The Red Tavern
by C. R. Macauley · English · Gutenberg #44182 · 453,465 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Red Tavern
Author: C. R. Macauley
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THE RED TAVERN
[Illustration: "'Hast thou peace and provender for a wayfaring knight?'"
[Page 45]]
THE RED TAVERN
by
C. R. MACAULEY
[Illustration]
New York and London
D. Appleton and Company
1914
Copyright, 1914, by
D. Appleton and Company
Printed in the United States of America
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
PROLOGUE 1
I. A WARRANT UPON DOUGLAS 18
II. ON THE WAY TO CASTLE YEWE 32
III. OF A NIGHT IN THE RED TAVERN 44
IV. THE INCIDENT OF THE WOLF-HOUND 59
V. THE INCIDENT OF THE CUTTING OF SAFFRON VELVET 81
VI. THE PAVILION OF PURPLE AND BLACK 94
VII. OF THE AWAKENING OF SIR RICHARD 104
VIII. OF A QUARREL AND A CHALLENGE 117
IX. OF AN AMBUSCADE, A DUEL, AND AN ESCAPE 133
X. OF A NIGHT IN A SHEPHERD'S HUT, AND A SURPRISE IN THE
MORNING 147
XI. OF HOW SIR RICHARD CAME TO CASTLE YEWE 165
XII. OF THE DELIVERY OF THE KING'S WARRANT 187
XIII. OF THE INCIDENT OF THE COBBLER'S FEAST 205
XIV. OF A SERIES OF REMARKABLE DUELS, AND DE CLAVERLOK'S PERIL 217
XV. OF THE GALLERY OF THE GRIFFIN'S HEADS 229
XVI. OF THE RETURN OF LORD DOUGLAS, AND THE COUNCIL OF JACKDAWS 250
XVII. OF A JOUST WITH BULL BENGOUGH, AND THE INCIDENT OF THE
KNIGHT IN BLACK 267
XVIII. OF SIR RICHARD'S MEETING WITH THE FOOT-BOYS, AND HIS
RETURN TO THE RED TAVERN 285
XIX. OF THE RESCUE OF THE MAIDEN 300
XX. OF HOW SIR RICHARD CAME TO THE SHEPHERD'S HUT, AND THE
RETURN OF TYRRELL 320
XXI. OF HOW SIR RICHARD LISTENED TO A STORY IN THE FOREST 335
XXII. OF HOW ONCE MORE THE YOUNG KNIGHT JOURNEYED SOUTHWARD 343
XXIII. OF A VISION IN THE FOREST OF LAMMERMUIR 358
XXIV. OF HOW SIR RICHARD PLAYED THE KING IN HIS LITTLE KINGDOM 369
XXV. OF THE END OF THE RED TAVERN AND ITS FITTING EPITAPH 382
XXVI. OF HOW A FLEDGLING DROPPED FROM THE CONSPIRATOR'S NEST 397
THE RED TAVERN
PROLOGUE
"S-s-st, there, good gossip, wake up, I pray thee! Hearest thou not
voices yonder in our lordship's tent? Methinks I can see between the
trees the glimmer of his council-candle. Even now he doth plan the
attack, whilst this cursed cross-bow is playing the very devil of a
traitor! The stubborn latch balks at speeding the string. Come--come,
wake thee, Jock! Spare me thy deft hand to its mending, or the first
peep o' day will discover me impotent to fly a bolt against our
crook-back enemy beyond the brook."
"Crook-back cross-bow--i' th' s-s-string----" muttered the one
addressed with drowsy incoherence.
"I tell thee, Jock, wake up!" the first speaker persisted. "Listen, I
say! Dost hear the hum of voices in brave Richmond's tent? Fix me this
damned cross-bow! Eftsoons it will come daydawn, man!"
"Daydawn, sayst thou?" returned the other, starting into broad
wakefulness and arising to a sitting posture. "Why, Dickon, thou canst
scarce glimpse thy five fingers before thine eyes; and the stars shine
as merrily in the vault as ever they did yestereve. What's the noise i'
the wood?" he added, sinking sleepily back upon his bent elbow.
"'Tis the sound of the rolling wheels of the crakys of war. Mark how
the blazing links of those who attend upon them weave fantastic shadows
amidst the trees. There! the cross-bow hath repented of its waywardness
and mended itself. 'Tis said of these shooting-cylinders in yon wood
that they can hurl a leaden slug of two score times the weight of a
caliver billet."
"Marry, Dickon," the other said, "and that be not the least part of the
weight of my nether stocks from lying knee-deep in this foul morass,
thou mayst dub me a shove-groat sword and buckler man. Where thinkest
thou," he added, "that King Richard hath gathered his forces?"
"I'll lay thee a round wager, friend Belwiggar, that the morning light
will find him across the brook," replied Dickon, disposing his huge
body for further rest upon the top of his cross-bow.
"I would it were not so," observed Belwiggar, yawning. "For here are we
with our bonnetful of men at the very tail of the triangle. 'Twill be
fight or die, comrade, and tyrant Richard deal with the hindermost."
Whereupon the speaker clambered to a higher point of ground and
prepared to resume his interrupted sleep.
Scenes and dialogues similar to the one here presented were being
enacted in every corner of the field. Especially did a spirit of
disquiet and apprehensive concern pervade that part of it so aptly
termed by Belwiggar "the tail of the triangle." All along the borders
of the morass, the banks of the creek, and within the dense forest were
to be heard anxious whisperings, mingled plentifully with muttered
oaths and threats of dire vengeance against a bitterly hated monarch;
and despite the earliness of the hour, within the leader's tent the
activities of a day destined to be so heavily fraught with historical
significance had already been inaugurated.
The interior of this pavilion was of a considerable amplitude; and,
in keeping with the manner of the period, was fitted out with every
necessary, together with not a few of the luxuries, of the toilet of
a prince of the royal house. Beside the couch with its silken covers
and damask canopies, whereupon the Earl of Richmond was reclining, was
a massive, carven table. Upon it stood a richly chased silver tankard
bearing a profusion of crimson roses. Within their center, singularly
enough, a pure white flower reared its beautiful head, the which served
admirably to enhance the royal splendor of its compeers.
Round about the plush-carpeted floor were seated John de Vere, Earl of
Oxford, Henry's chief of archery; Sir James Blunt, sometime captain of
the Castle of Hammes, in Picardy (the same who had connived at Oxford's
escape from that fortress); Sir Walter Herbert, and Sir Richard Rohan,
Richmond's boyhood companion, squire, and chief of horse. All were
armed at proof and full accoutered for the coming battle.
The last named, though but a youth of nineteen years, would without
doubt have arrested attention above any in the distinguished party.
The red crest of his helmet nodded quite two inches above that of
his tallest compatriot; his features were uncommonly trim and perfect
in the ensemble; and his every gesture abounded in that intuitive and
careless grace appertaining to exuberant health and spirits and a well
disciplined physical strength. As though to complete a picture already
approaching perfection, from beneath the rim of his head-piece a lock
of hair had escaped and shone golden in the mellow light of the wax
tapers guttering in silver sconces above his plume.
"Knowest thou not, Sir Richard," said Henry, bending above the roses
and inhaling their refreshing fragrance, "who sped to us these graceful
messengers?"
"I beseech thee, your grace," warned Oxford, "to observe some measure
of caution when breathing in their odors. 'Tis not impossible that a
deadly poison is lurking within their fair petals. It sits plain upon
my memory how poor Burgondy expired after the smelling of a nosegay."
"For the matter of that," spoke up the fair young knight, "had they
been laden with a secret poison I had not lived to bear them within my
lord's pavilion; for I sniffed of them a score of times whilst riding
hither."
"Then, certes, we are double safe," laughed Henry, "for their sweet
perfume, Sir Richard, hath filtered to our nostrils through thy good
body. But what like, say you, was the messenger by whom they were
bestowed?"
"It ill beseems me to say that I know not," the young knight replied,
"but such is the truth, my lord. I had but finished relieving the guard
at the further side of the wood when I heard a sound as of galloping
hoofs along the road from Market Bosworth way. Approaching, the rider
halted his steed where no ray of light from our blazing links could
reach to raise the veil of his identity. Then, calling my name, he laid
the flowers within my arms. 'For Henry, our noble liege,' he quickly
whispered, and rattled off down the highroad ere I could return word of
thanks."
"Saw you no cognizance upon his sleeve or upon the trappings of his
horse?" queried Blunt.
"Methought there was a rayed sun emblazoned on his arm," the young
knight answered. "Though, in truth, my lord, 'twas all done so quickly
I may not swear 'twas surely so."
"A Yorkist gift, by the rood! Marry, and this be true, my friends, it
is a good omen indeed," observed the Earl of Oxford, rising and going
to the table. For quite a space he leaned above it, gazing fixedly
upon the flowers, as though in the hope that they themselves might
unravel the mystery their presence had aroused. "But this," he added
presently, indicating the solitary white bloom, "doth sore defeat my
understanding. Wherefore, prithee, mingle the white with the red?"
"Methinks I have the solution of that enigma," spoke up Herbert, whose
form was merged in shadow, and who, until then, had taken no part in
the discourse. "I would crave his lordship's indulgence, however,
before adventuring my lame conjecture."
"Surely we would have thy answer to the riddle, Sir Walter," said
Henry, yawning sleepily. "My mind doth refuse to probe its baffling
depths."
"An I mistake me not," Herbert resumed, "my lord of Oxford in the
very profession of his perplexity hath reached a good half way to the
answer. Methinks 'tis meant to typify the peaceful mingling of the
white rose with the red."
"Why--body o' God, I see it now!" Henry exclaimed. "But first, by force
of arms, the red must overwhelm the white."
"Nay--not so, and your lordship, please," interjected Blunt. "But
rather, let us hope, a mingling through the milder expedient of
marriage."
"Ah! Princess Elizabeth!" cried Henry, assuming a sitting posture upon
the edge of his couch. "Sir Walter, thou hast given us a fair answer
and earned a guerdon for thy keen wit. But enough of soft speech, my
noble knights. And now, sirs, to the sterner business of the day! My
Lord of Oxford, where say'st thou camp Stanley's forces?"
"At a point equally distant from thine, most gracious liege, and those
of the infamous Richard. He desires thee to understand that his beloved
son's head hangs upon his dissembling devotion for yet a few hours to
the murderous hunchback's cause."
"Aye--I know. We may depend upon him and his three thousand horse,
think you?"
"With absolute certainty, my lord."
"'Tis well," observed Henry, laying aside his feathered cap and
stooping to allow his young squire to adjust a steel helmet to his
shoulder-guards. "Then do thou, my lord of Oxford," he resumed, "have
thy archers well in hand and ready against the first show of dawn. The
sun, standing in our enemy's eyes, should much confuse their aim. Bend
thy every energy toward staying their advance with a cloud of well
directed bolts. My good Captain Blunt, let our basilisks in the wood
fling their leaden hail above the heads of our kneeling archers. Sir
Walter Herbert, let thy mounted troop to the right and left be ready
for the final charge. And you, Sir Richard, faithful friend, bear upon
my right hand till the battle's done. Do thou each, noble gentlemen,
take one of these roses and entwine it with thy helmet's crest. What,
ho, guards! strip me this tent and bestow it with the camp litter
behind the wood. Now, thy brave hands, noble sirs; and God smile upon
our cause."
Into the dense vapors arising from the morass, which, in the gray light
of daybreak, were rapidly changing to a pearly mist, the leaders then
dispersed upon their several missions.
The droning of subdued conversation, the clanking of swords and steel
gear, the twanging of bow-strings undergoing preliminary trial, and the
tinkling of pewter flagons discharging their liquid cheer into parched
throats could be heard over all the field. Each armed host was alert
and ready, awaiting with tense drawn nerves the flaming signal in the
eastern sky.
From afar off a cock crowed a cheery welcome to approaching day.
"I would the blessed light would discover me an eye-hole across the
brook," one of the burly archers was saying. "I'd flick me a bolt into
its yawning center for God and a better king."
"Yea--truly. And any king, my friend, would be a better king," another
answered. "I would I could but fasten my aim upon the elfish-marked
monster himself. 'Twould be a mark worth finding, i' faith."
"My lord of Oxford is a brave and clever captain, lad. Were it not
for these leather guards our bow-strings would have been no whit more
useful than frayed rope's ends with this cursed damp. As 'tis, they're
fit to send a quiverful of white-hot billets into as many traitorous
gizzards. I, too, would that one of them might make its home within
the green midric of Richard himself."
"Hast heard the latest from the hunchback's camp?" another whispered.
"Nay. What is 't?"
"'Tis said by the outposts along the slough that there were heard wild
shriekings in King Richard's tent during the night."
"Ah! the foul fiends bidding him to their black abode. Mark you, Jock,
once he gets there he'll have the whole dismal brood hanged, drawn, and
quartered before the year's end."
"'Twould be his first gracious deed then, I give thee warrant."
From an opposite point of the compass a second cock crowed; and then
another and another. The day at last was dawning; the mist lifting,
dispersing. Slowly it thinned away, as though one after another of a
myriad of gauzy curtains was being raised from between the opposing
armies.
When eyes could penetrate from line to line hostilities began. A
pallid, ghost-like form, grotesquely exaggerated, would emerge from
the fog. Then would be heard a sharp cry, a groan, a horrible rattling
in an expiring throat, a flinging aloft of a pair of arms, and a
sinking of the spectral figure into the black mire above which it
seemed to have been floating.
These emerging shadows multiplied from one into a score; from a score
into a hundred; from a hundred into a thousand. There was no crash
of sudden onset and meeting. Rather there was that which resembled a
gentle crescendo of death. A blending together of two armed forces with
the melting of the fog. It was as though a peaceful entity had gently
risen to yield place to a warlike one.
By now, the din and crash were become incessant. Wading hip deep in the
reddening waters of the brook and in the crimsoning black mire of the
morass, the men of the opposed armies met and battled, hand to hand.
From the wood belched flashes of fire. Heavy smoke clouds rolled away
among the leaves. The thunder of primitive artillery reverberated
across the meadow, mingling its sound of a new kind of warfare with
that of the decadent.
Wherever a crescendo occurs, a diminuendo is commonly indicated.
The augmenting of Richmond's desperately battling forces by those of
Stanley marked the climax of the crescendo. The downfall of Richard
the Third before the sturdy lance of Richmond, the beginning of the
diminuendo; the fitting finale to the whole.
Wild of eye, disheveled, his charger struck away from beneath him, King
Richard faced his mortal foe. Dauntless to the last gasping breath, he
made one frenzied, vain effort to rally his scattering army.
"A horse! a horse! My kingdom for a horse!" he shrieked aloud; and
then, dying, pitched forward into the dust.
The Battle of Bosworth Field was with the history of things past.
"His kingdom for a horse, quotha!" shouted Stanley. "His kingdom?
Bah! What is his kingdom now, honest gentles?" he added, leaping from
his blood-slavered stallion and contemptuously spurning with his
steel-booted foot the pitiful remains of the dead monarch. "What is
his kingdom now?" Sir William repeated, looking inquiringly about him.
"Why, somewhat above three cubits of unwashed dirt. A full cubit less,
by the rood, than any man of us here shall inherit."
"Body o' God! an he had him a barb now, my lord of Stanley, whither,
thinkest thou, would he be riding?" shouted someone out of the circle
of mailed warriors that was exultingly closing in around the limp,
misshapen figure huddled upon the ground.
"Whither else but to the foul fiend!" returned Stanley, smiling grimly
up into the speaker's face. "'Tis an easy riddle thou hast set me,
a'Beckitt. But he'll need him no barb to fleet him his black soul into
the burning lake, I'm thinking."
"An Crookback sink not a treacherous dagger within the back of old
Charon before he's ferried him across the Styx, I am wide of my guess,"
interrupted a third.
"Or strike off and pole the three heads of Cerberus when he does get
over," suggested another.
"Look you yonder at the redoubtable Cheyney," again spoke Stanley,
pointing toward a gigantic body, sprawled limply, face downward,
over the top of a tangled clump of copsewood. "Him, good gentles, I
saw totter and go down before this lump of bent clay like unto a
lightning-riven oak. I' faith, much doth it marvel me at the furious
strength that kept its abode within this crooked carcase."
Upon an ebon-black stallion, and apart from the men hovering,
vulturelike, above Richard's body, sat the Earl of Richmond, the
fortunate young leader beneath whose lance the tyrant king had fallen.
By reason of a natural eminence of heaped earth and stone he was raised
well above the field, the whole of which he could command by a simple
turning of his head to right and left. Behind him the deep shadows of
Sutton Ambien Wood served picturesquely to emphasize the flash and
glitter of the plated and richly inlaid armor that girded him from head
to toe.
It was then but a brief fortnight and a day since the ship in which
he had embarked at Bretagne had brought him careening through Bristol
Channel to a safe landing upon England's coast at Milford Haven. In
that short time he had succeeded in setting a period to the devastating
Wars of the Roses, and in exchanging his earl's coronet for that which
fortune subsequently decided should be a crown.
The lifeless body stretched before him in the hollow marked the pitiful
end of nearly a century of deadly, internecine strife. Intently he
watched them denuding the stiffening corpse of its costly armor and
kingly vestments.
During these moments that England was without a legal monarch, Henry
Tudor, Earl of Richmond, remained motionless as a statue upon his black
steed, solitary, unheralded, forgotten.
"Body o' God, men! we'll give him a horse," he heard them wildly
shouting; and then impassively regarded them while they lashed the
bent, and now naked body upon the broad back of a lively hackney. It
was the final and brutal expression of a righteous indignation.
From every part of the field there rang in Henry's ears loud cries
of exultation over the dead and vanquished Richard, which merged
presently into a riotous pandemonium of inarticulate sound when the
horse, bearing its gruesome burden, was paraded before the men in the
direction of Market Bosworth Road.
"_Le roi est mort,--vive le roi!_" the clear voice of Henry's squire
made itself manifest above the din.
Something the faintest of smiles broke upon the impassivity of the
Earl's countenance as he turned his head in the direction whence this
cry had come. Sir Richard, bearing a jeweled crown outstretched in his
hands, was just leaping above the clump of copse-wood whereupon the
body of Sir John Cheyney was lying.
Lord Stanley, who, by this time, had resumed seat upon his horse,
quickly stationed himself between the approaching young knight and the
Earl of Richmond. Then, taking the crown that had encircled Richard's
helmet throughout the battle, he set it solemnly upon that of Henry.
Whereupon--"The King is dead, long live the King!" the cry rippled
abroad over the sanguinary field of Bosworth; and the blazing August
sun beat down upon a circle of upraised, flashing swords, unsheathed in
promise of fealty to the new monarch.
CHAPTER I
A WARRANT UPON DOUGLAS
Upon a massive chair of state within the private audience chamber,
which adjoined the throne room in the venerable castle of Kenilworth,
sat King Henry VII, gloomily brooding. An ermine trimmed robe of
softest velvet fell from his shoulders, rippling over the steps of the
raised dais to the floor below; a golden, jeweled crown sat awry upon
his head.
Five years as reigning monarch of a discontented and rebellious people
had borne their weight more heavily upon him than had the whole of the
twenty-nine preceding them. Though yet young, as time relatively to the
man is commonly measured, his hair and carefully pointed beard were
shot with premature gray. His countenance, deeply lined, was overspread
with a sickly pallor. His hands, clutching upon the arms of the
damask-covered chair into which he had thrown himself, and in which he
was now half-sitting, half-reclining, trembled as though palsied with
an enfeebled age.
His royal marriage with Elizabeth of York, daughter of Henry VI, had
marked the consummation of his loftiest ambition. The omen of the white
rose mingling with the red had been pleasantly fulfilled. Outwardly his
position seemed sufficiently secure. But beneath the surface there were
incessant ebullitions of seditious sentiment threatening momentarily to
seethe to the top and engulf him. Always, must dissembling be met with
keen and smooth diplomacy; plot, with adroit and clever counter-plot.
Because of his open aversion to war, his appreciation of the advantages
of negotiation and arbitration, he was stigmatized by his secret
enemies as being greedy and avaricious. Yet, on the other hand,
had he amassed great armies and plunged them headlong into foreign
conflict, thereby burdening his subjects with increased taxation, he
would doubtless have been regarded by these same malcontents as being
extravagant and needlessly cruel.
During the space of the greater part of an hour the King remained
seated in the precise attitude in which the opening of the present
chapter discovered him. His chin lowered upon his breast; his gaze
fixed straight before him; his fingers tapping ceaselessly upon the
arms of his chair.
Then, after the manner of a draped lay-figure imbued with sudden life,
he sprang to his feet, threw aside the purple robes enveloping him and
paced with nervous footfalls across the floor. Occasionally he would
pause, incline his head, and pass his hand fretfully across his brow.
Once he stopped, leaning heavily against a marble image of Kenelph,
Saxon king of Mercia, from whom the castle had its name. The sun of
a September afternoon shining brilliantly through one of the western
windows bathed them, the marble effigy and the man, in squares of
vari-colored light; affording thus a sharp contrast between the old
and the new. In the chiseled head of stone the stamp of an iron will
was predominant in every feature. Those of the living bespoke no less
the possession of a will; but a will that would seek ever to achieve
its purposes through the exercise of crafty cunning. The one had been
grimly determined, brave, and openly cruel and tyrannical. The other
was a secret coward, masking his cruelties beneath the guise of virtue.
