Once Sir Richard had emerged into the upper and outer gallery he made everything secure, observing the precaution of counting the number of griffins' heads intervening between the sliding panel and the door, whereupon he hurried down to the inner bailey and commanded an equerry to saddle and bring him his stallion.
"God!" the hostler exclaimed, reddening to the line of his stubby hair, "an' 'a canna do such for 'e, Sir Richard. Snip, snap! would 'a head go ... here," touching his neck, "an' 'a did. 'Tis the lord's orders, worshipful knight, ... the lord's orders. Anything else would 'a do for 'e, sir knight. God wot, an' 'a——"
Sir Richard did not wait to hear the conclusion of the hostler's apologies, but tossed him a coin and took his way back into the castle. De Claverlok had been right, after all. The young knight was, like his friend, a prisoner in Yewe.
Without stopping to plan out a wise course of action, he rushed straightway into the presence of Lady Anna and impetuously claimed his right to know the reason for his forcible detention.
"How doth the moth flutter," said she, laughing gaily, "when the glittering, golden home doth suddenly become a cage! Marry—marry!" she added, changing her tone, and bestowing upon Sir Richard the most languishing of glances, "are you tired of my company, dear Richard?" she asked.
If it had not been for the picture of the fair-haired youth impressed indelibly upon the young knight's mind, she would doubtless soon have won him over to her again. As it was, however——
"'Tis not that, Lady Anna," he answered firmly; "but I am dooms weary of playing the wooden pawn upon the squared board—with no kind of conception of where or why I am being moved this and that way about! Yea—or even the kind of game in which I am playing such a stupid and involuntary part."
"Say not thus, Sir Richard," Lady Anna murmured softly, laying her warm hand upon his. "Tell me, I pray you, and what becomes of the pawn after it be advanced from square to square above the breadth of the board to the farther rank? Tell me, what becomes of it, I say?"
"But scant knowledge have I of the game of chess," Sir Richard grumbled. "I' faith, madam, I neither know nor care."
"Ah! But you should both know and care, dear friend," Lady Anna pursued. "Let me tell you then that it gains power according to the wish of the mind that picked out its zig-rag course. Even it may become a royal piece, Richard. Have patience yet a little while, ... but have patience. Worse predicaments there are than that of playing the moving pawn, I give you warrant."
So far as any definite understanding of his position was concerned, this was the beginning and the end of everything he was able to achieve through Lady Anna. He tried his bravest before leaving her to impress upon her the idea that he was willing to reconcile himself with the circumstances of his surroundings. Indeed, he entertained something of a shrewd suspicion that this was not far from true. His position certainly partook of a most fascinating admixture of unreality and romance that came near to capturing his imaginative fancy. He was now inclined to regard the entire series of events as something in the nature of a gay lark, to which each exciting incident was contributing its separate thrill of enjoyment. To effect the release of de Claverlok and make his own escape would furnish a capital finish to the whole. In order to carry out these purposes he determined in the future to conduct himself with the utmost circumspection. "An it is to be a game," he said to himself, "I'll take a hand in the playing of it myself."
After leaving Lady Anna he strolled carelessly into the tilting-yard, for the ostensible purpose of viewing the elaborate preparations for the approaching tournament, which were now nearly completed. He made a mental calculation of the height of the eastern tower, which was the one accessible from the secret passageway. He estimated it roughly to be nearly one hundred and fifty feet.
A line over the battlements would be the only way down. It would be manifestly impossible to carry a rope of that length through the halls and galleries. So he hit upon the scheme of concealing lengths of it beneath his cloak and splicing them together after reaching the secret exit. By allowing the knotted ends to dangle down the well leading to de Claverlok's dungeon, he concluded that they would be safe enough from discovery.
He accordingly started his pilfering expeditions on the next morning at the hour when Lady Anna was engaged with her pupil. Day after day Sir Richard kept at his task, and always he would see her beside the boy, at the same hour and in the same attitude; and always he would steal a long glance within the room as he crept cautiously by. Twice during this time he lowered himself down the ladder to visit with de Claverlok, taking with him a flagon of wine and a few dainties from the Douglas's table. But the grizzled knight warned him to discontinue his subterranean excursions, as there was danger of running into the guard regularly administering to his needs.
Following out the veteran's advice, Sir Richard made, after that, but one trip in the day, carrying each time something like ten feet of stout hemp. On but one occasion did he come near to being discovered, and his escape was then of the narrowest.
While he was in the ordinance room one morning he was startled by its tubby little keeper coming suddenly upon him just after he had hidden a rather more generous length of rope than usual beneath his shoulder-cape. Sir Richard made out to be examining one of the brass cannons.
"That are a bonnie piece, worshipful knight," said the keeper proudly. "A right bonnie piece, Sir Richard. She'll a-come you through a two-foot wall, sir, as smooth as a tup-ny whistle-pipe." Here he paused, scratching his bullet head, and taking up the end of the coil of rope from which Sir Richard had cut the piece inside his cape. "'Tis a muckle strange thing how the good hemp do vanish," he pursued in a puzzled way, "a muckle strange thing. Once 'a be a-thinkin' as what every rogue in the castle were a-stealin' o' rope's-ends to choken their knavish throats. But every rag-tailed son of 'em do answer to the daily roll. Not one of 'em be a-missin'; not one, sir."
"Mayhap you'll be in trouble for not keeping a closer watch," observed Sir Richard. "Here will be money enough to buy you a new coil the next time you get you into Bannockburn."
It was on the morning that the young knight was carrying up the last splicing of rope but one that he missed Lady Anna from her accustomed place beside the youth's knee. Hastily knotting and securing the rope around a rung of the iron ladder he hurried back along the passageway. Pausing beside the youth's room he again looked through the window. The boy was still alone, and pacing back and forth across the room in that which seemed to be a paroxysm of grief and anger, clenching his blue-veined hands, throwing pillows madly about the floor, and soliloquizing with a bitter and impassioned vehemence. Experiencing an indescribable sort of fascination, Sir Richard stopped to listen.
