Now that he was no longer moving under the masterful influence of Tyrrell, Sir Richard began to feel brave to throw aside the honors that had been peremptorily thrust upon him. After the manner of an ill-wrought suit of armor, they were galling and wearing upon his unwilling shoulders.
Being innately modest and not desiring fame or power, Sir Richard had always shirked positions in which any obligation of assuming the initiative was concerned; and certainly now he felt no desire to leap at once to the very pinnacle of such positions. Contrariwise, he felt a deep and genuine yearning to be once again, to himself and those about him, just plain Sir Richard Rohan, knight, free lance, and good fellow welcome met to all of his friends. He was moved by no impulse to seek revenge upon King Henry. "For," he argued with himself, "the King did but attempt to do the thing which I, were I in his place, would have been deficient of the courage to do; to render my sovereignty unassailable. An such a momentous matter be at stake, of what slight consequence becomes a life more, or a life less? and if, forsooth, it chanced to be the life of a friend ... well, so much the worse for the friend."
It never dawned upon Sir Richard in his youthful exuberance to consider that there were two questions involved: the one of claiming the throne, and the other of securing a seat thereon. His belief was genuine that the fate of a great empire was suspended upon the slender thread of his choice.
As to his breaking faith with Tyrrell and stealing away without first journeying to the Red Tavern, he did not consider that for a moment.
Overburdened with a sense of the grave responsibility thus imposed upon him, he rode straight through the Forest of Lammermuir without once thinking to open the parcel that Isabel had given into his hand. Had this not been so, Sir Richard would doubtless have suspected a circumstance that was soon to burst upon him in the nature of a wonderful surprise.
The Red Tavern, which, upon each previous occasion when Sir Richard had approached it, had appeared so forbiddingly lonely, was now become a veritable hive of buzzing industry. It was early evening when the young knight arrived there; and, in the obscure twilight, he could just make out the shadowy outlines of many horses tethered to the trees upon both sides of the pass. Scores of blazing, smoking torches set upright into the ground shed a weird illumination over this scene of strange activity.
Guards were stationed closely round about. "Richard Rohan, knight ... and squire," the young knight passed word to a pair of them who halted and challenged him. Plainly he could hear, then, his name passed swiftly forward from lip to lip. When he rode within the circle of yellow light and dismounted before the door above which swung the sign of the vulture, his coming was greeted by an uproarious cheering, in the midst of which he could distinguish loud cries of "Long live King Richard IV!"
Lord Bishop Kennedy was even then awaiting the young knight's arrival, welcoming him after a courteous, formal and dignified fashion. The Lord Bishop laid command upon one of his lieutenants; after which, in almost the flutter of an eyelid, the noise of talking hushed, the lighted torches vanished, and, when the dwindling sound of hoofbeats had died away, the tavern resumed its wonted somber and solitary aspect.
Zenas spread table in the cozy warmth of the chimney-side, where Bishop Kennedy and Sir Richard took sup and drink together. Since his first sight of the tavern the young knight had invested it within his mind with an atmosphere of dark lugubriousness; thus was his surprise all the more great when, upon Zenas clearing table, the dessert was borne in by a silvery-haired woman of a most refined and motherly air, whom Lord Kennedy introduced as grandam Sutherland.
"It doth astonish me," said Lord Kennedy, when she had gone from the room, "how the good grandam hath preserved her sweetness of temper throughout all these years of turmoil and dangers. It was the saddest of haps to her when the young prince died—she was like the gentlest of mothers to him withal."
"And the young maiden must e'en have been a sore burdensome care," Sir Richard suggested.
"Why," quoth Lord Kennedy, "she, sire, is the most noble, amiable, and pretty-mannered of all young maidens I have ever known."
It was the first scintilla of emotion Sir Richard had observed displayed by Bishop Kennedy. His championship certainly appeared genuine. The young knight gathered that the goodman was not particularly well acquainted with her volatile tempers. He bethought him also that it would ill become him to speak belittlingly of one who, by now, was doubtless become his dearest friend's wife. He made shift, therefore, to take up another subject, and one that for long had been a sore weight upon his mind.
"My lord," said he; "an thou wouldst consent to enlighten my understanding of the mysteries surrounding this tavern wherein we sit, I would consider it right kind of thee."
"In respect of what, sire?" he asked, between sippings of his wine.
"An it be not a fantasy," said Sir Richard, "when I first tarried beneath its roof it was surely three days' journey removed from where it now stands."
Bishop Kennedy answered not by word of mouth, but, clapping together his hands, summoned Zenas and bade him to fetch them a lighted torch. Then, leading the way through the rear door, he depressed the blazing rush-light till it revealed a great hole in that which had appeared to be a solid foundation of stone. Its rays discovered to Sir Richard a pair of broad and heavy wheels set firmly beneath the tavern sill.
"Let these clear away that mystery, sire," Kennedy said. "There are seven more similarly disposed beneath the building, which is parlous lightly set up. By the dual aid of long, dark nights, and a multitude of tugging horses, the Red Tavern became soon a weird and haunted thing; moving magically from place to place, discussed in lowered whispers by the yeomanry, and shunned by passing wayfarers. Thus, not alone was the lamented prince afforded a safe asylum, comparatively free from the dangers of discovery, but we were provided as well with a meeting place for the captains of our gathering hosts. It has served right happily its purpose, sire; and I would that my life had been as useful to those about me. Now its work is done. Eftsoons its blazing timbers shall proclaim a new light to a tyrant-darkened people."
After that he took his leave to join the army, which was stationed some nine miles to the eastward upon the shores of the sea.
By now the moon, a pallid disc, was sailing high in the greenish-blue heavens. Feeling the need of an hour or two of solitude wherein to meditate upon the wonders by which Sir Richard discovered himself to be surrounded, and, if possible, to reconcile his vacillating mind with the new complexion which the face of the world had turned upon him, he gathered his cloak about his shoulders and walked alone into the forest. Once there, he laid himself down upon the soft, dry carpet of pine needles, and resigned his thoughts to the ineffable delights of fantastical castle-building.