Suddenly, looking up into the stone face of the dead king, the living
king smiled.
"Yea," said he. "We will--rather we must--yea, we must command it to be
done. And by doing it in that way, 'twill be transfixing two bullocks
with a single dart."
Thereupon, mounting the steps of the dais and reseating himself in his
chair, he carefully donned his robes of state, composed his features,
and gently pulled a golden tassel depending from a silken cord at his
elbow.
"Command my lord of Stanley instantly to attend me," was Henry's stern
behest to the court attendant, who bowed himself within one of the
curtained entrances.
Very soon thereafter Stanley came in. Approaching the dais, he knelt
upon the lower step, touching with his lips the indifferent and cold
hand extended to him.
"My lord of Stanley," said the King, "fetch yonder stool and dispose
thyself beside our knee. We would have speech of thee--and council."
Then, to the attendant waiting near the entrance, "Ralston," he ordered
tersely, "we would have it known that we will brook no interruption
till this conference be ended. But hold! do thou lay commands upon
lords Oxford and de Vere, and Sir Richard Rohan, to be ready and
waiting against our present summons. Thou mayst go, Ralston."
Silently the attendant withdrew. Folding his arms and looking steadily
into Lord Stanley's eyes, the King resumed.
"Now, Stanley, to the business in hand. From what source hast thou
drawn thy information that secret emissaries are at this moment on
their way hither to acquaint Sir Richard of the facts concerning his
noble lineage?"
"Are they then facts, my liege?" queried Stanley, his arched eyebrows
plainly evidencing his surprise. "Is it indeed true that this youthful,
fair-haired upstart may lay a true and proper claim to the title of
Earl of Warwick, and, through that title, a seat upon this very throne?"
"Presume not upon our indulgence, Lord Stanley," warned the King in a
menacing tone. "Thou hast met question with question. Now, my lord,
the source of thy information."
"I crave thy pardon, liege," Stanley hastened to return. "Full well
thou knowest, august highness, that every foul rebellion doth breed its
fouler traitors. From these coward turn-coats have I stumbled upon this
knowledge. The information thus gained I have supplemented and verified
with that gleaned by thine own honest and tireless servants. 'Tis, I
fear me much, unimpeachable."
"But under God's heaven, Stanley, how came these rag-tag rebels upon
the facts as to Rohan's lineage? Marry, my lord, methought 'twas hidden
as though sunken within the very entrails of the earth."
"Through one Michael Lidcote, a captain of ship in Duke Francis's
fleet. The same, I'll swear, who brought thee to England at Milford
Haven," Lord Stanley explained. "'Twas done, I hear, out of a certain
love for the young knight, and a desire to witness his elevation to
his--true position."
For a considerable space thereafter the King remained silent, his chin
resting upon the fingers of his clasped hands, his pale blue eyes
gazing straight ahead of him into space. In retrospect, his mind had
turned to the contemplation of some happy days in sunny Brittany when
he and Sir Richard were being reared and disciplined together beneath
the eye of the stern but kind old Duke. The images materialized must
have been pleasing to him, for the hard lines of his face softened into
the semblance of a smile. Then, with a sudden, determined lowering of
his head, a straightening of his thin lips beneath his sparse beard, he
turned again toward Stanley.
"Ah! how true it is," said he, "that desire for fame and power is but
an insatiate parasite which gluts and fattens upon the care-free joys
of youth. What is this glittering panoply, pray, but a mask? A shining
veneer, shielding from view the process of decay within? And now, after
yielding nearly all--my health, my strength, my happiness--you ask of
me that I shall spill the blood of my dearest friend. The companion of
my joyous youth. Him, say you, must I offer up on the gory altar of
public expediency. That I must perforce still the one brave heart that
beats with an unselfish devotion to my cause and person."
"'Tis needless to tell thee, my liege," purred Stanley, who was ever
careful to guard his precedence at the throne, "that the peace and
integrity of a nation depend upon thy secure hold upon this very seat.
Even that which but remotely menaces should be rendered impotent. These
expressions of thy tender sentiment, your highness, are attuned in
harmony with thy noble character as a man, but----"
"Yea, Stanley," interrupted Henry, making a show of partial surrender
to the flatterer's wiles, "but am I longer a man? There's the question,
my lord. Dare I think as a man, and not as a fear-stricken, fettered
monarch? Is it not true that the ruler hath swallowed up the mortal,
leaving naught but an outward pageant? An effigy of cold and heartless
clay upon which to drape a tawdry robe; to set a jeweled crown; to hang
a golden scepter?"
Stanley ventured no reply, and a somewhat prolonged interval of silence
followed Henry's theatric outburst.
"Think not that I am mad, my lord of Stanley," the King at length
resumed, and in a tone so low, melancholy, and sad, that its false
note was scarcely to be perceived. "It is indeed true that my first
concern must ever be to safeguard my beloved people. Hath these rumors
concerning the young knight been spread broadcast, my lord? It were an
ill time to essay a cure of the malady, and it had festered over all
England."
"It hath not done so, your majesty," Lord Stanley assured him. "The
aged seaman and all but two of the seditious leaders are now imprisoned
within the tower. The pair who escaped the meshes of my net are now
journeying hither from London in disguise. I have their names and know
well what like they are."
"'Tis well. Thy station be the forfeit, an they elude thee. Still all
their busy tongues, my lord. We lay upon thee royal warrant of their
death, and that speedily. Concerning the young knight's progenitors,
Lord Stanley, it doth please us to make of thee our single confidant.
This noble is in truth the son of the Duke of Clarence--the good Duke,
who came to his untimely end at the gentle hands of our esteemed
father-in-law. Thou dost remember well that he was attainted of high
treason, and that we took measures accordingly to have his issue
pronounced illegitimate. 'Twas done, as thou canst see, to guard
against such a contingency as hath now arisen. But to my tale. Sir
Richard, when but a suckling infant, was carried secretly to Brittany,
and enjoyed there, with me, the powerful protection of Duke Francis.
Why the die of England's sovereignty was cast in my favor, I know not.
God wot, Stanley, I wish that it had not been! Now, my lord, attend our
every word. The weak stripling, whom base Richard the Third believed
to be the true Earl of Warwick hath, under our command, for long been
immured within the tower. It is perhaps the better part of wisdom that
we should lesson thee that an exchange of infants was many years ago
covertly effected by one Dame Tyrrell, wife of Sir James Tyrrell, the
same who was bribed by Richard to strangle his two nephews, the boy
dukes remaining betwixt himself and the throne. Within a fortnight,
Stanley, do thou undertake to have the news of the death of this
changeling early published over all our kingdom. 'Twere the more
seemly, mayhap, and it appeared to have transpired through natural
causes. A return of the sweating sickness, or some like subterfuge."
"And the young knight, Rohan; what of him, most mighty liege?"
"Him, we would have thee to know," said Henry, "we love and trust above
any man, saving thyself, in all the length and breadth of England.
"Aye, marry, but----"
"Hold! have patience, my lord, and attend me. We know well what thou
wouldst say. Him, too, must we sacrifice for the sake of the peace and
safety of a people who love us but little. Do thou this very hour issue
warrant under the Great Seal and give it into Sir Richard's hands to be
delivered by him upon Douglas, in Castle Yewe, in Scotland. Lay royal
command upon Douglas that his courtiers shall engage the young knight
in quarrel and honorable conflict to the end that he return not again
into England."
"By the rood, august highness! wouldst make him the bearer of his own
warrant of death? 'Tis a parlous risky business."
"Yea, my lord. But a risk that we are happy to assume out of a spirit
of fair play, and as a mark of our highest confidence. And know,
too, Stanley," Henry said, smiling shrewdly, "'twill rid us of many a
Scottish enemy. The young man battles tremendously well. And, more in
favor of this plan, 'twould be the death of Sir Richard's own choosing,
mark you."
"Aye, marry, doth he fight well. I can see many a Scot's midriff lying
open to his couched lance or drawn sword. My liege, shall I deliver
warrant here?"
"Here, and now. Let Oxford and de Vere be witnesses of its delivery.
Though, we charge thee solemnly, hint not to either of its purport. On
yonder table thou wilt find parchment. Take point in hand and write.
Send Ralston to me when thou hast done. The Queen doth await our
presence within the Hall of Windows."
For an hour or more after the King had gone, the eagle's quill within
Lord Stanley's fingers moved slowly back and forth across the sheet
of parchment. When he had finished with the body of the document and
signed his name he lifted his head and looked keenly, furtively about
the room. Arising, he moved swiftly from curtain to curtain. Lifting
each, he peered hastily beneath its heavy folds. Whereupon, satisfied
that he was alone, and resuming his seat at the table, he spread before
him another sheet of parchment and proceeded to copy, word for word,
that which he had written upon the first.
So intently did he engage himself upon this task that he failed to
notice the silent parting of a draped entrance, or the King's catlike
tread upon the thick pile of the carpet as he moved stealthily across
the floor. A long hand, very slender and very much be jeweled, moving
across the table before him and taking up the original document, gave
Stanley his first hint of his sovereign's presence.
Without a moment's hesitation, and not the slightest quivering of an
eyebrow, Lord Stanley arose and bowed low before Henry. He met the look
of stern inquiry on the King's face with a quiet smile.
"I crave thy pardon, liege, on the behalf of my sluggish fingers.
Fitter are they to wield sword in thy cause than pen."
"So it would seem. What meaneth this second transcript, my lord of
Stanley?"
"I bethought me that it would be well," replied Stanley upon the
instant, "because of the grave importance of the document, to issue
it in duplicate. The one to give the young knight safe conduct to his
journey's end, the other to secrete within the lining of his cloak or
doublet."
"'Tis a most excellent thought, by my faith!" exclaimed the King, the
black cloud passing from his brow. "Command Oxford, de Vere, and Sir
Richard to our presence. We would have done with the business, and with
all speed dispatch the young knight upon his travels."
CHAPTER II
ON THE WAY TO CASTLE YEWE
The ceremony attending the departure of Sir Richard upon his singular
errand was quickly over; and well within the limits of that day the
massive pile of ivy-grown walls, crenelated towers and copper-tipped
turrets of Kenilworth Castle had dipped beneath the undulating masses
of autumn tinted foliage behind the young knight and John Belwiggar,
whom the King had nominated to be Sir Richard's squire and attendant.
Within Henry's mind the expedient of dispatching the young knight
as bearer of his own death warrant had been conceived in a spirit
of absurd bravado. So far as his calculating and selfish character
permitted, he was fond of him. But if he suffered a regret, it was
wholly personal, and because of circumstances that had compelled him to
part from one in whose companionship he had derived a great deal of
pleasure. In respect of any feeling of genuine sorrow, the entire scene
enacted between himself and Stanley had been a complete farce. Though
he had invested that doughty warrior with many and distinguished honors
and great power, he had never entertained on the behalf of his chief
official that feeling of confidence so essential to the complaisance of
mind of any ruler. It was his intention to set before that individual
an example of integrity and devotion that the King fancied would be
well worthy of emulation. As an additional safeguard, however, he
caused secret spies of his own selection to be dispatched in the
train of Sir Richard. In adopting this course he believed himself
to be keeping the situation well in hand; at once guarding against
any interruption of the final delivery of the unusual warrant, and
providing him with the means of testing Lord Stanley's devotion to his
cause.
Thus, had not Sir Richard taken it into his head to follow an itinerary
entirely different from either the one suggested by Henry, or that
secretly transmitted to him beside the portcullis by Lord Stanley,
some state problems of vast magniture and importance might then have
been solved. As it subsequently transpired, all along and between the
roads that it was definitely supposed the young knight and his squire
would make their pilgrimage, King's emissaries were constantly meeting
and receiving entertainment of Stanley's lieutenants, as well as the
other way about. Obviously, neither the one side nor the other dared
to hint of its purpose of espionage or destination; nor yet dared to
display any undue haste in parting to pursue its secret way. It also
became necessary for them to observe every possible precaution in the
matter of covering up their trails, one from another; and, in this way,
the innocent cause of this rather amusing game of cross-purposes was
permitted to go unmolested upon his way.
The route that Sir Richard had chosen rendered it necessary for himself
and squire to tread paths and by-ways used chiefly by peasant farmers
and sheep-herders. At times, after a heavy fall of rain, such of these
as wound through the low lying valleys would become wholly impassable,
making it needful for our pilgrims to await the draining of the flood
into the rivers, or to make long detours to come upon the other side.
For this reason, it had reached well along into October before they had
passed through the Liberties of Berwick and set foot upon Scottish soil.
It was growing late in the afternoon of their second day in Scotland,
and while they were skirting the edge of a rock-tarn lying in gloomy
seclusion in the middle of a desolate moor, that Sir Richard was
murderously deprived of the services of his squire and brave attendant.
There had been no hint of the approach of the tragedy; no clue as to
the identity or purpose of the cowardly perpetrators following its
occurrence.
Mounted upon his mettlesome charger, which, though uncommonly powerful,
was somewhat fatigued because of the many miles put behind him that
day, the young knight was riding slowly along some two hundred yards
in advance of Belwiggar. The sky was heavy, gray, and lowering; and
the boulder-strewn, monotonously level expanse of moor affording no
pleasant aspect or interesting contrasts to the eye, Sir Richard's
gaze remained fixed upon the nodding head of his stallion. So near the
brink was the narrow path winding along the waters of the tarn, and so
unruffled was its surface, that steed and armored rider were mirrored
faithfully, point for point, beneath.
Hearing a sharp rattling of steel-shod hoofs behind him, and vaguely
marveling as to the cause of this unexpected and unusual burst of
energy upon the part of his squire, the young knight turned, with a
smile upon his face, to greet Belwiggar's approach. To his horrified
surprise he was but just in time to see the honest fellow writhing in
an agony of death, while the horse that he had so lately bestrode in
the prime vigor of rugged health whisked blindly ahead of the young
knight along the road, till, crashing against a huge boulder upreared
within its path, it stumbled, seemed to hang for an instant in mid-air,
and then, neighing with wild affright, disappeared with a tremendous
splash beneath the surface of the tarn.
Apprehending some immediate danger to himself, Sir Richard, upon the
instant, drew his visor close. Just as he had accomplished this move
a bolt struck fair upon the joint of his neck-guard; and, though it
did him no harm beyond causing his head to ring with the force of the
impact, it was the cunning of his armorer alone that had saved him from
a death similar to that of Belwiggar.
Having no means of knowing the exact direction from whence the arrows
had been sped, and the nature of the ground precluding the possibility
of sending his horse over it, the young knight made no attempt to seek
out and punish his assailant. He shot a glance of the keenest scrutiny
from boulder to boulder, but there was no sign of a living being upon
the moor. Satisfied that Belwiggar's death must go unavenged for the
time, he rode back to where he lay with a feathered shaft, still
quivering, protruding from his broad breast.
He dismounted beside the body, tethering his horse in the hollow
between two rocky promontories through which the path swung. He stood
looking around him for a space, uncertain what to do. So overwhelmingly
appalling and strange were the circumstances attending the tragedy,
and to that degree was Sir Richard oppressed by his melancholy
surroundings, that he became filled with a feeling of unspeakable
dread, an almost uncontrollable desire to throw himself upon the back
of his steed and gallop swiftly away. Torn by such emotions, it was
no light task to remain upon the scene for the purpose of making such
disposition of poor Belwiggar's body as his limited means would permit.
By employing the dead warrior's battle-ax in lieu of mattock, however,
he contrived to hollow out a sufficient space to lay him decently
away. Then, piling up a mound of loose stones above the shallow grave,
Sir Richard remounted and pursued his solitary way northward toward
Bannockburn and Castle Yewe.
As he journeyed onward the young knight made many determined efforts to
whistle and sing away a feeling of deep melancholy that persisted in
setting somberly down upon him. In the manner of a gloomy procession
passing in review before his mind's eye, he recalled all of the wild
folklore with which his ears had been beguiled since his advent into
Scotland.
"Scour ye'r hoorse ower the Sauchieburn Pass," a toothless and horrible
old hag had whispered into his unwilling ear upon the morning of that
very day. "Dinna ye ken," she had croaked, "that the deil flees there
at fall o' nicht?" and the bare thought that he would be obliged to
pass the night there alone, with nothing between his head and the
limitless heavens but a possible shelving rock, caused icy shivers of
fear to creep along his back.
There was one weird tale in particular that he had heard repeated with
a stubborn insistence that gave to it some semblance of verity. It was
that concerning a certain red tavern, which, according to the peasant's
lively imaginations, appeared suddenly along lonely and unfrequented
roadways, as though set there by the Evil One. After a time, then, it
was reported to vanish as suddenly and mysteriously as it had appeared,
taking along with it into the Unknown any luckless wayfarer that had
chanced to seek shelter beneath its phantom roof.
"Now, I am free to own," Sir Richard argued with himself, "that there
are certain strange phenomena of which the human mind can give no
proper accounting. But when it comes to tales of gibbering ghosts,
shadowy, phantom shapes and flying taverns--why, by 'r Lady! I'll set a
barrier of common sense against my credulity and refuse to believe."
He was quite aware, moreover, that none of his countrymen had ever
journeyed through Scotland without being bedeviled by somewhat of
these same gruesome tales. While it was true that the wily Lord Bishop
Kennedy had succeeded in effecting a truce of seven years' duration
between England and Scotland, it was obviously beyond him to beguile
the yeomanry into viewing an Englishman with anything approaching
favor. Nor yet, by any possible chance or subterfuge, could he have set
a truce to their wagging tongues. Legends and superstitions were a part
of their daily existence, and in proportion as they were fearsome they
enjoyed spreading them about.
Revolving these matters within an uneasy mind, Sir Richard gave small
heed to his surroundings. By now, he had laid the moor well behind
him. Through a slight rift in the rolling cloud-pall peered the last
segment of the setting sun; and away to the westward could be caught an
occasional glinting of the sea as the waves billowed through its golden
reflection.
Just ahead of him the road dipped into a valley. Along its bowl-like
bed lay a morass, which gave off continuously a heavy, bluish, and
probably poisonous vapor. To the north of the morass the road ascended
in easy gradients till it clipped the sky line at the distance of a
league and a half, or thereabouts, from where he rode.
At the precise point where the road showed bold and clear against the
clouds he fancied that he saw the expiring rays of the sun gleaming
against a point of vivid color. As he descended into the valley to
where the road divided the morass, the point of color disappeared
from view, and all of the landscape resumed its gray and monotonous
appearance.
Not wishing to inhale the miasmic vapor, in which, he feared, might
lurk some dire fever, Sir Richard drank long and deep of untainted
air. So much so indeed that the flesh of his back and breast impinged
strong upon his steel harness. Then, setting spurs to his stallion, he
galloped through the dank cloud without a breath of it reaching into
his nostrils.
As he drew near the northern reaches of the valley and rounded a
gigantic boulder that stood sentinel to the upper plain, he came
full upon a tavern that he at once surmised to be the same of which
he had heard so much. Upon the instant that he did so, he reined in
his steed to a dead stand. Aside from its brilliant though somewhat
weather-beaten coat of scarlet, it differed in many respects from the
taverns then commonly to be seen along the highways. Saving at the very
apex of its steep gable, its front was unpierced by windows. Above its
single, narrow door, which opened beneath the jut of the upper story,
hung a signboard bearing upon its surface the device of a vulture
feeding its young. Withal, however, it appeared to be material enough,
and this made it impossible for Sir Richard to account for a feeling of
unutterable dread that took complete possession of his mind.
Once he had almost decided upon riding straight to its entrance to beat
upon the rude panels of the door for admittance within. But before he
could summon sufficient courage to carry out his half-formed design,
a mortal terror returned strong upon him, and forthwith he sent his
stallion past it at a furious gallop.
It stood a full quarter of a league at his back before the ungovernable
fear within him gave ground to shame. He pulled up sharp, then
wheeled, and rode slowly back to its sinister door.
As he knocked with the scabbard of his sword upon the heavy planks a
drop of rain splashed against his helmet, trickled down over his closed
visor, and dripped through one of its orifices upon his chin.
CHAPTER III
OF A NIGHT IN THE RED TAVERN
As Sir Richard glanced above the jutting cornice he noted that the
clouds had turned to a murky green. Ragged tentacles were trailing
ominously earthward as the storm raged down upon the sea. Appreciating
the need of immediate shelter, and having as yet heard no answering
sounds from within, he sent another fusillade of blows against the door.
Almost upon the instant there followed a loud clanking of iron chains
and bolts. Then, as the door swung slowly inward, there stood revealed
within the open space a singularly odd and striking figure of a man. So
extraordinarily tall was he that he was obliged to stoop to make way
for his head beneath the lintel as he set his foot upon the step. He
vouchsafed no word of welcome or good cheer, but stood silent, waiting
for the traveler to speak.
With his sparse hair streaming in the augmenting wind, his keen eyes
burning within the shadow of a thicket of brows; his veritable beak
of a nose--vying with that of the crudely painted vulture above his
head--and his thin, bloodless lips, he appealed to the young knight
like anything but a picture of a hospitable inn-keeper. It being
habitual to associate with these highway entertainers a certain
rotundity of figure and jollity of demeanor. The one confronting Sir
Richard was attenuated to the last degree, though in despite of this
the breadth of his wrist, and the clutch of his bony fingers upon the
latch, betrayed his possession of a more than usual measure of physical
strength.
"Hast thou peace and provender for a wayfaring knight and horse?" our
astonished pilgrim made out to inquire.
