G. P. R. James

Ella Brune sat on a stool at the feet of Mary Markham, on the day after Richard of Woodville's departure from London, and certainly a more beautiful contrast was seldom seen than between the fair lady and the minstrel girl, as the one told and the other listened to, the tale of the old man's death, and all that had since occurred. The eyes of both were full of tears, which did not run over, indeed, but hung trembling on the eyelid, like drops of summer dew in the cup of a flower; and Mary Markham, with the kind, familiar impulse of sympathy, stretched forth her fair hand twice, and pressed that of her less fortunate companion, as she told the tale of her sorrows, and her sufferings. The poor girl's heart yearned towards her gentle friend, as she remarked her sympathy for all she felt,--her grief at the death of the poor old man, her pleasure at the conduct of Ella's generous protector, her indignation at the persecution she had suffered from a man whom she herself scorned and despised. But one thing is to be remarked. The name of Sir Simeon of Roydon, Ella spoke plainly, and repeated often, during her narrative; but that of Richard of Woodville, from some latent feeling in her own heart, she shrunk from pronouncing. It might be, that the meaning looks and smiles of the people of the inn where she had visited him, made her believe that others would entertain the suspicions or fancies which she imagined that those looks implied. It might be that she doubted her own heart, or that she knew there really were therein sensations which she dreaded to acknowledge to herself, and still more to expose to the eyes of others. Thus she gave him any other designation than his own name. She called him "the noble gentleman who had befriended her," "her protector," "her benefactor,"--everything, in short, but Richard of Woodville.

Mary Markham observed this reserve; and, as woman's heart, even in the most simple and single-minded, is always learned in woman's secrets, Mary judged, and judged rightly, that gratitude was growing up in Ella's bosom into love. She could very well understand that it should be so; she thought it natural--so natural, that it could scarce be otherwise; and what she felt within herself would have made her very lenient to passion in others, even had she been more harsh and severe than she was. She took a deep interest in the poor girl and her whole history, and not less in her grateful love than in any other part thereof; so that she was anxious to learn who and what this unnamed benefactor was, in order that she might judge whether there was the least hope or chance of Ella's tenderness meeting due return.

"He was a generous and noble-hearted knight, indeed," she said; "more like the ancient chivalry, my poor girl, than the heartless nobility of the present day."

"He is not a knight," answered Ella, timidly; "but I am sure he soon will be, for he well deserves his spurs."

"And he is young and handsome, of course, Ella?" said Mary Markham, with a smile.

The minstrel girl coloured, but answered nothing; and Mary went on, saying, "But you must tell me his name, Ella; I would fain know who is this noble gentleman."

Thus plainly asked, Ella Brune could not refuse to answer; and, bending down her bright eyes upon the ground, she said, "His name is Richard of Woodville, lady."

She spoke in a tone so low, that the words might have been inaudible to any other ear than that of Mary Markham. The well-known sound, however, was instantly caught by her, producing emotions in her heart such as she had never felt before. Her very breath seemed stopped; her bosom fluttered, as if there had been a caged bird within; her cheek turned very pale, and then flushed warm again with the blood spreading in a brighter glow over her fair forehead and her blue-veined temples. Hers was not indeed a jealous disposition; her nature was too generous and frank to be suspicious or distrustful; but it is difficult for any woman's ear to hear that he to whom her whole affections are given is loved by another, and her heart not beat with emotions far from pleasurable.

Yet Mary schooled herself for what she felt--for the slight touch of doubt towards Woodville, and of anger towards Ella, which crossed her bosom for a moment. "It is not his fault," she thought, "if the girl loves him; nor hers either to love him for acts of generous kindness. She is no more to blame for such feelings than myself; the same high qualities that won my regard might well gain hers. He is too noble, too--too true and faithful to trifle with her, or to forget me. Yet, would this had not happened! It is strange, too, that he did not mention all this to me!"

But then she remembered how every hour he had spent with her had passed, how little time they had found to say all that two warm and tender hearts could prompt; how often they had been interrupted in the half-finished tale of love; how constantly it had been renewed whenever they were alone; and then she thought it not extraordinary at all that he had spoken of nothing else.