Ah! Woe is me—woe, woe is me!" the youth was crying bitterly. "To think that I must forget my home, my generous father, my brothers, and my dear, kind sister. That I must deny even my good and gentle mother who bore me into the world and suckled me at her bosom! And here am I giving her sorrow of my death when I am living! Woe—woe! Better—far, far better that my final act should be the rescuing of one truth out of this tissue of black and damning lies! Aye—" he gasped, glaring with eyes wide distended around the room—"an the means were but at hand, I could do it even now! But how I tremble when I but think of it.... My hand.... See how it doth shake—palsied with horror of the grisly phantom! Even now," he whispered hoarsely, "I can see them bringing in the winding sheet. Nay—nay, I dare not! Fear, that doth withhold my craven arm, doth set his grinning skull at every exit and bid me stay."
Then, throwing himself at full length upon the floor, the youth resigned himself to a fit of tempestuous weeping.
Overwhelmed by a feeling of deepest sympathy for the suffering boy, and oblivious to all things else—his own safety, the safety of de Claverlok—Sir Richard strode back along the passageway, unbarred the secret door leading into the youth's apartments, and impetuously gave himself admittance therein.
In another moment the young knight was beside him, and, stooping, touched him lightly upon the shoulder.
"Ah! Lady Anna, ... that you should see me thus," murmured the youth without lifting his head from his arms. "They said to me that you were suffering of an indisposition and would not visit here to-day. Can you, ... will you grant me pardon?" he added, sighing deeply.
"Fear not," said Sir Richard gently. "I am come to succor thee, good youth."
Softly though the young knight had spoken, at the first sound of his voice the youth leapt wild-eyed to his feet. Without uttering a word, and with hands outspread before his face, he moved slowly backward against the wall.
"I pray you, be not afraid, good my youth," said Sir Richard reassuringly. "I can show you now a manner of gaining freedom from your unhappy imprisonment. A way of winning back to your abandoned home. Come, permit me to be your friend. Let hope smooth away the wrinkles from your brow and suffuse your countenance with somewhat of joy. Escape is at hand."
"But what would she say?" the youth whispered, looking in a frightened manner toward the door.
"She shall not know," Sir Richard promised.
"Aye—but thou canst keep nothing from her. Nothing! Even she can read the heavens, and divine the inner workings of a mind. The stars whisper to her their dark secrets—the stars!"
"Nay, prate not thus. I tell you the way is open. This very night you may be free."
"But I—I cannot leave her, sir knight. I love her. Pity me, ... but leave me. And how didst thou come here?" the youth suddenly added. "Saving Lady Anna and the serving-men, thou art the very first to enter within these rooms."
Upon gaining the youth's promise to observe an inviolate secrecy, Sir Richard explained the manner of his coming. When he had made everything clear, the boy took his arm and led him beside a desk upon which were scattered many papers.
"Knowest thou what these are, sir knight?" the youth inquired. "They are messages to my simple home; messages to my sweet mother; messages full of endearing terms and deep regrets; messages signed with mine own true and once honest name, Perkin Warbeck; messages which I dare never send, but write and read; and read again, gaining a sort of comfort from the double task. Why must I forswear my good name, sir knight? I know not. Why am I here? I know not—what shall become of me; I care not. I am but a shadow encompassed by flitting shades—a phantom in the midst of phantoms, moving in a fog of mystery. Of all, there is but the one thing potent—my love for Lady Anna. And yet—and yet, sir knight, I fear her. I must remain! Go! Leave me, I entreat of thee, for, by thus tarrying, thou art but fruitlessly imperiling thy life."
Earnestly though Sir Richard tried, he was unable to shake the youth's determination to remain. With much of pity in his heart, the young knight then took leave of him, retraced his way back through the secret door and went below. Desiring to take advantage of Lady Anna's temporary retirement, he secured the final cutting of rope, stole again into the hall of the griffins' heads, and made everything ready for de Claverlok's escape and his own, which he meant should be brought off that night.
It was lucky for him that he did so, for, upon that same afternoon, about sundown, there was heard a loud blaring of trumpets from the direction of the wood. Sir Richard at once hurried to the barbecan, from whence he had a view of Douglas and his company as they came marching up the slope.
Among their number he noted a knight who was not wearing the Douglas colors. An oddly tall and lean figure of a man he was, encased from crown to toe in a suit of black armor. An ebon, horse-hair plume floated from his closed helmet, of the same somber hue were his mighty horse and trappings. Sir Richard gathered that he was not a prisoner, for he was riding free.
"Marry, but he makes him a fine brave show!" the young knight mused to himself, as the Douglas's company started to defile across the lowered bridge.
For three days together the air had been of a bitter coldness, and accordingly there followed a great scurrying up and down stairs, so that fires might be set to blazing in every chimney-place. The first inmate of the castle to be greeted by Douglas when he strode within the great hall was Sir Richard. He shook his hand most cordially, leading him to the canopied seat beneath the farther pillars, inviting him to bide at his right hand, and engaging him in conversation for quite an hour.
"So the lists are at last prepared," Lord Douglas said, taking up the subject of the games, which were to begin on the next day. "And we are come in time. 'Twill be the greatest meeting in all Scotland," he boastingly declared, twisting and untwisting the wiry hairs of his beard. "The greatest and bravest in all Scotland. My hand on 't, Richard—and here's hoping you come off with a very surfeit of prizes."
Sir Richard was careful to keep well within earshot of Douglas till the hour of the banquet. At the same time he maintained a close watch upon the actions of Lightsom. He meant to brook no transformation of the fool from his habitual motley to the black. His bells, however, continued all the evening to ring out a merry tune of de Claverlok's freedom from immediate peril.
Around the table they all gathered presently, with every one seeming to be in the happiest of moods. A rare good fortune had evidently attended the affairs of the lord of the castle. Few around the board had ever seen him so amiable and gracious. Apparently recovered of her illness, Lady Anna, agreeable, captivating, beautiful as any of the maids woven in arras upon the tapestries behind her, beamed engagingly from her accustomed seat beside Lord Douglas. Sir Richard remarked the absence of the knight in black from the bright scene of festivity, which set him to wondering who and where he was.