Even then the landlord did not trouble himself to speak. Bowing assent,
however, he signed Sir Richard to dismount and enter. As he complied,
another man, with features very much resembling the first, but whose
figure was grossly misshapen, squat, hunchbacked, and long-armed,
emerged from the obscurity of the room and led away his horse. This
move was not accomplished without a considerable effort upon the
hunchback's part, for the spirited animal pricked up its ears, champed
its bit, and hung back on the bridle at sight of the apparition tugging
at the other end.
It was not without an inward sense of fear that the young knight moved
toward the glowing blaze, after he had seen his horse safely led,
though stubbornly contesting every inch of the way, around the corner
of the building. As he approached the chimney-side, a huge wolfhound
lying upon the hearth half rose upon its haunches.
In the bright light of the fire Sir Richard could see the stiff, wiry
gray hairs elevating along its spine, and the gleaming of white fangs
as it curled its lips from off them and emitted a savage growl.
"Crouch, Demon!" commanded the inn-keeper in a voice which, though low,
seemed by far more menacing than the savage grumble of the beast.
The hound instantly obeyed, resuming its recumbent attitude and
regarding the intruder furtively the while out of the tail of its
yellow eyes.
By now the wind had risen to the strength of a hurricane; whining and
shrieking dismally, it was dashing the rain with tremendous violence
against the northern and eastern walls of the tavern. With an inward
acknowledgment of his indebtedness to a kind providence for having set
a haven of refuge of any description along the highway, the traveler
took his place in a deep-seated bench beside the fire, unloosed the
fastenings of his helm and removed his gauntlets. He made as if to
unlock his greaves, but desisted upon a vivid recollection of the sharp
fangs of the wolfhound.
"By the rood, my good man, but how it doth blow," said he, rubbing his
benumbed hands in front of the warm and cheery blaze. "A stoup of red
wine or runlet of canary would scarce come amiss upon such a night, i'
truth."
With his foot touching the muzzle of the dog, the inn-keeper had taken
his station before the fire; and, whilst the lower portion of his tall
body was bathed in its ruddy glare, his head towered among the shadowy
beams above. By the dim semi-light that barely laid itself against his
pallid cheek, Sir Richard could see that his host was measuring him up
point by point; and in a manner so insolently intent that he became
possessed of a mad itching to attempt a chastisement of his tormentor.
But two words, and these spoken to the hound, had the landlord uttered
since the young knight had dismounted before the door.
"Well!" exclaimed our pilgrim, rapping impatiently upon the table
before him, "an thou hast finished with thy inventorying, man; bring on
a stoup of wine. And be good enough to see to it, sir, that the drink
be advance guard to a bit of supper."
Thereupon the inn-keeper bent the incensed Sir Richard a bow that Lord
Cardinal Bourchier himself might properly have envied.
"Saidst thou not something, sir knight," he returned in the smoothest
of tones, "of a runlet of canary?"
His manner was faultlessly deferential, but the modulations of
his voice conveyed a world of ironical badinage that was wellnigh
intolerable. The young knight was tired, lonely, and, if the truth
be said, half fearful; and for these reasons proved no match at all
for the extraordinary tavern-keeper at that soft game. Losing for the
moment all control of his temper, he sprang petulantly to his feet and
rapped angrily upon the wooden bench with the scabbard of his sword.
"Devil fly away with the canary, sirrah!" he retorted, threateningly.
"I tell thee now, it were the better suited to thy health that thou
shouldst do my bidding, man."
"This tavern, good my knight," said the inn-keeper, apparently not in
the least ruffled, and wholly ignoring his guest's display of anger,
"boasts but a meager fare. Plain venison, I fear me much, must needs
pass muster with thy dainty palate in lieu of larks and pigeons."
A nature prone to sudden disarrangement of poise is usually amenable
to swift reasoning and control. By this time, Sir Richard, repenting
of his burst of passion and appreciating the imbecility of a resort
to violence, had determined in his mind to do his utmost to meet the
inn-keeper upon his own ground. He arose, thereupon, and swept toward
mine host his most profound curtesy.
"Venison from thy cupboard," said he, smiling in a good humor that was
not altogether assumed, "would stand substitute for even Karum-pie."
With a grim chuckle the inn-keeper then took himself off. The hunchback
returned presently bearing upon a broad platter a warmed over venison
pasty and a stoup of wine; which, upon tasting, Sir Richard found to
be of a most excellent vintage. He was disappointed in one particular,
however; for, from the moment of the landlord's exit from the room,
the young knight had entertained the hope that his supper might be
served through the offices of a comely maid. In that event, as was the
habit of the times, he would have enjoyed her companionship through the
hour of eating. He could accordingly scarcely conceal his vexation and
chagrin upon beholding the lugubrious hunchback.
"The Fates defend us!" he exclaimed beneath his breath. "Merely to look
at the fellow doth steal away mine hunger."
Well within the zone of pleasing warmth of the fire, and with the not
untuneful beating of the wind and sleet against the hollow clapboards
singing in his ears, Sir Richard, after he had partaken of his supper,
remained beside the table, his elbows resting upon its top, his head
reclining against his hand. A delightful drowsiness was stealing over
him, causing his head to nod lower and lower. Then, with a relaxation
of every muscle of his body, he fell forward into a deep sleep.
The air of absolute confidence with which the inn-keeper presently
entered the room; the deliberate manner in which he went about
unfastening and intruding his hand within the traveler's wallet seemed
adequately to indicate that the entire circumstance had grown out of
a well meditated plan of action. As he withdrew King Henry's warrant
and clapped his eyes upon the great red seal his eyebrows went up in
token of astonishment. With extreme deliberation he broke the seal and
proceeded to acquaint himself with its purport.
"'Tis a passing strange and untoward business, this," he muttered,
after having read and read again the contents of the singular document.
"Aye, a passing strange business. Is it but an idle frolic of a king?
some cruel wager, conceived in wanton jest? Certes, and this youth
were an enemy to the throne, his fair head, ere this, had fallen beside
the tower block. I would that we could attach men as stanch, devoted
and incorruptible to our great cause. But now, since the young prince
is dead, what cause have we?" Folding carefully the parchment, he
vented a deep sigh. "The labor of these seven years is gone for naught.
Aye, for naught. And the great army that is bivouaced here to-night in
Scotland is like unto an avenging Juggernaut with none to guide its
course. A beast of prey bereft of a head wherewith to devour its enemy."
Concluding his meditations, the inn-keeper, moving toward the fire,
took up a blazing splinter and addressed himself to the task of mending
the broken seal. Having accomplished this to his apparent satisfaction,
he returned the parchment whence it had been taken, seated himself
beside the table opposite to the sleeping young knight and resumed the
thread of his gloomy thoughts.
"'Tis passing strange that I--I, James Tyrrell--wearing the stigma of a
murderer, expatriate and outlawed from my country, should feel toward
this comely youth a sentiment akin to pity. Even would I make attempt
to save him, and I could. But, I fear me, 'tis impossible. The very
nature of his errand furnishes such proof of his stubborn integrity
that 'twere but folly to make trial of dissuading him from going on.
An I had awakened him to display the violated parchment, he would have
had at me with his sword for an arrant traitor. Even as he bent me that
pretty bow, I could see the fighting-man in his gray eye. An I caused
him to be trussed up as he sleeps to hold it before his conscious eyes,
he would dub me liar and base imitator of King Henry's signature to my
very teeth. Reluctant though I am thus to do, I must perforce allow him
to fare away upon his pilgrimage to death."
With that Tyrrell arose, leaning, for a brief instant, upon the table
above the sleeping knight. Upon the instant that he did so his manner
underwent a marked transformation from passive contemplation to that
of intent and earnest scrutiny. Bending his eyes upon the point where
the young man's neck escaped from his steel shoulder-guards, he stood
for some time regarding two small and blood-red moles, which were
curiously joined together by a slender filament of raised flesh. In
any other but the recumbent position that the sleeping man's head had
naturally assumed, the birth-mark would have been hidden from view
beneath the masses of golden-brown hair growing in a profusion of
ringlets behind his delicately modeled ears.
Then: "'Tis a glorious dispensation of Divine Providence," declared
Tyrrell solemnly, straightening to his full height and upraising his
right hand, whilst his left remained upon the unconscious knight's
shoulder. "And we thank thee, merciful God, for thy kindness in thus
sending another to take the place of one whom thou didst see fit to
take away."
Thereupon, with many a halt, and many a backward glance, he stole
quietly from the room.
His advent into another, wherein four armed men were amusing themselves
over a game of cards and conversing together in guarded undertones, was
dramatic in the extreme.
He took his stand in the center of the floor, the flare of a single
torch speeding waves of light and shadow along his tall figure.
"Noble gentles," said he, "fellow conspirators: Know ye all that a
just God hath this night deigned to smile upon our cause. That even
now, in the room without, steeped in sweet slumber 'neath the influence
of one of Friar Diomed's harmless potions, there is a fit and proper
candidate for a throne in which now sits a base usurper."
"Ay--marry, is this true, eh? Well, he is a good enough looking young
fellow. But, 'tis no more than fair that the traveler should well
requite us for thus depriving us of the comforts of a cheery room--eh!"
muttered a bearded warrior, who, because of a conspicuous absence of
stools or chairs, was obliged to take what ease he could upon the
floor. "I would that friend Zenas might fetch bench or stool," he
added, "so that I might listen to thy tale in seemly comfort--eh!"
"Have done with thy grumblings, de Claverlok," spoke up another member
of the quartet. "Pray, Sir James, keep not longer from us the identity
of this God-given substitute. We are all ears to hear."
"Ay, so must we be," de Claverlok interrupted. "But one great ear, for
'tis from a great height we must listen--eh!"
"First," resumed Tyrrell, unheedful of the interruption, "I would hear
thy separate oaths registered that no hint shall escape thee of that
which I am about to tell. This oath of secrecy, noble gentlemen, doth
most of all include the solitary traveler now asleep in the outer
room. Until such time as I shall give thee warrant, him must we keep
in ignorance of our purpose. It is my firm resolve to bring him within
view of our great armed force, before laying bare our plans. Zenas, my
good brother," Sir James pursued, turning to the dwarf, "do thou, for
a time, stand sentinel above our honorable guest. I charge thee, guard
him zealously from harm till I am ready to join thee."
After Zenas had closed the door behind his retreating figure, the
inn-keeper, turning toward the three men remaining, divulged to them at
great length and with fine regard to details our traveler's true name
and titles, as well as the nature of his errand to Douglas.
"My good wife, gentles," he said, concluding the explanation of the
source of his knowledge, "was nurse and godmother to the suckling
infant. Full oft did we, in secret, discuss the significance of these
marks that I have but this moment again looked upon. And, now, Friar
Diomed," he said, addressing himself to the churchman, "art thou
skilled enough in the assembling of herb and root to prepare me a
sleeping potion that for three days or more will not lose its hold upon
the senses?"
"Aye--that can I," replied the monk cheerfully. "An you but set it
to the nostrils thrice in the day 'twill sleep a man safely the week
through."
"Then do thou have it ready betwixt this hour and midnight. De
Claverlok, do thou, with all dispatch, ride to our nearest encampment.
Bring back with thee a dozen mounted men and a covered litter. Whilst
awaiting Sir Lionel's speedy return, we will give our time to the
further discussion of plans and expedients."
By now the storm had abated. The wind, no longer a shrieking tornado,
had died away to a plaintive sighing about the eaves. The rain had
entirely ceased, and in the dead solitude of the night the hoofbeats
of de Claverlok's charger, as he galloped away upon his errand, were
plainly audible to those within the tavern; to all saving Sir Richard,
who, still sleeping beside the fire, was all unconscious of an eye,
a patient, gleaming, malevolent eye, which remained fixed upon the
interior through a narrow window set high in the eastern wall of the
room.
CHAPTER IV
THE INCIDENT OF THE WOLF-HOUND
The eye at the window was the hunchback's, who was perched upon the
top of a boulder, which he had rolled to the side of the building
for the purpose of enabling him to see within. His attitude was as
that of a spider awaiting its victim, and betrayed his anticipation
of a pleasurable event to come. If Sir James could have witnessed
his brother's unaccountable demeanor, he would doubtless have been
convinced of the truth of a rumor that was commonly traded among his
men to the effect that Zenas was of unsound mind, and a menace to his
ambitious plans.
The tottering of Zenas's reason was directly due to the circumstance
of his having been Sir James's intimate confederate in one of the most
brilliant and daring conspiracies in a time when conspiracies were
among the chief products of England's soil. The plot in question
had been conceived in Tyrrell's brain at the time when he had been
commissioned by Richard III to make away with his two nephews in the
room in which they were then imprisoned in the Tower; and involved
the secret transportation of the young princes to a place of safety
till such time as a sufficiently armed force could be gathered to set
the older of the two upon the throne. That one of the boy dukes was
actually murdered and only one so transported, Sir James attributed to
the egregious blunder or willful defection of one Dighton, his groom,
who was bribed handsomely by Tyrrell to assist him in his gigantic
enterprise. Dighton had suffered a summary death as the penalty of
his fault. Zenas, garbed in the habit of a Sister of the Faith, had
received into his charge in one of the by-ways of London a fair-haired
young girl, who was the escaped prince in disguise. Together they
had traveled from hamlet to hamlet till they had come to the haven
of refuge prepared for them in Scotland. From whence he had been so
indiscreet as to return to England and hint, while in his cups, of the
incubation of a vast uprising in the North, in consequence of which
he had been seized, thrown into the torture chamber, and released
only after he had been blinded in one eye and reduced to a repulsive
caricature of his former self. While he had incurred Sir James's stern
displeasure because of his indiscretion, he had also won his highest
regard and confidence because of his stubborn refusal to divulge a
single secret through the whole of his agonized sufferings.
Now, as Zenas patiently maintained his post upon the top of the
boulder, he kept up an almost incessant mumbling. "I'll keep guard
over him," he was saying. "Aye--I'll see that no harm comes to our
_honorable_ guest!" whereupon he would smile craftily and press his
face more closely to the window. "They know not--ha, ha! not one of
them hath divined that it was I--I, Zenas, the detestable hunchback,
who put the quietus to the young prince. Slow poison--that's the thing.
_Slow poison!_ I'll teach them to steal from me the affections of my
beloved and noble brother. Zenas, the crookback, will teach them! Slow
poison put an end to the last, and now 'twill be Demon's turn to finish
this one. At him, good Demon! _At him, sir!_" he concluded, with a
sibilant hiss that penetrated every corner of the interior of the room.
It was just at this moment that Sir Richard awakened with a sudden and
violent start. During the interval of several seconds he remained in
a sort of drowsy stupor, with his gaze fixed upon the curling flames.
Doubtless from that instinct that gives warning of impending peril, he
set his first sentient glance upon the forbidding beast lying before
him upon the hearth. The hound's red eyeballs were glaring straight
into his own. In the dim firelight he could see that its hair was
bristling over its entire savage body, and that slowly and with deadly
menace the brute was gathering its huge paws beneath it and assuming
a crouching posture. Feeling certain that the slightest perceptible
movement upon his part would precipitate the threatened spring, the
young knight's fingers, under cover of the table, crept warily toward
his sword-hilt. Distinctly he could hear the tap--tap--tapping of the
raindrops as they splashed upon the ground from off the eaves. What,
with the deathlike quiet, the red eyeballs and gleaming fangs of the
hound, and the uncanniness of it all, it is a matter of wonderment
that Sir Richard maintained his faculties to the degree that he did.
Inch by inch his hand neared the familiar point where his sword-hilt
should have been. Groping beyond, however, it encountered but an empty
scabbard. His blade was gone!
A crooked mouth beneath the malevolent eye at the window smiled
exultingly.
As the young knight started in a maze of utter bewilderment upon
discovering his loss, the hound, straight and true as an arrow sped
from a cross-bow, sprang full at his unprotected throat. With a light
bound Sir Richard gained the top of the bench, and the powerful jaws
of the bloodthirsty brute closed upon his greaves at the precise point
where his unprotected throat had been but the instant before. It had
been a right lucky stroke for him when he had bestowed a second thought
to the matter of unlocking his stout leg-pieces.
Discovering that it could inflict no hurt upon its enemy at that point,
and not fancying, in all likelihood, the grating of the tough steel
against its teeth, the hound released its hold, gave back, and now,
with jaws afoam, and giving tongue the while to deep, fierce growls,
it crouched low upon the hearth and gathered its body for another
spring. By this time Sir Richard was aware of the circumstance that
he was without a weapon of any description, as his dagger had been
removed with his baldric, which had evidently been unbuckled from
off his shoulder during his sleep. Quick as a flash the young knight
swept up one of his heavy metal gauntlets from off the top of the
table. Again good fortune was with him, for it turned out to fit upon
his right hand. It was but the work of a moment to adjust it, and he
met the brute's second leap with a blow set fair between its eyes and
delivered with every ounce of weight and strength at his command. After
the manner of a doe pierced through by a shaft in mid-leap the hound
crashed lifeless to the floor, with a great spout of blood issuing from
its mouth and nostrils.
The burning eye at the window withdrew its gaze. The crooked lips, so
lately smiling, were now muttering curse upon curse to the sighing
winds.
"Hoa! Well, by my soul, sir knight! I am, indeed, happily come to
witness a blow so true and mightily delivered."
The voice was that of the inn-keeper, and sounded out of the darkness
beyond the semi-circle of wavering light shed by the now expiring fire.
As Sir Richard leapt from off the bench to the floor, Tyrrell strode
into the zone of illumination and, stooping, hung above the still
quivering body of the dying hound. For quite a space he remained thus,
as though graven in stone, with the gentle raindrops tap-tapping
outside for an accompaniment.
"Knowest thou, sir knight," he observed at length, "that thou art the
very first successfully to withstand the onslaught of this savage
brute?" Tyrrell straightened up, folded his arms, and touched the dead
hound lightly with the point of his foot. "Methought," said he, "that
Demon was the nearest thing to me upon earth, and, mayhap, the dearest.
Like me, sir, he was savage, cruel, and unrelenting; and, like me,
expatriated by his kind."
The deep cadence of the inn-keeper's voice, the knitting of his brows,
and a slight, mournful drooping of his shoulders betrayed to the young
knight that his host was touched with a genuine sorrow. Filled ever
with a generous-spirited goodwill, he felt himself entertaining a sense
of regret for the deed that he had been compelled to do.
"In very truth it grieves me," said he, "that necessity bade me to set
a period to a life that you held so precious. I can, good sir, but make
offering of reparation in the way of gold."
Tyrrell turned toward the young knight and smiled sadly.
"Gold?" he softly answered. "It doubts me much whether all the gold
in Christian England could salve the wound made by the death of this
hound. An outcast, sir knight, he came to me, an outcast. I took him
in and suffered him to tarry here till he grew kindred to my every
wish, and the very manner of my likes and dislikes. As I am, noble
sir, he was a bitter misanthrope, and would permit none, besides me,
to approach him but Zenas, my unfortunate brother." He paused in his
speech, regarding Sir Richard intently. As was habitual with this
inimitable conspirator, he was but playing a part. If he had it
in mind thereby to win his way to Sir Richard's sympathies, he was
succeeding admirably.
"Whilst thou wert sleeping," he resumed at the proper moment, "I caused
thy sword and baldric to be removed, so that thy rest might forsooth
give thee a greater measure of comfort. I likewise laid command upon
Zenas to stand guard over thy slumbers. Much sorrow doth it give me
that he should have left thee without the protection of his presence
whilst I was absent. But, marry, noble knight, the deed can now no more
be recalled than can the sped shaft be returned from mid-flight to the
string."
From top to toe Tyrrell was habited in somber black; and, as he talked,
his lank body loomed anon through the half-circle of flickering
light, and then would be blotted out in the deep shadows beyond, as
he continued to pace slowly back and forth before the chimney. To the
imaginative Sir Richard's mind it recalled a play that he had once
witnessed with Henry and his court in London. In it there had been
an actor who had affected to play the part of the devil; and who had
appeared suddenly, and then as suddenly vanished, in a manner designed
to appear miraculous.
"Though, in very truth," decided the young knight, "he did not resemble
that grisly character one half so much as my mysterious landlord."
The scene in which Sir Richard was playing an involuntary part brought
back to him the many evil tales that had been dinned into his ears
since coming to Scotland of this same Red Tavern, together with a
vivid recollection of the reported fate of the unwary, who, through
any misadventure, chanced to seek the hospitality of its shelter. A
dozen times it had been upon the tip of his tongue to make mention of
these rumors, but the words persisted in halting upon the threshold
of utterance. In the light of the reality and substance of his
surroundings they appeared as nothing more than weirdly fantastic
creations, or ridiculous superstitions, and as such he did his utmost
to dismiss them from his mind.
He was just meditating some appropriate subject of conversation by
which the prolonged and somewhat uncomfortable silence might be
interrupted, when the hunchback came into the room, bearing upon his
back a billet of wood that was vastly greater in length and girth than
he.
"Dost know, Zenas," said Tyrrell sternly, "that thou hast committed a
most grievous fault in not remaining to stand watch over our honored
guest? Where hast thou been?"
"I did but go without to fetch this log. The night hath grown cold, and
I was but bethinking me of the sir knight's comfort," Zenas explained.
"'Tis an ill excuse, I tell thee, Zenas. Prithee bestow the log upon
the fire. Then bring in a torch, and a mattock and spade. We will bury
at once the body of yonder hound."
