set about at once; for if Alured were to return, our plan were marred."
"But upon what pretence," asked Dighton, "will you get him to come forth?"
"I have one ready," answered Richard de Ashby; "one that will serve my purpose in other respects, too. But who we shall get, to bear the letter, is the question."
"Why not the woman you have with you?" said Ellerby. "We could dress her up as a footboy."
"No," replied Richard de Ashby, thoughtfully, "no!--I did buy her a page's dress to employ her in any little things that might require skill and concealment, for she is apt and shrewd enough; but in this matter I dare not trust her. When the old man and the note were found she would tell all.--She needs some further training yet, and she shall have it; but at present we must deal by other hands.--You must get some rude peasant boy as you go along, and only one of you must show himself even to him. But I will write the note and come along with you myself. There is no time to spare."
Richard de Ashby then--who was, as we have hinted, a skilful scribe--sat down and composed the fatal letter to his kinsman which was to draw him from his home and give him to the hands of the murderers: and, knowing well the Earl's character, he took care so to frame the epistle as to insure its full effect. The handwriting, too, he disguised as much as might be; though never having seen that of the person whose name he assumed, he endeavoured to make it as much like the hand of a clerk or copyist as possible. The note was to the following effect:--