Agincourt Part 8

The moment after, there was a sound of horses' feet pa.s.sing along before the house, and Richard of Woodville turned and listened, saying, "Here is some new messenger. Were it any of my own people, they would come to the other gate."

After some talking in the hall without, an attendant opened the door, and informed his young master that there was a person without who desired to see him. "He comes from Westminster," added the man, "and will give neither message nor letters to any but yourself, sir."

"Let him come in!" answered Richard of Woodville; and a personage was called forward, habited somewhat differently from any of those whom we have already had occasion to describe. He was dressed in what is called a tabard; but it must not be supposed, from that circ.u.mstance, that he bore the office of either herald or pursuivant, for many other cla.s.ses retained that part of the ancient dress, and it was officially worn by the squires, and many of the inferior attendants of kings and sovereign princes, sometimes over armour, sometimes without. In particular cases, the tabard was embroidered either with the arms of the lord whom the bearer served, or with his own, as a sort of coat of arms; but was frequently, especially with persons of somewhat low degree, perfectly unornamented, and formed of a fine cloth of a uniform colour. Such was the case with the man who now appeared--his loose, short gown, with wide sleeves, being of a bright pink hue. The linen collar of his s.h.i.+rt fell over it; and the part of his dress left exposed below the knee, showed nothing but the riding boots of untanned leather, drawn up to their full extent. In person, he was a short, thin young man, with a shrewd and merry countenance. His hair was cut short round the whole head, but left thick, notwithstanding, so as to resemble a fur cap, and his long arms reached his knees.

Without uttering a word, he advanced towards Richard of Woodville, who had taken a step forward to receive him, and drawing a packet from the bosom of his tabard, he placed it in the gentleman's hand.

"From Hal of Hadnock, I suspect?" said Woodville, looking at him closely.

"Nay, I know not," replied the messenger; "from Hal, certainly; yet no more Hal of Hadnock, than of Monmouth, or Westminster, or any other town of England or Wales. Read, and you will see."

Richard of Woodville tore open the outer cover, and took forth several broad letters, tied and sealed. The first he opened, and drawing near the light, perused its contents attentively.

"Hal of Hadnock," so it ran, "to Richard of Woodville, greeting. Good service requires good service, and honour, honour. Thus you shall find, my comrade of the way, that I have not forgotten you, though matters of much moment and some grief have delayed a promise, not put it out of mind. You, too, have doubtless had much cause for thought and sorrow, and may, perchance, have yet affairs to keep you in the realms of England; which being the case, I do not require that you should lay aside things of weight, to bear the enclosed to the n.o.ble Duke of Burgundy, or his son, and to the faithful servant of this crown, Sir Philip Morgan, now at the court of Burgundy; but the letter addressed to Sir John Grey, at Ghent, is of some importance to himself, and should find his hands as speedily as may be. If, therefore, by any chance, you be minded to stay in England more than fourteen days from the receipt of these, return that packet by the bearer, one Edward Dyram. But, if you be ready to cross the seas ere then, keep the messenger with you in your company, as I believe him to be faithful and true, and skilled in many things; and he knoweth my mind towards you, which is good. Neither be offended at speech or jest of his, for he hath a licence not easily bridled; but so long as he useth his tongue for his own conceit, so long will he use his knowledge for a friend or master. I give him to you; treat him well till you return him to me again; and if there be aught else that can serve you or do you grace, seek me at Westminster, where you will find a friend in Henry."

Richard of Woodville pondered, but testified no surprise; and, after a moment's thought, put the letter in the hand of Sir Henry Dacre, who read it through, with more apparent wonder than his friend had expressed. "And who is this?" he asked, when he had done. "He signs himself, Henry. Can it be the Prince?"

"The Prince that was, the King that is," replied Woodville, giving him a sign to say no more before the messenger. "And so, my friend, you are to be my companion over sea?" he added, turning to the latter.

"That is as you will, not as I will," replied the man; "if you are fool enough to quit England in a fortnight, when you can stay a month, I am to go with you; if you are wise enough to stay, I am wise enough to go alone."

"Ten days, I hope, at farthest, shall see my foot on other sh.o.r.es,"

answered Woodville; "and pray, Master Edward Dyram, what may be your capacity, quality, or degree? for 'tis fit that I should know who it is goes with me."

"Ned Dyram, fair sir, by your leave," replied the messenger; "'tis so long since I lost the last half of my first name, that I know it not when I meet it; and I should as much expect my mother's a.s.s to answer me, if I called him Edward, as I should answer to it myself. Then, as to my capacity, it is large enough to hold any man's secrets without spilling them by the way, or to contain the knowledge of a knight, a baron, and squire, besides a clerk's and my own, without running over.

My chief quality is to tell truth when I like it, and other men do not; and my degree has never been taken yet, though I lived long enough with a doctor of Oxford to have caught that sickness, had it been infectious."