Arching his brows the dwarf looked toward his brother, toward Richard,
and then upon the body of the hound.
"But he does but sleep, good brother," he said, depositing the log
amidst a shower of sparks within the fireplace.
"Aye, 'tis true he sleeps," replied Tyrrell. "And a sleep, Zenas,
from which none shall again awaken him. Our good knight yonder of the
wondrous thews, dealt him a buffet that would have felled the stoutest
ox in broad Scotland. Methinks it might e'en have staggered a Papist
Bull, with such a hearty goodwill was it delivered."
Going to the side of the hound, the hunchback bent above it, fondled
the massive head and shook the fast stiffening paws. Then, with a
furtive look toward his brother, who happened to be unobservant of
his actions, he shot a black look of malignant hate in Sir Richard's
direction.
"And wilt thou suffer this----"
With a finger upon his lips Tyrrell warned Zenas to instant silence.
Then, leading him toward the outer door, he talked earnestly with him
for several minutes. During a pause in their animated conversation the
hunchback stooped and peered at the young knight in something of an odd
manner. Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he took his way without
further ado through the door.
In a little while he returned, carrying a gnarl of pine wood, which
he set to blazing at the fire. Thus did Tyrrell, in a most respectful
manner, beg Sir Richard to carry, whilst he and Zenas, he said, would
drag out the carcass of the hound and make ready its grave.
"'Twould be better that thy brother should bear the light," said Sir
Richard. "I'll lend thee a hand to the carrying of the hound, and then
wield either the mattock or the spade."
"Tut, tut! Of the two, dost think thou art the stronger?" queried the
hunchback sharply, addressing himself to Sir Richard for the first
time. "Then," he added, "let me show thee."
Unceremoniously thrusting the torch within the young knight's hand he
lifted a heavy iron bar standing against the chimney. With but little
more effort, apparently, than one would have bestowed upon the breaking
of a twig he thereupon bent it fair double across his knee. Tossing
aside the twisted rod he looked into Sir Richard's eyes and smiled.
Rather, it was a mirthless leer, cunning, cruel, menacing. The young
knight easily gathered that between Zenas and himself there remained
yet an unsettled score.
"Have done with this childish vaunting of thy strength," said Tyrrell.
"An thou wilt but expend thy energies to the task in hand, 'twill soon
be done."
"But, can our honored guest be of a mind to exchange me a buffet, good
my brother, I should be remiss in the matter of common courtesy did I
not stand ready to favor him," returned Zenas.
"Come, come!" impatiently exclaimed Tyrrell, allowing Sir Richard no
opportunity of answering the implied challenge. "Let us have done at
once with the burial of poor Demon."
He and his brother then led the way outside, carrying between them the
body of the hound. Sir Richard followed them to where they laid it down
at the foot of the jagged rock that, in the daylight, could be seen at
a great distance along the roadway. By this hour the night had turned
keen, as nights are wont to do along the Highlands, and as he stood
idly by watching the inn-keeper and the hunchback busily plying spade
and mattock, he grew uncomfortably sensible of the increasing cold,
which seemed to set its chill touch upon his very bones.
At rare intervals the pale disc of the moon could be vaguely
distinguished when one of the thinner clouds scudded across its face.
But when the heavier clouds rolled beneath it, the land was blotted out
in deepest darkness, which the splotch of light shed by the wavering
torch served well to accentuate.
Fantastic shadows wove themselves about the grave-diggers' feet.
These, as they rippled away, grew to tremendous proportions as they
merged with the circle of gloom that hemmed them in after the manner
of an ebon wall. It was during this dismal half-hour, more than ever
after, that Sir Richard missed the jovial companionship of poor
Belwiggar. The thought came to him that he was a being apart, who had
been set down there alone in a mystic environment, and, willy-nilly,
his mind again became tenanted with calamitous forebodings. He fair
ached again to stretch his legs before the fire, and hailed with
unmingled delight the moment when the inn-keeper and his brother
clambered from out the grave and lowered the hound within.
It was as they were heaving back the loosened earth that he heard
a faint, clear sound steal out upon the silence of the night. It
seemed to him as the sound of a maiden's voice released in song. He
was straining eagerly to catch the next sweet, quivering note when
Tyrrell's deep voice broke suddenly into an English war song, and with
a tuneful lilt that came far from appealing unpleasantly to the ear.
Moreover, with such a hearty goodwill did he sing it that the echoes
of the resonant notes were flung reverberating far across the plain.
So unexpected was this occurrence, and so foreign did it seem to
the inn-keeper's melancholy character, that Sir Richard was no less
startled than surprised. When the young knight turned toward his host
he discovered that grim individual engaged in shoveling great clods of
earth into the grave, and unconcernedly timing each movement of his
body in a rhythmical beat with his song.
Not until the last bit of clay had been firmly tamped above the hound,
and they had started for the tavern door, did he for a moment relax his
stentorian singing.
"Didst thou not hear that sound as of a woman's voice?" Sir Richard
made bold to inquire as they were passing indoors.
"Not I," Tyrrell brusquely replied. "For long, sir knight, my ears hath
grown accustomed to the plaint of bird and beast, and the shrieking of
the wraiths of shipwrecked mariners along the coast. An I had heard a
sound, I should, belike, have attributed it to one of these. Zenas,"
he pursued, thus dismissing the subject of the young knight's inquiry,
"look well to our guest's steed for the night. After thou hast done,
return and conduct the good knight to his bed."
Turning toward Sir Richard as the hunchback took himself from the room,
Tyrrell, linking within the young knight's arm his own, led him toward
the comfortable warmth of the fire.
"Thou hast marked, I know, the shattered form of my brother," he said
sadly, as they seated themselves together beside the table. "'Tis
what remains of the cursed rack and wheel. 'Tis near beyond belief
that Zenas was once as supple and straight as either thou or I. And
this good body, too, Sir Richard" (the young knight started at the
utterance of his name), "they would have drawn, twisted and maimed
like unto his had I not defeated their evil purposes by fleeing the
borders of my beloved country. God's direst curse rest upon them--dead
and living--one and all!" He paused for some moments, looking gloomily
into the fire. "Most humbly do I crave thy pardon for this unseemly
display of emotion, sir knight," he added, "and permit me to requite
thy forgiveness by setting before thee another stoup of wine. 'Twill
certes not come amiss after thy prolonged stay in the crisp air."
He arose from the table accordingly, opened a cupboard upon the farther
side of the chimney and took from a shelf the wine, which he set before
his guest. As he was making fast the door, Sir Richard noted within
the cupboard's shadowy depths the bright points of reflection against
pieces of steel harness--swords, battle-axes, and shields.
"No doubt thou art deliberating now within thy mind," Tyrrell resumed,
again seating himself, "as to the manner, Sir Richard, in which I came
upon thy name?"
Abruptly pausing, he gazed reflectively for quite a space upon the
young knight's puzzled countenance.
"Know then," said he, "that as thou wert sleeping, thy helmet rested
there upon the table. The light of yon blaze shone full upon thy name
and thy armorial bearings, which thou seest fit to carry within that
safe receptacle."
Sir Richard flushed to his temples. He tried his best, despite his
embarrassment, to answer in an indifferent manner.
"Gramercy for thy caution, good my landlord," he returned, with a
careless smile; "and hereafter I shall keep that receptacle upon my
foolish noddle, where, i' faith, 'twill be safe from prying eyes."
"From me, sir knight, thou hast no cause to fear," Tyrrell hastened to
assure his guest. "It may even transpire that the momentary relaxation
of thy caution hath earned for thee a friend. Mayhap, a friend in
need--who knows?"
"In need of nothing at present above a restful pillow, a roof, and a
bite to eat before I fare away in the morning," replied Sir Richard.
"Ah--yea, yea! Art thou so fortunate, sir knight, as to be making
thy lonely pilgrimage upon matters of state? or art merely seeking
lightsome pleasures, as is the manner of many a young court buck?"
"As for making my pilgrimage alone, sir, 'tis the fault of an evil
accident that befell but this very day. Till he was foully murdered
not many leagues from here, I had, for attendant, a squire as faithful
and brave as any in England, mauger the fact that he was a trifle weak
at sword-play. Give him in hand a battle-axe, though, and he would
have cleaved through the stoutest wrought bonnet in all Scotland. Poor
Belwiggar! God rest his bones, say I. Concerning thy inquiry as to my
mission, sir, I am not free to answer," concluded Sir Richard.
"Then, an it be not a further dire impertinence, good sir knight,"
persisted Tyrrell, "lesson me from whom thou hast thy cognizance?
Marry, I, who bethought me acquainted with every scroll in England,
know thine not at all."
"From whom else but my good sovereign," Sir Richard replied. "By his
royal command did the College of Heralds issue it. Thus much do I
please to tell thee. Of my parentage I can lesson thee naught. My
progenitors I have never seen, never known. That I am alive, well, and
the free subject of a generous and noble king is sufficient for me,
sir; and, by my good sword, must be sufficient for all to whom I am
known."
"'Tis well and bravely said," the inn-keeper replied. "But more upon
this subject at a later time, my dear Sir Richard. The night doth grow
apace, and here cometh Zenas, who is now ready to conduct thee to thy
couch." Upon which he arose and bade the young knight a kindly and
respectful good-night.
Bearing a rush-light, the hunchback led Sir Richard up a narrow
stairway to a room immediately above the one he had just quitted.
Bidding his sour visaged guide to set the basin, in which burned the
rush-light, in the center of the floor, he bespoke for him a peaceful
rest and dismissed him from his chamber. Zenas, answering never a word,
backed toward the door. Then, from its threshold, he dropped a curtsey
that would have made a fitting obeisance to a monarch, after which he
silently took himself off.
The room in which the young knight now found himself was of an ample
size, but exceedingly raw and cold, as no fire burned within the
deep-throated chimney. The four walls were roughly coated with mortar.
The rafters overhead were bare. In the gloom of the space between the
steep gabled roof and the skeleton beams he could hear the occasional
whirring of a bat's wings, as it darted hither and thither across the
room. He lost precious little time in speculating upon his surroundings
and, quickly removing his steel gear, sought the comforts of the bed,
which he discovered, with much inward gratification, to be of a good
and easeful kind.
A few vagrant thoughts, some of them being of the wild tales he had
heard of the tavern wherein he was now tarrying, flitted vaguely across
his mind. Then, very soon after laying his head against the pillow, he
sank into the blissful unconsciousness of sleep.
CHAPTER V
THE INCIDENT OF THE CUTTING OF SAFFRON VELVET
The walls of the room adjoining that in which Sir Richard was now
sleeping framed a scene that provided a singular and pleasing contrast
to the bleak and uninviting rooms within the tavern with which the
reader is already somewhat familiar. So beautifully, and in such
exquisite taste were its rich trappings disposed, that a princess might
have found comfort and contentment within its cosy precincts. Indeed,
not anything seemed to be missing that could have been demanded in the
surroundings of the most refined and fastidious of royal personages.
Upon one of the pillowed couches two young maidens were reclining
gracefully at their ease. One was lying at full length and resting upon
her elbows, with her chin pressed against her interlocked fingers; the
other was engaged with needles and some bright colored silk in weaving
a design upon a piece of linen cloth. Without risking hyperbole it may
be said of them that the jewels they wore were scarce an adornment to
their distinguished setting, for it would have offered a difficult task
to have set out to discover two lovelier types of young womanhood. It
was unusual in that between them there existed no conflict of beauty;
rather did the bewitching charms of the one serve the complimentary
purpose of enhancing the pure and almost ethereal comeliness of the
other.
"It would surely be a famous prank, Rocelia," said the one who was
lounging upon her elbows. "I cannot understand why you should oppose
me. Are we not come to an age, my over-discreet cousin, where a
champion should be ours by right?"
"By right of what, pray, madcap Isabel?" queried Rocelia, laying aside
her needlework upon a table that stood near the couch.
"Why--by right of conquest, little dunce," returned Isabel with a
gay laugh. "Here does my stern guardian--and by the same token your
implacable father--see fit to keep us mewed within this dismal,
fly-by-night prison, deprived of every pleasure and innocent pastime
that other maids, similarly stationed, are permitted to enjoy. I tell
you, sweet Rocelia, 'tis nothing less than downright cruel."
"Say not so, ungracious maid," observed Rocelia in mild disapproval.
"Are we not surrounded with everything, my dear, that heart of maid
could wish?"
"Everything, say you? Why--far, far from everything," demurred Isabel,
tossing back a strand of raven black hair that persisted in straying
over her shoulder. "A champion! Give to me a champion!" she cried with
a mock seriousness, raising on high her right arm, from which her
loose robe fell, displaying a dazzling array of captivating curves and
dimples.
Rocelia smiled in a gentle toleration of the other's extravagance of
manner.
"Your wondrous beauty, my dear cousin," she said, "will win for you a
champion all in good time."
"Time?" retorted Isabel, gathering her lips in a pretty pout and
arching her brows. "Time, say you? And what, I pray you, have _we_ to
do with time? Does not time fade and wither that beauty by which, but
a moment ago, you have recommended to me a champion? Is not time our
mortal and deadly foe?"
"Too much of it, mayhap, would be," admitted Rocelia; "but a little
of it should serve well in rounding out our minds, and in providing
us with that sane discretion which, as you remember, Lord Bishop
Kennedy, our kind tutor, has taught us is the most precious of earthly
perquisites."
"Bah! a murrain upon Bishop Kennedy and his dry pedantries. An I had
that old prate-apace inside an oven, right well would I warm his
icy blood for him. Look not upon me, sweet coz, with such wideopen
eyes of ravished virtue! I declare to you, Rocelia, I'll have me a
champion--and before this very night is over. You could never divine,
I'm sure, why I begged you awhile ago to sing without yon open window.
Of a truth, you knew not, or your voice would never have left your
throat. It was vicariously to beguile my brave champion's ears that you
were singing so sweetly, dear. He was then outside with your father and
Zenas burying the hound. Ah! you should have seen him fell the savage
brute, Rocelia. A single mighty blow of his mailed fist and 'twas all
over."
"Were you not afraid? 'Twould have fared ill with you, an Father had
seen you standing at the tap-room door."
"Nay--I was not afraid. Your father was in another room with the men.
Zenas had gone outside. I heard him go muttering through the door as
I crept softly down the steps. I peeped through the split panel--my
champion was there ... sleeping. But, already have I told you the
story. Ah! how brave was he. Not once did he flinch the battle, or look
about him, or call for help. And he is handsome; marry, sweet coz, but
he is handsome! All girded up in shining, inlaid armor. His brown-gold
hair flowing almost to his shoulders. His health-bronzed cheeks smooth
and shapely. And his mouth! Um-m-m! Well----"
"Why, cousin! some wicked witch has cast a spell above you, I fear."
"Nay--'tis not witchery, sweetest Rocelia," said Isabel, seating
herself beside her fair-haired cousin and lovingly entwining her arms
about her slender form. "I am but filled to overflowing with the joy
of living. A something of excitement is both sup and drink to me. Now
listen. Bear with your madcap cousin whilst she discourses with you in
deepest earnest. A champion I must and will have. But he need not know
me, or even look upon my face."
"I cannot understand. You are speaking in riddles, Isabel."
"Nay, give ear till I've finished and you shall see it plain enough.
My knight of the brown-gold curls, an I mistake me not, is even at
this moment slumbering within the next chamber. With a bodkin a cleft
in the wall can be used as a slight avenue of secret communication.
Then a missive, and a bit of cloth clipped from my--no yours, 'tis of
a more enticing color--your saffron gown, I'll say, dear cousin; and
thus I have my champion and no soul but you and I the wiser. Do not say
me nay, good, generous Rocelia. It will be a right merry and harmless
frolic, think you not?"
"'Twould be a sorry one for you, I fear, an my father found you out,"
replied Rocelia, half in jest, half earnestly.
"Enough. Let the hazard be mine, sweet. And now to business. Whilst
I am at work with the bodkin, do you shear me a strip from off your
saffron velvet kirtle."
* * * * *
Sir Richard, sleeping soundly, was all unconscious of the widely
varying activities of which he was now become the center. Beneath the
room in which Isabel, now singing, now laughing, was engaged upon
the wall, Friar Diomed had finished brewing and mixing the herbs and
chemicals of his narcotic.
"My oath on 't, Friar Diomed," Tyrrell was saying from his seat beside
the fire, "your cloth shall not save your shaven pate, an this potion
bring one jot of harm to the young noble."
"An it be administered with your usual skill and caution, Sir James,"
returned the monk, elevating a phial filled with the liquid between
his squinting eyes and the light of the fire, "'twill bring no more
harm than so much _aqua pura_. But, by my church! 'tis beside my
understanding why you must observe all of these dark ceremonies. Let
the young knight but read the King's warrant in his slop pouch, an he
were a long-eared ass not to embrace our cause."
"Have I not already said, my stupid friend, that he would at once
charge us with substitution and false writing? Think you not that the
young noble hath heard a many an evil tale of this tavern along the
way? Marry, an he had not, all our trouble and precaution to shield
the young prince from discovery and harm would have been but of
slight avail. But only once again, good friar, need this phantom inn
disappear, and then 'twill serve as a blazing torch to light the start
of our movement southward."
"Pity 'tis that the young prince died," observed the monk, giving the
phial into Tyrrell's hand and standing with his broad back to the
blaze. "And just at the point, too, when you had gathered a sufficient
power to hurl effectively against Henry. So fire shall consume our
refuge, you say? Well, Sir James, _ab igne ignem_, say I."
"Yea, and I. But regarding the young prince, regret not that which
is beyond mending. In truth, Friar Diomed, I like this young Earl
of Warwick mightily. He's a right goodly youth to look upon, and
brave--aye, as fearless as a lion cub. Nay--let us not regret, but
rather return thanks to a generous God for having thus dropped down
upon us a proper and legal substitute."
"An you'll be good enough to bid Zenas to bring out the flagons, Sir
James, I'll e'en now down a measure or twain to the health of the
new. Which is more to my liking, by my Faith, than the uplifting of
mere dry thanks. _Ad majorem Dei gloriam!_ 'Twill be a good hour ere
de Claverlok and his band return, and I am grievously athirst and,
ah-ha-ha, ho-e-e, sleepy."
"Then why not call your drink night-cup and betake yourself to your
couch? 'Tis not necessary that you should remain abroad to await their
coming. Zenas, the flagon of wine," Tyrrell then called. "Drink, and to
your rest, my good friar. Yea--the blessed pair of you."
Whereupon, with a loud smacking of his lips, the rotund friar
introduced his red and bulbous nose within his tipped cup and made for
his couch. Zenas followed him, leaving Tyrrell to keep solitary vigil
by the side of the crackling fire, and all unaware of the little comedy
which, at that very moment, was being enacted above his head.
* * * * *
For the second time that night Sir Richard awakened with a violent
start. Upon doing so he raised his head from off his pillow. Hearing no
sound, however, he attributed this second awakening to a fanciful dream
of a ponderous battle-ax striking upon his helm, and had just composed
himself for the purpose of resuming his interrupted rest when he became
aware of a distinct rapping upon the headboard of his bed. As he threw
aside the covering and sat erect the strange tapping ceased. With every
sense upon the alert he listened for a repetition of the sound. It came
soon again, distinct, deliberate, unmistakable. He passed his hand
carefully over the smooth headboard, but went altogether unrewarded for
his pains. Concluding, therefore, that the sounds emanated from between
the wall and the bed, he sprang to the floor and pulled aside the heavy
piece of furniture.
The inexplicable rapping was then followed by a dry, scraping noise,
which seemed almost impossible to locate. The room being cast in utter
darkness, his sense of touch was required to answer for his useless
sense of sight. In the passing of his hand along the wall it met with
a slight protuberance. This he instantly grasped, and a part of it
came away within his clutched fingers. He discovered it to be a wisp
of paper, neatly rolled, and surmised it to be a written message. By
the side of the basin upon the floor he found tinder, flint, and steel.
Contriving speedily to have a light, he thereupon read the following
message:
"Whoever or whatever thou art, an semblance of heart of man beats
within thy brave bosom, rescue a maiden from a living death."
This was the message from Isabel. She had been careful to sign no name,
and Sir Richard had no means of knowing by whom it had been inscribed.
But, even so, he was entirely equal to the occasion, and felt his heart
leaping in deepest sympathy with the unknown maiden in distress. So,
then and there, upon the cross of his sword, he made a sacred vow to
adventure her rescue, repeating in a solemn manner the usual form of
oath: "So may God and St. George prosper me at my need, as I will do
my devoir as thy champion, fair maid, knightly, truly, and manfully."
This ceremony concluded, he hurried again to the wall. Protruding from
a narrow aperture in the mortar he noted a thin piece of steel, such
as he fancied was used by women in the shaping of their apparel. Upon
withdrawing it, he discovered it to be of about a length with his
forearm.
Then, placing his lips to the opening thus disclosed, "Courage, fair
maiden," he whispered. "An wilt thou grant the boon of sending a most
willing champion thy colors?"
"Yea, gladly," came back the answer, sweet and low; "and a kiss, too,
my brave knight."
"Ye gods of Love!" exclaimed Sir Richard beneath his breath. "The very
yearnings of Tantalus are at this moment put to the blush! Was ever a
champion avowed under like romantic circumstances? Was ever a maiden
wooed through a two-foot, key-cold wall?"
