CHAPTER XXXIV.
It was night; and in the castle of Nottingham sat the Princess Eleanor, with one or two ladies working at their embroidery near. Each had a silver lamp beside her; and while they plied the busy needle, they spoke in low tones, sometimes of the rumours of the day, sometimes of the colours of this or that flower, that grew up beneath their hands upon the frame. The princess was differently employed; for though an embroidery frame stood near her also, she had turned away from it, and by the light of a taper at her side was reading attentively a paper which she held in her hand. There was a pleased smile upon her countenance, the high and noble expression of which was seldom what may be called very cheerful, though rarely very sad; for as yet she never had cause for actual sadness; and even during the imprisonment of her beloved husband, amidst the wild chances of civil war, and the daily dangers of faction and strife, her heart had been lighted by high hope and confidence in the all-protecting hand of Heaven.
In every countenance that is at all capable of displaying what is passing in the mind--every countenance, except the dull, unlettered book, where mere animal desires appear written in their unvarying coarseness--there are two expressions; the one permanent, pervading every change and indicating the natural disposition--the inherent qualities of the spirit within; the other, altering with every affection of the mind, brightening with joy or hope, growing dark under sorrow and disappointment, but still receiving a peculiar character from the permanent expression, as the sunshine and the cloud cast different light and shade upon the brown masses of the wood and the wild waters of the sea.
The permanent expression of Eleanor's countenance was calm, and full of that thoughtfulness which approaches, in some degree, the bounds of melancholy; and yet the transient expression was often gay and happy in a very high degree; for that very thoughtfulness and sensibility of character which produced the former, enabled her to love, and hope, and enjoy, with the high zest which sparkled in the latter. And now, upon her countenance was a look of well-pleased relief, as if something had grieved her and was taken away; and after she had read the paper, she suffered her hand to drop over the arm of the chair, looking up, with her large, dark eyes, towards heaven, as noble minds generally do when the heart is busy with high and elevating thoughts.
"I was sure," she murmured to herself--"I was sure that young man was not guilty of that crime with which they charged him; and I am convinced also that he is as little guilty of this that they now lay to his account."
A page stood near the door, as if waiting for some reply, now fixing his eyes upon the ground, now stealing a furtive glance at the pretty faces bending over their embroidery. To him Eleanor now beckoned, saying, "Come hither; take the letter back to my dear lord, and say I thank him for the sight of it. Tell him I would fain speak with him when his leisure serves; and that I beseech him, when the Lady Lucy comes, to send her to me, that I may accompany her to the presence of the king. She will need a friend beside her."
The boy took the letter, bowed, and retired; and Eleanor resumed her work, pausing, from time to time, as if to think, and then busying her hands again, though her mind went on with other things. In about a quarter of an hour the door opened, and Edward entered, with a brow somewhat sad and gloomy. Nor did that expression altogether pass away, though the accustomed smile cheered it for a moment, as he met her whom he so deeply loved.
"She cannot be long," he said, after a few words of greeting. "This is a strange as well as a dark affair."
"But you do not think him guilty?" demanded Eleanor.
"Assuredly not," replied the Prince; "but it has so happened--all has been so arranged, that I fear he will seem guilty though he be not. You read that letter, and you saw how easily he explained all that appeared suspicious in his former conduct; and yet a body of barons, Mortimer amongst the rest, were ready enough to urge my father to put him to death, without those forms and circumstances of customary law which are the only safeguards of men's liberty."
"Do you think they would have executed him?" demanded Eleanor.
"They would have murdered him," replied the Prince, "for such a death without law is murder."
Eleanor put her hands before her eyes, and after a moment's pause, added, "And yet he was innocent, clearly innocent--oh! I never doubted it, Edward! I have seen him, when you knew it not, gaze upon the countenance of my noble prince; and in his face, as in a moving picture, rise up a thousand images of kindly thoughts within;--affection, gratitude, esteem, and admiration; and I could have sworn that he would never plot against your father's throne, however reckless be the men of this world, of faith and honesty."
"I was sure also," answered Edward, "for I know him well, and am convinced that when, with a mistaken zeal, he was once found in arms against us, 'twas that he thought duty and honour called him to do that which wounded his own heart even in the doing.--But 'twas not alone that conviction which made me think the late accusation false," he continued, in a lower tone, that the women near might not catch his words--"I knew the men who made it, Eleanor: I knew Mortimer to be cruel and treacherous; I knew Pembroke to be cold, and hard, and selfish. And now I find," he added, with a smile, "they were to divide his lands between them. Here was Guy de Margan, too--a thing so light and frail, one would scarce think that such a delicate vessel could hold strong passions and fierce hatreds; yet 'tis evident to me that there was no slight rancour there."
"Oh! I know, I know!" replied Eleanor. "One night, when Lucy and her lover--with my connivance, I will own--walked by the moonlight under the southern cloisters at Eltham, this Guy de Margan, with some three or four other young idlers of the court, would have stopped her by force as she was returning to me, when the knight, whom she had just left, came up, and felled him with a blow. But hark! she is coming, Edward. See if that be the Lady Lucy, Alice."
One of the ladies who sat near, rose, went to the door, and returned immediately, bringing Lucy de Ashby with her. She was pale and very sad, but not less beautiful than ever; and as she came forward to the Princess, and knelt down upon the cushion at her feet to kiss her hand, she kept her dark eyes fixed upon the ground, as if she feared that, should she open them, the fountain of tears, which had so lately sprung up, would well over.
"The King has sent for you, fair lady," said Prince Edward, after Eleanor had spoken a few words of consolation to her--"the King has sent for you to ask you some questions with his own voice upon a matter very painful to you in all respects, I fear. But be comforted; the bitter loss you have sustained is one that every child who lives the ordinary length of life must undergo. The death of those we love is a salutary preparation for our own; and, as to the other cause of the anxiety and pain which may mingle with your feelings to-night, be assured that the noble lord who has fallen under some wrongful suspicion has now a friendly voice near to do him justice, and be raised in his behalf. We are confident of his innocence, and will maintain him to be guiltless till he can appear in person and defend his own cause."