"I fear me, Ned Dyram," said Richard of Woodville, smiling, "I shall lose much time with you, in getting crooked answers to plain questions; but if you have puzzled your own brains with logic, puzzle not mine."

"Well, well, sir," answered the other, "I will be brief, for I am hungry, and you are tired. I am the son of a Franklin, who broke his heart to make me a clerk. I had, however, no gift for singing, and turned my wits to other things. I can do what men can generally do, and sometimes better than they can. I have broken a man's head one day, and healed it the next; for I have handled a quarter-staff and served a leech. I can cast nativities, and draw a horoscope; I can make a horse-shoe, and sharpen a sword; I can write court hand, and speak more tongues than my own; I can cook my own dinner, when need be, and bake or brew, if the sutler or the tapster should fail me."

"A goodly list of qualities, indeed," said Richard of Woodville; "and though my household is not the most princely, we will find you an office, Ned Dyram, which you must exercise with discretion; and now, as you are hungry, get you gone to my people, who will stop that evil.

We have supped."

The messenger withdrew; and Sir Henry Dacre returned the letter, which he still held in his hand, to Woodville, saying, "So this was the Prince? the more cruel in him to sport with the peace of his father's subjects."

"Not so, Dacre," replied his friend. "I told you I could explain his conduct; and it is but justice to him to do so; for he intended to be kind, not cruel."

Dacre shook his head gloomily.

"Well, you shall hear," continued Woodville. "When I first brought him to my uncle's gate, I knew not who he was; but he had scarcely entered the hall, when I remembered him. I kept my own counsel, however, and said nothing; but when he sought his room, I went with him as you saw, and there for a whole hour we spoke of those we had left below. I told him nothing, Harry; for his quick eye had gleaned the truth wherever it turned; and I had only to set him right on some things regarding the past. He knew you by name, and took interest in your fate as well as mine. I would fain tell you all; but in the mood in which you are, I fear that I may pain you."

"Speak, d.i.c.k, speak," answered the knight; "have we not been as brothers since our boyhood, that you may not give me all your thoughts freely? Say all you have to say. Keep nought behind, if you love me; for I have grown as suspicious as the rest, and shall doubt if I see you hesitate."

"Well, at all risks," said Richard of Woodville, "it is better to give you some pain, perhaps, than to leave you with your present thoughts.

We talked, then, first of myself and Mary Markham, and then of you and Catherine. He saw you loved her not."

"'Twas her own fault," cried Dacre: "she crushed out love that might once have been deep and true."

"I told him so," replied Woodville; "and he asked, why, as you both clearly wished the bond that bound you to each other loosed, you did not apply to the Church and the law to break it? I said, what perhaps had better not been said, but yet what I believed, that, if you proposed it, she would not consent, for that she loved to keep you as a captive, if not by love's chains, by any other. He fancied, Harry, that, if that incomplete union were dissolved, you might be happy with another--ay, with Isabel."

"Ha!" exclaimed Dacre; "ha! Have I been so careless of my looks that a mere stranger should--" and he bent down his brow upon his hands, and remained for a moment silent. Then looking up, he added, "Well, Richard, I have been a fool; but was it possible to stand between a desert and a paradise, and not regret that I could never pa.s.s the boundary; to look into a scene of joy and peace, and not long to rest the weary heart, and cool the aching brow in the calm groves, and pleasant glades before me? Who would compare those two beings, and not choose between them, in spite of fate? But what said he more?"

"He thought you might be happy," answered Woodville, "and that the only barrier was one that he might prompt Catherine to remove herself.

For that object he humoured her caprice, and played with her light vanity. He told me that he would; and I saw that he did so; for his was no heart to be suddenly made captive by one such as Catherine Beauchamp. Besides, it was clear, his words, half sweet, half sour, were all aimed at that end; for ever and anon, when his tone was full of courteous gallantry, some sharp jest would break through, as if he could not keep down the somewhat scornful thoughts with which her idle vanity moved him."

"Then I did him wrong," answered Dacre; "for had he succeeded, and led her to propose of her own will that our betrothing should be annulled, no boon on all the earth could have been equal to that blessing. It has turned out sadly; yet I will not blame him; for who can tell when he draws a bowstring in the dark where the shaft may fall? But say, Richard, was he aware you knew his station?"

"I never told him," replied his friend; "but I think that he divined.

You see, in his letter, that he gives no explanation. But listen, Harry; will it not be better--now that we have spoken freely on this theme--will it not be better, I say, for you to return home, let the first memory of these dark days pa.s.s away, and seek for happiness with one who may well make up for all that you have suffered in the past."

"What!" cried Dacre, "with this stain upon my name? Oh, no! that dream of joy is gone. No, no, my only course is to forget that there is such a thing as love on earth, or to think with your friend Chaucer's lay, that--

'--Love ne is in yonge folke but rage, And is in olde folke a grete dotage, Who most it usith, he most shal enpaire For thereof cometh disese and hevinesse So sorrow and care, and many a grete sicknesse, Despite, debate, and angre, and envie, Depraving shame, untrust, and jelousie, Pride, mischefe, povertie, and wodeness.'"