How long Sir Richard lay thus, with his face upturned to the sky, he had no means of knowing. It seemed that his eyes began playing a kind of game with the interwoven branches of the trees and the moon. Then he fell into a sort of doze, where everything withdrew into a haze of oblivion till the moment he became suddenly conscious that his ears were being ravished by the strains of a charming melody. For quite a space he remained like one dreaming; passively drinking in each sweet, pure and quivering note. He was dimly aware that this same glorious voice had been for days and days singing its wonderful song of love to him.
Then, like a flashing of intense light, it came upon Sir Richard that this was the voice which he had heard steal out upon the night at the moment when Tyrrell, Zenas, and he were burying the dead hound.
Cautiously getting to his feet, and dodging warily from tree to tree, he made his way in the direction whence the voice seemed to be coming.
As he ever after regarded it, all of the adventures through which he had passed, and which are here set down, were but the prelude to the vision of fair loveliness which suddenly presented itself to his dazzled eyes.
With her arm linked within that of the silvery-haired old lady, she was walking slowly along the forest road, her head uplifted in song. It seemed to Sir Richard that the soft moonlight enveloped her lovingly, imparting to her wondrous beauty an essence of unreality. The golden nimbus encompassing her head added immeasurably to the impression that he was but gazing upon an ephemeral picture,—fairy-painted—the which must become soon a floating radiance above the roadway and then blend insensibly with the air before his captive eyes.
Silently the young knight stood there, with the better part of him going out to vie with the silvery moonbeams in tenderly caressing her. That grosser portion of him stationed beneath the tree remained, as though hewn in stone and clutching deep into the rough bark, till the maiden turned to retrace her way into the tavern. When she had gone he rushed madly back, stealing furtively to the rear of the building, and tremblingly tore open the covering of Isabel's packet.
In it was the cutting of saffron velvet.
Then, impatiently biding his time till they should again draw nigh, he sauntered around the corner of the building with his gaze fastened upon the moon. He could have made oath that he saw, first, a dozen of them, and then none at all.
"Give thee a fair good-night, dame Sutherland," Sir Richard said in an agitated voice, "art thou, too, enjoying the moon?"
The grandam dropped him a pretty curtsy, the while the other stood with drooping and averted head.
"Thank thee much, sire; I am," the old lady gave him answer.
"'Tis a bonnie night, i' faith."
"Yes, sire, 'tis," curtsying again.
"And the moon—'tis extraordinary bright?"
"Yes, sire, 'tis," curtsying once more.
"I trust the ... young lady—may not suffer an indisposition from the dank airs?"
"We have grown accustomed, sire," with another curtsy.
Sir Richard noted for the first time that the aged grandam's head, as well as that of her beautiful young companion, was uncovered.
"Yet ... 'tis parlous dank," said he, edging between them and the door.
"I have the honor to present to thy august notice, sire, my beloved granddaughter—Rocelia Tyrrell," dame Sutherland yielded.
Sir Richard knew not what he answered. He took her hand, he remembered afterward, turned instantly light-headed, and made out to salute it rather awkwardly with his lips.
When the young knight came to himself he was intently watching the door through which Rocelia had disappeared.
"I wonder whether her robe was of a color saffron?" he kept mentally repeating over and over again.
Sir Richard broke his fast in the main room below, sitting by the fire in the broad chimney. He concluded that the chamber to which he had been assigned upon the first night of his visit to the Red Tavern was now surrendered to the uses of the ladies; it being the only one, so far as he could see, that could boast of a coating of mortar. The walls of the remaining rooms abounded in cracks and crannies, the which admitted the chill blasts in discomforting volumes. To the weary young knight, the roaring blaze by the table's side was a most agreeable accompaniment to a very excellent repast. Often afterward it recurred to Sir Richard that he ate during that day because of an habitual predilection to line his inwards. In solemn truth, however, the wine set before him seemed without hint of zest or bouquet, and the toothsome viands provided by Zenas might as well have been so much sawdust for all the taste that Sir Richard got out of them withal.
With the sun drawing toward the zenith, the earth warmed into a semblance of balminess, and the young knight loitered about outside in the hope that Rocelia would walk out presently to take the air. It entered Sir Richard's whirling head that the hunchback had divined the cause of his excessive restlessness; the which the impetuous young knight resented by soundly tongue-lashing the fellow. He scarce answered Sir Richard a word, but received his acrimonious outburst with queer leers, and winks, and knowing smiles. The young knight was fair tempted to take the flat of his sword to him.
"I fear me much that Isabel has soured thy accustomed sweet temper ... sire," Zenas said, with an intonation that was unmistakably satirical. The young knight noted that this was the first occasion upon which the crook-back had actually avowed him sovereign.
"Ah! and right willingly would I play the king," Sir Richard thought, "an I could but wield empire over one dear subject. And why not, forsooth?" his ruminations carried him along. "By'r Lady! who's to prevent me from asserting my sovereignty by commanding this young woman to be summoned into my presence?"
It was as Sir Richard was striding toward the tavern door to carry out his mad project that he glimpsed Rocelia through an upper window. She looked out upon him, inclining her head and smiling. Deferentially Sir Richard doffed his helm, his courage vanishing from him like rime on a mid-August day. The young knight noted that she was wearing a gown of saffron velvet.
Then, quickly entering the tavern, Sir Richard commanded Zenas to fetch him ink, paper and a quill. "Henceforth," said he to himself, "I'll surely play the king; and here shall be my kingdom." But he made up his mind to temper his rule in the meantime with somewhat of diplomacy and cunning.
"Summon Harold hither," said he to the hunchback; "I'll have speech of him."
Directing the note which he then wrote jointly to dame Sutherland and Rocelia, he gave it into the foot-boy's hands and bade him to deliver it at their door. Then, going outside, he directed the groom to trap his stallion; whereupon he started swiftly northward along the forest road. Glancing backward as he swept around the point of the brae, Sir Richard was pleased to discover both of the ladies at the window waving him their adieux.
It was well along in the afternoon when the young knight arrived at the inn where Tyrrell was lying. Stretching east and west from the little building were long, double lines of white tents. The inn-keeper had established him a tap-room in the stable, the which was crowded with boisterous, brawling soldiers. It reminded Sir Richard of another Babel, so varied were their manners of speech.