The Prince paused, as if for an answer; but Lucy would not trust her voice with many words, merely replying, "I thank you deeply, my most gracious lord."
"I will go then to the King," continued Edward, "who has been expecting your arrival for some time. The Princess will accompany you to his presence, when he is ready to receive you. So be calm, dear lady, and firm; and, ever before you reply, think well what you are saying."
The Prince quitted the room, and Eleanor proceeded to give that womanly comfort to her fair young friend which was better calculated to support and calm her than even the Prince's encouraging tone; for whatever may be the wisdom and the strength of man's exhortations, there is a roughness in them far different from that soothing balm which was given to the lips of woman to enable her to tranquillize and console.
But little time, however, was afforded them for conversation, a summons being almost immediately received for the lady Lucy to appear before the King; and drawing the fair girl's arm through her own, Eleanor led her to the hall where Henry was seated. The first glance of the King's countenance shewed that he was in an irritable state of mind. Weak and vacillating, as well as oppressive, he yielded, it is true, to the influence of his wiser and nobler son, but not without impatience and resistance.
The Prince was now standing on his right hand, a circle of nobles was formed in front, and next to Edward appeared Alured de Ashby--his brows bent, his eyes cast down upon the ground, and his left hand resting upon the hilt of his sword. He gave no glance towards his sister as she entered, but remained stern and gloomy, without moving a feature or a muscle. The Princess seated herself in a chair beside the King, but still holding Lucy's hand, and drawing her gently close to her side.
"Lady," said Henry, smoothing down his look, and affecting a tone of sadness, "we have been compelled to send for you, even though we thereby break in upon the sanctity of your sorrow; for it becomes necessary immediately, or at least as speedily as may be, to ascertain the author of a terrible crime, which has deprived you of a father, and us of a loving subject and faithful friend. Speak, then, and tell us what you know of this matter."
"Sire, I know nothing," replied Lucy, "but that my poor father left me in health some short time before the hour of three yesterday, and that long after, while I was speaking with my cousin Richard, who had just arrived from Nottingham, news came that my father was murdered."
"Nay," said the King, "we must hear what took place previously regarding the gentleman accused of this offence."
"I know not who is accused, sire," replied Lucy, looking up with an air of surprise; "I have not heard that the murderer was discovered."
"The gentleman on whom strong suspicion lights," rejoined the King, in a stern tone, "is an escaped prisoner from this castle, Hugh de Monthermer."
Lucy clasped her hands with a start, and turned as pale as death. But the next instant, the blood rushed glowing into her face, and throwing back her head with a sparkling eye and a curling lip, she cried--"It is false! my lord the King--it is false!--I know whence this foul suspicion has arisen. Ay, and perhaps art may have overdone itself. I have gained a light I never thought of till now, which may yet perhaps bring the felon to justice."
The King seemed somewhat surprised at the sudden energy which had taken possession of the fair and gentle being before him.
"Pray tell me," he said, after gazing at her for a moment "whence you think this suspicion has arisen, since you say you know."
"It has sprung, sire," replied Lucy, in a calmer tone--"it has sprung from a letter which was given to my father shortly before his death. He was with me at the time. We were speaking of him who is now accused of a deed that he never dreamed of, and my father showed me the letter, saying, it came from him. I answered instantly that it was not his writing, which I have often seen. My father replied that he must have made some clerk write for him, as is so common. The explanation satisfied me, and I thought no more of it till this moment; but now I see that letter was a forgery to lure my poor father to his death."
"You read the letter, then?" enquired the King.
"I did," replied Lucy.
"Can you repeat what it contained?" asked Edward, with a look of keen anxiety.
"The matter, not the words," answered Lucy, her voice slightly faltering. "It told my father that Hugh de Monthermer, doomed to death unheard, though innocent, had escaped from the castle of Nottingham, leaving behind his fair fame undefended; and it besought the Earl to meet him alone at the place called the Bull's hawthorn."
"The very place where he was murdered," said a voice from the circle.
"Peace, Sir Guy de Margan," cried Prince Edward, turning suddenly upon him; "you are a known enemy of the man accused."
"I, my lord!" exclaimed Guy de Margan.
"Ay, sir," replied the Prince, "we know more than you suppose. You hate him for chastising your insolence towards a lady; and we little doubt that you were well aware the friar whom you accused of carrying treasonable communications between him and Sir John Lemwood, had only been sent by the old Earl of Monthermer to beseech Sir John not to risk the life and honour of his friends by hopeless rebellion. I have it, sir, under the knight's own hand, and have also reason to believe you knew it when you made the charge. Let me not discover that you are bringing other false accusations, for there is a punishment for such offences."
"Go on, lady," said the King, as Guy de Margan shrunk back from the stern eye of the Prince. "Go on. What more did the letter say?"
"I think it promised, sire," replied Lucy, "to give my father full proof of the innocence of the Lord Hugh, and it besought him to come alone, not even bringing a page with him. But I assert now, my lord, that letter was a forgery of some one to decoy my poor father to his death."
"May it not," asked the King, "have been the letter of an angry and disappointed man, seeking means to wreak his vengeance upon one who had denied him his daughter's hand, and disappointed his hopes? Here it is proved, fair lady that your lover and your father quarrelled, and that the Earl promised to meet him--wherefore, or when, no one knows,--and that as soon as this young stubborn lord makes his escape from this castle of Nottingham, your father receives a letter from him, calling upon him to come alone to a secluded place. Your father is there found murdered; the boy that bears the letter is bidden to tell no one that it comes from Hugh de Monthermer; it wants but the letter to be in his writing to make the whole case clear enough."