"Well, gentlemen, we'll to the council room," commanded Douglas when the last morsel had been eaten, the last wassail drunk. He arose then, stalking majestically from the hall, with the flock of powdered jackdaws following gravely at his spurred and jingling heels.
From the concluding moment of the feast till the time when he found his way within the pitch dark gallery of the griffins' heads, Sir Richard moved like one in a dream, incidents and people seeming to float around him in a filmy, unreal sort of way. He was in a fever to get de Claverlok and be safely launched upon his journey. He took time, however, to stop on his way to the secret exit in a secluded corner of one of the galleries, where he withdrew from its accustomed place and stole a look at the piece of saffron velvet. He added another to the countless kisses he had pressed against it, and once again renewed his vow of unwavering fidelity to the cause of the imprisoned maiden. There were reasons for his self accusations of inconstancy. But Sir Richard was determined upon redeeming himself so soon as might be after he had accomplished his escape from Castle Yewe.
The deep tones of the bell on the watch-tower were droning out the hour of midnight when the young knight crept stealthily within the gallery of the griffins' heads. Feeling carefully along the wall, he counted the protruding tongues, slid open the panel, and stole noiselessly into the secret passageway. Away ahead of him squares of light, shining from the windows of the council chamber, splashed fantastically against the right wall. Every embrasure opening off the youth's room was cast in utter darkness. In his mind, Sir Richard could picture him tossing restlessly upon a sleepless bed, and his heart rebuked him for leaving him there to fight out his melancholy battle alone. "But I, too," the young knight thought, recalling the boy's sad, parting words, "am but a phantom in the midst of phantoms, moving in a fog of mystery."
In spite of his anxiety to have done with the business in hand and be away, the magnificent scene within the great council hall held Sir Richard fascinated in front of the first window through which he chanced to peer.
In massive silver sconces round about the walls hundreds of candles were alight. Standing upon a raised dais, Lord Douglas was engaged in delivering an earnest oration. The jackdaws around the table marked his every pause with solemn noddings. Viewed as Sir Richard was viewing it, from a great height and through a pane of ruby colored glass, it all appeared grotesquely unreal, weird, and fairylike.
Not a word reached to where he was standing, but the young knight divined that Douglas must have finished speaking, for the conclave of jackdaws arose, and, bowing, remained standing beside their chairs. Then, upon Douglas waving his sword, two pages parted the draperies from the wide entrance, and the lean, tall figure of the knight in black moved in a deliberate and stately manner down the steps.
He was not wearing his casque, and when he had drawn within the full glare of the multitude of lights every feature of his elongated visage was set vividly before Sir Richard. He could not repress an exclamation of amazement.
He recognized him to be the mysterious keeper of the Red Tavern—Tyrrell.
The young knight was not aware of how long he remained standing beside the window, with his face pressed close against its ruby pane. Though he did not realize it, the scene then being enacted upon the mosaic floor far beneath him was one well worth pausing to witness. It was the assembling of the nucleus of a wonderful movement, the deep, still center of a wide whirlpool of elaborate conspiracy and action. From those clear brains were emanating invisible wires and arms of steel, which, clutching the individual, thrust him mercilessly and inevitably ahead in the vanguard of the movement. They were not human down there. Each of them was but a cold, bloodless, and calculating automaton. Lives, to them, were like pinches of sand upon blood-slippery lists, serving but to give purchase to the wheels of their tireless juggernaut.
The young knight watched while Douglas seemed to introduce the inn-keeper to the assembled counselors. Tyrrell's voice must have been uncommonly resonant, for its deep tones came faintly to the ears of the observer at the window. It recalled to him the night of the burial of the hound and the war song. The grace of the speaker's sweeping gestures, as he continued his oration to the men around the table, elicited a genuine admiration from Sir Richard. He kept close to the window till Tyrrell had finished and gone from the hall.
Though the young knight was unable to link himself or his future with the council below, he was sensible of a vague presentiment of a something portentous to his welfare that seemed to communicate itself to him through the walls of the chamber. With an inward sense of creeping fear he started toward the end of the passageway. He noted the trembling of his hand as he laid hold of the iron rung of the ladder leading down to de Claverlok's dungeon. He was afraid of the things that he could not understand.
It was therefore with a deep sense of foreboding evil that he lowered himself to the bottom of the deep well and opened the door of the grizzled knight's dungeon. Upon that afternoon Sir Richard had apprised his friend of his coming, and, saving that he was not wearing his armor, de Claverlok was all prepared and waiting for him.
"Put on your suit of mail," said the young knight hurriedly. "I'll help you to buckle it fast."
"Eh? But I'm not a giant, Sir Dick, that can wade through the moat with my nose above the water. Nor, by the rood, can I swim it with a load of iron upon my back!"
"'Tis solid frozen," Sir Richard said. "We'll walk boldly over."
"And the moon, ... eh?"
"There's no faint hint of it, de Claverlok. Make haste! Things have I seen that have set me all of a-tremble. It may befall that our ways must perforce diverge; an it do, I'll meet you so soon as may be within the deserted shepherd's hut; ... remember, my friend."
"Have no fear, Sir Dick. We'll not be separated. The moat frozen, ... no moon, ... I tell you, my son, that a good fortune is smiling down upon our little adventure, ... eh!"
"Have you brought everything needful?" Sir Richard inquired, when the grizzled knight's harness had been adjusted and they were starting upward.
"Everything. Not even a regret have I left within the damned hole, Sir Dick!"
As they climbed past the floor of the passageway, Sir Richard took note of the fact that the lights within the council hall had been extinguished. Two spots of faint illumination, however, were now shining from the youth's rooms. "Poor boy, he cannot sleep," the young knight thought, and passed upward into the yawning flue.
For days he had been pouring oil over the hinges and padlocks of the trap-door at the top. The bolts yielded noiselessly. Having made everything free, Sir Richard set his back against the planks and gave a mighty heave. There followed upon the instant a startled grunt and a voice rumbled strangely above the door.
"Hi, Jock!" it called. "Didst mark any quaking of the castle just then? No? Well, be damned to me, an' I thought to mysel' th' whole moldy tower were a-givin' around our ears. Has't a nippie o' sack in thy jerkin, Jock?"