Within the tavern, however, all was orderly and quiet, with a strong reek of medicines in every corner. For long the young knight seated himself by Tyrrell's bed, the while Sir James stormed and raved in a frightful delirium of fever; cursing King Richard III.; describing the horrible tortures to which his brother had been put; condemning Henry for a base usurper, and railing against Douglas and his traitorous defection. It must have been a full hour before his mind merged into a brief period of calm sanity. Coolly then he counted the pulsings of his heart, whereupon he told the young knight that he was sore feeble. "'Twill be a week at least," he said, "ere the fever shall have run its course. If I am alive after that, perchance I might come safely through." He looked at the young knight askance when Sir Richard spoke to him of Rocelia, but gave him a word of cheer to deliver to her. The young knight remained by Tyrrell's side till again the fever gripped him; then took his way downstairs, bestrode his stallion, and clipped it along the pass toward his little kingdom.
They must have been harkening eagerly for his coming, for Sir Richard found the women both awaiting him in the main room.
"How noble it is of thee, sire," said Rocelia sweetly, when Sir Richard had repeated her father's message, "to bethink thee of our grave anxiety. How can we ever requite thee?" Whereupon she cast upon Sir Richard a shy glance that repaid him upon that instant an hundred fold.
The which, however, did not prevent the young knight from saying: "By bearing me company at table, dear Rocelia. I have been dooms lonely these two days gone."
Sir Richard noted that Rocelia looked appealingly toward her grandam; and, by the same token, so did the young knight. But not appealingly, withal. He was not unmindful at that moment that he was indeed playing the king.
Sir Richard never afterward forgot that meal in the vague, warm light of the chimney-corner; with Rocelia, in a rose-glow of maidenly confusion, seated where he could feast his eyes upon the delicate transitions of expression upon her beautiful countenance. She was garbed in the robe a cutting of which was even then resting against his much disturbed heart, though the young knight lacked the resolution to tell her so. Perhaps she knew it though, he thought. Whereupon he became quite intoxicated with the knowledge that there existed between them a bond of secret understanding. They talked, God knows of what, he never knew. The dame had fallen into a doze upon one of the high-backed benches, for which blessing the young knight offered thanks to Morpheus. It gave them a good hour more together than they should likely otherwise have had.
Soon after that the good dame snored loudly once or twice and then awakened suddenly from the noise of it. She rose immediately and begged permission to retire.
"Dost thou not take the sun and air of the morning?" Sir Richard asked Rocelia when they were about to leave.
"When the men are not here, and good grandam is not suffering of a gout," she answered. "I do so enjoy to wander through the forest, sire."
"Then," said Sir Richard, "upon the morrow, wilt suffer me to be thy escort upon such an excursion?"
There followed then a second triangular duel of the eyes. The result was similarly happy with the first.
Sir Richard went contented and singing to his bed.
For several glory-filled days thereafter it would be a walk with Rocelia in the morning through the forest glades; after which the young knight would ride northward to seek tidings of her father's condition. Times there were when it seemed impossible that he could recover. But, on the eighth day, Sir Richard found him wholly rational and well quit of his fever.
He would soon be upon his feet now, he told the young knight, in a weak whisper. After that they would set out for Wales, he said, gathering their forces along the way, and then march down on London. Sir Richard was in no mind to say him yea or nay; his thoughts being every one upon Rocelia. When Tyrrell learned of the young knight's daily ride to his sick-bed he rendered him the heartiest of thanks.
"'Tis indeed seldom, sire," he said, "that an humble servant is permitted the satisfaction of laboring for a grateful king."
Tyrrell was once again become the shrewd and wily politician.
Sir Richard remembered that all the way homeward (he called it home within his mind, it being the only place worthy of the name of which he knew), his heart was singing a merry lay within his breast, because of the good news he was carrying to Rocelia.
What a joyous evening it was they spent together, sitting at the table in the chimney-side with Dame Sutherland soundly sleeping upon the bench! Sir Richard insisted that Rocelia hum over song after song for him; the which she did, trilling them low and sweet. At length she struck upon the one for which he had been waiting; the song he had heard steal out upon that lonely night when he was engaged with Sir James and Zenas in the task of burying the hound.
When she had finished the last note Sir Richard told her of the weird circumstances surrounding his first acquaintance with it.
Thereupon, for the first time, the young knight made bold to tell her that he had ever since that night carried that same song within his memory—and a certain cutting of saffron velvet next his heart (forgetting to mention, however, that part of the time when he had worn it above his eye).
"Ah! sire," said Rocelia, "can it be that it is thou——" and then she paused with lips all of a quiver, her fair head turned toward the glowing fire.
"Why!" said Sir Richard, "and did you not know, dear Rocelia, that since that night I have been avowed champion of yours?"
"Sire——"
"Call me not sire, dear. Name me Richard," the young knight whispered, trying vainly to imprison her hand. "God wot, an you still wish to leave, I will bear me away this time the proper maiden!"
"Then ... was it indeed thou," Rocelia whispered, half weeping, half laughing, "who bore away my cousin Isabel?"
"Did you not know?" said Sir Richard.
"I but knew that she had gone ... with some knight, I thought it was ... and that it had been her choice to go. She was ever unhappy after we came from London. Oh! sire ... much do I regret that thou hast been made the target of one of her mad pranks."
"Let me but once hear Richard on your lips, Rocelia," pleaded the young knight.
"I dare not," said she, with an affrighted glance toward her sleeping grandam.
"I lay command upon you," said Sir Richard feigning to be stern.
"Well, then ... Richard," said she in the softest of whispers.
Silence for a space.
"It seems," said the young knight then, smiling, "that I have been victim of every madcap prank and conspiracy in all Scotland. What quip was this of Isabel's?"
"I should not have known, sire——"
"Richard," the young knight corrected her gently.
"Thou saidst but once ... Richard," she whispered, smiling. "I should not have known, I say, had it not been for the piece of cloth snipped out of my robe. I was sleeping when she sent it through the wall."
"And the note—said she something of a note, Rocelia?" Sir Richard asked.