"My lord," replied Lucy, earnestly, "clear your mind from the false tales of deceitful men. Hugh and my father did not quarrel; though natural disappointment regarding one whom he loved--though scarcely worthy of such love--might make the friend of your noble son speak loud and hasty words, even to the father of his promised wife. But they did not quarrel, sire. My father saw him go, in the full hope that he would prove his innocence before your Majesty, and induce you to withdraw the bar you had placed against our union--He came and told me so, the moment Hugh was gone. Then, sire, as to the promised meeting, I can tell you, wherefore, and when, and where, from my dead parent's lips. It was to be here in this presence; it was to be at one hour after noon yesterday it was to hear him fully exculpate himself of the charge then made against him, not only in the presence of your Majesty, but in the presence of Prince Edward also; and the noble Prince himself knows that my father sent a messenger to him, calling him to Nottingham with all speed, lest the voice of many enemies without one friend might prevail even with your majesty."
"It is true," replied Edward, "the messenger came, and had he not been kept from me somewhat foolishly, I should have been here shortly after noon this day."
"He did wrong," said the King, "to suspect that we would not do him justice."
The colour came into Edward's cheek, and he bent down his eyes upon the ground, feeling the ridicule of his father talking of justice, when so gross an act as the late condemnation of Hugh de Monthermer had just been committed. But Henry went on to cross-question poor Lucy, to whom zeal and anxiety for her lover had given a temporary strength which was now failing rapidly.
"You said, lady," he continued, "that the explanation which your father gave of this letter being written in another hand satisfied you completely at the time. What makes you think now that it is a forgery?--Has love nothing to do with the defence?"
The colour mounted into Lucy's cheek, and Eleanor was about to interpose, to shield her from such questions, before such an assembly. But the poor girl gained courage both from the depth and strength of her own feelings, and from the discourteous mockery of the King. She raised her eyes, bright and sparkling, to his face, and answered--"Perhaps love has, my lord. But has hate no part in the accusation?--God in his mercy grant that it may have none in the judgment!"
A dead silence succeeded for a moment to this bold reply; and then Lucy, turning pale again and dropping her eyes, went on to say--"You asked me why I think it forged, my lord? Because I now see a motive for the forgery, which I did not see before--because I perceive no cause why Hugh de Monthermer should not write with his own hand--because he could have had still, less to kill the father of her beloved--because he did not even sign the letter; for the name was not his writing--because not even the seal was, from his signet. These are strong reasons, sire--even," she added, with the tears rising into her eyes--"even if there were not a reason stronger still:--that he has ever been honest, honourable, and true; that no mean, dark act lies chronicled against him; that his whole life gives the lie to the accusation; and that he has never taken advantage of any opportunity to do a thing that he thought to be wrong, even when the opinion of the world might have extolled the act."
She wiped the tears from her yes, for they were now running; over fast, and Eleanor rose from her seat, saying, "I beseech you, sire, let her depart. She is grieved and faint--I see it."
"One more question," rejoined Henry, "and she shall go. You say, lady, that you see a motive for the forgery;--is it that you have any suspicion of another having done this deed?" Lucy ran her eye round all the circle, suffering it to pause for a moment upon the face of Richard de Ashby, which turned pale under her glance. She carried it round to the other extreme, however, and then replied, "I have a strong suspicion, sire."
"Of whom?" demanded the King, eagerly.
"Forgive me, gracious lord," answered Lucy; "though strong, it is but suspicion, and I, for one, will not make a charge upon suspicion alone. But let me warn my brother Alured, who is too noble to doubt and too brave to be prudent, that those who have destroyed the father may not have any greater tenderness for the son."
Again her words were followed by a silent pause, and Eleanor, taking advantage of it, drew Lucy away, saying, "We have your leave, sire--is it not so?"
The King bowed his head; and the moment the Princess, her fair companion, and her attendants, had departed, a buzz ran round the room, while the Prince and the King spoke in a low tone together.
The young Earl of Ashby, let it be remarked, had not uttered one word during the whole of his sister's interrogation, and had scarcely moved a muscle from the time she entered, excepting changing his hand occasionally from the pommel of his sword to the hilt of his dagger. But he now stepped forward, as soon as Edward raised his head, saying, "Sire, this is a doubtful case, which, without farther evidence, cannot be tried by an ordinary court. Perhaps Lucy is right, and Hugh de Monthermer innocent. She loves him, and I love him not; but still I will do justice to him, and own that the case is not proved against him, so far as to warrant his peers in condemning him; but there is an eye that sees, though ours be blinded--there is a Judge to decide, though mortal judges are debarred of proof. To that great Judge I will appeal the cause, and my body against his try, under God's decision, whether this man be guilty or not guilty. A son must not sit quiet, even under a doubt concerning his father's murderer; and I do beseech you, sire, to cause proclamation to be made over the whole land, that Hugh de Monthermer stands charged with the murder of William, Earl of Ashby, and is bound to appear and clear himself within fourteen days of this time."
"I must not refuse," replied the King; "the request is just and lawful."
"I must, moreover, entreat you, my lord," continued the young Earl, "not to proclaim the name of the accuser. I say it in no vanity, for, though my lance be a good one, there is not a better in all Christendom than that of Hugh de Monthermer. But yet I doubt that he would meet me in the field, on such a quarrel as this. For his love's sake, he would not bar himself for ever from Lucy's hand, by risking the death of her brother--that is to say, if he be innocent."
"That is fair, too," replied the King; "Lord Pembroke, see such proclamation made!--and now to more cheerful thoughts! for, by my faith, our time passes here but gravely."
CHAPTER XXXV.
The forest of Sherwood, which we have already had so much occasion to notice, though at that time celebrated for its extent, and the thickness of the woody parts thereof, was not even then what it once had been, and vestiges of its former vastness were found for many miles beyond the spots where the royal meres, or forest boundaries, were then placed. A space of cultivated country would intervene; meadows and fields would stretch out, with nothing but a hawthorn or a beech overshadowing them here and there; but then suddenly would burst upon the traveller's eye a large patch of wood, of several miles in length, broken with the wild, irregular savannahs, dells, dingles, banks, and hills, which characterized the forest he had just left behind.