He then sent the pliant steel back through the wall, which he
erroneously supposed to be constructed out of solid stone. In another
moment there came to his impatiently waiting hand a very small cutting
of saffron velvet, the which he touched reverently to his lips, as was
becoming in a loyal champion, and then placed devoutly next his heart.
He whispered again, and again he whispered, but no answer came.
Observing the precaution of scraping away a bit of mortar from another
wall, he carefully concealed the opening. Upon which he replaced the
bed in its former position, secured the note within the fillet of his
helmet and once more sought his pillow, where he fell asleep presently
in the midst of meditating as to the means through which he might, in
safety to her, effect the deliverance of the fair unknown.
Yet not half so fair, nor yet half so lovely, was the vision that he
materialized from the scrap of saffron velvet as was its beautiful
owner, whom an unkind Fate decreed he should not set eyes upon till
many days crowded with many misadventures had passed away.
CHAPTER VI
THE PAVILION OF PURPLE AND BLACK
It was a trifle past midnight when de Claverlok and the men he had
commissioned to bring with him halted in the highroad before the door
of the Red Tavern. Coincident with their arrival the hitherto deserted
and lonely appearing hostelry was magically metamorphosed into a
hive of buzzing industry. The near vicinity of the building became
brilliantly illuminated with the flare of many links, the iron pikes of
which had been struck into the earth from the roadway to the entrance
of the inn. That the scene was one of martial activities could in no
wise be mistaken, for the yellow light of the torches was reflected
and repeated against a goodly number of steel cuirasses and polished
bucklers.
Beside Tyrrell, near the doorway, stood a thin and rather under-sized
man, wearing an intricately plaited coat of light chain mail, over
which was drawn a white linen tunic, with a crimson Maltese cross
emblazoned upon the breast, after the fashion of the ancient Crusaders.
This individual, conspicuous alone because of the simplicity of his
dress when contrasted with those about him, was the famed diplomatist,
warrior, statesman, shrewd conspirator, and eminent churchman, Lord
Bishop Kennedy, to whom Tyrrell looked ever for council and advice,
and who, in reality, had been the brains and backbone of the movement
that had been designed to set the youthful Duke of York upon the throne
of England. Here was a man possessing that strength of character
that permitted him to remain always in the background. From whence
he was wont to view the vast schemes in which he became involved as
a whole, much as the successful general might select a high eminence
from which to overlook and direct the maneuvres of his army. While
indolence was at times attributed to him, on account of a certain
reserve and unobtrusiveness of manner, to those who knew him well he
was known to be indefatigably energetic. It was said of him, indeed,
that he never slept, saving with an open eye to his tent-flap, or
doorway. In Sir James Tyrrell, Bishop Kennedy had achieved a notably
brilliant confederate--a man of ideas, a born inventor, but visionary
to a perilous degree. Tyrrell was not suffered to be awakened out of
his dream that he was the real leader; though, in point of truth, he
was but nominally such. If, however, the block were to claim its tithe
of vengeance, Tyrrell's head, and not Lord Kennedy's, would have been
among those selected. Kennedy regarded politics as he did a game of
chess, and was marvelously proficient in playing both. "A knight, or
even a despised pawn," he was known to have said, "may say 'check' to
a king, but it is a wise precaution to have a bishop stationed on the
long diagonal."
"Thou art certain beyond all peradventure," he was saying to Tyrrell,
"that thou canst not be mistaken as to the identity of thy find?"
"Aye--marry, am I, my lord," Tyrrell confidently replied. "I could
scarce be amiss in my recognition of the unusual birthmark. Besides,
good bishop, did not the youth make confession of his lack of knowledge
of his progenitors?"
"Yea. But 'tis a common ignorance--that, friend Tyrrell. Of a truth,
the stroke seemeth too timely and well-favored to be genuine," said
Kennedy, who was never ready to accept the semblance of a fact for
the fact itself. "Here hath the earth had scarce time to grow cold
above the young duke, when up crops another candidate every whit
as legitimate and proper. 'Twould appear, my friend, as though an
incipient monarch were being reared in every wayside hovel. Yet--as
thou hast said--thou couldst scarce have been mistaken in the
birthmark. If proven true, 'tis indeed a most providential stroke. But
this very day have I learned that Lord Douglas is meditating a move
like unto thine. Already have I laid plans to gather more intimate
particulars--for thy express benefit, understand me. But I can lesson
thee now that some hint of the young prince's existence and death
hath flown into his yawning ear. Keep a firm hold upon thy wits and
tongue, for there is surely a traitor abroad, Sir James. More; I have
it that Douglas doth lay open claim to the possession of the living
person of the genuine heir, and that there is now a gathering of the
clans for the purpose of raising the counterfeit claimant to the
throne. Emissaries from Castle Yewe will come here to treat with thee
for the combining of thy forces with Douglas's. An this youth of thine
be indeed the Earl of Warwick, son of George, Duke of Clarence, thou
canst laugh in Douglas's teeth. An it were not so, friend Tyrrell, thou
couldst do naught wiser than amalgamate issues. For thy life would be
worth no more than a leaden farthing from the fury of thine own troop,
an they were to be disbanded without chance of giving battle to Henry."
At this juncture four men drew beside the speakers, through the door,
carrying Sir Richard, who had been rendered unconscious through the
medium of Friar Diomed's narcotic. As gently as their rough hands could
accomplish it, the young knight was placed in the covered litter, which
had been standing along the highway awaiting his reception.
"I beg of thee, Sir James," said Lord Kennedy then, "procure for
me from this young knight's wallet the warrant of which thou wert
speaking. I would I might know well its contents." The keen politician
might easily have taken it himself, as it was his intention to travel
northward with the horsemen and litter-bearers, but he desired to
assure himself that the document would not remain behind in Tyrrell's
keeping. The time was likely to come when this piece of parchment would
be an invaluable political perquisite.
When the warrant had been secured and surrendered into his hands,
Bishop Kennedy made quick work of breaking the seal that Tyrrell had
so deftly mended. By the light of one of the links he read it slowly
through, nodding his head the while.
"'Tis well," he said when he had finished; "and I doff my bonnet to
thee, Sir James, for a most fortunate and successful general."
Whereupon he folded up the parchment and thrust it carelessly within
his bosom. Then, grasping Tyrrell's hand, he bade him adieu, swung
himself upon his horse and started in the train of the cavalcade, which
had already begun its march from the inn.
In the light of the single torch remaining, Tyrrell stood beside the
door till the noise of the moving company had dwindled to silence
in the distance, after which he extinguished the blazing link and
disappeared within the lonely tavern.
It was nearing daybreak when the cavalcade, led by de Claverlok and
Lord Bishop Kennedy, filed past the sentinel outposts within the area
of the encampment. The bivouac had been set along the shore, within
sight and sound of the sea, and not above a dozen miles from the Red
Tavern; but, because of the litter-bearers, the men had been put to
the necessity of moving in a slow and deliberate manner, which fact
accounted for their tardy progress in effecting the distance.
As Sir Lionel de Claverlok is destined to play a most important part in
this narrative of tangled conspiracies, it would doubtless be well now
to introduce him to the reader.
To begin with, he was a man who was loved and admired by his enemies,
which, though it may appear anomalous, was nevertheless true. He was as
refreshing as a shower in spring; as open in his manner as a wind-swept
plain. Saving in the arts of warfare, however, of all of which he had
proven himself to be a surpassing master, he was uneducated. Every
rugged feature displayed between the shaggy thatch of his wiry,
silver-shot hair, and the thick tangle of his disordered, curly beard
bespoke at once the good fellow and indomitable warrior. Whilst,
intuitively, one would take him for a person of gentle extraction,
there was about him little, if anything, of the polished courtier.
He had been too industriously engaged upon the business of his life,
which was to conquer a complete understanding of war-craft, to yield
thought or time to the cultivation of the softer attainments of the
court gallant. As to his physical attributes, he was stockily set up,
not above the average in height, and in the noontide of a vigorous and
healthful manhood.
"Men," said Bishop Kennedy as he drew up before his tent, "raise me the
silken pavilion of purple and black upon yonder hill. When thou hast
done, set up the bed thou didst bring with thee, and dispose the young
knight, now asleep in the litter, within. Bid the Renegade Duke to set
a close guard above his slumbers. Haste thee, go!" Then, turning to de
Claverlok, "attend me within my tent, Sir Lionel," he added, "I would
have a moment's speech of thee."
Whereupon they dismounted, gave their horses into the charge of
waiting equerries and went inside.
"This fanciful plan of our dreamy friend of the flying inn," he
pursued when they had seated themselves, "to keep the Earl of Warwick
in the grip of Friar Diomed's decoction is both impracticable and
dangerous. 'Twould be a good three days ere he could be brought to our
main stronghold in the mountains." So saying, he took from his wallet
the phial that Tyrrell had entrusted to his keeping and emptied its
sparkling contents upon the ground.
"I would, my lord," said de Claverlok soberly, "that I could pour a
phial of it within my tent--eh! Mayhap 'twould put the blessed ants to
sleep, and keep them from crawling beneath my gorget ... eh!"
Bishop Kennedy acknowledged the grizzled knight's sally with a mere
suspicion of a smile.
"Lay our commands upon the Renegade Duke," he pursued, "that he shall
permit the prisoner, for as such we must for the present regard him,
to rest till such time as he may naturally awaken from his stupor. I
desire, de Claverlok, that thou shalt say but little to the duke of
the haps of this night. By all means, keep from his knowledge the
identity of the young earl. My reasons for this are most urgent, I
would have thee to know. Meanwhile, keep a close eye to the prisoner
thyself. We may deem it expedient later to give him wholly into thy
charge. And now, good sir, to thy cot--and may pleasing visions await
thee there."
When de Claverlok issued from Lord Kennedy's tent he glanced upward
toward the knoll whereupon the folds of the purple and black pavilion
were billowing gracefully in the crisp morning air. Betaking himself up
the slope, he waited there till the unconscious Sir Richard had been
comfortably disposed beneath its silken roof, the same, by the way,
which had been intended as a covering for the dead prince.
Then, when he had done with appointing and setting the guard, the
grizzled warrior made in the direction of the renegade duke's tent for
the purpose of imparting to him Lord Kennedy's instructions.
CHAPTER VII
OF THE AWAKENING OF SIR RICHARD
The sun was hanging high above the sea ere the young knight in the
pavilion upon the hill began to arouse himself from his profound
stupor. Being of a healthful body it was his usual habit to start into
broad wakefulness, with every faculty alive, equally upon the alert,
and ready upon the instant for the work or pleasure that chanced to
be forward for the day. So, in this instance, he was wholly unable to
account for an extreme heaviness of the eyelids, combined with a sense
of oppression that weighed painfully upon his chest. He grew conscious
of a foreign odor in his nostrils that seemed to him to be wafted from
an incalculably vast distance; and from the same distance was borne
to his ears the confused murmuring of many voices. It appeared to Sir
Richard that he had been years upon years lying upon his back exerting
a vain though ceaseless endeavor to summon together his scattered
faculties. He would be aware, in a vague sort of way, that his truant
mind was slowly settling upon some solid point of fact. But when it
was just about arriving at the spot where memory awaited it, nothing
remained but baffling space, and he would discover himself to be again
hanging in the awful abyss of Nothingness.
For quite a space Sir Richard struggled thus mightily to recover his
wits from the enthralling opiate. Slowly, now, the events of the
immediate past were coming back to him. The first being that returned
to tenant his recreant memory was the gaunt, tall figure of the
inn-keeper. Then crept in, stealthily, mysteriously, the misshapen
hunchback, Zenas. The fog lifted from off the episode of the hound.
"The voice," he whispered. "Ah! the voice! The note--yea, the note! And
the precious strip of saffron velvet!"
Feebly he thrust his hand within the breast of his doublet and found
it there, whereupon he contrived to open his eyes and struggle to his
elbow.
An expression of indescribable amazement sat upon the young knight's
countenance when his eyes encountered, above his head, the waving
folds of the purple and black pavilion in the place of the uncovered
beams of the room in the Red Tavern in which he had fallen asleep.
He looked at the bed, and noted that it was the same, or one exactly
similar in pattern. Upon a chair alongside his steel gear had been
neatly disposed. De Claverlok had seen to it that it was scrupulously
burnished in every part. Sir Richard's headpiece confronted him
jauntily from its position upon one of the lower bed-posts. He saw, as
he took it up, that its scarlet plume had been daintily curled. Turning
it over, he raised the fillet. The message from Isabel was not there.
Round about the pavilion he could hear men talking and laughing. From
the volume of sound, he estimated it to be a considerable company. They
were conversing together for the most part, however, in the Spanish
tongue, and he could gather nothing above a fragmentary word here and
there. The perplexity was growing upon him as to which was the dream,
the singular circumstance of the night before, or that in which he
then discovered himself. But the cutting of saffron velvet, which he
thereupon withdrew from its hiding place, proved to his apparent
satisfaction that his charming adventure with the imprisoned maid had
been a sweet reality. Examining it minutely, he pressed it once more to
his lips, and then restored it to its place next his heart.
Against one side of the pavilion, which was closely curtained at every
point, stood a bench upon which rested a basin of clear water. He arose
from bed and laved his aching head within its grateful coldness. It had
the effect of clearing it wonderfully. Before buckling on his armor,
it occurred to him to ascertain whether the King's warrant were yet
secure. He discovered, much to his chagrin, that it was missing. He
congratulated himself, however, upon Lord Stanley's foresight in having
provided him with a duplicate copy, which he had taken the precaution
to have sewn within the lining of the skirt of his doublet, and was
overjoyed to find that this had been overlooked. He then finished
buckling on his steel gear, fastened on the casque, drew the visor
close, and in this manner, armed in proof, he walked straight to the
entrance and thrust aside the damask hangings.
The pair of stalwart guards outside tumbled awkwardly together in their
haste to arise, muttering confused sentences in Spanish as they did so
and touching their fingers to their bonnets in a respectful salute.
This rather humorous happening drew the attention of a score or more
of armed men seated about a roaring fire, which burned at the foot
of the steep incline that fell away from the pavilion on every hand.
Upon catching sight of Sir Richard they arose in a body to their feet,
standing at soldierly attention. Several of them bowed. One from among
them started quickly up the hill to where the young knight stood.
He was a man of admirable proportions, and the ease and grace with
which he swung up the sharp slope, all encumbered as he was in a suit
of heavy, inlaid armor, bespoke for him great strength and activity of
limb and body. The guards, obedient to his terse commands, withdrew
themselves beyond earshot. He then approached Sir Richard, removed his
feathered cap that he was wearing in temporary lieu of helmet, and
saluted him with an elaborate bow.
"Good-morrow, sir knight," he gave him greeting. "Thy slumber, I
trust, hath proved as restful as it was prolonged and deep?"
"By'r lady!" the young knight curtly rejoined, affronted by that which
he considered but mock ceremony. "And what meaneth this thing, pray?
Why am I entented here and surrounded by guards and warriors ...
free-lances, outlaws ... i' truth, I know not which? Torment me not
with suspense, sir, but tell me ... where is the Red Tavern wherein I
went to sleep? And, by all the gods, sirrah, who art thou?"
"The last shall be first, good my knight, and the first last," the
other answered flippantly. "As for myself, I am known here in Scotland
as the Knight of the Double Rook. In England I am styled the Renegade
Duke, and the bloody block in the Tower, sir, doth this moment itch for
my head. To bring the history of my variegated and not uninteresting
career down to the present time, I have the distinguished honor to have
been nominated as thy squire and secretary. And as such, sir knight, I
respectfully await thy commands."
"Then," answered Sir Richard upon the instant, "show me now the road to
the Red Tavern. And be good enough to explain the mystery of how I am
come to be here without either my knowledge or consent. Who may it be,
sir, that is at bottom of this damnable piece of device and practice?"
"By St. Peter, sir knight," replied the Renegade Duke, "I miss my shot,
an the Red Tavern be now even three cock-crows removed from here. For
that, good sir, hath been the duration of thy sleep. As to its cause,
... well, Friar Diomed, the secret chymist, could doubtless better
acquit himself of that answer than I."
"But thou canst tell me why I am here," Sir Richard insisted, "and who
is responsible for this stealthy abduction."
"Why thou art here, sir knight, I may not say," declared the Renegade
Duke, "for I have pledged my knightly word to maintain secrecy upon
that point. As to the responsibility," he added boastingly, "I would
fain accept my share of that along with the forty other knights and
nobles who conspired to bring thee here."
"Pray," Sir Richard went on, "of what advantage is a truce, an a loyal
subject of the King may not travel abroad without adventuring the
perils of captivity, detention, or such other discourtesies as thy
august body of forty may have under consideration? Have done with this
errant nonsense, my good Duke ... an, indeed, thou be such ... and
tell me where I shall find my horse, so that I may fare away upon my
journey?"
"Thy steed, sir knight," said the Renegade Duke, apparently not heeding
Sir Richard's unveiled insult, "is now being groomed by an equerry.
After thou hast broken thy fast it shall be led around to thee, wearing
as fine a coat of glossy satin as ever graced my lady's shoulders. Thou
shalt then be at liberty ... or in a manner at liberty, I should have
said, ... to resume thy journey, as henceforth thou shalt travel under
the protection of our estimable body of men here."
There are ways without number of accepting an involuntary and
compulsory situation. Sir Richard chose to embrace it after a lightsome
and cheery fashion, believing thus that the open eye for an opportunity
of effecting his escape would be thus more effectually disguised and
concealed.
"Well, ... so must it be," said he, laughing. "And since, mayhap, we
are to travel in the same direction, I shall be all the gainer by thy
famous company."
After they had breakfasted, the Renegade Duke signified his desire to
escort Sir Richard about the grounds of the encampment.
He found it to be composed of some threescore of tents set in a wide
circle around the purple and black pavilion. These, his loquacious
guide informed him, but served to give shelter to the leaders, the
men-at-arms and archers, of which there were near a thousand, had
thatched, rude coverings beneath the trees and shelving rocks. It was
a perfect morning, the sun blazing upon the sea out of a cloudless
sky. The site of the encampment was matchless in the beauty of its
surroundings. To the north an apparently limitless forest started out
of a purple haze on the line of the horizon, far above; and, slipping
down in terrace beneath terrace of parti-colored foliage, halted
abruptly, as though the red moor had forbidden the trees to trespass
within its boundaries. Southward, one overlooked the gorse-grown plain,
the level monotony of which was broken, at wide intervals, by the
sudden uprearing of an isolated brae.
When Sir Richard and the Duke returned from their circuit of the place
of the encampment, the purple and black pavilion had been struck, and
a cavalcade of fifty horsemen, superbly armed and caparisoned, awaited
but the command to move. An equerry led forward the young knight's
horse, which neighed with joy upon beholding its master. As to the
perfection of its condition, the Renegade Duke had not exaggerated,
for, between its burnished trappings, its ebon coat shone with the soft
and velvety sheen of the finest satin. As he leapt into the saddle a
bugler winded a silvery blast and the company at once set into motion.
The horsemen were equally disposed forward of the noble prisoner and to
the rear. Upon his right hand rode the Renegade Duke, who had mounted
himself upon a gigantic white stallion. To his left rode Lord Bishop
Kennedy, to whom the Duke introduced Sir Richard as they began their
march.
The Renegade Duke's range of subjects of conversation was limited to
the discussion of his wonderful prowess in armed encounters upon the
field of battle and within the lists, and of his innumerable conquests
in that other and fairer field of the heart's affections. Sir Richard
had disliked the fellow from the first, and his feelings toward him
were rapidly undergoing a change into something more robust than mere
dislike. But to have sought a quarrel with him then would have defeated
the purpose that was even then assuming a definite shape within the
young knight's mind. Sir Richard despised the Duke not alone because
of his manner of speaking, but also for the way he had of twisting his
fierce mustachios till they pointed heavenward from each of his round
cheeks.
When he could no longer tolerate listening to his idle boasting, Sir
Richard turned and addressed himself to Lord Bishop Kennedy, who had
spoken no word to the young knight since their first brief interchange
of courtesies at the start of their journey.
"Surely," thought Sir Richard, "if Verbosity attends me upon my right
hand, Taciturnity doth ride gloomily along at my left," for the worthy
Bishop did not even condescend to raise his sharp chin from out of
his white tunic whilst delivering himself of a curt negative or
affirmative in response to the young knight's conversational advances.
Ahead of where they were riding, a jagged spur of the forest, composed
of stunted pines and dense underbrush, swept defiantly down upon the
moor. They were forced to describe a wide detour to the southward in
order to avoid it and come upon the other side. As they were passing
its nethermost point, Sir Richard glanced back to the place of his
strange awakening beneath the sumptuous pavilion. He saw a great ship,
with snowy sails bellying in the wind, making straight for that point
of the coast, and the men, whom they had left behind, were swarming
after the manner of an army of busy ants to the sandy beach.
Passing the spur of stunted pines, they skirted the forest in a
northwesterly direction till they had arrived upon a well defined
road that plunged directly into the dense wood. Up this rocky way the
cavalcade slowly defiled. Far above their heads the maze of branches
met and intertwined, making it seem as though the company had been
swallowed up within the cool mouth of a tremendously lofty green
cavern. The sound of the hoof-beats of their horses was smothered in
the thick carpet of pine needles underfoot, and the rich, sweet scent
of them filled all the air.
Since Sir Richard had displayed a disinclination to give ear to his
cant, the Renegade Duke had drawn ahead to join the leading horsemen,
and for an interval of more than two hours Bishop Kennedy and his
prisoner rode onward side by side without exchanging a single word.