"No, nothing, sire."
"Then here it is," said he, diving into the leathern pouch hanging at his baldric and laying the scrap of paper before Rocelia upon the table top. The while she was reading it Sir Richard got him out the cutting of velvet.
"And here is the other," he said, laying the crumpled bit of cloth beside the note, which by now Rocelia had finished reading. "This may go to feed the blaze," he added with a light laugh, tossing the note into the fire. "The other ... may I have it now from thy dear hand? I would renew my knightly vows."
"But thou art now a king ... and may not," she gave Sir Richard answer, he thought in a tone and manner of sadness and regret. Suddenly she took it up then and thrust it quickly within the lace at her bosom.
"But I am not a king, Rocelia ... or ever shall be," Sir Richard protested. "That bit of yellow cloth it was that kept me posting back and forth above this barren, dreary country. It drew, and held me willing prisoner here. Now I have lost it. To-morrow I will go."
"But, no!" said she, "how canst thou leave when everything is waiting? Already hast thou been proclaimed."
"Everything was waiting before I came," he answered. "When I am gone 'twill be as though Richard Rohan had never been. As to the proclamation ... 'twas but a thing of empty words. I played the king here, because thou wert of my kingdom. An I have not thee for subject, I am no longer monarch. To-morrow, I say, I take my leave of Scotland."
"But, pray you, not to-morrow ... Richard," cried Rocelia aloud, clutching at the cloth upon the table.
There was a look in her eyes that brought the young man bounding to his feet. He had meant to gather her within his arms. But he swiftly interpreted her frightened backward glance in sufficient season to transform the gesture into a sweeping bow.
Grandam Sutherland had but just awakened, and was blinking at the two after a confused fashion. She had been aroused by Rocelia's cry.
"God's mercy upon us!" exclaimed the old lady; "it must be near upon the stroke of eleven?"
"An the weather hold, we'll walk to-morrow morning?" said Sir Richard, taking Rocelia's hand.
"To-morrow morning, sire," she answered, softly pressing his fingers.
The young knight slept no wink that night because of the tender caress.
A score of times during the next morning Sir Richard berated the sun for a laggard orb. When he was not stationed in front of his narrow window gazing out upon the reddening sky, the filmy rags of undulating mist floating above the moor, and the round summits of the downs blushing rosily above them, he would be polishing up his gear and industriously brushing the kinks out of his horse-hair plume. In lieu of a Venetian glass, he trimmed his beard to a proper point by reflecting his image against his glittering breast-plate, which he hung from a nail in the wall beside the window.
Zenas was but just kindling a fire when Sir Richard came down into the main room, the while the hunchback was cursing roundly at Harold for refusing to bring in more logs. It was their habit to begin quibbling the moment they clapt eyes upon each other. Being in the merriest of tempers, the young knight soon contrived to straighten out their quarrel, posting the foot-boy, happily whistling, in quest of an armload of wood. He even succeeded in enticing somewhat of a grin into the sullen visage of the crook-back.
"An thou canst keep me in this gallant humor, sire," said he, "thou mayst buy me a garb of motley and call me thy fool. See! this twisted, gnarled form ... these masque-like features ... and the yellow fang-teeth, all loose and tottering.... By'r Lady! sire, they were a right famous complement of the cap and bells, quoth 'a."
"An I am king, good, my Zenas," said Sir Richard, "why, thou shalt even play the fool."
"An thou be ever a king ... with a proper throne," said he, grinning and rubbing his hands together, "then I am a fool. These be parlous undertakings, sire ... parlous, deadly undertakings. An I mistake not, there'll be a pretty row of poled heads on London Bridge to mark the end."
The young knight had it on his tongue to tell him that there'd be no heads lopped off on his behalf, but he thought better of it and remained silent.
"And the appetite ... the appetite, prithee," Zenas went on croaking, as Sir Richard sat beside the loaded table, idly dreaming. "'Tis a right savory pasty, this," said he, cutting through its brown covering.
"I'll have naught of sup now, Zenas," the young knight said. "But keep it warm ... mayhap later I'll be an hungered."
Downing a goblet of canary, to calm his shaking inwards, the young knight went outside. Ordering his stallion instantly to be made ready, he galloped madly then against the face of the rising sun, hoping in this manner to cool his heated temples.
The light air coming into his nostrils, the swift moving against the wind, made him soon feel like a puffed giant upon a pigmy land; an enchanted prince upon a magic road.
Sir Richard must have ridden after this fashion something above two leagues. Then he came suddenly within sight of the sea, which rolled vast above him, like a shimmering green curtain hanging pendant from the sky. Hull down on the vague horizon, he saw a ship that seemed to be making from the coast.
Upon the beach there remained less than a score of tents to mark the encampment of an armed host. One after another, as he looked, they were sinking between the white sand dunes. Black spots, reminding him much of scurrying sand-crabs, were moving hurriedly in and about them.
The young knight rode down to meet a solitary horseman approaching along the road. Presently, by the red cross flaming out of a white tunic, he made out that it was Lord Bishop Kennedy. "Give thee a good-morrow, sire," the Bishop called out to Sir Richard as they drew within hailing distance. "Thou art early abroad, I see?"
The young knight returned his salutation and made answer: "Yes."
"Our forces here," pursued Kennedy, as Sir Richard wheeled and rode beside him, "are now withdrawing for the purpose of massing above the forest. In a fortnight Sir James will belike be able to sit horse; whereupon we shall at once begin our march southward. After to-night, but a pile of charred timbers will remain to tell the tale of the Red Tavern. And right happy am I withal that the enterprise doth draw to a point of focus. 'Twill mark the end of intrigue, jealousy, and treachery; the beginning of war-like action."
Conversing in this wise, they drew, at length, within sight of the doomed tavern. The young knight glanced upward as he rode toward the door and saw Rocelia flash away from the window as she observed that Sir Richard was not riding alone. A wave of ineffable emotion surged over him as he divined that she had been awaiting his return. It seemed an age before Harold came to relieve him of his horse.
When he came inside Sir Richard saw that the table was as he had left it.
"Lord Kennedy will take sup with thee," Zenas told him, smiling craftily and rubbing his hands together the while.