This was especially the case to the north and east, but one of the largest tracts of woodland, beyond the actual meres, lay in the south-eastern part of Yorkshire. It was separated by some three or four miles of ground irregularly cultivated, and broken by occasional clumps of old trees, and even small woods, from Sherwood itself, and, being more removed from the highway between the southern portion of England and the northern border, was more wild and secluded than even the actual forest.
In extent it was about five miles long, and from three to four broad, and had evidently, in former times, been a portion of the same vast woody region which occupied the whole of that part of England. No great towns lying in the country immediately surrounding it, and no lordly castle, belonging to any very powerful baron, this tract was without that constant superintendence which was exercised over the forest ground in the southern parts of the island; and the game was left open as an object of chase, alike to the yeomen of the lands around, the monks of a neighbouring priory, and some of the inferior nobles who held estates in that district.
Under a yellow sandy bank, then, upon the edge of this wood, with tall trees rising above, and the brown leaves of autumn rustling around, sat the old Earl of Monthermer, with his nephew, Hugh, six or eight of his own retainers, and four of the band of the bold Outlaw, finishing their forest meal, on a fine afternoon, some three days after the escape of the young nobleman from Nottingham Castle.
The old Earl and his own personal attendants had all donned the forest green, but Hugh still remained in the same attire which he had worn at the court; and looking daily for the intelligence that Prince Edward had justified him with the King, and pleaded his cause with the old Earl of Ashby, he entertained not the slightest intention of taking upon him either the outlaw's life or garb.
His uncle, indeed, was of a somewhat rougher school of chivalry than himself, and, from his earliest days till his hair had grown white with age, had known little but a life of adventure and privation, so that the calm and tranquil passing of peaceful hours seemed dull and wearisome to one whose corporeal vigour was but little decayed, and the wild sports of the forest, the mimic warfare of the chase, the constant change of circumstance, the very dangers of the outlaw's life, were to him as familiar things, pleasant as well as wholesome in their use. The old Earl had never loved but once, and that had been in early days, but love had been followed by bitterness and regret; and fixing his hopes upon his brother's son, he had forsworn the bonds of domestic life, and had no tie in wife or children to make him regret the castle hall, when he was under the boughs of the forest.
It was not so, however, with Hugh; and, though it might be agreeable enough, for a day or two, to roam the country with a bold band of foresters, yet he looked forward anxiously to the day of his return to the court, from no great love to the court itself, but for the sake of Lucy de Ashby.
Uncle and nephew, however, and all around, saw cheerfully the sun sinking, growing of a brighter and a brighter yellow as he went down, and beginning to touch the tips of the hills of Derbyshire and the clouds above them with purple and with gold. The merry song, the gay laugh, and jest passed round; and, if a memory of friends he had lost, and fortunes that were gone, and plans that were defeated, and expectations that were blasted, crossed the mind of the old Earl, they shadowed him but for a moment; and, with the true philosophy of the old soldier, he thought--"I have done my best, I have won renown, I have fought for the liberty of my country, and as for the rest, 'twill be all the same a hundred years hence."
With Hugh, hope had risen up, as we have shewn, almost as bright as ever; for in the heart of truth and honour there is a spring of confidence which needs all the burdens of age, experience, and disappointment, to weigh it down for any length of time.
"Look there!" he cried, at length--"there are three horsemen coming hither by the green road! News from the court, I'll warrant.--A letter from Prince Edward, perhaps."
"Who are they, Scathelock?" demanded the Earl. "My eyes are dim, now-a-days; and yours are sharp enough."
"The man that made the millstone," answered Scathelock, "cannot see much further through it than another. And, good faith, my lord, they are still too far for me to tell who they are; though I do wish with all my heart you, my good lord, had trusted to my eyes some six months ago. We should have had no Evesham, then."
"How so?" demanded the Earl, turning eagerly towards him.
"Why," replied Scathelock, "I sent you word there was a traitor amongst you, and told you who he was; but I was not believed. And Richard de Ashby was left to snap asunder the ties between his house and the cause of the people, and to furnish the horse that bore Prince Edward from Hereford. There is more venom yet in that viper's fangs--it were well they were drawn."
"'Tis Robin himself!" cried another of the men, who had risen, and, shading his eyes from the setting sun, was gazing out over the grounds below, while the old Earl had let his head droop at the memories which Scathelock's speech called up, and sat looking sadly on the green blades of grass. "'Tis Robin himself! I see his broad shoulders and his little head. You will hear his horn anon."
"By my faith, your eyes are keen!" cried Scathelock, as the moment after, the mellow winding of the Outlaw's horn came in round, soft notes, up the side of the hill. "'Tis Robin's own mots! There's none can bring such sounds out of the brass as he can. Forgive me, my lord!" he continued, to the Earl--"I have vexed you."
"Not so, not so, good fellow," answered the old man; "'twas but the memories of the past. I acted then as ever, Scathelock--by what seemed best and noblest to be done; and that man's a fool, be his conduct what it will, who, having shaped it by the best light God gives, feels regret when he can lay his hand upon his breast, and say, 'My heart is pure!'--This, then, is Robin coming? Doubtless he brings good news."
"To us, he is rarely an ill-omened bird," replied Scathelock; "but, by my faith, the Abbot of St. Anne's, after he has skinned his poor tenants of a heavy donation, or a king's warden, full of fines and free gifts, or the Sheriff of Nottingham's bailiff and collector, would not think the sight of Robin Hood's nut head and brawny arms the pleasantest apparition he could meet with between Nottingham and Doncaster."
"Well, well," rejoined another, "if he frightens the purse-proud and the greedy, his footstep, on the threshold of the poor and the oppressed, has no ill sound, Scathelock."
"Wind your horn, Tim of the Lane!" cried Scathelock. "He cannot see us though we see him."
In such conversation some ten minutes passed away; at the end of which time Robin Hood and two of his companions came round under the bank, and sprang to the ground in the midst of the little party there assembled. He greeted them all frankly and with cheerful speech; but although no frown wrinkled his brow, it was easy to perceive that his mood was not a gay one.