Such thoughts, however, kept her mute, with her eyes gazing on the tapestry at the other side of the room; and she saw not that Ella, surprised at her silence, had now raised her look, and was reading in the countenance--with the skill which peril and misfortune soon acquire in this hard world--all that was passing in the heart beneath. The poor girl's face was very pale, for she had her emotions too; but yet she was calmer than Mary Markham, for one of the chief sources of agitation was wanting in her bosom. She was without hope. She might love, but it was love with no expectation. The future, which to Mary's eyes was like the garden of the Hesperides, all hanging with golden fruit, was a desert to poor Ella Brune. She had no fear, because she had no hope. She had no doubts, because she had no trust. She was externally calm, for though there were painful sensations, there was no internal contention. She, therefore, it was who spoke first.

"You know him, lady," she said, in a sweet, gentle, humble tone; "and if you know him, you love him."

"I do know him," answered Mary Markham, with a trembling voice and glowing cheek--"I have known him well for years."

She paused there; but the moment after, she thought, with that generous confidence so often misplaced, but which was not so in this instance, "It were better to tell her all, for her sake and for mine. If she be good and virtuous, as I think, it cannot but lead to good to let her know the whole truth."

"Ay, Ella," she continued aloud, "and you are right. I do love him, and he loves me. We have plighted our faith to each other, and wait but the consent of others to be more happy than we are."

A tear trembled in the eye of Ella Brune; but what were the thoughts that flashed like lightning through her mind? "The lady loves him, and she sees I love him too. Jealousy is a strange thing, and a sad pang!--She may doubt him, even with such a friendless being as I am--I will sweep that doubt away;" and with a resigned, but gentle smile, looking in Mary's face, she said--"I was sure of it."

"Of what, Ella?" asked Mary Markham, with some surprise.

"That he loved some one, and was beloved again," replied the poor girl; and she repeated "I was sure of it."

"What could make you sure?" asked the lady, gazing at her with a less embarrassed look. "He did not tell you, did he?"

"Oh, no," answered Ella Brune. "All he told me was, that he was going afar to Burgundy, and that as he could not give me any further protection himself, he would send one of his men to inquire after me, that he might hear I was safe, and as happy as fate would let me be, but--" and she paused, as if she doubted whether to proceed or not.

"But what, Ella?" demanded Mary.

"Why, I was foolish, lady," said the girl; "and perhaps you may think me wrong too, and bold. But when I heard that he was going to Burgundy, I cried, 'Oh, that I were going with you!' And I told him that I had kinsfolk both in Liege and in Peronne; and then I knew by his look, and what he said, that there was some lady whom he loved, and who loved him."

"How did that enlighten you?" inquired Mary Markham. "Did he refuse you?--That were not courteous, I think."

"No, he did not actually refuse," answered Ella Brune, "but he said, that it might hardly be; and I saw, he thought that his lady might be jealous--might suspect--"

Mary Markham put her hand on Ella's, with a warm smile, and said, "I will neither suspect him, nor be jealous of you, Ella--though perhaps I might have been," she added; "yes, perhaps I might, if I had heard you were with him, and I had not known why. Yet I should have been very wrong. Out upon such doubts I say, if they can prevent a true-hearted gentleman from doing an act of kindness to a poor girl in her need, lest a jealous heart should suspect him. But I will write to him, Ella: and yet it is now in vain; for he has left Westminster."

Ella gazed at her, smiling. "We know not our own hearts," she said; "and, perhaps, dear lady, you might be jealous yet."

"No, no!" cried Mary, with one of her own joyous laughs again. "Never, now. I am of a confiding nature, my poor girl; and I soon conquer those bitter enemies of peace, called doubts."

Ella Brune gazed round the room. "If I had some instrument, I could sing to you on that theme," she said.

"Nay, you can sing without, Ella," replied the lady. "I have none here, alas!"

"Well, I will sing it, then," answered Ella Brune; "'tis an old ditty, and a simple one;" and, leaning her hand on Mary Markham's knee, she sang:--

SONG.