Sir Richard divined that the answer to the guard's question must have been a favorable one, for he at once got up from off the trap-door, after which he could hear his heavy steps dwindling in the distance along the runway.
"'Twould agree passing well with the good fellow's health to drink him a gallon of it," de Claverlok whispered as he stepped out into the night and unsheathed his sword. "God's sake! Dreaming of a quaking earth were enough to set a man at tipple, ... eh?"
To knot and make the rope secure around the crenelated apex of the tower was but the work of a moment.
"Go!" Sir Richard whispered. "When the rope swings free I'll be after you."
Immediately de Claverlok's grizzled head disappeared over the side of the embattlements. Sir Richard looked down, watching him as he diminished and became swallowed up in the surrounding gloom. He kept a firm grip of the hilt of his blade against the possibility of the guard's inopportune return.
He waited till he thought enough time had elapsed for de Claverlok to have set his foot upon the frozen moat. He laid his hand upon the rope. It was still taut, and vibrating with the warrior's downward scrambling.
Then, though Sir Richard had heard no sound, a soft arm was suddenly entwined about his waist. A softer voice was whispering close to his ear.
"Shame upon you, Dick, to requite me thus!" it said. "Are you indeed upon the point of leaving me?"
It was Lady Anna. Warm, bewitching, clad in a silken robe, all open at the throat, and loose and light and clinging.
"Yea, Lady Anna, I am going. Let loose of me," Sir Richard said.
"But Sir Richard—Dick, dear, I—I love you. A last good-bye, then," she said, twining her arms more firmly about him. "But why leave me? I tell you truly there an hundred reasons for remaining to one that you should go. Believe me, ... dear Dick. Stay but a moment and listen."
"By my soul, Lady Anna, unhand me! Much would I regret to tear you from me by force," whispered Sir Richard between his closed teeth.
"Then ... your lips, first, Dick," she pleaded.
Her two round arms were close about him now. The perfume of her flowing hair was in his nostrils. The breath of her lips was against his. Again it was the Woman against the Man. The Man felt that heaven and earth were rushing together in a glorious combat. The primal instinct conquered. The Woman had won.
Followed instantly then the thud of a something falling upon the ice-bound moat. The young knight, now freed from Lady Anna's embrace, groped wildly for the rope.
It was gone!
A deep sense of guilt caused by his momentary surrender to Lady Anna's blandishments stirred a very tempest of remorse within Sir Richard's mind, which vented itself in a torrent of bitter words directed toward his fair seductress. All cold and calm and smiling she listened to the young knight's list of accusations.
"Fickle boy!" she said with a gay laugh when Sir Richard had finished. "Know you not that a late repentance is like the wind that blows above an empty sea? But let me tell you, Sir Richard," she added, abandoning the tone of light mockery in which she had first spoken, "that events are transpiring right well for you. Have but a mite of patience.... Wait, and see," whereupon she coolly replaced his poniard within the holder dangling from his baldric, reached for his hand and signified her desire to have him accompany her below. "'Tis a right bonnie and sharp blade, that," she said, referring to the poniard, "and did part the rope full smoothly. But come, Sir Richard. Lord Douglas is waiting to have speech with you."
"By the mass, Lady Anna, and how came you upon my plans?" Sir Richard sullenly inquired when they were come at length into the gallery of the griffins' heads.
He remarked that the sliding panel had been thrown wide open, and that half a score of attendants bearing flaring rush-lights were awaiting their mistress's coming. They all grinned within their beards as the young knight passed before them.
Lady Anna looked up into Sir Richard's eyes and smiled brightly.
"Ah! Sir valiant knight," she returned, "much have you yet to learn. Never should you confide a secret to a weak and lovelorn boy. Let me explain: Wishing much to have an immediate audience with you, my lord dispatched a messenger to the great hall. You were not there. A round of your accustomed abiding places failed to discover you. Your private chamber was searched, but without result. Entertaining somewhat of a shrewd suspicion of my own, which was speedily verified by our fair-haired, youthful friend, I sought you upon the tower, ... errant boy! The rest you know."
Sir Richard made no answering comment. His mind was taken up with de Claverlok. He was wondering what the generous warrior would be thinking of him. With no more than a curt good-night, he parted from Lady Anna at the head of the jutting balcony.
He found Lord Douglas awaiting him in his own chamber. The same in which he had delivered Henry's warrant less than a month ago. Douglas received him with a gracious cordiality, his red bewhiskered face all of a-wrinkle with genial smirks and smiles.
"So, so! Sir Richard," said he, rising and extending the young knight his hairy hand. "You have played the leech, I hear, and have delivered a suffering old warrior out of the womb of Castle Yewe? Well—well!" pausing to roar with laughter; "I looked upon the fellow as your dire enemy, and mewed him up for hurling treacherous lance at you. I pray you, and why did you not affirm that he was indeed your friend?"
"Said I not so at the foot of the stairs upon the first moment of my arrival here?"
"Yea—that you did. But I bethought me that you were but reserving him for your own vengeance. Why—you might have had him free for the snapping of your fingers. Marry—marry! How often do we struggle mightily and in secret for a thing that we might gain in the open, and but for the simple asking."
Deeds that to Sir Richard appeared valorous, and partaking somewhat of the essence of that chivalry which he strove always to emulate, were thus dismissed as mere boyish escapades. His embarrassment and chagrin became more profound than ever.
"By'r lady! An I could but borrow the ears of an ass, I'd be armed at point device," he ruefully declared.
"Nay, nay, Sir Richard, say not thus," replied Douglas. "An all the asses' ears were properly bestowed, let me tell you, our four-legged friends would every one be bereft of those useful appendages. Have done, my young friend, with vain repining. Your act of this night pleases me passing well. Though, an you had left us, as you came perilously near doing, you would have broken your knightly word. For, in the games of to-morrow, did you not agree with Mistress Douglas to break a lance with Bull Bengough? But enough upon that subject. Your head was all awry upon your shoulders. You were not heedful of such slight obligations. Mark you well, Sir Richard, I wished that you should be brought hither so that I might tell you that, upon to-morrow night, following the games, there's to be a conclave held within the council hall. You shall be present. Something then shall you hear that will set your eyes wide open. Some things shall you know that will put you in a better case with yourself than you have ever been. And then, there is another matter of which I wished to speak," he went on, lowering his voice to as soft a tone as he was able to command; "'tis concerning the bit of saffron velvet. You have kept that from me, Sir Richard, but Lady Anna has told me all. What would you say now, my friend, an I told you that I had dispatched emissaries to fetch the maid to your side?"