"What road may this be, good Bishop?" he ventured finally to inquire.
"'Tis the continuation of the Sauchieburn Pass," Lord Kennedy briefly
replied.
Sir Richard was more than contented, for he knew then that the way led
to Castle Yewe and Lord Douglas, into whose hands he intended soon to
deliver the duplicate of the parchment that had been pilfered from out
of his wallet.
CHAPTER VIII
OF A QUARREL AND A CHALLENGE
The road through the forest wound steadily upward, and when they had
left behind them the red moors and braes, the heaving, shimmering sea,
they gained no view of the open, and but scant glimpses of the sky,
so thickly interwoven were the leafy branches above their heads, till
they had emerged upon a furzed and brambled down that commanded an
uninterrupted prospect for many miles around.
The scene then spread before them was one of superb grandeur, and well
repaid them for their march of five hours up the long and tedious
slope, of which the point where they were now come marked the extreme
summit. The sea had disappeared out of the range of their vision, and
in every direction the land dipped away in a myriad of mounds and
hills, with splotches of golden gorse dotting their tops and sides,
till the last of them was lost in a purple haze that hung above the
indefinite, circular rim of the horizon; a fleecy wrack of clouds
tossed before the light wind across the deep blue dome of the sky.
These, speeding between sun and earth, sent patches of light and shadow
in a swift pursuit of each other up and down over the breast of the
sweet landscape as though they were playing at some pretty game.
Here, word passed among the men that they might dismount to bait
themselves and their horses and enjoy a brief period of rest before
resuming the march. Amidst resounding talk and laughter they clambered
out of their saddles, tethered their steeds where the grass grew most
abundantly, and proceeded to make themselves comfortable, after the
campaigner's fashion, by sprawling at full length upon the velvety
turf in the agreeable warmth of the sun. Meanwhile, serving-men were
addressing themselves to the work of gathering armfuls of dried hemlock
twigs, building fires over which to warm the pastys, and broaching
casks of stum.
A bright-faced youth, who had evidently been appointed equerry to Sir
Richard, approached and signified his readiness to take charge of
the young knight's horse. Sir Richard dismounted, gave the reins into
the youth's hands, and joined Lord Kennedy, who was leaning against a
curiously stunted cedar that grew from the brink of a steep declivity
near at hand. Within his mind, Sir Richard had applied the nickname
of "Taciturnitus" to his silent companion of the morning, and he
was surprised to observe the grim warrior-churchman drinking in the
glorious scene with a keen zest of which he had deemed him altogether
incapable. For quite a space they stood side by side, silently
contemplating the diversified beauties of the landscape that unrolled
before them from the sky-line to the base of the cliff.
Here and there, filmy pennants of white smoke, indicating the location
of shepherds' cottages, would fling from behind the masses of foliage
upon the farther hillsides. There was but one structure visible,
however; a rambling pile of gray stone, shot with a trinity of
embattled towers, which was nestled along the slope of a down, some
three leagues distant from where they were standing.
"What is that building yonder, my lord?" queried Sir Richard,
indicating its location with outstretched hand and finger.
"That," replied Bishop Kennedy, "is the Black Friar's Monastery. Our
way, sir knight, leads directly beneath its sealed portcullis, which is
opened but once in the year, and then only for the purpose of admitting
its annual quota of novices. The final glance of the probationer's eye
upon a free earth and heaven embraces this bit bonnie scene. When he is
quit of the damp cell and noisome cloister, the crypt, lying within the
belly of the hill, becomes the final repository of his lime-bleached
bones."
While Bishop Kennedy was talking Sir Richard's attention had been
directed toward a solitary traveler, who was drawing near along the
road that wound around the foot of the cliff and swept over the hill
upon which his captors were bivouacing. The pilgrim was mounted upon a
round-bodied, slow moving and remarkably long-eared donkey, which was
exactly of a color with the rider's voluminous, cowled robe. As he came
within easy view it could be seen that he was diligently poring over
some sheets of manuscript. It appeared not to annoy the reader in the
least when the donkey stopped, which it did every little while, to
scratch its underside with its hind hoof.
"Well, by my Faith!" exclaimed Bishop Kennedy, with a display of
genuine enthusiasm upon catching sight of the pilgrim.
"You know him, my lord?"
"Yea--that I do, Sir Richard. Upon the round back of yonder ass rides
a scholar, sir knight, whose fame will one day be proclaimed over all
the land. Aye--and whose name shall live when thine and mine have
been erased along with the epitaphs upon our tombs. Let me crave thy
indulgence, and call another to keep thee company, whilst I go forward
to embrace my friend Erasmus."
"De Claverlok, attend us," he then called to the grizzled knight, who
was sitting beside one of the roaring fires and skilfully balancing a
pasty above it upon the blade of his halberd.
De Claverlok quickly gulped down the remainder of the contents of the
flagon beside him and came toward the two men wearing a good-natured
smile, smacking his lips aloud and wiping his beard with the back of
his broad hand.
"The wine is to thy liking, I perceive," remarked Bishop Kennedy dryly.
"Ah!" exclaimed the grizzled veteran heartily, "there's nothing, my
men, that can equal it. Give me drink with the must in 't every blessed
day of the year, ... eh!"
"Thou art ever filled with ardor, de Claverlok, when the meat and drink
are in question," observed Kennedy with a faint trace of a smile. "But
canst forget thy loves long enough to keep companionship with our guest
whilst I go forward to meet my friend riding below?"
"Certes will I bear the sir knight company," the grizzled knight
instantly agreed. "And I need not desert my loves in doing so, ... eh,
... my boy?"
Whereupon he led Sir Richard to a seat beside a hastily constructed
table, made of two broad planks set lengthwise above a pair of empty
casks. Over it, fluttering and crackling in the crisp, invigorating
breeze that blew across the mountain, was stretched an awning of purple
and black, which the young knight took to be a part of the pavilion
beneath which he had been so mysteriously transported, and beneath
which that morning he had so strangely awakened. The Renegade Duke,
with a partially empty tankard at his hand, was already seated before
a steaming pasty. From the violent red of his nose and cheeks it could
easily be seen that he had been making rather too free with the stum.
Besides painting his round face, it had provided him with the fool's
courage to unmask his hatred of Sir Richard, at whom he glared across
the improvised table with an open defiance. At first he was careful to
preserve a sulky silence, but by the time he had emptied a few more
flagons he grew noisily vociferant, and would likely have opened the
quarrel then and there, had it not been for a now and again lustily
delivered nudge of de Claverlok's mailed elbow.
He was sufficiently himself, however, to relapse into silence when
the Bishop joined them with his youthful friend, whom he addressed
intimately as Gerard, but introduced to the three men as Erasmus.
The scholar's loose robe did not wholly conceal the angularity of
his figure. His cheeks, though almost painfully hollow, were touched
with the olive bronze of winds and weathers. His nose was unusually
prominent, but cut fine at bridge and nostril. His brow, classically
moulded, was deep and broad at its base. Altogether, his physiognomy
was remarkable for its combination of severe austerity and innate
generosity and kindliness.
"It would seem," said he, seating himself beside the table between
Bishop Kennedy and Sir Richard, "that the flower of knighthood is
gathered here to look upon the flower of Scotland's scenery. I wonder,
sir knights, that the restful peace of yonder view does not communicate
itself to your martial breasts and render you brothers-in-love of all
the world."
"Thy business it is to think, dream, and observe, Gerard," said Lord
Kennedy, "and ours to act. The world is yet too imperfect to receive
thy teachings, my friend."
"Yea--that it is," agreed de Claverlok between bites. "With us it's
eat, drink, rest betimes, and then away. I'll wager, though, our gear
sits lighter on our shoulders than your robe, ... eh?"
"Right readily do I grant you that, sir knight," returned Erasmus
smilingly. "This robe, in truth, is one of the heaviest of my burdens.
There would be many a naked back, my lord," he added gravely, turning
toward Bishop Kennedy, "an the robe were to be stripped from every
bigoted hypocrite. It grieves me to admit my belief that steel girded
breasts are uniformly more steadfast to their principles than those
enveloped within the robe and cowl."
Thus, during the hour of eating, Erasmus held Lord Kennedy and Sir
Richard enthralled with the charm and compelling influence of his
colloquy, in the course of which he explained to them that he was then
journeying from a monastery at Stein to enter the services of the
Archbishop of Cambray, and that later it was a part of his plan to go
on to Paris, where he intended pursuing his studies under the continued
patronage of his amiable and generous master.
Had the scholar touched at all upon the subject of battles, or of
deeds of martial gallantry, it is possible that he might again have
enticed de Claverlok to give ear. But as it was, that bluff warrior
yielded himself in his most heartywise to the business of devastating
the remainder of the pasty before him, and maintaining a constant
void within the pewter flagon beside his plate. As for the Renegade
Duke, Sir Richard noted that his vapid smile had resolved itself into
something approaching a drunken leer, and that beneath his vain twaddle
there ran a distinct undercurrent of thinly veiled sarcasm. It grew
apparent that he was striving desperately to mask his quarrel with
the young knight from the understanding of Lord Kennedy. In this Sir
Richard was assisting him to his uttermost. Some time before he had
conceived the idea that a quarrel and subsequent duel, which he hoped
that his blatant guard might secretly arrange, would provide a likely
means of escape.
That their combined efforts were unfruitful of misleading the shrewd
Bishop was soon made apparent; for, before leaving from beneath the
awning with Erasmus, he took the grizzled knight aside, talking
earnestly with him for several minutes.
"I am but going to make Erasmus acquainted with some of our famous
fellows," he was explaining to de Claverlok, "and shall soon return.
Above all things, Sir Lionel," he warned in a whisper, "keep a close
eye on the Knight of the Double Rook. Before we came to yonder table
I had disquieting news from the scholar from Bannockburn way. Douglas
is arming to oppose us, and planning to invade England for a purpose
similar with ours. I fear me that he is familiar with every happening
within our camp, and doubts have arisen within me as to the Renegade
Duke's integrity to our cause. An I am not mistaken, there is a plan
afoot to defeat our purpose of delivering the young noble within our
northern stronghold. There's something mightily wrong, de Claverlok.
Not a breath have I heard from our captive regarding the King's warrant
taken from his pouch by Sir James; and yet is he as eager as an
unhooded falcon to escape and fare away upon his journey. How it would
boot him to go on, I cannot make out. Remember, sir knight," Bishop
Kennedy concluded sternly, "that henceforth thou art held responsible
for the youth's safe detention; ... by thy knightly oath do we hold
thee."
"Aye, my lord," was the extent of de Claverlok's reply, though his tone
and manner indicated his determination to be faithful to the trust
imposed upon him.
While the three men were seated beneath the awning awaiting Lord
Kennedy's return they espied along the road, which wound like a tawny
worm beneath the portcullis of the Black Friar's Monastery, a single
horseman careering swiftly in the direction of the hill upon which
they were stationed. As the rider drew nearer, they could see the
glint of the sun's rays upon the burnished trappings of man and horse.
Without exchanging a speculative word, their glances followed him till
he disappeared at a point where the ochre road was swallowed up in a
patch of brilliantly colored gorse. He had likewise been sighted from
elsewhere upon the mountain top, for a band of horsemen sallied down
from the place of the bivouac and met him precisely at the spot where
he again issued into view from behind the bushes. Then, wheeling, they
bore him company up the declivitous road. Coincident with their meeting
with the men awaiting them above there was a loud shouting of "Douglas!
False Douglas, the traitor!" Whereupon Lord Kennedy could be seen
striding among them, a trumpeter winded a blast "To horse," and then,
amidst a frenzied waving of pennoned lances, the hitherto quiet scene
became alive with the scurrying of mailed feet, the noise of creaking
saddle girths, the hoarse cries of men, and the loud neighing of horses.
Sir Richard, unable to interpret the meaning of this sudden warlike
demonstration, and wondering much at the use of the name of Douglas,
regarded it in the light of a most opportune happening. For one thing,
it had rid him temporarily of the presence of de Claverlok, who was
swinging furiously down the slope bellowing aloud for the Duke's horse,
for Sir Richard's, and his own. The young knight at once availed
himself of the opportunity of resuming his quarrel with the Renegade
Duke; and, as he regarded him scornfully across the board, that
individual arose and bowed low before him. In despite of Sir Richard's
aversion toward the man, he was obliged to pay tribute within his mind
to his singular grace and perfect assurance.
"Why all this mock courtesy," said the young knight quietly, arising
also to his feet, "when your blade, my brave Duke, dangles so near to
your hand?"
The Renegade Duke stole a glance behind him down the hill, and smiled
insolently, coolly, delaying thus his answer for a considerable space.
"The battle-ax, or mace, sir knight," he said then, "would better suit
our deadly purposes." He was not above looking to the advantages of his
superior weight in offering this suggestion. Moreover, horsemanship
played an important part in this kind of warfare, and the Duke was said
to be a master horseman. "Yet----" he added the word and then paused
reflectively.
"Yet what?" returned Sir Richard. "Out with it ere de Claverlok return
to thwart the perfecting of our arrangements."
"Yet--" repeated the Duke slowly, again looking behind him down the
hill, his lips still raised from off his teeth in a maddening smile, "I
dislike me much to remove the single champion of a maiden in distress.
Would you not consent to grant to me the legacy of effecting the fair
one's release?"
The violence of Sir Richard's anger, scattering every vestige of
prudence to the winds, might easily have resulted in defeating his well
laid plan to escape. For, no sooner had the Duke finished, than the
young knight found himself standing with his emptied tankard in his
hand, while his enemy, with a diaphanous lace kerchief, was daintily
wiping the dregs from it off his face. The fact that he missed a
drop of the wine, which remained hanging from one of the ridiculous
points of his upturned mustachios, sent Sir Richard into a paroxysm of
laughter.
"An it comes to the question of a legacy, Renegade Duke," he stifled
his merriment sufficiently to answer, "I shall do my mightiest to have
it from you to me. An I make no mistake, my fine fellow, I shall gain
the missive you have pilfered before the day is done."
While Sir Richard was speaking, de Claverlok was seen to be approaching
at a swift gallop with their horses.
"Till we meet," returned the Duke quickly, "it shall again be yours.
When your bonnet was being burnished this morning it rolled from out
the fillet to the pavilion floor." Whereupon, having explained his
possession of the note, he tossed the bit of paper before Sir Richard
upon the table. Then, as de Claverlok drew rein and called aloud for
them to mount--"Which shall it be," he whispered, "mace, battle-ax, or
sword?"
"Battle-axes, at cock-shut time," Sir Richard hastily answered, moving
in the direction of his waiting horse.
"Battle-axes at cock-shut time," repeated the Duke. Then, with a
sweeping bow, he held the young knight's stirrup for him to mount.
"Battle-axes at cock-shut time," he said again. "Thou hast laid a
command upon me, ... Liege!" he added, with the last word hissed low in
Sir Richard's ear as he vaulted lightly past him into his saddle.
"Liege?" thought the young knight to himself as he rode onward down
the road beside de Claverlok. "Why all these ceremonious bows? This
calling of me a _noble_ knight? This strange captivity? Why should
I--I, Richard Rohan, knight, and lowly messenger of the King be thus
curtseyed to and addressed? And what mean these subdued mutterings
among the men of 'A traitor in camp,' 'Douglas playing false and
arming,' 'Tyrrell outmaneuvered'? Fates defend me. I had liefer set my
lance against the Dragon of Wantley than make an attempt to unravel the
deep mysteries by which I am this moment surrounded."
CHAPTER IX
OF AN AMBUSCADE, A DUEL, AND AN ESCAPE
The Renegade Duke, whose challenge Sir Richard had so openly invited,
and who, through the mishap described, had secured a temporary
possession of the playful note written to the young knight by Isabel,
had quickly surmised by whom it had been inscribed. He was aware of the
maid's dissatisfaction with her surroundings, and that she had chosen
Sir Richard to be her deliverer at once sent the Duke into a ferment of
passionate jealousy.
The Renegade Duke's accidental meeting with Isabel when he had first
come to Scotland to join Tyrrell's projected expedition, had marked the
beginning of a mad desire to arouse within her breast a return of the
sentiment that he entertained toward her. In so far as his superficial
character permitted, his affection for her was genuine. But in the rare
instances in which he had contrived to meet and talk with her alone,
she had rejected his suit with an indignant scorn that would have left
an ordinary man without the shadow of a hope of future success. The
Duke, however, was all egotism and vanity, and remained firm in his
belief that his charms would ultimately prevail. By fair means or foul,
he had determined upon having her within his power; and, as the initial
step toward such an end, he had played the traitor by laying bare
before Douglas the whole of Sir James's plan.
Douglas, himself a conspirator of no mean abilities, had immediately
set about to concoct a scheme whereby to take advantage of Tyrrell's
grave dilemma, caused by the unhappy death of the young prince.
Douglas had already instituted measures to have a substitute candidate
proclaimed in the place of the one dead, being well aware that Sir
James would scarcely dare to incur the ire of his men--from whom he had
kept the circumstance of the prince's death a dark secret--by exposing
the falsity of the Douglas claimant. Rather, did Douglas figure it,
would Tyrrell be under the necessity of joining issues. This would
result in a powerful movement, with the Douglas finger very much in
the juicy pasty that was designed to be served up to Henry VII and
his followers. Had the Renegade Duke been acquainted with the genuine
character of the captive Sir Richard's ancestry he would doubtless
have been in haste to communicate his knowledge thereof to his new
master, with the result that the plot, then taking shape, would have
been infinitely less complex, and probably less interesting than it
subsequently turned out to be. In his selection of Sir Richard to
assume the leadership of his gathered forces, the Duke fell into the
error of supposing that Tyrrell had happened by chance to duplicate
Lord Douglas's clever expedient.
In the early morning of that day the Duke had contrived to get word to
one of Douglas's lieutenants of the captivity of the young knight, and
of Tyrrell's intention to carry him to his stronghold before making
known his plans with regard to him. The Duke anticipated a counter
move upon the part of Douglas along the way; but he calculated that
if he could make himself the instrument of the captive's removal, it
would place him high in the esteem of Lord Douglas; while, at the same
time, he believed that such a move would leave Tyrrell without a prop
wherewith to buttress his tottering conspiracy.
As Sir Richard, around whom simmered this salmagundi of politics, rode
onward with the company, he tried many times, by piecing together odds
and ends of the talk that drifted to his ears, to gather some inkling
of the purpose upon which the company, of which he was a most unwilling
member, was engaged. With recurring frequency he heard the word
"treason," and its kindred, "traitor," "spy," "base informer" traded
from tongue to tongue among the men around him. The march was now being
urged rapidly forward, and a something portending evil seemed to be
hanging in the air about them.
The end they were seeking to attain, and the part his person was
playing in their machinations grew more enigmatical in proportion with
the thought that Sir Richard gave to the matter of burrowing to the
reason for them. He ceased trying, finally, and suffered himself to be
carried along whithersoever chance, or good or bad fortune, listed.
His companion of the morning, now no longer taciturn, was riding well
to the front with Erasmus, whom he had evidently persuaded to remain
with the company. In sullen silence at his left rode the Renegade Duke.
Faithful de Claverlok kept within touch of Sir Richard's hand to his
right.
When he was not engaging the bluff old warrior in conversation, the
young knight would yield himself to the ineffable delights of conjuring
up radiant visions of the maiden of the piece of saffron velvet, whilst
all of the time he was building every manner of chimerical plan for
effecting her delivery from the hands of the keeper of the Red Tavern.
Full often his fingers would seek and caress the soft nap of the
cutting of cloth. He had need of constant assurance that the entire
mysterious happening had not been of the ephemeral fabric of an unusual
dream.
Thinking thus of the unknown maiden to whom he had pledged his knightly
sword, led him naturally to the contemplation of his own freedom,
and the stratagem through which he was hopeful of achieving it. That
his avowed enemy, the Duke, was, at the proper moment, ready to lend
himself to his device, Sir Richard was almost certain. His scheme
involved the arrangement of a secret duel, in which he trusted in his
strength of arm to vanquish his enemy and thereafter make his escape.
But a most substantial and incorruptible barrier offered in the bulky
person of the grizzled knight. As many as a score of times had de
Claverlok been loudly hailed from the vanguard of the line. But without
exception he had laughingly rejoined that he was engaged in keeping
companionship with the honored guest of the company, remaining deaf to
the young knight's fervent assurances that he must consider himself
quite free to ride ahead, if he so desired.
"Aye," he would invariably reply, "I know well that thou art growing
tired of my prattle, ... eh? I wish that it were not so, sir knight,
for I must do my devoir by thy side till the trumpet sounds a halt for
the night."
Once Sir Richard put to him point blank the question of why and how
long he was to be thus forcibly detained.
"Before the sun drops beneath the hills in the evening of to-morrow,"
de Claverlok replied, "thou shalt know all. Would that I were free to
tell thee the story now, Sir Richard," he added with an honest candor,
"but my lips are sealed with an oath most sacred, ... eh! Thou wouldst
not expect me to break my knightly vow, I know," upon which he looked
significantly across at the Renegade Duke, but that immaculate dandy
was busily engaged in polishing his nails against the flowing skirts of
his scarlet _sclaveyn_, and remained wholly unconscious of the implied
warning.