"I care not to eat," said the young knight. "Where's Lord Kennedy?"
"He begged of thee to yield him but a moment till he had speech of the ladies, sire."
Wearing a countenance as impassive as that of a graven image, Lord Kennedy came down presently and said that the maiden was suffering of a slight indisposition and would not walk with Sir Richard that morning.
There was an appreciable air of constraint about him which revealed to the young knight instantly that something was gone wrong. He noted, moreover, Zenas' smile of cunning triumph, and guessed that he had been the cause thereof.
"I'll have it from her own lips," suddenly declared Sir Richard, his hand upon the hilt of his blade.
"Sire!"
"Avaunt with thy empty titles!" he cried. "Dost hear me?... I have said!"
"'Tis impossible," said Lord Kennedy, sternly, albeit his manner was of the quietest.
"Was that truly her message?" asked Sir Richard.
"It was," said Kennedy, opening him coolly an egg.
"Setting thy bishop's mitre aside," said the young knight quietly, "I say that thou liest in thy throat, an this be the maiden's answer!"
With a bound, which overturned his chair and brought the litter of the table-top crashing upon the floor, Lord Kennedy was on his feet, his naked blade flashing before Sir Richard's eyes.
Kennedy, with the play of blades, was like a child in the hands of the young knight. There were scarce above a half dozen passes before his sword went humming through the window, taking glass and sash with it to the ground.
Sir Richard turned upon hearing a sharp cry in the direction of the stair door. Rocelia, all white and trembling was framed within its casements. Thinking alone of her, he started for the steps.
"Sire," Lord Kennedy called to him.
The young knight wheeled. With tunic split from chin to skirt, Bishop Kennedy was standing in the middle of the floor; grave-faced, ashen, but wonderfully calm.
"I have turned traitorous sword against my king," he said. "Thou owest me a death, sire."
"Then I'll remain ever in thy debt," Sir Richard made answer. "'Twas the fault of my unruly tongue. I ask thy forgiveness, Lord Kennedy. And now, come, Rocelia," he said to the frightened maiden, "we'll have earned our walk."
Thereupon he went over to where she was standing, placed her yielding arm within his and together they walked through the outer door.
"One word with thee, sire," Lord Kennedy called after them when they had started for the forest.
"Thou meanest fair by that maiden?" he said, when Sir Richard came back to the door. "She is the bonniest in all Scotland, sire," he added, with a great sincerity of tone.
"Thou hast spoken truth, Lord Kennedy," the young knight answered, reaching out his hand. "And, sir, by the cross of this, my sword, I would liefer have her than any proffered kingdom atop of earth."
"And thou wouldst certes be the gainer," Kennedy answered. "God wot how this may end, sire," he added, shaking his head. Then, grasping Sir Richard's hand for a moment, he turned sadly back into the tavern room.
Before setting out upon their walk the young knight summoned Harold to him and laid injunction upon him to trap his stallion, the jennet, and a third palfrey for a lady.
"It will be for a long journey, mayhap. Lead them so quickly as may be," he told him, "along the road where I first came upon you, and await there my coming."
A little corner within the wood there was which Rocelia and Sir Richard had come to look upon as all their own. Thither in silence they took their way. Upon reaching there she sat down upon a log, leaning her back against a tree; whilst the young knight disposed himself upon the moss at her feet.
Rocelia's eyes bore plain evidence that she had been weeping. Indeed she seemed in the most melancholy of moods; and, when Sir Richard made bold to comfort her, would not suffer him even to take her hand. Then with many halts and sighs she repeated to him what Bishop Kennedy had said to her. Which, in effect, was, that it would be wrong for them to be another time alone together. That Sir Richard, being the lawful heir to the crown, must have a care of the proprieties, and seek companionship among those who were his equals. All this and much more Rocelia told him, bravely, with her soft eyes looking sad into his; her sweet lips never once faltering from the difficult task imposed upon them.
"But," said Sir Richard, "did I not swear to you last night, Rocelia, that I would never be king? I am seeking now, and in you, dear, a companion through life. Whether you say me yea or nay, 'twill be all the same. I mean to leave upon this very day. Will you not trust——"
"Ah! Richard," she said, sweetly, "speak not that word. All trust do I impose in you. It is not that, dear," laying her hand lightly upon his bared head; "no, 'tis not that. It is that I—I love you too well and dearly to assist in this sacrifice of your splendid future. No—no! you must not, Richard ... indeed, you must not. I may never lay lips upon yours, dear. But, mayhap, you will remember me for a while as a simple maid who dared to tell you that she loved you; and who, loving you, surrendered you to her country ... and begged you, prayed you to assert your rightful position within its boundaries."
"But I cannot, Rocelia," Sir Richard protested. "Got wot an I despise not the whole vile conspiracy. An you'll not go with me, I'll go alone ... and with a heart fair breaking for love of you. Come!" he pleaded; "let me bear you away out of this turmoil-ridden land to a place of safety, and peaceful quiet, and contentment."
"Ah! and how sweet it would all be, my dear," said she, allowing Sir Richard to take and keep her hand, but keeping him firmly at a distance withal. "I am so tired of it all. Naught have I known but strife and danger since I came out of girlhood. But, ah, no! it may never be. 'Tis your duty, Richard, to claim your own; and mine to prevail upon you not to abandon it. Never let it be said that my champion was a deserter of his colors."
"I held faithfully to the saffron color," declared Sir Richard, "and, i' faith, I'll hold to it still."
She smiled sadly, stroking his hair.
"But these other colors, Richard," said she, "were marked upon your escutcheon at your birth. You may not desert them."
Sir Richard had been all along looking up into Rocelia's face. He dropped his head disconsolately when she set him in the light of a deserter. He never knew what he would have answered. He knew only that she shrieked suddenly aloud and drew him swiftly close to her bosom.
"For the love of God, dear heart, turn!" she cried. "'Tis Zenas with a poniard!"
The young knight wheeled in time to see the murderous crook-back plucking his long blade from the earth, where it had buried itself to the very hilt under the impetus that was meant to have been expended upon Sir Richard's body.