"What mean you, Lord Douglas? The young lady is imprisoned, and her jailor is even this moment within Castle Yewe."
"How know you that?"
"I saw him through the window of the secret passageway."
"Aye—true, there is a window," returned Douglas in a tone indicating his regret that such was the fact. "And did you hear what he said?"
"Not a word could I hear," Sir Richard openly confessed.
Douglas had been nervously twisting and untwisting his beard. Upon hearing the young knight's negative reply he heaved a deep sigh of relief.
"'Twould have mattered little, an you had," he said. "Well—'twas Tyrrell whom you saw. And henceforward our issues are to be joined. At the meeting to-morrow you shall know everything."
"When will the maid arrive? Through what means will your men effect her freedom? Does Tyrrell know?" was Sir Richard's volley of questions.
"Nay—Tyrrell does not know. 'Twas at the suggestion of your good friend, the Renegade Duke, that I sent for her, who has but just this eve arrived within the castle. He has been laid up with a sickness. But give you a good-night, Sir Richard, and get you to your bed," Douglas concluded, getting up to pull the bell cord above his chair and again tendering the young knight his hand.
Like one walking in a dream, Sir Richard followed the smoking rush-lights of the two pages who were awaiting to lead him to his room. For the third time the words of the unhappy youth, Perkin Warbeck, were recalled vividly to his mind—"A phantom in the midst of phantoms, moving in a fog of mystery."
A sound body overcame an uneasy mind and conscience, however, and he slept peacefully through the fog, with nothing more alarming than a multitude of shadowy de Claverloks to inhabit his dreams. In the morning he was awake betimes, broke his fast, and then wandered out to view the lists, which would soon resound with the huzzas of excited spectators, and the tumult of friendly striving.
To the northward of the walls of the castle tents were thickly dotted over the hillsides, the blue smoke of their fires rising high into the keen, clear air. Horses were tethered to almost every tree; oxen were moving about over the slopes, grazing the frosty grass. In the open spaces knots of men and women were gathered, eating, drinking, and singing. Snatches of their rude songs reached to the young knight's ears as he stood watching the interesting spectacle.
Within the space reserved for the uses of the knights who were to engage in the games, he noted a pavilion bearing his cognizance emblazoned above its entrance. He walked across, stopping in front of it to look up along the decorated stand, with its ribbon-twined pillars, its manifold pennants, its blaze of multi-colored banners all snapping and fluttering in the crisp breeze. It was a brave sight, and sent Sir Richard's blood tingling through his veins. He grew conscious of a keen desire to feel the first shock of the combat.
By now other knights were passing beside him, many of whom were not strangers to Sir Richard's prowess with the sword. They gave him the morning's greeting and passed within their tents. Heralds and pursuivants, dressed in the brightest and gaudiest of liveries, were moving busily about the tilting-yard, engaged upon their tasks of observing that everything was in cap-a-pie order. Presently Lord Douglas and his retinue of inseparable jackdaws entered the stand across the covered bridge that gave into it from the castle. They moved in a body to the front and bowed in concert, wishing him a row of solemn good-morrows. Sir Richard grew to speculating as to what was taking place within their teeming brains. He wished that he might have lifted their coverings for a moment to have a peep within.
Upon returning their ceremonious salutations, he parted the curtained entrance and walked within his tent.
No sooner was he come inside when a seam opened to the right, disclosing a hand holding a parchment with ribbons dangling from its great seal. Sir Richard instantly recognized it to be the document that had been stolen from his wallet. The seam gaped wider then, and Tyrrell's grim visage appeared above the hand.
"Hist!" he whispered low. "I essayed to speak with thee last night within thy chamber, but armed guards were stationed without thy door. Mark ye well what I say, Sir Richard Rohan, for I must perforce say briefly. Here is the message from Henry to Douglas, which I took from thee on the night thou didst tarry within the Red Tavern. Mighty well is it for thee that it was purloined, ... else thou wouldst not have been here to-day. But another of similar import is likely any day to arrive from Kenilworth. Thou art in direst peril. Read it, Sir Richard. But not now.... After I have gone.... I dare not long remain. Thy life and mine would pay instant forfeit were I to be discovered here. Hark ye, ... closer! That red striped lance yonder is worm eaten to the core. I have one for myself hewn from the same piece of wood. When we shall be called opposite in the lists, ... mark ye, now, ... forget not to couch that stick at me. It will shatter to the hilt, as will mine own. At our next meeting, with fair lances, thou shalt have the northern stand. When the trumpet winds, plunge rowels into thy steed's belly and charge at me. But do not engage my shield or person. Gallop by me and make straight for the gate, which will be open and packed with gaping peasantry. I have stationed there two score of brawny men and true, who will part a way for thee. Ride on through and make southward along the Sauchieburn Pass. I will execute a swift demivolte and follow closely at thy heels, appearing to give chase. An, perchance, I fail of getting away with thee, go swift to the Red Tavern and await there my coming. Zenas will be looking out for thee. An I come not, ... well, ... Lord Kennedy shall bear thee messages. Hist! At thy door there. 'Tis the man I have bribed to sew up this rent. Admit him, Sir Richard, and give thyself to the reading of the warrant. Adieu!"
Tyrrell thereupon withdrew his head, and the man went about mending the rent. Sir Richard seated himself upon a stool, holding the unopened parchment. Even now he hesitated before reading its contents, believing that it would be a violation of King Henry's trust. He became convinced, finally, that it was a duty that he owed to himself to do so, whereupon he unfolded and began perusing the warrant. Having finished reading, he crumpled the paper and thrust it beneath his breast-plate. For a long time he sat motionless, with his hands knotted together upon his knees.