"Come," he said, after his first salutation to the two noblemen was over, "what have you here to eat? By my life, we three are hungry and thirsty too. A fat brawn's head and a bustard scarcely touched! By our Lady, a supper for an emperor! Why, my lord, it seems you have not finished yet?"
"We had well-nigh ended," said the Earl: "but in such an evening as this one loves to prolong the minutes with careless talk, good Robin. There is rich store of the prior's wine, too, under the bank. Scathelock, it seems, resolved to make us merry."
"He is right, he is right," replied Robin; "the King can make men rich and noble too; but not every one can make you merry for the nonce. I wish it were."
"Why, Robin, you seem sad," observed Hugh de Monthermer, sitting down beside him. "If you bring me bad tidings, let me hear them quickly."
"Good or bad, as you take them," answered Robin Hood; "though some are foul enough for any ears."
"Well, then, speak, speak!" said Hugh de Monthermer. "The sting of bad tidings is suspense, Robin. The burden is soon borne, when once it is taken up.--They do not believe my story;--is it so?"
"No," answered Robin Hood; "the Prince, as I hear, has done you justice. He came over from Derby at once. I took care your letter should reach him instantly; and ere twelve hours from the time your head was to be struck off, the sentence was reversed, and you were declared innocent."
"And this is the administration of the law under Henry the Third?" said the old Earl. "The life of a peer of England is a king's plaything.--This will mend itself."
"Ha!" cried Robin Hood, with a degree of sorrowful impatience in his tone, "others have been making sport of peers' lives besides the King. Has not that news reached you, that Lindwell Castle has a new lord?"
Hugh de Monthermer started up, with a look of half incredulous surprise--"Dead?" he exclaimed,--"the Earl of Ashby dead?"
"Ay, marry," answered Robin Hood.--"murdered! so they say, by the Bull's hawthorn, under Lindwell Green, nor far from the skirt of Thornywood--You know the place, my lord?"
"Right well," replied Hugh de Monthermer;--"but is it sure, Robin?"
"Nothing is sure," answered Robin Hood--"nothing is sure in this world that I know of. But this news is all over the country; and as I came by Southwell this morning, I heard proclamation made upon the Green concerning this sad murder."
"This is most strange," said Hugh; "such things will make us infidels: while fools and villains reach to honours and renown, honest men are driven to herd in Sherwood with the beasts of the forest, and good men murdered at their own castle-gate. Who can have done this, Robin?--Do you know?"
"I know right well," replied Robin Hood. "'Tis Richard de Ashby has done it; and now the base beast--part wolf, part fox, part serpent--contrives to put the bloody deed upon another. But he shall find himself mistaken, if my advice is followed--I will see to it, I will see to it; for I am somewhat in fault in this matter. I was warned of the purpose, and might have stopped it; but in the hurry of other things, I forgot, and was too late."
"Yes," said Hugh de Monthermer, "it could be none other--the base villain! But can you bring him to punishment, Robin?"
"That must be your affair," replied Robin Hood, "I will prove his guilt; but you must punish him."
"That will I, right willingly," cried Hugh de Monthermer, "I will accuse him of the deed, and dare him to show his innocence in arms."
"Nay, that is not needful," answered Robin Hood; "'tis he accuses you."
"Me? me?" asked Hugh de Monthermer.
"What! my nephew," exclaimed the old Earl--"a prisoner or a fugitive?"
"Even so," replied the Outlaw, "ay, and with fair and specious showing, makes his case good; forges a letter, as I hear, and doubtless has hired witnesses, too. I have not been able to gather much of how this new plot has been framed; but, as I was going to tell you, my good lords: on Southwell Green this morning, as I passed, I saw a king's pursuivant with sundry men-at-arms, and stopping amongst the crowd, who laughed to see bold Robin Hood, the outlaw, the robber, the murderer, of much venison, stay and front the royal officers, I heard them make proclamation, saying, 'Know all men that Hugh Monthermer, Lord of Amesbury and Lenton, is accused, on strong suspicion, of traitorously and feloniously doing to death William Earl of Ashby, and that he is hereby summoned to appear before the King at Nottingham, to purge himself of the said charge by trial, oath, ordeal, or wager of battle, at his choice, according to the laws of the realm and chivalry.'--Those are the very words."
"And strange ones, too," said the old Earl. "The form is somewhat varied from the usual course, and the name of the accuser left unmentioned."
"All is out of course now," answered Robin Hood, "and this not more than the rest. But it matters not--'twill come to the same in the end."
Hugh de Monthermer, while this was passing, stood buried in thought, with his arms folded on his chest.
"The villain!" he repeated, at length--"the villain! But he shall rue the day.--I will away at once, Robin, and face him ere the world be a day older. If my right hand fail me against Richard de Ashby, my conscience must be worse than I believe it. I will away at once; I must not lie beneath such a charge an hour longer than needful."
"Nay, nay, my good lord," cried Robin Hood, "sit down and be ruled by me!--haste may spoil all. I have the clue fully in my hands; and although I do hope and trust to see your lance an arm's length through the traitor, or your good sword in his false throat, yet I promise, that you shall, moreover, have the means in your hand of proving to all men's conviction, not only that you are innocent, but that he himself is the doer of the deed. In the first place, then, you must not go to the court of England without a safe-conduct. Methinks you should know better than that."
"Oh, but Prince Edward!" cried Hugh de Monthermer.
"Prince Edward may be away again," interrupted the Outlaw; "you must have a safe-conduct, and the time spent will not be lost. Sit you down--sit you down, my lord, and take a cup of wine.--This news has shaken you.--I will arrange it all. The third day hence, you shall be at the English court; but even then you must contrive to delay the combat for a week. Then, ere you go to the lists, you shall put the proofs which I will give you in the hand of the Prince, to be opened when the fight is over. Come, sit you down, and let us talk of it; I'll show you reasons for so doing. Here, one of your own men shall ride to the Prince, and ask for a safe-conduct.--He may be back by to-morrow night."