"Trust! trust! sweet lady, trust!

'Tis a shield of seven-fold steel.

Cares and sorrows come they must;

But sharper far is doubt to feel.

Trust! trust! sweet lady, trust!

"If deceit must vex the heart--

Who can pass through life without?--

Better far to bear the smart

Than to grind the soul with doubt.

Trust! trust! sweet lady, trust!

"Trust the lover, trust the friend;

Heed not what old rhymers tell.

Trust to God: and in the end

Doubt not all will still be well.

Trust! trust! sweet lady, trust!

"Love's best guide, and friendship's stay--

Trust, to innocence was given;

'Tis doubt that paves the downward way,

But trust unlocks the gates of heaven.

Trust! trust! sweet lady, trust!"

"And so I will, Ella," cried the lady; "so have I ever done, and will do still; but methinks you have made the song to suit my ear."

"Nay, in truth, dear lady, it is an ancient one," replied Ella Brune; but ere she could add more, old Sir Philip Beauchamp strode into the room, with an air hurried, yet not dissatisfied.

"I have seen the King, Mary," he said; "and, on my life, he is a noble youth--right kingly in his port and in his words. His brother John, who won his spurs under my pennon when but a boy, soon got me speech of him; and you are to go with me at once to his presence, pretty maid. Nay, do not look downcast; he is no frightful tyrant, but a man that lady's eyes may look upon well pleased; and 'tis needful for your safety you should go."

"Must she go alone, dear knight?" asked Mary Markham, with kind consideration for the girl's fears.

"Alone! no. I am to go with her, to be sure," answered Sir Philip. "How, my fair Mary, you would fain go visit Henry, too! What would Richard of Woodville say?"

"He would trust," answered Mary Markham, giving a gay look to Ella. "However, I seek not to go, noble sir; but it would be better for this poor girl to have my maid, Maude, with her--for decency's sake," she continued, in a laughing tone; "you old knights are sometimes too light and gallant; and I must protect her from your courteous speeches by the way. Come with me, Ella. I have a cloak in my chamber that will suit well with your hood, and cover you all, so that nothing will be seen but the edge of your wimple. Then will you and Sir Philip escape scandal, if you both walk softly, and look demure, while Maude trips along beside you."

Though Mary Markham said no word of the minstrel girl's attire, and did not even glance her eye to the gold fringe upon her gown, yet Ella understood, and was thankful for, her kind care, and mentally promised herself, that, before that day was but, she would provide herself with plainer weeds. In less than five minutes she and the maid were ready to depart; and, accompanied by Sir Philip, they soon crossed the open ground before the Abbey and the Sanctuary, and entered the gates of the palace yard. At the private door of the royal residence they received immediate admission; for a page was waiting Sir Philip's return; but he led them, not to the small chamber where Henry had received Ned Dyram in the morning, and Sir Philip shortly after. Following, on the contrary, the larger staircase, the boy conducted the little party to a hall, then used as an audience chamber; and when they entered they at once perceived the King at the farther end, surrounded by a gay and glittering throng, and listening, apparently with deep attention, to an old man, dressed as a prelate of the Church, who, with slow and measured accents, was delivering what seemed a somewhat long oration. Whatever was the subject on which he spoke, it seemed to be one of much interest; for, ever and anon, the King bowed his head with a grave, approving motion, and a murmur of satisfaction rose from those around.

Slowly and quietly the old knight and his companions drew near, and then found that the good Bishop was arguing the King's title, not alone to the Duchies of Normandy, Aquitaine, and Anjou, which undoubtedly belonged of right to the English Crown, but also to the whole of France, which as certainly belonged to another. Sir Philip Beauchamp marked well the monarch's countenance as he listened, and perceived that, when the subject was the recovery of those territories which had descended to the race of Plantagenet from William the Conqueror, Fulke of Anjou, and Eleanor of Aquitaine, one of those grave inclinations of the head which marked his approbation followed; but that, when the claim of all France was considered, Henry paused, and seemed to meditate more on thoughts suggested by his own mind than on the mere words that struck his ear. The surrounding nobles, however, applauded all; and bright and beaming eyes were turned upon the prelate when he concluded his oration with the words--strange ones, indeed, in the mouth of a Christian bishop: "Wherefore, Oh my Lord, the King! advance your banner, fight for your right, conquer your inheritance; spare not sword, blood, or fire; for your war is just, your cause is good, your claim is true!"^[3]