In another moment the young knight had grappled with him; and then they went rolling and threshing over the ground in the throes of a deadly encounter. "God! what a strength is there in this grossly misshapen body!" Sir Richard thought, and though he kept tight hold of the hunchback's knife hand, every moment Sir Richard feared that he would succeed in turning the blade and driving it home in his neck. So narrow was the margin between the young knight and death withal, that once the keen point traveled across his throat and opened a slight scratch.
"You will kill my hound? you damned sword-and-buckler knight!" Zenas kept hissing in Sir Richard's ear. "You abominable puppet, you would cheat my good brother of his head to set you on a throne!—you fustian, lack-linen pretender!—you flap-dragon tippler!—I'll send you whirling straight to hell, an I get me this poniard home!"
It happened by the merest stroke of fortune that, in their furious tumbling about, the hunchback's head struck with a great violence against the log whereupon Rocelia had been sitting. His forbidding form grew instantly limp and insensible, and the young knight leaped quickly to his feet. A drop or two of blood was trickling down his breast-plate from the scratch across his neck.
The moment that Sir Richard was fairly up Rocelia was in his arms, with her lips laid close upon his. Then, thrusting him impulsively from her, she tore open her cloak, ripped a quantity of lace from her gown, and began binding it around his neck.
"You'll not be very much hurt, Richard ... dear Dick?" said she, kissing him again.
He did not say her too strong a nay (for which he was soon forgiven!), for Sir Richard discovered that when he but so much as hesitated he had another kiss.
"Oh, Richard, my love," said Rocelia, "take me away. I understand it all now—this murderous treachery, this stabbing in the back ... these fearsome, dark conspiracies! But take me, dear, to that place of rest, and peace, and sweet contentment. Even now I am ready."
Thus, with his arm clasped tight about her, they sought the road and their waiting horses. Eftsoons they were on their way, taking the narrower road to the left, which would lead them the more directly to the hut where the young knight had left de Claverlok.
It was late that evening when they drew out of the deep forest, far above and to the northwest of their starting point.
Many leagues behind them, and rising high into the heavens, they could see a lurid splotch of light, glowing red and yellow in the mystic darkness.
"'Tis the end of the Red Tavern," said Sir Richard.
"Well," whispered Rocelia, "it brought you to me, dear Richard."
"And to me, sweet Rocelia," said the young knight earnestly, "it brought you."
"Have I thy permission to speak, Sir Richard?" begged Harold, who was standing by.
"Certes, you have, my boy," replied Sir Richard.
"Then let me wish that all of thy troubles shall be as the smoke of it," said Harold earnestly.
"'Tis a fitting epitaph," Rocelia said, her hand stealing within that of the young knight.
Then, for a little space, they stood there upon the summit of the hill, watching the glare of the burning tavern fading and dying away.
"Yes ... a most fitting epitaph," Sir Richard made answer. Whereupon they resumed their journey lightsomely, happily, northward.
The happy travelers found shelter for that night in the kind herdsman's cottage where Sir Richard had tarried whilst journeying with Isabel. The simple folk displayed a quite lively surprise upon observing that the maid with whom the young knight was now traveling was not the same. Sir Richard thought that mayhap they imagined that he was engaged upon the business of depopulating Scotland of her famous beauties. "There is just cause for such a supposition, i' truth," he added to himself.
"I ken weel," the good man said, a glint of Scot's humor in his eyes, "that 'e braw English laddies be unco daft. The muckle Auld Hornie be in 'e all! But 'e hae yin bonnie lassie with 'e, now, sir knight ... yin muckle cantie jo!" and with that he winked at Sir Richard in a knowing fashion.
His goodwife, a white-capped dame, busied herself in setting before them a "gigot" and a "bit kebbuck"; which translated and assimilated into English leg-o'-mutton and cheese. Bearing well in mind the company in which it was eaten, it would be a profanation to tell how thoroughly the young knight enjoyed that meal withal. But it must be confessed as well that the mulled ale was like a goblet of nectar to his palate.
They passed a long and happy evening, Rocelia and Sir Richard, sitting by the fire's side beneath the smoke-browned beams of the low-ceilinged kitchen. Intently she listened, with her soft eyes bent lovingly upon the young knight, the while he recounted the adventures through which he had passed. She laughed right heartily when he came to that part of his tale where he had rescued her cousin Isabel out of the Red Tavern; and told him how bitterly her uncle Zenas had misliked her cousin, though all the while standing in somewhat of fear of her sharp tongue. Rocelia had known of but three, she said, who had ever held the slightest place within Zenas' morbid affections. Of the three, she named first the hound, to whose life Sir Richard had put a quietus on that first night; then her father; and, last, herself. "Revenge and jealousy, I make no doubt, hath armed the crookback's hand against thee, dear," she said.
"Richard ... dear Dick," she whispered afterward, when it came to parting for the night, "since learning of all these base intrigues, these petty jealousies, these crafty plottings and counter-plottings, I am no whit sorry to see you leaving them all behind you. I would rather that my king should sit ever upon a three-legged stool than upon a velvet-tufted and silken-canopied throne won after these wicked fashions."
They were out betimes the next morning, albeit the day was none of the pleasantest; a thick fog having set in from the sea during the night. As they moved slowly over the downs Sir Richard remarked that the members of their little party seemed like gray and misty shadows moving against a pearly cloud.
Before the middle of the day they drew near the little hut where de Claverlok and Isabel would doubtless be waiting. It was fair blotted out in the mist, but Sir Richard could make out a vague and shadowy form sitting desolate upon a huge boulder by the roadside. Upon a nearer approach he recognized it to be the foot-boy Thomas. When he caught sight of the approaching company of three he came sliding down off the boulder, running to the young knight's side and embracing his greaved leg for very joy.
"Oh, sire!" he hoarsely whispered, "the very devil's to pay back there," jerking his thumb above his shoulder.
"And now, prithee, what is 't?" asked Sir Richard.