"This—this from Henry!" he thought. "Henry whom I have revered and loved and called companion from very childhood! This from the comrade by whose side I fought upon the field of Bosworth!"
A something there was went out of the young knight's life during that bitter moment which he felt that nothing could ever supplant.
Beyond a certain set firmness of his lips that had never been there before, however, when he stepped outside his tent, Sir Richard exhibited no traces of the fierce battle that had been waged within him. He took the seat that had been provided for him in front of his pavilion, and apparently surrendered himself to the full enjoyment of the games, which, by now, were in full swing. He even stamped his feet, clapped together his hands, and "bravaed!" with as unrestrained a vociferance as the most boisterous onlooker in the field.
Beginning next the stand, Sir Richard's tent was the first. Immediately beside it, Tyrrell's had been pitched. The redoubtable Bull Bengough's, who did not put in his appearance till well along in the day, was set beside the gate, the final one of the row.
The young knight remarked well his appearance as he shot into the lists to meet the victor of every preceding combat. The champion up to that hour.
His horse was a silver-gray stallion, broad hoofed, with fetlocks sweeping from above them to the ground. In the matter of gigantic proportions, the warrior bestriding its broad, round back, was in perfect keeping with the steed. He was harnessed in a suit of highly polished steel armor, fluted and damascened. He wore his beaver up, and the features displayed within the opening of his casque were singularly brutal. His eyes were like two glittering beads, hard and pitiless. Above them his black brows marked an uninterrupted and nearly straight line from temple to temple.
When everything was ready and the signal had been given, Bull Bengough charged, bellowing like his bovine namesake, upon his adversary. By sheer force of his superior weight and strength he vanquished his antagonist. Without making the slightest show of acknowledgment of the loud burst of acclamation that greeted his prowess, he rode on to the southern extremity of the lists, where he drew rein, disdainfully awaiting the signal to have at his next opponent.
With the customary long preamble, the heralds announced Sir Richard's name. Two grooms led his stallion to the front of his pavilion. Leaping lightly into his saddle the young knight cantered his horse toward his allotted station in the field.
His name was called through many pairs of lips as he passed beneath the stand. The young knight had won many friends and fair adherents during his stay in Castle Yewe. He signified his appreciation of their good wishes by reining to a halt before the stand and bowing gracefully to the spectators. There followed a renewed burst of applause and laughter when his stallion gravely bent his head, as though in a similar acknowledgment. It was a pretty trick, and one that Sir Richard had spent a great deal of time and patience to teach.
Now, with casques tight closed, Bull Bengough and Sir Richard were awaiting the signal to charge. There was a sinking of many-colored scarves beneath a sea of staring, tense-drawn faces. A profound silence settled over all the field.
They shot away together at the first note of the trumpeted signal. From the start Sir Richard couched his lance at Bull Bengough's helmet. As well might he have attempted to overthrow one of the Pyramids of Egypt, as to have essayed the upsetting of his burly antagonist through engaging the center of his impregnable shield. On account of the young knight's lesser weight, and the superior nimbleness of his horse's hoofs, he met Bengough a yard or more beyond the center of the lists and well within his own territory.
The extreme bulk of his great body rendered the impact of Bengough's treelike lance against Sir Richard's shield like a collision with a mountain avalanche. The young knight felt himself shaken to the very backbone. If the wood had held, it might have been that Bengough would have sustained his wide reputation by sweeping his antagonist off his seat. Luckily for the young knight, however, it shattered to the grasp, and, with speed but slightly diminished, Sir Richard rode on through, with his lance's head wedged fast between the eye-slits of his adversary's helm.
After that it was like sliding a filled hogshead backward off of a moving platform. Sir Richard fancied that he was sensible of a trembling of the earth when Bull Bengough alighted upon it.
Thereupon, amid the loud huzzas of the spectators, the young knight rode to the front of his pavilion and commanded his squire to bring him the red-striped lance. Tyrrell, his next opponent, was riding slowly northward to take his place there at the end of the lists.
Compared with his meeting with Bengough, Sir Richard's contact with the knight in black was almost featherlike in its softness. Their lances, couched well and true, both shattered to their grasps.
It became now the young knight's turn to take the northern stand for the next course. He looked southward toward the open gate. It was choked with humanity, swaying this way and that in wide, serpentine curves. The task of clearing an open space there had already begun.
Upon the sound of the trumpet's blast they made for the meeting place in the lists. But the knight in black was not for a moment in Sir Richard's eye. He saw but the gate, and within it the crowd of densely packed peasantry. Beyond opened out a wide sweep of sloping downs, of free roadways, and welcome forest glades.
He had a fleeting picture as he flashed beneath the arched gateway of a line of determined, stern-faced, brawny men pushing and thrusting as though their very lives depended upon it. They contrived to clear him the narrowest of avenues, which closed together when he had passed through like the waters of a riven sea.
Sir Richard stole a swift look above his shoulder. Tyrrell, moving at a snail's pace, was vainly endeavoring to free himself from the living mass that was eddying about him. Like a pair of long flails, he was waving his arms above his head, and calling down the wrath of Heaven upon his late antagonist for not halting. In the present case his talents as an actor were standing him in good stead. Behind him men were streaming wildly from the stand. Just as the young knight plunged within the forest shadows he heard a bugle wind the tucket-sonuance.
Throwing aside the now useless lance, Sir Richard stretched low along his stallion's neck and sent him pounding over the frozen road at top speed.
To gain to the abandoned shepherd's hut and rejoin de Claverlok was now Sir Richard's chief concern. As to what his subsequent course of action should be he could in no manner determine. He meant, after finding de Claverlok, to journey onward toward the Red Tavern, either to effect the imprisoned maiden's release when he reached there, or to win her away from her abductors should he chance to intercept them on his way. In carrying forward this enterprise he intended, if it were possible, to secure the grizzled knight's aid. After that (Sir Richard planned it all out), a journey to the coast for the three of them, whence they would take ship for France and push forward to Brittany and Duke Francis's court. There they might tarry for awhile till he had secured his patrimony—the which was a something very vague and shadowy to the young knight—and then, last of all, the great, wide world.
