Agincourt Part 19

"The n.o.ble lord is not there, fair sir," replied the woman; "but he has lent his house to some gay knight, whose men do what they please with the poor people. 'Tis but yesterday my own child was struck by one of them."

"If there be wrong done, you must go to the officers of the duchy, good woman," answered the knight, whose blood was cold with age, and who could be prudent till he was chafed. "I will send one of the yeomen with you, to get you a hearing. These things should be amended; but when Kings' sons will beat the citizens, and brawl in Cheape, there is no great hope."

"Good faith, Sir Philip!" cried the armourer, who had just come forth, bearing the manefaire upon his arm, "if it be the Duke of Clarence you speak of, and his brother John, 'twas they got beaten, and did not beat. We Londoners are st.u.r.dy knaves, and take not drubbings patiently, whether from lord or prince."

"And you are right, too," replied the old knight; "men are not made to be the sport of other men. But what's to be done about this girl, Launcelot? You know the customs here better than I do. The good woman says they have carried a girl off against her will to Burwash-house here, hard by."

"Why, that's the back of it," cried Launcelot Pla.s.se. "The old lord is not there, but in his stead one Sir Simeon of Roydon, who, if I mistake not, will never win much renown by stroke of lance. Wait a minute, my good woman, till I have sold my goods, and then I and my men will go up with you, and set the girl free, or it shall go hard, if you are certain she was taken against her will."

"She shrieked loud enough to make you all hear," replied the old woman.

"I thought there was a noise when we were hammering at the back piece," observed one of the men.

"I heard nothing," said Launcelot Pla.s.se.

"Oh, go at once, go at once," cried Mary Markham; "you know not how she may be treated. We can wait till you return. Send the men with them, dear Sir Philip."

"I will go myself, Mary," replied the knight. "Come along, my men, leave one with the horses, and the rest follow."

"I am with you, Sir Philip," cried the armourer. "Bring your hammers, lads, we will make short work of oaken doors."

But ere Sir Philip Beauchamp had taken two steps up the lane, the cas.e.m.e.nt of a large window in the house which had been pointed out, was thrown suddenly open, and a woman's head appeared. The sill of the window was some twelve or fourteen feet from the ground; but, to the surprise of all, without seeming to pause for a moment, the girl whom they beheld set her foot upon it, caught the iron bar which ran down the middle of the cas.e.m.e.nt, seemed to twist something round it, and then suffered herself to drop, hanging by her hands, first from the bar, and then from a scarf.

She was still some five or six feet from the ground, however; and Mary Markham, who had been watching eagerly, clasped her hands, and turned away her head. Sir Philip Beauchamp, and the men who accompanied him paused, and they could hear a voice from within exclaim, "Follow her like light, by the back door! She will to the King, and that were ruin. What fear you, fool? She has broken the dagger in the lock, do you not see?"

As he spoke, the girl, after a momentary hesitation, during which she hung suspended by the hands, wavering with the motion which she had given herself in dropping from above, let go her hold, and sank to the ground. Fortunately the lane was soft and sandy; and she fell light, coming down, indeed, upon one knee, but instantly starting up again unhurt.

She then gazed wildly round her for an instant, and put her hand to her head, as if asking herself whither she should fly; but the sight of the old knight and his companions, and the sound of an opening door on the other side, brought her indecision quickly to an end, and running rapidly forward, she cast herself at Sir Philip Beauchamp's feet, embracing his knee, and crying, "Save me!--save me, n.o.ble sir!"

At the moment she reached the good old man, two stout fellows, who had rushed from a door in the wall, and followed her at full speed, were within two paces of her; and one of them caught her by the arm, even at the knight's feet, as he was in the act of commanding him to keep aloof.

"Stand back, fellow!" thundered Sir Philip Beauchamp, with the blood coming up into his withered cheek; and the next moment, in the midst of an insolent reply, he struck the knave in the face with his clenched fist, knocking him backwards all b.l.o.o.d.y on the ground.

The other man, who had more than once accompanied Sir Simeon of Roydon to Dunbury, and recognised its lord, slunk back to the house, stopped some others who were following, and then hastened in, to tell his master in whom Ella Brune had found a protector.

The man who had been knocked down, rose, gazed fiercely at the knight, and then looked behind him for support; but seeing his companions retreating, he too retrod his steps, not without muttering some threats of vengeance; while the old armourer cried after him, "Never show your faces again in the lane, knaves, or we will hide you back like hounds, or pound you like strayed swine."

In the meanwhile, Sir Philip had raised up the poor girl; and Mary Markham was soothing her tenderly, as Ella, finding herself safe, gave way to the tears which her strong resolution had repressed in the actual moment of difficulty and danger.

"Come, come, do not weep, poor thing," said the knight, laying his large, bony hand upon her shoulder. "We will take care of you. Who is it that has done this?"

"A bad man, called Simeon of Roydon," replied Ella Brune, wiping away the tears.