Hugh sat down beside him again, the old Lord leaned upon the grass, his faithful followers and those of the bold forester made a circle at a little distance, passing the wine-cup round; and--as with the general world, in which mirth and gaiety and every-day idleness have their common course, while many a tragedy is acting in the houses near--while, in the one group the jest, and the laugh, and the song went on; in the other, was grave and deep thought, regret, and indignation, and that feeling of awe with which great crimes naturally inspire the mind of man. The golden sun went down, and a cold, clear, autumnal night succeeded. A fire was lighted of dry branches, serving the purpose of a torch likewise, and still those three sat discussing the subject which was uppermost in their thoughts with long and earnest debate.
About an hour after nightfall a letter was written with materials which one or other of the forest party was seldom without; and, as soon as it was ready, it was dispatched to Nottingham by an attendant of the old Earl, who promised to return with all speed. Still, however, the Earl, his Nephew, and the Outlaw continued their conversation, while the stars came out bright and clear, and everything around was lost to the eye but the dim outlines of the trees. The wind whispered through the branches with a long, sighing sound, and every now and then, in the manifold long pauses that broke the conference, the rustling noise was heard of a withered leaf dropping upon its dead companions that once flourished green upon the same bough, but had fallen before it to the earth. It was as an image of the passing away of mortal life; and such, probably, as the rustle of that leaf, is the only sound that rises up to superior beings as, one by one, we drop into the tomb which has received before us the bright and beautiful we have known; an existence is extinguished, a state of being is over, and other things are ready to spring up from the mouldering remnants of our decay.
At length, however, the quick ear of the Outlaw caught something more: a creeping, quiet, but rapid noise--and exclaiming "Hark!" he looked around, adding in a loud voice, "Who goes there?"
There was no answer, but the instant after, with a bound from the top of the bank, came down the dwarf Tangel into the party below.
"Ha! Robin--ha!" he exclaimed--"I never yet could discover whether thou art ass or hare."
"How now, sirrah?" cried Robin Hood, striking him a light blow with his hand; "I pr'ythee find more savoury comparisons."
"Why one or the other thou must be," said Tangel, "by thy long ears. Do what I will, I cannot catch thee napping. But I think thou art most like a hare, which we see sitting with one long ear resting, while the other stands upright, like a sentinel upon the top of a mound. But I have come far, Robin, to bring a lady's errand to a truant knight. Here, runaway--here is a billet for thee!--It was sent for Robin Hood or any of his people--the messenger took me for a people, and so gave it to me, though, Heaven knows, they might as well have taken me for a steeple, as far as the difference of size is concerned."
As he spoke, he handed a small billet or note, to the Outlaw, who stirred the fire into a blaze, and was opening it to read, when he remarked some words written on the outside, which ran--"To the Lord Hugh of Monthermer, with speed, if he may be found--If not, for Robin Hood of Sherwood."
"'Tis for you, my lord," said Robin, handing it to Hugh, who instantly tore it open, and ran his eye eagerly over the contents.
When he had done so, he turned back again and read aloud, omitting one sentence at the beginning.
"Your accuser is Richard de Ashby,"--so ran the letter; "and I tremble when I tell you my suspicion lest it should be unjust. But I have marked it on his face,--I have seen it in his changing colour,--I have heard it in the very tone of his voice. There is an impression upon me which nothing can efface that this deed was his. I know not how to counsel or advise, but it is fitting that you should know this; your own wisdom must do the rest. I fear for you; I fear for my brother Alured, too. There is but one between that man and the wealth and rank which he has long envied; he has gone too far to pause at any human means; and my apprehensions are very great for him who stands in the way."
"Thus it is," said the old Earl--"thus it is with the wicked; they very often contrive to cloak their acts from the wise and prudent of this world, but to innocence and simplicity seems to be given light from Heaven to detect them under any disguise."
"Give me a woman for finding out man's heart," cried Robin Hood; "that is, if she loves him not; for then all are fools.--But, come, my lord--let us seek a better place of shelter for the night; my blood is not very chilly, but still I feel it cold.--Make much of Tangel, merry men, and give him a leg of the bustard and a cup of wine; but look to the flask, look to the flask, with him. Remember last Christmas eve, Tangel, when you mistook a stag-hound for a damsel in distress, and sagely wondered in your drunkenness how she came by such a beard."
CHAPTER XXXVI.
In a dark small room, high up in the back part of one of the houses in the lower town of Nottingham, with the wall covered on one side by rough oak planking, and having on the other the sharp slope of the roof; on a wretched truckle bed, with a small table and a lamp beside it, lay the tall and powerful form of a wounded man, with languor in his eyes, and burning fever in his cheek.
On a stool at the other side sat Richard de Ashby, looking down upon him with a countenance which did not express much compassion, but on the contrary bore an angry and displeased look; and, while he gazed, his hand rested upon his dagger, with the fingers clutching, every now and then, at the hilt, as if with a strong inclination to terminate his companion's sufferings in the most speedy manner possible.
"It was madness and folly," he said--"I repeat, it was madness and folly to bring you here into the very midst of dangers, when I showed you clearly how to shape your course."
"We saw a party of horse upon the bridge, I tell you," replied Dighton, for he it was who lay there, with the punishment of one of his evil deeds upon him, "and could not find a ford. But, in the name of the fiend, do not stand here talking about what is done and over; let me have 'tendance of some kind. Send for a leech, or fetch one."
"A leech!" cried Richard de Ashby, "the man's mad! There is none but the one at the court to be found here. Would you have the whole story get abroad, and be put to death for the murder?"
"As well that, as lie and die here," answered Dighton. "Why I tell thee, Dickon, I feel as if there were a hot iron burning through me from my breast to my shoulder, and every throb of my heart seems to beat against it, and add to the fire. I must have some help, man!--If thou art not a devil, give we some water to drink. I am parched to death."
Richard de Ashby walked thoughtfully across the room, and brought him a cup of water, pausing once as he did so, to gaze upon the floor and meditate.