One thing, at least, had drifted clear of the haze within Sir Richard's
topsy-turvy brain. Lord Kennedy was the leader, and had appointed
de Claverlok as his especial consort. He wished heartily that some
accident might befall to win or send the rugged warrior from his close
attendance upon his stirrup, as this was the only means through which
he could hope to achieve the end he had in mind.
The sun, by now, was tinting the western sky a rose glow, with all
across the face of it a sweeping of thin and luminously pink clouds.
The hour had almost come when Sir Richard had promised himself the
felicity of trying conclusions with his braggart enemy at his left; yet
here was de Claverlok riding unyielding alongside, the embodiment of
everything firm and loyal.
Though he was chafing sore under the restraint, Sir Richard could not
but suffer himself to be entertained by the flow of good humored talk
of his companion, which went something after the following fashion:
He had been told that Sir Richard had passed the greater part of his
life in Brittany? The young knight answered affirmatively. He, too, the
grizzled warrior averred, had hunted, fought, and tilted there. There
were maidens in Brittany, ... shy, big-eyed, captivating, ... who had
once regarded him not unfavorably, ... eh! Their daughters, mayhap, had
done the same for Sir Richard? "Thy looks doth certes deny thy age,"
the young knight had politely assured him. Ah! aye--but he was old,
though, ... quite old enough to be the sir knight's father. Why! once
he had split a lance or two with the old Duke Francis himself. And at
the time when Henry, Earl of Richmond, now England's sovereign ruler,
had been but a romping, long-haired boy, ... eh! Yea, ... and the
sturdy Duke had come nearer to unhorsing him than any man across the
Channel. He had been informed that the young sir knight had once been
Henry's playmate; ... was this true, ... eh?
He had indeed been the companion of Henry, Sir Richard told his
friendly guard, and with him had shared the guardianship of Duke
Francis and the bountiful hospitality of his court.
Then it may have been, the grizzled knight went on, that Sir Richard
had witnessed that self-same tournament upon the field of Anjou, at
Vannes? It had been extravagantly rich in prizes, ... that tournament.
He himself had been so fortunate as to win two barbs and three coats
of Tuscan mail, ... fluted, ... sumptuous, ... exquisitely damascened.
But they had long since found their way into the rapacious talons of
the Jews. Everything that he had ever possessed ... of any value, ...
saving that which he was then wearing, ... and his knightly honor,
... had followed at the tail of them into the same far-reaching, ever
greedy claws. Yet he courted no hatred of them, ... eh! Why should one?
Were they not as necessary to a gold-lean knight, these gleaners of
worldly wealth, as were his very bread and wine, ... eh? What excuse
was there for despising one of the prime essentials of life, he wanted
to know?
In something after this manner the warrior rambled on. Touching, with a
ponderous grace, upon any subject that chanced to fall, haphazard, into
his mind, not pausing for a moment to listen to answering comment, or
seeming to expect it: Sir Richard was growing convinced that the crafty
fellow was witness to the passing of the insult between the Renegade
Duke and himself, and that he was merely talking to defeat their avowed
purpose of renewing hostilities till the hour when they should halt for
the night.
There would be no duel that day, and no escape, of this he was by now
almost certain. Disappointed, chagrined, impatient of his strange
thralldom, and desiring above all things else to deliver Henry's
message to Douglas, he rode gloomily along, lending something less than
half an ear to the empty words that his stanch, unwavering guard was
volleying into it.
For a considerable while the road had been threading between a pleasing
succession of furze and thistle-grown downs. It was from a copse
abutting upon the highway, when they were riding between the steeper
of these, that a frightened hare scurried in front of them across
the road. Upon the instant de Claverlok drew rein and swept each of
the hillsides with a swift and keen scrutiny. The trifling incident
of the flying hare was as the first eddy of wind that heralds the
coming tornado; for, in almost the next moment, there followed the
sharp spattering of bolts against bonnet and breast-plate and shield.
One struck fair upon Sir Richard's gorget, causing him to reel in
his saddle and his temples to throb and ache with the shock of the
impact. Among those riding ahead the young knight saw three pitch
heavily off their horses. Clear eyed and iron nerved indeed were these
Scot archers; men who could pick you out with unerring nicety the
crevice between gorget and helm, or the joint between pauldron and
breast-plate. Often, with the beaver drawn, they were known to flick an
arrow through the eye-slit without touching either side of the orifice.
After the first shower of bolts the slopes upon each side of the
company of horsemen became alive with warriors, slipping down the hill
upon them like brown and living torrents. There was a ruddy glare
ahead, where the ardent rays of the sun, now setting, were beating
against the breastplates of an advancing foe. Uprose, then, loud cries
of "Douglas, and the Duke of York!" "Long live the White Rose!" which
was met with shouts of "Death to the traitors!" "Long live Tyrrell and
the Duke of Warwick!"
Sir Richard was just upon the point of yielding to the instinctive call
that would have placed him in the singular position of giving battle
against the enemies of his supposed own foes, when the Renegade Duke's
hand fell heavily upon the bridle of his prancing stallion.
"Cock-shut time is come!" he was shouting in the young knight's ear. "I
am ready to obey thy command of this morning. Ride with me to the left!"
Quick as a flash Sir Richard wheeled, and together they drove upward
along a narrow roadway that debouched from the one over which they had
been traveling, unlimbering their battle-axes as they sped along.
When the wooded summit of the down intervened between them and the
scene of the conflict, they drew rein and went at it. Whatsoever else
the Renegade Duke may have been, Sir Richard was quick to discover that
as a foeman he was not in the least to be despised. Blow after blow
he was parrying, and that with a neatness and cleverness that set the
impetuous young knight somewhat by the ears. Indeed, growing out of the
very frenzy of his eagerness, he realized that his attacks were losing
an alarming measure of their force and accuracy.
There was now need of immediate action, as, upon the further side of
the down, the crash of arms seemed to be subsiding. It was just as he
was charging his antagonist afresh that Sir Richard heard the thunder
of hoof-beats along the narrow road upon which the Duke and he were
fighting for their very lives. Summoning every vestige of energy
and strength at his command, he aimed a blow full at his foeman's
head-piece. When it appeared to be upon the point of striking, the
Renegade Duke executed a swift demivolte. The heavy ax, glancing along
his helm, clove off its jaunty white plume, and crashed fair upon the
chamfron of his mount. There followed then a momentary reeling and
staggering, like a maimed ship in a sudden gale, whereupon horse and
rider fell, furiously plunging and kicking, into a thornhedge beside
the road.
By now the echoes of the approaching hoofbeats were reverberating
clear and crepitant from against the steep side of the opposite hill.
The Renegade Duke had not done sinking into the crackling brush when
Sir Richard wheeled, and, touching rowels lightly to his stallion's
foam-flecked side, made off with all the speed there was left in him.
CHAPTER X
OF A NIGHT IN A SHEPHERD'S HUT, AND A SURPRISE IN THE MORNING
So far as qualities of speed and endurance were concerned, Sir
Richard would have willingly matched his powerful stallion against
any in Scotland. Having no fear, therefore, of the possibility of
his recapture, he settled himself with some comfort in his saddle,
enjoying a great measure of satisfaction in the belief that he would
soon outdistance his pursuers. That he was indeed being followed he was
left in no manner of doubt, as not for a single instant did the ring of
hoof-beats pause at the spot where his late adversary had sprawled so
ignominiously into the brambles.
Being wholly unaware as to the number of miles that might stretch away
between himself and Castle Yewe, he deemed it unwise to urge his mount
to top speed. Besides, the road along which he was forced to travel
was not over-free from scattered boulders and rather steep of descent.
He accordingly contented himself with making haste slowly, as the
saying goes, maintaining a long, easy, sweeping stride, and observing
every possible precaution against the accidental stumbling or laming of
his horse. Moreover, in the thin, clear air of the uplands the rattling
of steel hoofs against the flinty earth would assuredly carry for the
greater part of a league. For this reason he entertained but slight
hope of throwing his pursuers off his trail till the character of the
soil became changed.
Twice within the distance of the flight of an arrow the road swerved
sharply to the left, which rendered it quite impossible, on account of
the tangle of bushes that shot high above his crest on either hand, to
ascertain how closely they were following at his heels, or how many
were engaged in the chase. At times he could have sworn that there was
but one. Then, when he would be just upon the point of drawing rein,
purposing to try conclusions with that which he supposed to be his
single foeman, the surrounding foothills would carry to his ears the
echoes of a battalion of flying horsemen, whereupon he would touch
spurs to his stallion's side and scurry hot-footed up and down dale
until the sounds had dwindled again to a mere faint pattering in the
twilight distance.
Two full hours of hard riding did not suffice materially to alter the
positions of pursuer and pursued. By then the moon had shot clear of
the hills, adding her pallid luster to the clear, star-powdered vault,
and still Sir Richard could catch the faint pounding of persistent
hoofs at his back. Arriving presently at a point where a wider roadway
forked to the left, he decided to take his way along that. He was
gratified to find that it yielded soft to the hoof, muffling to a
considerable extent the hitherto loud noise of his flight.
Sprinting madly for the distance of something near an eighth of a
league, he dismounted and led his tired horse within the shadows of a
thick wood, fringing the highway to the northward. Tethering him to a
tree at a safe distance from the road, he then retraced his way rapidly
but cautiously toward the juncture of the two highroads. Purposing
through this simple stratagem, should chance favor him, to have a look
at his pursuing enemies.
The young knight enjoyed a quiet laugh at his own expense when he
discovered that his flying battalion of horsemen had narrowed down
to one, and that one, de Claverlok. His rugged profile was set fair
against the enormous face of the moon, as he drew to a stand not above
a dozen feet from where Sir Richard lay concealed. Distinctly the young
knight could see his grizzled head, a silhouette of black against a
yellow circle, showing as clear and clean cut as a finely chiseled
statue.
It was easy to gather that de Claverlok was in two minds whether to go
straight ahead, or to turn to his left into the forking roadway. Now
he was inclining his head in a listening attitude. From away in the
distance, and ever so faintly, came the clatter of the galloping hoofs
of a single horseman. This sound set an instant period to the grizzled
knight's perplexity. Forthwith he turned his charger's head straight to
the northward, and in a flash was spurring furiously from the vicinity
of the bushes where Sir Richard lay hidden.
Keeping well in the brush, the young knight waited till the noise of
de Claverlok's flight had merged within the solemn quiet of the night;
then, returning to where he had tethered his horse, he led him to the
highway, mounted, and, after somewhat of a less impetuous fashion than
before again resumed his lonely journey.
He had ample leisure thereafter to indulge himself in meditation.
Indeed the young knight was enjoying his first quiet interval since
his entrance into the Red Tavern and his meeting with Tyrrell, whom he
still regarded as nothing more than a most extraordinary inn-keeper.
Again his mind reverted to the maiden; he recalled with a thrill of
pleasure her soft whisper, and the kiss through the wall. He thought
of the bit of cloth and the note, and immediately grew less lonely
than before. They yielded him a sweet companionship that he was quite
willing to accept without attempting to define. Through his ardent
maze of speculation, however, Nature obtruded with her realities, and
he became conscious of the keen, frost-laden air, and of his fatigue
and hunger. He was ready to admit that the twinkling lights of an inn
would have afforded him a most welcome and agreeable sight.
Sir Richard was destined to be denied this pleasing spectacle, as he
had now ridden as far as discretion allowed without glimpsing a sign of
a habitable shelter. But as he drew clear of the forest he caught sight
of a hut that stood not far from the road within an open meadow. He
rode up to it, discovering it to be an abandoned shepherd's dwelling,
bleak, uninviting, and dreary. Between this and the cosy corner of an
inn abounding in appetizing odors was something of a far cry to be
sure. But it was the best that seemed likely to offer for the night;
and, desolate, lonely, and utterly cheerless as it was, he nevertheless
gave thanks for the mere rude thatch that would at least protect him
from the tingling air. A rough lean-to had been constructed against the
side of the hut beneath which he secured his horse, a great armful of
half-dried grass serving for the animal's feed. Once inside the hovel,
by tearing out a plank or two from the rotting floor and disposing them
within the rude fireplace he soon contrived to kindle a blaze that
warmed him pleasantly to sleep.
So fatigued was he that, in despite of his hunger and thirst, his
slumber was of the soundest. Perhaps the assurance that he would likely
awaken in the same spot where he had closed his eyes contributed
its mite to his comfort of mind and body. At all events he remained
undisturbed till well along in the morning. When he aroused himself and
opened his eyes the slanting rays of the sun were falling fair upon
them through the sashless window that opened upon a fairylike view of
hill and forest. He was stretching and yawning himself more fully awake
when he was startled suddenly into that condition by a huge shadow
moving across the devastated floor. He looked once; then, rubbing his
thoroughly surprised eyes, looked again.
Upon the sagged doorsill sat the ubiquitous de Claverlok. He seemed
quite unaware of the young knight's awakening, being busily intent upon
the burnishing of his helmet, and cocking his grizzled head drolly
from one shoulder to the other the while he held his gleaming bonnet
at arm's length the better to view and admire the result of his lusty
rubbing. The glittering top-piece, catching a ray of the sun, shunted
it straight into Sir Richard's dazzled eyes. For a second or two
thereafter he could see nothing above a brilliant splotch of red, with
the massive outline of de Claverlok looming gigantic in its center.
When he was recovered of his transitory blindness, he made a hasty
examination of the wall against which he had constructed his bed of
leaves and boughs. Saving for a narrow vent-hole set high above the
floor, and in the corner of the room farthest from where he was lying,
it was unpierced by door or window. Sir Richard could not restrain a
smile of quiet amusement as he thought of the famous prank he might
have played upon the unconquerable old warrior had there been a
sufficient opening near at hand to give exit to his body.
As it was, ... "_Well!_" he shouted at de Claverlok upon a sudden, and
at the very limit of his lungs.
Deliberately, and with the most impassive unconcern, the grizzled
knight set his helmet upon his head.
"Give thee a right good-morrow, Sir Richard," said he, smiling broad
and friendlywise over his shoulder. "Judging from the quality of
thy slumber, I should say that thy conscience is mightily clear and
babelike, ... eh?"
"Clearer it should be than thine, ... leech!" Sir Richard retorted.
"Much am I perplexed over thy presence within this hut this morning.
Methought that yester eve I had bade thee adieu for all."
"Aye, ... and good quittance, well riddance, thou didst think, ...
eh? But thou wert remiss, my son, in not bethinking thee to yield me
a parting handclasp. I am come to remind thee of thy discourteous
oversight, and, what's better, to offer thee wherewith to break thy
fast."
"Thou dost but mock mine hunger, de Claverlok, which is most ill
beseeming from an unbidden guest within my door."
"Pooh, pooh! guest within thy door, indeed. 'Tis thou who art jesting
now, ... eh! But, i' truth, I am not mocking thee, sir knight,"
protested de Claverlok. "Why, thinkest thou that these bonnie plains
and downs are barren of grain and fowl, ... eh? Or that my hand and
tongue have lost their cunning? But, tell me, my good Sir Richard, art
indeed bereft of thy nostrils?"
When the young knight raised himself upon his elbow he became aware of
the appetizing odor of a roasting fowl, which had not quite dropped to
the level of his reclining head. In the fireplace behind him he saw
that it had all along been sizzling upon an improvised spit, and that
beside it there was an iron pot that was sending its cloud of steam
merrily up the deep black throat of the chimney.
"I observe," said Sir Richard, rising and going to the door, "that thou
art ever thoughtful of the inner man. But, withal, de Claverlok, I like
thee right well, and were it not that thou hast designed to constitute
thyself my guardian and captor, full gladly would I call thee friend."
"Your hand, Sir Dick, and let us say 'tis so. Your good friend and
true have I been since first I clapt my eyes upon your fresh and open
countenance, ... eh! By Saint Dunstan, but I wish that I dared tell
you a thing or twain as to the reason for my guardianship," he added
fervently. "That I am such is the fault of an untoward circumstance of
which for the present you must perforce remain ignorant. That I am
your captor, ... well," he laughed, "and whose fault is 't, ... eh? You
were a free man but yester night, my boy."
"Aye," returned Sir Richard; "and ill did I conduct the business
of eluding you. But, marry, man! Here's my hand of friendship, for
as friend I insist upon regarding you--and not captor--my good de
Claverlok."
Smiling broadly, the grizzled knight grasped and heartily shook the
young knight's proffered hand.
"From this old tongue," said he, "you shall hear no denial of your
claim. But a truce to soft sayings, ... eh? The fowl doth cry aloud
from yon spit. The ale is mulled to that degree of perfection where it
would tickle the palate of Epicurus himself. The air is growing heavy
with the fragrance of toasting cheese. Let us, I pray you, break our
fasts and be off. Our journey doth stretch long before us, and the day
grows apace."
They thereupon sat down together upon the doorsill, the hollow of
de Claverlok's broad and scrupulously burnished shield serving as
salver for the meat, bread and cheese. They took turns at the ale out
of the mouth of the earthen jug beside them. When they had finished
breakfasting, they went to the lean-to and made ready their horses.
"Do our ways diverge at yonder road?" carelessly asked Sir Richard, as
he swung himself into his saddle. "Or shall I be so fortunate as to
have you for my companion during a part of my journey?"
"Well, ... by the sun that warms us! Marry, but you are a refreshing
youth!" exclaimed de Claverlok, adjusting his breast-plate and
gathering his buckler over his left arm. "An I wot my name, Sir
Richard, you are to journey wherever I lead, ... eh!"
"Be in a hurry then, my friend," suggested the young knight pleasantly,
but firmly, "to become again acquainted with yourself. I go my own way,
sir, e'en an my sword or lance must reckon with the hindrance."
By this time the grizzled warrior was seated in his saddle, and had
gathered his reins in his hand for the start.
"Which direction is it your wish to travel, my son, ... eh?" he
inquired, making as if to submit to Sir Richard's desire.
Withdrawing a chart out of the wallet dangling from his baldric, and
making note of the position of the sun and the length of the shadows,
the young knight indicated, without speaking, a point midway between
north and northwest upon the glowing line of the sky and hill.
"By 'r Lady!" exclaimed de Claverlok, causing his armor to jingle with
the heartiness of his laughter, "but I am fair sorry that you are not
ignorant of every trick of travel-lore and wood-craft, else might I
have conducted you to a place not so imminently dangerous to your
handsome----" He ended the sentence by touching his head and sweeping
his hand in a circular motion around the base of his corded neck.
"Methinks 'tis an easy hazard," returned Sir Richard lightly; "and I
have made choice of accepting it. The choice was made for me before I
started, I should have said. An our ways lie together, though, friend
de Claverlok, mayhap you would spare the time to show me how to pick
up a trail by moonlight. 'Tis a right pretty trick--and after flying
after a false scent, too. A right pretty trick."
"Yea--and the very devil's own time had I to compass it. What with
the going astray, and the getting down on my knees in the dust, I had
scarce an hour's rest between the welcome sight of you asleep within
the hut and sunrise, ... eh! I wot you were watching me beside the
road near the fork, for I saw your marks along the thornhedge. A right
nice prank that was to play on an old campaigner, ... eh? And am I a
night-capped grand-dam, think you, to lose that which has cost me so
much to gain? I'll be damned, Sir Dick, an you are not this moment my
captive, ... eh!"
"Right glad am I to claim you friend, de Claverlok," maintained Sir
Richard, guiding his horse toward the highway; "but I must deny you the
right to call yourself my captor. My first escape was an honorable one,
effected through force of arms. An I must escape again, let it be in
the same manner. Though much do I regret that our friendship should end
thus. I leave to thee, sir knight, the choice of weapons."
"Fiends and furies fly away with every kind of weapon!" roared de
Claverlok; "an they are to be wielded between you and me. Would I be
keeping my knightly vow by spitting you upon my lance's head, ... eh?
By the Rood! You would tempt me to set myself in a class with that
foul toad, the Renegade Duke, ... eh? Ah! but how I did laugh to see
him kicking and cursing amidst the thorns. I would you had put an end
to him, Sir Dick. Yesterday, an I wot myself, began a tale of black
treachery, my young friend, to which the false head of that court dandy
shall furnish an appropriate and bloody period."
By this time they had come to the road where, as though by common
consent, they reined to a halt for further parley.
"An you refuse to give me battle, de Claverlok," said Sir Richard a
trifle impatiently, "you must permit me to take my own way, as I am
determined not to go yours, unless indeed it be in a helpless and
disabled condition, and trussed fast to the back of your barb. How say
you, sir knight?"
"How say I, ... eh?" muttered the grizzled warrior within his curly
beard. "What can I say, would be more to the point, it would appear.
The hungry vultures, I'll swear, would be the only gainers from a tilt
at arms between us. And beshrew me, Sir Dick, an I am of a mind to
strew the sward with your precious body. As for mine--well--I am not so
partial to vultures as to wish to feast them upon my carcase. But tell
me," he added, looking keenly into the young knight's eyes, "why are
you so stubbornly determined upon making your way into Castle Yewe; can
it be that Douglas is your friend, ... eh? You know full well that you
have not the King's paper."
"And a right sorry moment it was for me when I permitted it to be
stolen," returned Sir Richard with an angry frown. "Aye--it is true
that I cannot now deliver the original, but I have a copy, my shrewd
friend--a copy, hear you? And I mean to place it within Lord Douglas's
hand as swiftly as my steed can bear me within the sallyport of Yewe.
Was your hand, de Claverlok, concerned in the purloining of the
original?" he finished sharply.
"Nay--not mine. A copy say you, ... eh? God! what a mess of pottage is
this! You could not be prevailed upon to rip this parchment open and
read its contents, ...?"