"Many thanks, my good lord," replied the King; "we will with our council consider duly what you have advanced; and we beseech you to pray God on our behalf, that we be advised wisely. Pity it were, indeed, to shed Christian blood without due cause; and, therefore, we shall first fairly and courteously require of our cousin the restitution of those territories undeniably appertaining to our crown; with the which we may content ourselves, if granted frankly; but if they be refused, a greater claim may perchance grow out of the denial of the smaller one; and, at all events, we shall know how, with the sword, to do ourselves right when driven to draw it. We will then beseech farther communion with you on these weighty matters, and, for the present, thank you much."

The Bishop retired from the spot immediately facing the King; and Henry's eye lighting on Sir Philip Beauchamp, he bowed his head to him, saying, "Advance, my noble friend. Ha! you have brought the girl with you, as I said;" and his look fixed upon the countenance of poor Ella Brune, with a calm and scrutinizing gaze, not altogether free from wonder and admiration, to see such delicate beauty in one of her degree, but without a touch of that coarse and gloating expression which had offended her in the stare of Sir Simeon Roydon.

"Is the knight I sent for, here?" demanded the King, turning towards the page.

"Not yet, Sire," answered the boy.

"Well, then," said Henry, "though it is but fair that a man accused should hear the charge against him, we must proceed; and you lords will witness what this young woman says, that it may be repeated to him hereafter. Now, maiden, what is this which the worthy knight, Sir Philip Beauchamp, has reported concerning you and Sir Simeon of Roydon?"

To say that Ella Brune was not somewhat abashed would be false; for she did feel that she was in the presence of the most powerful King, and the most chivalrous court in Europe; she did feel that all eyes were turned upon her, every ear bent to catch her words. But there were truth and innocence at her heart, the strongest of all supports. There was the sense of having been wronged also; and, perhaps, some feeling of scorn rather than shame was roused by the light smiles and busy whisper that ran round the lordly circle before which she stood; for there is nothing so contemptible in the eyes, even of the humble, if they be wise and firm of heart, as the light and causeless, but oppressive sneer of pride--whether that pride be based in station, fortune, courtliness, or aught else on earth; for the true nobility of mind, which sometimes impresses even pride with a faint mark of its own dignity, never treads upon the humble.

Henry, however, heard the buzz, and felt offended at the light looks he saw. "My lords!" he said, in a tone of surprise and displeasure; "I beseech you, my good uncle of Exeter, warn those gentlemen of that which the King would not speak harshly. This is no jesting matter. Wrong has been done--I may say almost in our presence, so near has it been to our palace gates; and, by the Queen of Heaven, such things shall not escape punishment, while I wear the crown or bear the sword. When I am powerless to defend the meanest of my subjects, may death give my sceptre to more mighty hands; when I am unwilling to do justice to any in the land, may my enemies take from me the power I have borne unworthily. Go on with your tale, maiden."

Ella Brune obeyed the King's order, with a voice that faltered at first, but the rich sweet tone of which soon called the attention of all to what she said; and, taking up her story from the beginning, she related the death of her old companion, the interview which she had first had with Sir Simeon of Roydon, and the violent manner in which she had been carried off, as she was returning to the hostelry where she lodged. As she spoke she gained confidence; and though, ere she had proceeded far, the base knight himself entered the presence, and placed himself exactly opposite to her, glaring at her with fierce and menacing eyes, her tongue faltered no more; and she went on to speak of her second interview with him, telling how she had forced back the lock of the door with her dagger--how the servants of the knight had not ventured to seize her, under the belief that the weapon was poisoned--and how she had dropped from the great window at the end of the corridor into the lane below.