"Came yester morn, sir," he answered, "a great, tall, bearded knight,—with the two points of his mustachios turned skyward ... so,—vowing that he'd bear Mistress de Claverlok away with him or kill everyone in the place. My worshipful master was for having his sword at him upon the instant (and he, sire, but just able to be out of his bed). But Mistress de Claverlok bars the door and holds the murderous knight without. Even I may not be admitted. Hark ye!... I can hear him cursing even now. Thus does he carry on all the day. Why, sire, he stuck the good doctor from Bannockburn right in the middle ... here, sire ... like he were cutting him a cheese. By Saint Peter! but 'tis a parlous business!"
"Said you his name, Thomas?"
"He called himself the Renegade Duke ... and vowed that he ate sick knights for breakfast. Mistress Isabel doth mightily strive to keep the worshipful master indoors. An he could, he would get out, sire, and have him pinned like the fat doctor from Bannockburn."
"Vowed him he ate sick knights for breakfast, did he?" said Sir Richard grimly. "Mayhap, then, he'll relish a well one for dessert." Whereupon, in despite of Rocelia's admonishing cry, the young knight spurred into the mist toward the hut.
He saw the fellow clambering upon his saddle when he heard Sir Richard drawing near. The moment that he saw who was riding down upon him, the craven coward set spurs against his steed and made off at the top of his bent up the steep hill and quickly was swallowed up in the fog.
But what a boisterously glad reunion was there when, upon Sir Richard halloaing out his name, the hut door was unbarred and set open!
"By the mass, Sir Richard, but it doth mightily comfort me to clap eyes again upon thee ... eh! Weak as I am, boy, I'd have given yon miscreant somewhat of a battle ... eh. But Isabel would e'en padlock the door and thrust key in her bosom ... didst thou not, Dame de Claverlok? But tell me, Sir Richard, where hast thou been the while?"
By way of an answer Sir Richard went back and fetched Rocelia out of the fog cloud; whereupon the two maids fell into a rapturous embrace, shedding some happy tears whilst Sir Richard made haste to explain to de Claverlok the case in which they stood.
"Certes, boy, and I can procure thee a priest," shouted de Claverlok, responding to a whispered question in his ear.
Then; "Thomas! Thomas!" he bellowed; "post you hot-foot to the goodman who tied us a fine knot the week gone. Speed! Avaunt, boy! Have him here within the hour's quarter on your horse's back.... Begone!"
"They'll be after thee ... God! but they'll not let thee get free of their king-making clutches, an they can help. We'll be ready to journey coast-ward, Sir Richard, when the ceremony is over."
Happily, the foot-boy returned soon with the monk, whom de Claverlok and the rest succeeded in persuading to do office at Rocelia's and Sir Richard's wedding, placating him with a promise of another ceremony more in keeping with the dignity of the Church when they should have arrived at Bretagne. Besides requiting him quite handsomely for that day's services, they paid him to have masses said for the dead doctor outside; providing as well for a fitting burial of his body.
It set in to rain before the company of six was ready to start for Glasgow. As there had been even now too much precious time consumed, they decided to brave the weather and be at once upon their way. To their journey's end it was but something above five leagues, but the heavy roads made the going a slow and difficult task. By stretching a tent-cloth over a rude frame, upheld by four poles, the foot-boys contrived for Isabel and Rocelia a passing shelter from the rain, which was by now pelting hard and steadily against the helmets of Sir Richard and de Claverlok.
They had ridden after this cumbrous fashion near half the distance when Sir Richard thought he heard the dull rumbling of a carriage to their rear. Adventuring the hazard of a hidden bog, the party turned aside and rode upon the moor till they had set an impenetrable curtain of mist between themselves and the highway. Leaving his horse in Harold's keeping the young knight crept back, stationing himself behind a thick clump of gorse growing by the roadside.
Accompanied by a score or more of outriders streaming water, shedding loud curses, and flogging their tired mounts for everything that was in them, came a great lumbering coach and six, looming gigantic as a castle in the weird fog. As it passed where Sir Richard was lying, he noted that its wheels were three quarters sunken in the deep mud, which rolled off them as they turned after the manner of a miniature cataract.
"How far, sayst thou, it will be from Glasgow?" He heard a voice, which he knew well for that of Douglas, roaring from within its depths.
"Said I not that they would be after thee, Sir Richard ... eh?" de Claverlok observed when the young knight went back and told them what he had seen.
They were perforce obliged to give the coach a good start, for, by now, the mist was rapidly thinning; and they durst not put themselves within sight of Douglas' men. Before reaching the gates of Glasgow they divided their little party in twain. Three entering from the north, three from the south, with an arrangement to foregather at King's Dock, upon the River Clyde. It was decided upon that Sir Richard, having nothing to do within the town, should make his way at once to the harbor and seek berths on shipboard for France. Whilst de Claverlok and Isabel, having to attend to the business of Isabel's inheritance, would join them later at the river's side.
They were in no trouble to enter the town, and made shift to take the narrower and less frequented streets leading to the water-front. As they were riding through, Rocelia pointed to a fellow, garbed in the Douglas livery, who was nailing a proclamation, writ in great, glaring letters, against a plank fence.
It was an offer of a reward of two hundred and fifty pounds for Sir Richard's arrest and detention; the which was followed by a neat and accurate description of his person and apparel. Before they got to the next corner there were a dozen idlers, with mouths agape, standing before it and taking it in.
Knowing well that Sir Richard's chances of getting safely away were diminishing in proportion with the number of placards that were being then posted over the town, they made all haste to reach the river and get safely aboard ship.
Without mishap our travelers came anon to King's Dock. Sir Richard was most gratified to discover that there was a great ship, above which rose three towering masts, riding at anchor in the midst of the harbor. He gazed longingly across at her, wishing that they were all safe bestowed upon her lofty and much ornamented poop.
Dismounting, and bidding Harold to do the same the while the young knight lifted Rocelia to the rough paving stones, he sent them both posting into a tavern. "The sooner we draw free of the streets the better," he thought. Beckoning a sailor then, who was watching them from the quay, Sir Richard handed him a shilling and told him to tie him the three horses in a dark and narrow alleyway near hand. "I' faith, 'twill be the last I shall ever see of them," he said to himself; and not without a feeling of regret that he would never again bestride the strong back of his faithful stallion.