"Well, by my soul! What says the man!" exclaimed Sir Richard
indignantly. "Friend or no friend, de Claverlok, another word from you
upon that score and there'll be an end of peace between us"; whereupon,
urging his horse into a swinging canter, he set off in the general
direction of Castle Yewe.
"So, ... lead on, Sir Dick!" shouted the grizzled warrior, setting
spurs to his mount's side and quickly galloping beside Sir Richard. "I
am at once your captor and your slave. Your follower and your guide.
Saint Dunstan grant me the strength to keep your foolish head from
harm. And when you're done with thrusting yourself into hornet's nests,
... eh! then shall I be waiting to lead you to a place of temporary
peace and safety."
"Temporary safety?" queried Sir Richard. "What mean you by that, de
Claverlok?"
"'Twill be but temporary," the young knight's companion asserted
warningly. "There are many things that this moment must seem full
strange to you, ... eh? Yea--but, an I can keep your head upon your
shoulders through this wild adventure, it will be but to yield you into
another hornet's nest awaiting you in the end," he finished somberly.
CHAPTER XI
OF HOW SIR RICHARD CAME TO CASTLE YEWE
The grizzled knight's prophecy of an evil time yet to come provided
the young knight with much material for thought, without, however,
worrying him in the least. He was unable to surmise even remotely
what dire happening it was meant to foretell. Sir Richard was without
vaulting ambitions to achieve distinction or power; had never been
entangled in any political movement; or concerned in any conspiracies;
or acquainted, so far as he was aware, with the instigators of them.
He had always held carefully aloof from matters pertaining to the more
serious business of Henry's court. Seeking only to gather the full
measure of enjoyment out of life, it had always been his wish, withal,
to be regarded as an efficient soldier and faithful and obedient
servant of his king. In his earnest desire to shine among the chivalric
lights of his time, he brought up at the point of being dreamily
visionary. Why he was thus suddenly become the center of a dizzying
maelstrom of mysterious occurrences was quite beyond him to fathom;
but he was none the less keen in his enjoyment of the situation, its
inscrutability appealing forcibly to his imagination.
As he rode onward beside his captor-companion, he gave frequent verbal
expression to the questions perplexing him, but without exception
de Claverlok's replies were the embodiment of remoteness. He was
open, however, in his references to the perils that surely awaited
Sir Richard inside the walls of Yewe. His warnings were poured into
unheeding ears, as the thought uppermost in Sir Richard's mind was
to reach there as quickly as his horse could accomplish the journey.
The veteran warrior had been revolving in his mind the subject of his
oath of secrecy made to Tyrrell, and whether it involved the keeping
of the contents of Henry's warrant from its bearer. He concluded
finally to make use of every other means that came to hand to keep
his young friend, for whom he was already entertaining a sentiment of
real affection, from delivering the parchment to Douglas. Failing of
success, he would, as a last resort, expose the duplicity of the King
by laying bare the purport of the document.
"I have your word, de Claverlok," Sir Richard interrupted the warrior's
thoughts, "that you are well acquainted with the country hereabouts?"
"Yea--that I am, Sir Dick."
"Tell me then," the young knight inquired, "how many leagues is it from
here to Yewe?"
"Marry, and is it true you do not know, ... eh?" returned the grizzled
knight, shooting a shrewd interrogative glance in the direction of his
companion.
"Not I. An I had, my friend, I had not besought your information," said
Sir Richard.
"Aye--eh! Most truly said. Well," de Claverlok replied, hesitating
while he made a count upon his fingers, "not above two days' journey, I
should say," he glibly misled his companion.
"So far as that? Well, by my faith! I wish you had said not above two
hours," remarked Sir Richard regretfully. "But how see you, my friend,"
he thereupon added, pointing his finger directly ahead of them down the
road; "an I mistake me not, in yonder valley beside the fork of the
road doth set an inn?"
"Aye--that it is. The good Stag and Hounds; right well do I know its
jovial keeper. There, Sir Dick, may we dine, drink our fill, and while
away a pleasant hour in reading out of your Tales of--of----"
"Canterbury, do you mean?" suggested Sir Richard.
"Canterbury--aye, of a truth, that's it, my young friend. Beshrew me
an I have not the devil's own time with remembering names, ... eh! You
have this Canterbury business within your saddle-pouch, I heard you
say. I would hear you read somewhat out of it, ... eh!"
"This fondness of yours for written tales is certes something of a
recent acquirement," laughed Sir Richard. "Only this morning, an I
remember me aright, did you scoff at my keeping it beside me; yea--and
did heap scathing ridicule upon the head of the scholar, Erasmus, when
I spoke of my admiration for him."
"I did but say," protested the grizzled knight in all seriousness,
"that the scholar's nose was an uncommon long member, ... eh! And that
his bookish business made him to be devilishly thin and pallid. I have
a strong liking for tales, let me tell you that, Sir Dick. You'll read
me out of them, ... eh?"
"Sorry I am to deny you, my good friend," the young knight replied,
"but I dare not steal the time from the doing of my errand. I shall but
tarry in the Stag and Hounds to feed and rest my barb. But here's a
challenge for you, de Claverlok," he added, gathering his loose reins
well within his grasp. "The last man to dismount before the steps of
the tavern shall foot up score for horse and man. What say you? Come,
my hearty warrior, show me the vaunted mettle of your steed!"
"I have you, Sir Dick!" instantly agreed the grizzled knight; whereupon
they started off together, with dust and pebbles flying thick in their
train from the swiftness of their flight.
De Claverlok's animal was exceptionally deep-breasted and powerful,
and a near match for Sir Richard's in speed. For quite a distance they
clipped it neck and neck along the road. About midway between them
and the goal against which they were flinging there rode a solitary
horseman. He was garbed in the habit of a monk, with the cowl drawn
well down over his head. The mad volleying of hoofs caused the rider
to uncover, as the racers drew near, and shoot a glance of wonderment
in their direction. Even with the fleeting view thus afforded him, Sir
Richard remarked that the rugged, lean, and livid-scarred countenance
appeared singularly incongruous within the brown frame of a monk's
hood. It was like anything but that of a peace-loving ascetic. So
intent was the young knight upon winning his race, however, that he
failed to notice the unusually sharp angles where the robe fell away
from the horseman's knees and elbows. Neither was he sufficiently acute
to observe that his rapidly forging to the fore of de Claverlok was
coincident with the swift uplifting of the traveler's cowl.
He swept on down to the door of the Stag and Hounds, and reining his
stallion to its haunches beneath the creaking sign that hung above
it, he flung himself from off his saddle in time to see the monk look
rather hastily back toward the tavern, mark the stations of the cross
in the air with exaggerated gestures above de Claverlok's bowed head,
and disappear at a round gallop over the hill.
The grizzled knight then rode leisurely down to where Sir Richard stood
waiting for him, his rugged face beaming with smiles.
"Your barb's hoofs spurned the earth too swiftly for us to bear him
company," said he, dismounting beside the young knight, "so I yielded
to you the palm of speed, and added to the total of my score by tossing
yon pious churchman a noble. Mayhap I may be the gainer through
achieving absolution from divers of my recent sins, ... eh? What, ho
there, MacWhuddy!" he shouted at the inn-keeper, who was smiling,
rubbing his pudgy hands together, and bowing within the door. "Send
thy groom, MacWhuddy, and have me these barbs fed and curried whilst
we have somewhat of your best to eat and drink. By my soul, MacWhuddy,
but thou'rt growing of a size," he went on in a robustious way after
the groom had come forward to relieve them of their horses. "Bigger and
fatter than ever, ... eh? 'Tis a right healthful business, this keeping
of an inn, ... eh? Nothing but eat and drink, and drink and eat from
day's end to day's end, and trade jokes from the benchside with the
toiling traveler that gorges thy till. When I get me done with this
fighting, I'll have me a tavern with a warm corner, a soft seat, and a
full flagon ever at hand, ... eh! Sir Dick?"
"I could never picture you, my pugnacious friend, without your ready
sword and buckler," laughed the young knight. "But make haste,
MacWhuddy," he added, turning toward the inn-keeper. "We would quickly
bait ourselves and be away upon our travels. Hold! one moment, my good
fellow. Cannot you tell me whether this road leads to Castle Yewe? and
how many leagues----"
"Pooh--pooh!" interrupted de Claverlok loudly. "And what doth MacWhuddy
know, pray, ... eh? Why, by my faith, scarce his own name, Sir Dick!
Saint Dunstan hear me, an he keeps him not his scores upon a notched
stick, I'll eat him for a flitch of bacon. Get you gone, MacWhuddy," he
roared, when the puzzled inn-keeper made as if to protest. "Bring in
the meat, MacWhuddy, and not a word out of your blessed pate, or I'll
roll you like one of your own wine butts through yon door, MacWhuddy,
... eh!"
"I wish that you would have expended your wasted energies in bidding
the fellow make haste," said Sir Richard, who was much mystified by his
companion's sudden display of irritability.
"Haste? He'll make haste, will MacWhuddy--he's built for 't, ... eh?"
observed de Claverlok with a dry laugh. "But where's the blessed groom,
... eh? I would have him to--ah! here he comes now. Hey, you, fellow;"
he called to the hostler, who was just about to set his foot inside
the door, "bring us a book you'll find in the left saddle pouch upon
the back of the black horse. Why stand you there twirling your cap and
mouthing like a drunken tarry-Jack, ... eh? Fetch us the book, I say!"
"I canna un'erstan' thee, worshipful marster," mumbled the thoroughly
frightened menial. "What are a bo-o-ke, good sir? Be it some'at to eat,
or some'at to drink--or some'at f'r th' hoorses, mayhap?"
"Well, by Saint Dunstan! Know you not what a book is, ... eh?" roared
the grizzled knight, springing up from his seat beside a table and
starting for the dumfounded groom. "I'll have the flat of my sword at
your hinder quarters for a doddering void-pate!" whereupon, with a
great show of anger, he made through the door in a furious pursuit of
the innocent offender. "A book, I tell you--" Sir Richard could hear de
Claverlok having it out with the groom in the yard; "a handful of paper
with a board stuck fast upon each end--do you hear me, ... eh?"
The noise died away presently. Sir Richard supposed that his mercurial
companion was engaged in rummaging for the book; but the grizzled
knight had beckoned the inn-keeper to his side and was threatening him
with every description of chastisement if he but dared to intimate to
his young friend within the location or distance of Castle Yewe.
"An the sir knight asks me again, what shall I tell him?" queried the
landlord.
"Oh, anything, MacWhuddy, and be damned to you! Anything but the truth."
When de Claverlok came into the tap-room he was puffing and blowing at
a tremendous rate and carrying the vellum-bound volume under his arm.
"Come now, Sir Dick," he started off in a wheedling tone, "read me one
of these tales of--oh--how say you that name again, ... eh?"
"De Claverlok," observed Sir Richard dryly, "your love of literature
has grown to be of an intensity indeed. But your laggard memory halts
and stumbles and plays traitor by refusing to keep pace with it. I have
said before, my zealous friend, that it would ill beseem me to tarry
here in idle reading. Nay--another time, good scholar. Another time!
Another time! Here comes our host's pretty daughter with the meat and
drink. Let us refresh ourselves quickly and be away."
"Then," said de Claverlok, "I'll return the book to its place within
your----"
As he spoke he arose from his stool, and just at the moment when the
serving-maid was about to set the platter upon the table. They collided
violently, scattering the food and wine over the sanded floor.
De Claverlok wheeled, straightened, set his hands upon his hips, and
with a look as though all the world was conspiring to do him injury,
regarded the cowering, half-tearful maid.
"Well--what fiend's in this blessed place, ... eh?" he bellowed.
"Look you at this mess upon the floor, you awkward body! And here the
sir knight yonder is fair aching to be upon his way. An you wore not
kirtles, I'd have the flat of my hand at your ears for a blundering
dunce, ... eh!"
The serving-maid turned an appealing glance in Sir Richard's direction.
"I'll fetch thee more, sir knight," she said. "In truth, I meant not to
spill the things, noble sir."
"Fret not yourself, good maid," said Sir Richard kindly. "Nay--I wot
well it was not your fault. I fear me my friend has been struck with
some fearsome sickness. He was not always thus. You may go, maid. But
bring not the food--I dare not wait. Indeed, I was not over keen to
eat. A slice of bread from your hand before I get me in the saddle is
all I crave."
"That shalt thou have," said the maid with returning spirit, starting
for the kitchen door, "and a bit of toasted cheese to keep it company."
"Upon my soul, de Claverlok," remonstrated Sir Richard, "your temper is
growing to be something unbearable. 'Twas not the wench's fault that
the food was overturned. You backed your great body square against the
platter, leaving her no room for escape on either side. You've had your
quarrel with our host, who seems, in sooth, a right peaceable and merry
fellow; you berated the groom, and glowered upon the kitchen-maid--with
whom will you brawl next, my friend?"
"Why, with you, an you stay not here to eat and drink," retorted de
Claverlok.
"Then let the fun begin," said the young knight, starting for the rear
door that gave to the court and stables. "Not another moment do I tarry
here. An you are coming with me--come."
De Claverlok could do nothing but follow, the which he did with obvious
reluctance. Once outside, they ran plump into the inn-keeper, who
was all at sea whether to smile and pass the usual joke, or to keep
his eyes fastened discreetly upon his broad expanse of doublet. Sir
Richard, however, allowed him no choice of alternatives. He stopped
him, setting his hand firmly upon the landlord's round shoulder.
"When my friend interrupted," said the young knight, "you were about to
tell me the distance and direction of Castle Yewe--is it not so?"
MacWhuddy cast a sheepish look in the direction of de Claverlok, who
was scowling fiercely and shaking his fist behind Sir Richard's back.
"'Tis in some'at of that way," he replied, "ower there," waving his
trembling hands to the eastward; "some, ... oh! near--I say near, mind
thee, worshipful knight, ... near twenty--thirty leagues."
According to that, Sir Richard would have been required to travel some
distance out upon the open sea.
De Claverlok strode toward the stable, muttering savage oaths against
the stupidity of innkeepers in general, and poor MacWhuddy in
particular. Meanwhile, the serving-maid, bread and cheese in hand, was
beckoning the young knight from the kitchen window.
"Here is thy bit food, sir knight," she said, as Sir Richard took his
station beneath the casement upon which she was leaning. "Castle
Yewe," she added in a whisper, "doth lie straight along this road in
the way thou wert traveling, and not above six leagues. Turn to thy
right where the road forks in front of the inn. Often, on a clear day,
from yonder hill, have I seen its lofty turrets. Good fortune attend
thee, sir noble knight," she concluded, laying her hand, which was just
out of a pan of flour, upon his shoulder, "and beware of the brute with
the beard on thy way--he means harm to thee, I fear."
When Sir Richard came, whistling a merry tune, into the stable, de
Claverlok was making a great show of rage, cursing and boxing the poor
stable-boy's ears.
"What now, my friend?" asked the young knight as he went on past the
struggling pair toward his horse.
"What now, ... eh?" roared de Claverlok; "why, here has this young cub
gone and mislaid your saddle girth! A murrain upon the loutish tribe,
say I! and you in a sweat to be off, too. I'll----"
"Have done berating the boy, de Claverlok," said Sir Richard. "Now tell
me, man, what have _you_ done with that girth? I know exactly where
lies Castle Yewe, and I wish to ride within its sallyport without
further parley or delay. What have you done with my girth, I say?"
"By Saint George, Sir Dick, what have _I_ done with _your_ saddle
girth, ... eh? 'Tis too much, this, I tell you. Give me nothing above
a padded lance and a sword of lath, and I'd do battle with the whole
of you together. Here have I suffered all manner of insults from every
blessed soul within this tavern--and now you, Sir Dick, must say to me,
what have _I_ done with _your_ girth, ... eh!"
"Mayhap," whined the stable-boy, who was squirming to get loose from de
Claverlok's grasp, "I mislaid me it in yon hay-cock."
"Then I'll go with thee to help find it," de Claverlok said, wriggling
up the great pile of hay behind the boy.
While they were both down on their hands and knees digging, Sir Richard
quickly unbuckled the grizzled knight's saddle and set it upon the back
of his own horse.
"Have you found it, my friend?" he called, when he had made de
Claverlok's strap secure.
"Nay--not yet. Have patience, Sir Dick," called the grizzled knight
without stopping to look behind him.
"Then," laughed Sir Richard triumphantly, "being in sore haste to get
away, I've e'en borrowed thine. Thou canst follow later, sir knight.
Adieu to you--adieu!"
"Fie--Sir Dick!" shouted de Claverlok, starting up red-faced and
sliding down the steep side of the hay; "I pray you, be not in such an
undue haste. Wait! You are leaving with the mark of a powdered hand
upon your shoulder-cape. Hold, I say! Let me brush it from you, boy!"
The young knight was safe upon the highway before de Claverlok got
clear of the hay.
"An I have the mark of the scullery-maid upon my shoulder," he called
back, "I have also the knowledge of the true distance of Castle Yewe
beneath my bonnet. Give you a round good-day, de Claverlok," he added,
laughing gaily, and with that pelted off down the road at top speed.
He had a fine view of the Stag and Hounds from the crest of the next
hill, and saw his companion swing into his saddle and follow after
him at a great pace, with the lost girth strapped securely about his
horse's belly. The race was now on in grim earnest, and the young
knight was resolved, at any hazard, to hold fast to the advantage he
had gained.
The breadth of the hill intervening, he lost sight of de Claverlok for
a little space. But he had another view of him when his pursuer rode
over its summit. The grizzled knight was shouting a string of words
that, because of the roaring of the wind in his ears and the pounding
of his horse's hoofs, he could not at all make out, and waving his long
arms about in the most frantic manner. The young knight was enjoying
the situation to the marrow. It was worth everything to him merely to
have outwitted the crafty veteran.
Sir Richard calculated that he was laying the road behind him at the
rate of five leagues an hour. He was relieved and happy to know that
of a certainty he would soon arrive at his journey's end, and that,
too, in despite of the many obstacles that had been so stubbornly
thrust in his way. "Then," thought he, with a thrill of pleasure, "upon
fulfilling my King's behest I shall be free to retrace my way to the
Red Tavern to deliver the fair maiden from her imprisonment."
Thus much, at least, he meant surely to do. After that was
accomplished, he felt constrained to relinquish the marking of the
sequel into the hands of the kind--or unkind--Fates.
Meanwhile the race was going steadily and swiftly forward. Though
exacting the utmost of speed from his horse, Sir Richard was unable
appreciably to change their positions. With a dogged persistence de
Claverlok contrived to maintain the rapid pace and relative distance,
which, when galloping over the level, was well within sight of the
pursued.
At length, through a narrow cleft between the hills, Sir Richard caught
a welcome glimpse of high, square-built and crenelated towers. It was
the goal for which he was so mightily striving.
He had passed through the cleft and was well up the slope leading to
the portcullis when of a sudden he felt the saddle girth giving way
beneath him. Appreciating that it would be sheer madness to risk a
fall and certain defeat of his purpose of delivering the warrant, with
victory so near, he instantly drew rein, flung himself from off the
back of his panting stallion and began the work of securing the ill
adjusted strap.
While thus feverishly engaged he shouted at the top of his voice for
the guard upon the tower to lower the drawbridge across the wide moat.
Covered with scarlet-flecked foam, de Claverlok's horse came thundering
upon him up the hill.
With the grizzled knight scarce above two lance-haft's lengths behind
him, and wildly calling upon him to wait, that death lay in the King's
warrant, Sir Richard vaulted into his saddle and made for the castle
gate.
When he had laid something near half of the remaining distance behind
him he heard the clear blast of a bugle go singing across the down.
Without in the least diminishing his speed, he turned in time to see
a band of armored horsemen flashing out of the pine forest to the
eastward. Riding in the van he was certain that he recognized the
livid-scarred face of the traveler in the monk's robe.
If the bridge were now but lowered it would be impossible for them
to cut Sir Richard off. Would it fall for him? Now he had reached to
within easy flight of an arrow from the massively buttressed gray
walls; and as yet he could discern no sign of movement among the thick
ropes, wheels, and pulleys sustaining it. There appeared no hint of
life along the face of the great pile. At the very moment when he
was about to wheel to the westward, in the faint hope of eluding his
pursuers through a continued flight, there sounded a creaking of
wheels, and the heavy structure began slowly to move earthward.
De Claverlok's lance, hilt-foremost, went hurtling past the young
knight's shoulder. Distinctly he heard the dull splash of it as it
struck the black waters of the moat, far below.
At every stride the slope was growing steeper, and it seemed to Sir
Richard's straining eyes that the bridge, with its underwork of mossy
beams and rusted iron trusses, was hanging in mid air directly above
his head.
So closely had its fall been timed, however, that there was no margin
left to the young knight upon the side of safety. He was forced to put
his mount to the leap to gain the top of it.
"God wot there be death here for the twain of us!" Sir Richard heard
de Claverlok shout as he, too, took the perilous leap but an instant
behind him.
Through the yawning maw of the arched sallyport they shot together, and
the heavy portcullis, like iron teeth snapping down after gulping their
prey, crashed upon the flagging at their backs.
CHAPTER XII
OF THE DELIVERY OF THE KING'S WARRANT
The main gateway that gave entrance to the outer bailey was
impressively wide and lofty. Once inside, postern gates opening upon
either hand admitted into the g
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