Desiring to minimize the dangers of pursuit and recapture, he took the first road leading from the main highway, which chanced to be one winding to the eastward. After about an hour of hard riding, he made out on the roadway, some distance ahead, the gray figure of a monk mounted upon a long-eared ass. There seemed to be something quite familiar to the young knight in the monk's attitude—bent far forward, with the sharp peak of his cowl alone appearing above his narrow shoulders.
The churchman turned to give Sir Richard greeting as he was upon the point of galloping by. It was Erasmus. He arched his brows as though surprised at thus meeting with the young knight.
"Why," said the scholar, as Sir Richard slowed down and took his easy pace, "I fancied that long ere this thou hadst joined my good friend, Bishop Kennedy. We made a vigorous but vain search for thee after that ambuscade among the Kilsyth Hills. But Lord Kennedy doubted not but that the good knight, Sir Lionel de Claverlok, would soon fetch up with thee and bring thee back. Ah! my friend, this fighting! These direful conspiracies! 'Tis indeed a sad thing for both church and populace when jealous factions do thus selfishly bestir themselves."
For quite a space thereafter they rode along together in silence.
"Grant me pardon for my seeming impertinence," at length said Erasmus; "but curious am I to know whence thou hast come, sir knight?"
"I am just riding from Castle Yewe," replied Sir Richard.
"So!" exclaimed the scholar, now lifting his brows in a genuine amazement. "Methought, sir, that thou wouldst not long survive a visit there. Ah! But mayhap no message from Henry was delivered to Douglas during thy stay!"
"Why—friend Erasmus," said Sir Richard, "with my own hand did I deliver it."
"But——"
"Aye—I know full well what you would say. The original was stolen from me, I know. In truth, Erasmus, every mother's son in broad Scotland seems to know. But I had been provided with a copy, the which I delivered as fast as my horse could bear me to Yewe after my escape upon the Kilsyth Hills. I know now that it was a warrant upon Douglas for my undoing, but old fox here stood bravely beside me, and I am riding beside you to tell the tale. I' faith, since leaving Kenilworth, Erasmus, much have I learned of the world's merciless cruelties."
"Aye—well mayst thou say so, sir knight," agreed the scholar in a sympathetic tone. "Listen—and mark well what I have to say," Erasmus pursued. "There is now, and right here in Scotland, a great conspiracy upon foot, the which doth involve, sir knight, a throne, and in which each of two powerful factions is striving mightily to gain but an inch of advantage above the other. Wouldst listen to the advice of something of a philosopher, a great deal of thy friend, and a close student of this question of politics?"
"I would most gladly hear it," declared Sir Richard.
"Then leave this conspiracy-ridden country and embark with me for France. A right puissant friend thou hast in old Duke Francis, sir knight."
The scholar's manner was openly and frankly sympathetic and friendly. Sir Richard was glad to discover one in whom he could confide and in whom he could repose an absolute trust. He accordingly set out to make Erasmus acquainted with the story of his pilgrimage from Kenilworth to Yewe, dwelling, with glowing words, upon the incident of the imprisoned maid and the cutting of saffron velvet. He gave his vow to do devoir in her cause as his reason for not adopting Erasmus's advice of sailing with him for France.
"'Tis a most interesting and thrilling tale," the scholar observed when the young knight had finished his narrative. "But why imperil thy life further by remaining here to set free a maid whom thou hast never seen? A patch of velvet is a dangerously small matter from which to build a vision of purity and beauty."
"An man wore coat of mail who said thus to me," said Sir Richard with a smile, "he'd have my gauntlet at his feet upon the instant."
"Nay, nay, my good sir knight—thou knowest well that I am speaking friendlywise," said Erasmus. "The age of ostentatious chivalry is passing. Anon will come a time when sane deeds and true shall take the place of those of bombast and display. I am speaking from my heart and for thy own good, sir knight. An thou wouldst consent to join me, I should be most happy."
Sir Richard disavowed any intention of leaving Scotland till he had accomplished his self-imposed mission. But he was thankful to have Erasmus for a companion, and continued to ride with him till they came into the town of Kirkintilloch, where they halted together at an inn, supping there and making merry till somewhat later in the evening than Sir Richard had intended to stay. During supper hour they had out their argument upon the subject of the waning of chivalry. That is to say, the scholar argued and Sir Richard listened and denied. After that, to prove to the grave student that chivalry was not in its decline, the young knight had the buxom serving-maid sew him a cord to the patch of saffron velvet, whereupon he fastened it above his eye, vowing that he would not remove it till its fair owner should herself part the string.
About the hour when Sir Richard concluded that he could possibly remain no longer, there was a sharp driving of sleet against the tavern windows. Appreciating that there was danger of missing his way in the darkness and storm, and a warm and comfortable bed appealing more pleasantly to his imagination than a night ride in the cold, he came to the conclusion to make a night of it and remain.
When he came down early the next morning there was a thin scattering of snow on the ground. Upon nearing the tap-room, after instructing the hostler to bring around his horse, he heard the sound of loud talk and laughter. He observed the precaution of peering through a window before venturing inside. He saw, seated about a table therein, a half dozen guards from Castle Yewe.
Without waiting to receive the inn-keeper's reckoning, Sir Richard beat a precipitate retreat toward the stables. Ordering his stallion made ready upon the instant, he tossed the groom a generous handful of coins and made off at a rattling pace through the dull streets of the little town.
He soon drew beyond the limits of Kirkintilloch, and came presently to a road that he fancied would lead him somewhere near to the hut in which he hoped that de Claverlok would be awaiting his coming. His search, however, was unfruitful of result. All day he rode, describing great squares and detours. Upon many occasions he was obliged to plunge swiftly into nearby forests in order to avoid bands of horsemen, which seemed to be scouring the country upon every hand. He dared not stop at another inn, and so took pot-luck in the most remote farm cottages and herders' huts that he could find. The patch upon the young knight's eye proved to be a source of infinite amusement to the pastoral folk with whom he ate and drank.