As soon as she had done, Roydon stepped forward, as if to reply; but old Sir Philip Beauchamp, who stood by Ella's side to give her support, waved his hand, saying, "Silence, boy! till all be said against you--then speak if you list. As far as the carrying off of this poor little maid is concerned, a good woman of the neighbourhood saw the deed done, and can bear witness respecting it, if farther testimony is required. I saw the manner of her escape as she has told it, and knocked down one of this knight's knaves just as he clutched her. So far her story is confirmed. What passed between him and her in private, they only know; but I would take her word against his in any town; for I know him to be a wondrous liar."

A laugh ran round the royal circle; and Sir Simeon of Roydon put his hand to his dagger; but the King turned towards him, saying, "Now, sir, have you aught to answer?--Is this story true or false?"

"Somewhat mixed, Sire;" answered Simeon of Roydon, with a sneer upon his lip. "The young woman is rather fanciful. I will own, that because she has a pretty face, as you may see, and bright eyes, and a small foot, and rounded ankle, she pleased my fancy; and, although of somewhat low degree for such an honour, I thought to make her my paramour for a time, as many another man might do. Minstrel girls and tomblesteres are not generally famed for chastity; and, by my faith! I thought I showed her favour when I told my servants to find her out and bring her to my lodging. If they used any violence, 'twas not my fault, for I bade them treat her gently; and, as to her confinement at my house, that is pure fancy--she might have gone whenever she chose."

"'Tis strange, then," said the King, with a scornful smile, "that she should take such means of going. People do not usually leap out of a window, when they can walk through a door."

"What made you bellow after her, like a wild bull?" demanded Sir Philip Beauchamp, turning to the culprit: "I heard you with my ears, and so did many more, shout to your knaves to follow her, lest she should to the King. I know your voice right well, sir knight, and will vouch for its sweet sounds."

"Doting fool!" murmured Simeon of Roydon.

"Doting!" cried the old knight; "take care you don't feel my gauntlet in your face, lest I send you home as toothless as I sent your serviceable man. You will find that there is strength enough left to crush such a worm as you."

"Silence, Sir Philip!" said the King. "Sir Simeon of Roydon, according to your own account, you have committed an offence for which, if it had been done within the gates of our good city of London, the sober citizens would, methinks, have set you on a horse's back, with your face to the tail, and marched you in no pleasant procession. But, I must add, I do not believe your account; it seems to me to bear no character of truth about it. Yet, that you may not stand upon my judgment alone, if there be one of these good lords here present, who will say they do, upon their honour, believe that this poor maiden speaks falsely, and you tell the simple truth, you shall go free. What say you, lords--is the girl true, or he?"

"The girl!--the girl!" cried all the voices round.

"However men may love leaping," said John of Lancaster, "they seek not to break their necks by springing from a window, when they can help it."

"Well, then," continued Henry, "you must carry your amorous violence to other lands, Sir Simeon of Roydon. You have committed a discourteous and unknightly act, and must give us time to forget it. We will not touch you in person or in purse, in goods or lands; but we banish you for two years from the realm of England. Bestow yourself where you will, but be not found within these shores after one month from this day, which space we give you to prepare. Is this a just award, my lords?"

The gentlemen round bowed their heads; and Henry, turning to the good old knight, added, with a gracious smile, "I thank you much, Sir Philip Beauchamp, for bringing this matter to my knowledge. These are deeds that I am resolved to check, with all the power that God entrusts to me."

"Heaven bless your Grace, and ever send us such a King!" replied the old knight; and, taking Ella by the hand, with a lowly reverence to the monarch, he led her from the hall.

Henry, it would seem, dismissed his court at once; for before the minstrel girl and her companion had reached the bottom of the stairs, they were surrounded by several of the younger nobles, who were all somewhat eager to say soft and flattering things to the fair object of the day's interest, notwithstanding some rough reproof from good Sir Philip Beauchamp. But as he and his young charge were passing out with Mary Markham's maiden, a low deep voice whispered in Ella's ear, "I swear, by Christ's sepulchre, I will have revenge!"--and the next moment Sir Simeon of Roydon passed them, mounted his horse in the palace-yard, and rode furiously away.