"'Tis the song of the cuckoo," Harry replied Woodville; "but this sad humour, built upon a baseless dream, will pa.s.s away when you find that the suspicions which you now fancy in every one's heart, live but in your own imagination; and then you will answer with the nightingale--

'That evirmore Love his servauntes amendeth, And from all evil tachis them defendeth;'

but Time must do his own work; and till then, argument is of no avail.

Yet I would fain not have you lose bright days with me in foreign lands. Happy were I if I could stay like you in hope, and lead the pleasant summer life, beneath the lightsome looks of her whom I love best. Think of it, Harry, think of it; and do not rashly judge that you see clear till you have wiped the dust out of your eyes."

Dacre shook his head, and answered, "I will to rest, Richard, such as I can find; for now that I have got this craven's reply, I have no further business here till I join you again upon our pilgrimage. I will away to-morrow, to prepare; but we shall meet before I go. I know my way."

CHAPTER VII.

THE CORONATION.

Five days after the events related in the last chapter, Richard of Woodville, leaving armourers and tailors busy in his house at Meon, rode away for London, accompanied by two yeomen, a page, and Ned Dyram, whose talents had not been long in displaying themselves in the service of his new master. He had instructed the tailors; he had a.s.sisted the armourers; he had aided to choose the horses; he had drawn figures for fresh pallettes and pauldrons; and he had with his own hand manufactured a superb bridle and bit, ornamented with gilt steel plates; jesting, laughing, talking, all the while, and overcoming the obstinacy and the vanity of the old artificers, who would fain have equipped the young gentleman who employed them, in the fas.h.i.+ons of the early part of the last reign, all new inventions in those days travelling slowly from the capital to the country. Ned Dyram, however, had been in many lands, and had acc.u.mulated, in a head which possessed extraordinary powers both of observation and memory, an enormous quant.i.ty of patterns and designs of everything new or strange, which he had seen; and sometimes with a laugh, sometimes with an argument, he drove those who were inclined to resist all innovation, to adopt his proposed improvements greatly against their will. But though his tongue occasionally ran fast, and he seemed to take a pleasure occasionally in confounding his slower opponents with a torrent of words, yet on all subjects but those immediately before him, he kept his own counsel, and not one of the servants of the house, when he set out with Woodville for London, was aware of who or what he was, whence he came, or where he had gained so much knowledge.

The first day's journey was a long one, and Richard of Woodville and his train were not many miles from London, when they again set forth early on the following morning, so that it was not yet noon, on the ninth of April, when they approached the city of Westminster, along the banks of the Thames.

Winding in and out, through fields and hedge-rows, where now are houses, manufactories, and prisons, with the soft air of Spring breathing upon them, and the scent of the early cowslips, for which that neighbourhood was once famous, rising up and filling the whole air, they came on, now catching, now losing, the view of the large heavy abbey church of Westminster, and its yet unfinished towers of the same height as the main building, while rising tall above it, appeared the belfry of St. Stephen's chapel, with its peaked roof, open at the sides, displaying part of the three enormous bells, one of which was said (falsely) to weigh thirty thousand pounds. The top of two other towers might also be seen, from time to time, over the trees, and also part of the buildings of the monastery adjoining the Abbey; but these were soon lost, as the lane which the travellers were following wound round under the west side of Tote Hill, a gentle elevation covered with greensward, and ornamented with clumps of oak, and beech, and fir, amidst which might be discovered, here and there, some large stone houses, richly ornamented with sculpture, and surrounded with their own gardens. The lanes, the paths, the fields, were filled with groups of people in their holiday costume, all flocking towards Westminster; and what with the warm suns.h.i.+ne, the greenness of the gra.s.s, the tender verdure of the young foliage, and the gay dresses of the people, the whole scene was as bright and lively as it is possible to conceive. At the same time, the loud bells of St. Stephen's began to ring with the merriest tones they could produce, and a distant "Hurrah!" came upon the wind.

"Now, Ned, which is the way?" asked Richard of Woodville, calling up his new attendant to his side, as they came to a spot where the lane divided into two branches, one taking the right hand side of the hill, and one the left. "This seems the nearest," he continued, pointing down the former; "but I know nought of the city."

"The nearest may prove the farthest," replied Ned Dyram, riding up, "as it often does, my master. That is the shortest, good sooth! but they call the shortest often the fool's way; and we might be made to look like fools, if we took it--for though it leads round to the end of St. Stephen's Lane, methinks that to-day none will be admitted to the palace-court by that gate, as it is the King's coronation morning."

"Indeed!" said Woodville; "I knew not that it was so."

"Nor I, either," answered Ned; "but I know it now."