That night he was forced to seek an asylum within the dismal walls of a monastery, whereupon he became the unwilling recipient of the good prior's gentle harangue upon the wickedness of registering licentious and worldly vows. He charged upon the young knight to seek his Maker's pardon, and remove the yellow patch, the which Sir Richard quietly listened to till his head nodded sleepily above the table. The good father then tendered him his blessing and conducted him to a pallet of straw in one of the unoccupied cells.
He was away at dawn of the next day to resume his wanderings above the moors and downs.
When occupying the hut with de Claverlok he had been so intent upon delivering Henry's warrant to Douglas that he had not troubled himself to register surrounding landmarks. This, coupled with the fact that he was now obliged to keep a sharp lookout for straggling guards and searching parties, rendered his search a most difficult one. Indeed, though much regretting to do so, he was forced at length to abandon it, concluding that the wiser plan would be to strike a straight line in the direction of the Sauchieburn Pass. Upon once reaching there, he felt confident that he could easily retrace his way to the abandoned hut.
It was near the hour of compline when, after having ridden a considerable distance through a forest of pines and hemlocks, he came upon a road stretching through the wood at a right angle to the rather narrow trail that he had been following. As he emerged upon this highroad, which he instantly knew to be the one of which he had been in search, he heard a sharp noise of crackling and breaking twigs to his left. With a ready hand upon his bridle, prepared, if need were, to wheel and bear away, he glanced in the direction whence the sound had come.
Two mounted foot-boys, wearing the Douglas colors, were upon the point of leading a third horse—which was caparisoned for a lady's riding—within the shadows of the trees. Seeking himself to avoid discovery, Sir Richard was not in fear of those in a similar predicament.
So—"What, ho there, boys!" he shouted, riding swiftly down upon them; "can you tell me whether this is the Sauchieburn Pass?"
"Yea, sir knight," one of the foot-boys replied, halting his horse along the border of the road. "And for a-many a wearisome hour, sir knight, have——"
"Sh-h-h!" cautioned the other from the bushes. "Remember, Harold, our heads will surely pay the forfeit of an indiscretion.... Yet, ... 'tis a tiresome business to be held here for none knows how long in a dark and dreary——"
"Oh ho!" the first then interrupted angrily, "and who is 't now that's talking to the ax? Yet—an she would but come—we might return in——"
"Ah ha!" wailed the second; "now you've finished the whole cursed job! My name's not Thomas, an I give you not a sound buffeting for——"
"A truce to your quarreling," interrupted Sir Richard. "I have other business, my boys, besides putting your precious heads in jeopardy. Come ahead, give me your stories after a more complete and less disjoined fashion. By my knightly sword no harm shall befall either of you because of the telling—I am ready."
"'Tis thus, good sir knight," spoke the one whom his companion had called Harold: "Now three days gone our worshipful master, Lord Douglas, ... on whom may God's blessing rest, ... commanded us to trap palfrey for a maid, ride upon the Sauchieburn Pass to the southern extremity of the Forest of Lammermuir and await there her coming. Upon the maiden joining us we were bade to conduct her, along unused by-roads, safely back to Castle Yewe. Full two days have we waited here, sir knight, with nothing better to sleep in o' nights but a thin tent in the forest. Every hour between dawn and darkness we but stand here with chattering teeth, idly shivering and watching, without warrant to sally forward or return. Is 't not, thinkest thou, a sad and dismal undertaking?"
"That it is, Harold, my boy," Sir Richard heartily agreed. "An you but give me pause to consider," he added, "mayhap I may find out a way to aid you in your adventure."
Sir Richard had known at once for whom the boys had been dispatched, and was relieved to discover that the part of his plan relating to the imprisoned maiden was turning out so happily. He was puzzled to understand, however, why the boys had been stationed at such a great distance from the Red Tavern. It was at least a full day's journey from that part of the forest to the inn. It occurred to him that Douglas might have sent guards ahead of the foot-boys, and that when the maid did put in her appearance, it would be in the company of an armed band. While he was trying to arrive upon the wisest course of action, fragmentary whisperings between the foot-boys were carried to his ears.
"By the mass!" one of them was saying, "an it were not for the patch on the eye, and the scrag o' beard on the chin, I would take my oath that 'tis the very knight who overthrew every fighting Jack in Castle Yewe. Can'st not tell, Thomas, by the sweep o' the nose o' him, and the sharp eye—and the brow?"
"Marry! Mayhap, and 'tis," the other said. "I saw him but the once, you must remember. 'Twas when he cut him down the mighty Sandufferin. He was certes a——"
"Hark ye, boys," Sir Richard broke in upon their whispered conversation; "an I agree to yield you somewhat of my assistance, will you take oath with raised hands not to make mention of this meeting to thy master?"
Upon such easy terms they both seemed delighted to purchase the young knight's aid. He thereupon lined them along the road, with uplifted hands, and caused them to repeat the most solemn oath within his power to conjure up. Instructing them to await his return, and promising to do his best to bring along the maiden, he left them smiling by the roadside and fared on southward.
Within a very short time he had drawn clear of the forest. Looking to the left, he noted the spur of stunted pines sweeping down over the moor. Beyond it he could see the bleak dunes and the promontory upon which had been pitched the pavilion of purple and black. The gray mist rising out of the sea made an appropriate and effective background for it all.
His mind was deeply engaged with the subject of his quest, when, upon rounding a rather lofty brae, he came suddenly upon the Red Tavern. Surprised beyond the power of speech, thought, or action he reined in his stallion. For a considerable time he sat motionless, taking in the different points of the structure. There were left no doubts, when he had finished with his examination, but that it was the same. With a redoubled intensity of imagery, the weird tales of the haunted, flying tavern came trooping back to his mind.
How under the heavens the inn had come there he made no attempt to fathom. It occurred to him at first that it must have been standing there all along, but he dismissed this thought when he had noted the fact that, during his enforced march with Bishop Kennedy's company, he would have been obliged to pass beside its door. That it was indeed there, and a palpable something to be accounted for, however, he could no longer deny.
"Well," Sir Richard at length concluded, "I made my entrance upon this mysterious series of mishaps through yon sinister door. 'Twould be most fitting that my exit from them should be by the same route."
Whereupon, like a man in a trance, he rode up, dismounted, and knocked aloud upon the red-daubed planks.