"We know him," said Mary Markham, in a kindly tone; "and do not love him, my poor girl."

"And I have cause to love him less, n.o.ble lady," replied Ella Brune, waving her head mournfully. "'Tis but two nights ago he killed the last friend I had; and now he would have wronged me shamefully."

"Killed him!" exclaimed Mary; "what! murdered him?"

"'Twas the same as murder," replied the girl; "he rode him down in a mad frolic--a poor blind man. He is not yet in his grave."

"Come, come--be comforted," said Sir Philip. "Let us hear how all this chanced."

"We will be your friends, poor girl," added Mary Markham; and then, turning to the old knight, she asked, in a low tone, "can we not take her home with us?"

Sir Philip gazed at the minstrel's girl from head to foot, and then shrugged his shoulders slightly, with a significant look, as he remarked her somewhat singular dress.

"Nay, nay," said Mary Markham, in the same low tone; "do not let that stop you, n.o.ble friend. There may be some good amongst even them."

"Well, be it as you will, Mary," answered the old knight; "she must be better than she looks, to do as she has done. Come, poor thing--you shall go home with us, and there tell us more. Wait till I have finished the purchase of this harness, and we will go along back to Westminster; though how to take you through the streets in that guise, I do not well know."

"Get a boat, sir, at a landing by the Temple," said Launcelot Pla.s.se, "and send the horses by land."

"A good thought," replied the knight; and thus it was arranged, the whole party returning to the armourer's shop, and thence, after the bargain was made, and all directions were given, proceeding to the water-side, where a boat was soon procured, which bore them speedily to the landing-place at Westminster.

CHAPTER XV.

THE PILGRIM.

One morning, while the events which I have lately detailed were pa.s.sing in the city of London, a man in a long brown gown, with a staff in his hand, a cross upon his shoulder, and a c.o.c.kle-sh.e.l.l in his hat, walked slowly, and apparently wearily, into the little village of Abbot's Ann, and sat himself down on a stone bench before the reeve's door.

Recognising the pilgrim from some far distant land as she looked out of her cas.e.m.e.nt window, the good dame, with the charitable spirit of the age, took him forth some broken victuals and a cup of ale, and inquired what news he brought from over sea. The wanderer, however, seemed more inclined to ask than answer questions, and was apparently full of wonder and amazement at the tragic story--which he had just heard, he said--of the death of the Lady Catherine Beauchamp. He prayed the good woman, for love and for charity's sake, to tell him all about it; and she, very willing to gratify him--for every country gossip gains dignity while telling a horrible tale--began at the beginning of the affair, as far as she knew it; and related how, just on the night after the last Glutton ma.s.s, as Childe Richard of Woodville, their lord's nephew, was riding down the road with a friend, he heard a shriek, and, on hurrying to the water, found the body of the poor young lady floating down the stream; how the two gentlemen bore her to the chanter's cottage; and how marks were found upon her person, which seemed to prove that she had come to her death by unfair means.

"And has the murderer been discovered, sister?" inquired the old pilgrim.

"Alas, no!" replied the reeve's wife; "there have been whispers about, but nothing certain."

"Ay, murder will out, sooner or later," answered the pilgrim. "And whom did the whispers point at?"

"Nay," replied Dame Julian, "I know not that I ought to say; but, to a reverend man like you, who have visited the shrine of St. James, there can be no harm in speaking of these things, especially as we all know that the whispers are false. Well, then--but you must tell n.o.body what I say--the lady's own lover--husband, indeed, I might call him, for they were betrothed by holy church--has been accused of having done the deed; but every one who knows Sir Harry Dacre is right sure that he would have sooner cut off both his hands; and, besides, the miller of Clatford Mill told me--'twas but yesterday morning--that, half an hour before sunset, on that very day when all this happened, he saw Sir Harry at his own place, and opened the gate for him to go through.

He remembered it, he said, because the knight had torn his hand with a nail in the gate, by trying to open it without dismounting; and as soon as he was through, he rode on towards Wey Hill, which is quite away from here."

"Might he not have come back again by some other road?" asked the pilgrim.

"No," answered Dame Julian, "not without going four miles round; and, besides, the miller told me that his man Job saw the knight, half an hour after, at the top of Wey Hill, halting his horse, and gazing at the sun setting. Now that's a good way off, and this deed was done just after close of day."

"Then that clears him," replied the pilgrim; "but is there no one else suspected?"

The good woman shook her head, and he added--"Was n.o.body seen about here who might have had cause to wish the lady ill?"

"None," said Dame Julian, with a low laugh, "but one who might perhaps wish her dead; for he got all her wealth, which was prodigious, they say."

"Ay, was he seen about, then?" demanded the pilgrim; "there might be suspicion there."

"Why," said the reeve's wife, "he was staying up at the Hall, and pa.s.sed homeward about three. It might be a little later, but not much.