"I will, tell thee what, Dighton," he said, "thou shalt have 'tendance. Kate here, it seems, saw them bring thee in. She is a marvellous leech; and when I was wounded up by Hereford at the time of the Prince's escape, she was better than any surgeon to me. She shall look to thy wound; but mind you trust her not with a word of how you got it; for a woman's tongue is ever a false guardian, and hers is not more to be depended on than the rest."
"Well," answered the man, discontentedly, "anything's better than to lie here in misery, with nobody to say a word to; I dare say you would as soon see me die as live."
"No," replied Richard de Ashby, with a bitter smile, "I should not know what to do with the corpse."
"I thought so," said Dighton, "for I expected every minute, just now, that your dagger would come out of the sheath. But I have strength enough still left, Dickon, to dash your brains out against the wall, or to strangle you between my thumbs, as men do a partridge; and I do not intend to die yet, I can tell you. But come, send this girl quick; and bid her bring some healing salve with her. There is a quack-salver lives at the top of the high street; he will give her some simples to soften the wound and to take out the fire."
"I will see to it--I will see to it," replied Richard de Ashby, "and send her to you presently. I cannot visit you again to-night, for I must away to the castle, but to-morrow I will come to you."
Thus saying, he quitted the wretched room, and closed the door after him. The wounded man heard the key turn in the lock, and murmured to himself--"The scoundrel! to leave me here a whole night and day without help or 'tendance; but if I get better, I'll pay him for his care--I'll break his neck, or bring him to the gallows. I surely shall live--I have been wounded often before, and have always recovered,--but I never felt anything like this, and my heart seems to fail me. I saw worms and serpents round me last night, and the face of the girl I threw into the Thames up by the thicket,--it kept looking at me, blue and draggled as when she rose the last time. I heard the scream too!--Oh yes, I shall live--'tis nothing of a wound! I have seen men with great gashes--twice as large. Ha! there is some one coming!" and he started and listened as the lock was turned, and the door opened.
The step was that of a woman, and the moment after, Kate Greenly approached his bed-side. Her fair face was pale, her lips had lost their rosy red, her cheek had no longer the soft, round fulness of high health; and though her eye was as lustrous and as bright as ever, yet the light thereof was of a feverish, unsteady, restless kind. There was a sort of abstracted look, too, in them. It seemed as if some all-engrossing subject in her own heart called her thoughts continually back from external things, whenever she gave her mind to them for a moment.
Walking straight to the bed, and still holding the lamp in her hand, she gazed full and gravely upon Dighton's face; but the brain was evidently busy with other matters than that on which her eyes rested; and it was not till the wounded man exclaimed, impatiently--"Well, what do you stare at?" that she roused herself from her fit of abstraction.
"He has sent me," she said, "to tend some wounds you have received, but I can do you little good. The priest of our parish indeed gave me some small skill in surgery; but methinks 'tis more a physician for the soul than for the body that you want."
"That is no affair of thine," replied the man, sharply--"look to my wound, girl, and see if thou hast got any cooling thing that will take the fire out, for I burn, I burn!"
"Thou shalt burn worse hereafter," said Kate, sitting down by his bed-side; "but show me the hurt, though methinks 'tis of little avail."
"There," cried the man, tearing down the clothes, and exposing his brawny chest, "'tis nothing--a scratch--one may cover it with a finger; and yet how red it is around, and it burns inwardly, back to my very shoulder."
Kate stooped her head down, and held the lamp to the spot where the sword of the old Earl of Ashby had entered, and examined it attentively for a full minute. As the man had said, it was but a small and insignificant looking injury to overthrow the strength of that robust form, and lay those muscular limbs in prostrate misery upon a couch of sickness, as feeble as those of an infant. You might indeed have covered the actual spot with the point of a finger; but round about it for more than a hand's breadth on either side, was a space of a deep red colour, approaching to a bluish cast as it came near the wound. It was swollen; too, though not much, and one or two small white spots appeared in the midst of that fiery circle.
When she had finished her examination, she raised her eyes to the man's face, and gazed on it again, with a look of grave and solemn thought.
"Art thou in great pain?" she said.
"Have I not told you," he answered, impatiently--"it is hell."
"No," she replied, shaking her head, "no, 'tis nothing like hell, my friend. Thou mayest some time long to be back again there, on that bed, writhing under ten such wounds as this, rather than what thou shalt then suffer. But thou wilt be easier soon. Seest thou that small black spot upon the edge of the wound?"
"Ay," he answered, looking from the wound to her face with an inquiring glance--"what of that?--Will that give me ease?"
"Yes," she replied, "as it spreads.--Art thou a brave man? Dost thou fear death?"
"What do you mean, wench?" he cried, gazing eagerly in her face, "Speak out--you would drive me mad!"
"Nay," she replied, "I would call you back to reason. You have been mad all your life, as well as I, and many another!--Man, you are dying!"
"Dying!" he exclaimed, "dying!--I will not die! Send for the surgeon--he shall have gold to save me.--I will not--I cannot die!" and he raised himself upon his elbow, as if he would have risen to fly from the fate that awaited him.
He fell back again the moment after, however, with a groan; and then, looking anxiously in the girl's face, he said, "Oh, save me--I cannot die--I will not die in this way! Send for a surgeon--see what can be done!"
"Nothing!" replied Kate. "If all the surgeons in England and France were here, they could do nothing for thee. The hand of death is upon thee, man!--The gangrene has begun. Thou shalt never rise from that bed again--thou shalt never feel the fresh air more--thou art no longer thine own--thou art Death's inheritance--thy body to the earth, thy spirit to God that gave it, there to render an account of all that thou hast done on earth.--Think not I deceive thee!--Ask thine own heart Dost thou not feel that death is strong upon thee?"
"I do," groaned the man, covering his eyes with his hand. "Curses be upon my own folly for meddling with this scheme! Curses be upon that foul fiend, Dickon of Ashby, for bringing me into it, and leaving me here till it is too late--till the gangrene has begun!--Curses upon him!--and may the lowest pit of hell seize him for his villany!"