"Where can I find me the captain of yonder ship?" Sir Richard asked of the sailor, as he came slouching out of the dark alleyway.
"Thou'll find him in there—where the sack flows thickest," the sailor answered, pointing to the tavern wherein Rocelia and Harold had taken shelter. "The ship's ready and all laden for the sea now, sir knight, with the tide flowing strong. I swear to you the master's boat's a-riding at the dock-side now ... but he be right bravely liquored up, quoth 'a, and no one dare go a-nigh 'im to tell it. 'Tis a damned bad thing ... the sack ... but, begging your pardon, sir knight, an this shilling be good siller, I bethink me I'll buy me a swig or two."
"Of what name may your ship be?" queried Sir Richard.
"She'll be the 'Trinity,' sir knight," said he, "and the bonniest hulk that ever cut water down the Firth."
"See you here, my man," said the young knight, as he was starting for a tap-room upon the opposite side of the street. "Are you wanting to line your pocket with a rose noble or two?"
"With nothing but this bit shilling ... and the town fair flooded with rum? God wot, and I am not!" said he.
"Then do you keep stand here," said Sir Richard; and, hurrying to the tavern door, he bade Harold and Rocelia to join him outside.
"Now, hark ye well," resumed Sir Richard, to the waiting sailor. "Lead this lady and my squire to the dock there, bestow them safely within the captain's boat, and wait you there till I come ... here," he added, handing him the promised coin. "There'll be another, an you do this thing to my taste."
"I'm a-thinking as what you don't know my master, sir knight," observed the sailor, gazing hard at the tavern door.
"No. But I will in another moment," said the young knight, going for the door.
"Captain of the 'Trinity,'" he shouted when he had swung it wide.
"The very devil and all! and what's this, prithee?" the drunken captain shouted, rolling heavily down upon Sir Richard and quite filling the open space.
In a very few words the young knight told him just what he wanted, making offer of all his remaining nobles, saving one, if he would consent to bear them all safely into France.
"Six, sayst thou? Any women?" the seaman asked.
"Two," Sir Richard replied.
"Then ... damn thy nobles!" he bellowed, slamming the door in the young knight's very face.
"But I tell you that you must do this thing," Sir Richard persisted, again setting open the door.
"What! hell, man!" he shouted, turning purple in the face.
"I'll pitch thee headfirst out, an thou sayst that again!" the captain bawled.
"I repeat, sir captain, that we must take thy ship," said Sir Richard. "Moreover, I tell thee to thy teeth thou canst not pitch me out."
"I'll wager a noble," he returned, peeling him off his cloak and great-jacket.
"An I put thee out," said Sir Richard, "wilt thou take six on ship and fifty nobles in hand?"
"An thou goest out ... what then?" said he.
"Ten golden discs for thy trouble," the young knight made laughing rejoinder.
"Done," said the captain.
Sir Richard did not much like the curious crowd gathering closely around them, but he knew well that he must accept the hazard. It was the only way to win to the ship.
Well, they went at it then, and how the chairs and tables standing near did tumble, roll and clatter about their flying heels! The captain was of a similar size and build with Bull Bengoff, and it was somewhat like tugging at an enormous animated hogshead to get him moving withal. But Sir Richard got him started rolling toward the door presently, and then, with one mighty heave, he sent him tumbling over and over down the stone steps.
"What saidst thou was thy name, sir knight?" the captain asked, sitting prone upon the paving stones and rubbing the top of his pate. There went a loud laugh around at his earnest manner of asking the question.
Walking down the steps, Sir Richard stooped, whispering it close to his ear.
"God's mercy upon me!" he shouted, getting as quickly as might be to his feet and winding his great arms about the young knight's neck. Sir Richard at once set again to tugging, bethinking him that they were again to have at it.
"No, no!" shouted the captain, laughing, "I've had my belly full of that—— God! dost thou not know, man? That ship in the offing yonder doth belong to him whose wealth and titles were left all to thee ... are even now thine. Right glad will old Duke Francis be to have me fetch thee back. Thou art of age now, and can claim thy inheritance."
"My benefactor ... who is he?" asked the young knight in an amazed whisper.
"Who is he? Why, he's dead, Sir Richard, these nineteen years ... 'twas the man after whom thou wert named—Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick ... often styled 'king-maker.' But come! come inside," he cried, taking the young knight's arm; "we'll have a bowl or two of sack and a right juicy pasty together, Sir Richard. Let the damned ship wait!"
"But, listen," Sir Richard whispered, "I'm in the direst peril. 'Twould be well an thou couldst get me on board thy ship at once."
Just at that moment they saw de Claverlok, Isabel, and Thomas ride upon the King's Dock out of a side street. Looking away from the river, Sir Richard saw a band of horses, with Douglas at their head, coming above the hill at a breakneck speed.
"Come!" the young knight shouted, clutching the good captain's arm; "do not tarry for thy cap—there's not one tick of the clock to spare."
Which indeed there was not, for they had but just tumbled into the boat and drew clear of the quay when Douglas and his horsemen rode furiously upon it.
"Come hither, Sir Richard ... sire!" Lord Douglas called. "Prithee, do return. I have here the messages to show thee. The messages thou didst bring me from Henry. All signed, thou dost remember, by thy good self and my councilmen. Come back! but a moment's speech would I have of thee ... sire."
"I wish thee well of thy enterprises, Lord Douglas," the young knight shouted back. "Make kings an thou wilt, I'll have none of it. Thou canst give me nothing.... I have beside me here, my lord, the best that Scotland has to give."
Then, he remembered afterward, Rocelia took his hand, standing beside him in the captain's boat, and together they waved the great Douglas a last farewell.
When they had climbed to the topmost deck of the great ship they saw another cavalcade of armed men riding down to the river front from out another street. Sir Richard noted above their plumed helmets a bedraggled banner, bearing a device sable upon a field gules.
"They are your father's men, Rocelia," Sir Richard said, gathering her close to his side.
"Yes, Dick," said she. "God keep him from all harm and bring him safe to us some future day."
Soon, then, with great brown sails bellying in the wind, they dropped down the Firth of Clyde, with the twinkling lights of Glasgow fading dim in the distance.