"Spare your curses," said Kate, "they can only bring down fresh ones upon your own head. Think upon yourself now, poor wretch!--think whether, even at this last hour, you may not yet do something to turn away the coming anger of God!"
"God!" cried the man--"shall I see God?--God who knows all things--who has beheld all I have done--who was near when--Oh! that is terrible--that is terrible, indeed!"
"It is terrible, but true," replied Kate; "but there is hope, if thou wilt seek it."
"Hope!" exclaimed the man, mistaking her--"hope! Did you not tell me I must die?"
"Ay, your body," replied Kate, "'tis your soul that I would save. A thief obtained pardon on the cross. God's mercy may be sued for till the last."
"But how--how?" cried he, "I know naught of prayers and paternosters. 'Tis twenty years since, when a beardless stripling, I got absolution for stealing the King's game;--and what have I not done since? No, no, there is no hope! I must die as I have lived! God will not take off his curse for aught I can say now! If I could live, indeed, to undo what I have done--to fast, and pray, and do penance--then, in truth, there might be a chance."
"There is still hope," answered Kate--"thou hast still time to make a great atonement. Thou hast still time to save thy soul. God, as if by an especial mercy, has provided the means for you to cancel half your wickedness. I know all the tale: thou hast slain a poor old man, that never injured thee: but I tell thee that another is accused of his murder--an innocent man, who--"
"I know! I know!" cried Dighton, interrupting her, "'tis all his fiendish art!" And then, gazing in her face for a moment, he added, "but why talkest thou to me of repentance?--why preachest thou to me, girl, and dost not practise thine own preaching? Art not thou a sinner, too, as well as I am, ha?--and do not they tell us that the soft sins damn as surely as the rough ones? Why dost thou not repent and make atonement?"
"I do," said Kate, firmly; "at this very hour I am aiming at nought else. Thinkest thou that I love that man? I tell thee that I hate him--that I abhor the very sight of his shadow, as it darkens the door--that the touch of his very hand is an abomination. But I abide with him still to frustrate his dark deeds--to protect those that are innocent from his fiendish devices--to give him to the arm of justice--and then to lay my own head in the grave, in the hope of God's mercy."
"But who tells thee thou shalt find it?" asked Dighton.
"God's word," replied Kate, "and a good priest of the holy church, both tell me that, if, sincerely repenting, I do my best to make up for all that I have done amiss--if, without fear and favour, I labour to defend the innocent even at the expense of the guilty, I shall surely obtain mercy myself in another world, though I wring my own heart in this."
"Did a priest say so?" demanded Dighton, looking up, with a ray of hope breaking across his face--"send for that priest, good girl!--send for that priest!--quick! He may give me comfort!"
Kate paused for a moment, without reply, gazing down upon the ground, and then said, "'Twould be hard to keep thee from the only hope of forgiveness, yet----"
"Yet what?" exclaimed he, impatiently. "In God's name, woman, I adjure thee----"
"Wilt thou do what the priest bids thee do?" demanded Kate.
"Yes--yes!" cried he--"I will do all sorts of penance!"
"Even if he tells thee," continued Kate, "to make such a confession----"
"Ay, ay," said the man, "that's what I want--I want to confess."
"Nay, but," replied Kate Greenly, "not a mere confession to the ear of the priest, buried for ever under his vow, but such a confession as may save the innocent--as may bring the guilty to justice--as may declare who was the murderer, and who instigated the murder?"
"No," cried the man, "I will not betray Ellerby. As to Richard de Ashby, if I could put a stone upon his head to sink him deeper into hell, I would do it,--but I wont betray my comrade."
"Well, then," said Kate Greenly, "you must even die as you have lived.--I can do nothing for you."
"Get thee gone, then, harlot!" cried the man. "If thou art not a fiend, send me a priest!"
Kate Greenly's eye flashed for a moment at the coarse name he gave her, and her cheek burnt; but the next instant she cast down her gaze again, murmuring, "It is true!" Then turning to the wounded man, she said, "I mind not thy harsh words; but it is needless for me to seek a man of God, unless thou wilt promise to do what I know he will require before he gives thee absolution. I promised to let no one see thee at all. To send for any one I must break my promise, and I will not do so for no purpose. Wilt thou do what the priest tells thee, even if it be to make public confession of who did that deed?"
"No," cried the man, "I will not betray him! Get thee gone, if thou wilt!--Curses upon you all!"
Kate moved towards the door, but turned ere she went, and said, "I am in the chamber beneath! Think well what it is to go into the presence of God unrepenting and unabsolved--to meet all that thou hast injured, and all that thou hast slain, accusing thee at the high throne above, without the voice of a Saviour to plead for thee! Think of all this, I say; and if thy heart turn, and thou wilt resolve to do an act of atonement and repentance, strike on the ground with thy sword, it stands at thy bedhead; and I will come to thee with the best physician that thou cant now have. One that can cure the wounds of the spirit."
The man glared at her without reply, and Kate Greenly passed out, closing and locking the door. She paused at the stairhead, and clasped her hands, murmuring, "What shall I do?--He must not die without confession.--He must have consolation--Perhaps Father Mark might persuade him. But he will last till morning. 'Tis now near eight; I will wait awhile--solitude is a great convincer of man's heart." And, descending the stairs, she entered the room below.
Half an hour passed without the least sound, and Kate sat gazing into the fire, unable to occupy herself with any indifferent thing. The time seemed long; she began to fear that the murderer would remain obdurate, and she had risen, thinking it would be better to send for Father Mark at once. She had scarcely taken three steps towards the door, however, when there was a stroke or two upon the floor above, and then the clanging fall of some piece of metal, as if the heavy sword had dropped from the weak hands of the wounded man.
Kate ran up with a quick foot, descended again in a few minutes, and, ere half an hour was over, a venerable man, with silver hair, was sitting by the bed of death; and Kate Greenly kneeling with paper before her, writing down the tale of Dighton's guilt from his own lips.