G. P. R. James

The sun rose behind some light grey clouds, and the blue sky was veiled; but the birds made the welkin ring from amongst the young leaves of the April trees, and told of the coming brightness of the day. Why, or wherefore, let men of science say; but one thing is certain, the seasons at that time were different from those at present; they were earlier; they were more distinct; spring was spring, and summer was summer; and winter, content with holding his own right stiffly, did not attempt to invade the rights of his brethren. Far in the north of England we had vines growing and bearing fruit in the open air. At Hexham there was a vineyard; and wine was made in more than one English county--not very good, it is to be supposed, but still good enough to be drunk, and to prove the longer and more genial reign of summer in our island. Thus, though the morning was grey, as I have said, and April had not yet come to an end, the air was as warm as it is often now in June, and every bank was already covered with flowers.

There were horses before the gate of Richard of Woodville's house, and men busily preparing them for a journey. There was the heavy charger, or battle horse, with tall and bony limbs, well fitted to bear up under the weight of a steel-covered rider; and the lighter, but still powerful palfrey, somewhat of the size and make of a hunter of the present day, to carry the master along the road. Besides these, appeared many another beast; horses for the yeomen and servants, and horses and mules for the baggage: the load of armour for himself and for his men which the young adventurer carried with him, requiring not a few of those serviceable brutes who bow their heads to man's will, in order to carry it to the sea-shore. At length all was prepared; the packs were put upon the beasts, the drivers were at their heads, the yeomen by their saddles; and with ten stout men and two boys, fourteen horses, three mules, a plentiful store of arms, and all the money he could raise, in his wallet, Richard of Woodville issued forth, gave his last commands to the old man and woman whom he left behind in the hall, and, springing into the saddle, began his journey towards Dover.

It was not without a sigh that he set out; for he was leaving the land in which Mary Markham dwelt; but yet he thought he was going to win honour for her sake--perchance to win her herself; and all the bright hopes and expectations of youth soon gathered on his way, more vivid and more glowing in his case, than they could be in that of any youth of the present day, taking his departure for foreign lands. If at present each country knows but very little in reality of its neighbour, if England entertains false views and wild imaginations regarding France and her people, and France has not the slightest particle of knowledge in regard to the feelings, character, and habits of thought, of the English, how much more must such have been the case in an age when communication was rare, and then only or chiefly by word of mouth! It is true that the state of geographical knowledge was not so low as has been generally supposed, for we are very apt to look upon ourselves as wonderful people, and to imagine that nobody knew anything before ourselves; and the difference between former ages and the present is more in the general diffusion of knowledge than in its amount. In the very age of which we speak, the famous Henry of Vasco was pursuing his great project for reaching India by passing round Africa, attempting to establish Portuguese stations on the coast of that continent, and to communicate with the natives; "e poi aver con essi loro comercio per l'onore e utiltÀ del Regno."^[4]

The highways of Europe were well known; for mercantile transactions between country and country were carried on upon a system so totally different from that existing at present, that multitudes of the citizens of every commercial state were constantly wandering over the face of Europe, and bringing home anecdotes, if not much solid information, regarding the distant lands they had visited. The merchant frequently accompanied his goods; and the smaller traders, especially from the cities of Italy, travelled every season from fair to fair, and mart to mart, throughout the whole of the civilized world. Besides the communications which thus took place, and the information thus diffused, intelligence of a different sort was carried by another class, who may have been said to have represented in that day the tourists of the present. Chivalry, indeed, had greatly declined since the days of Richard I., and even since the time of the Black Prince; but still it was a constant practice for young knights and nobles of every country to visit the courts of foreign princes, in order either to acquire the warlike arts then practised, or to gain distinction by feats of arms. Few books of travels were written, it is true, and fewer read; for the art of printing had not yet, by the easy multiplication of copies, placed the stores of learning within the reach of the many; and one of the sources from which vast information might have been derived was cut off, by the general abhorrence with which the ever-wandering tribes of Israel were regarded, and the habitual taciturnity which had thus been produced in a people naturally loquacious.

Still a great deal of desultory and vague information concerning distant lands was floating about society. Strange tales were told, it is true, and truth deformed by fiction; but imagination had plenty of materials out of which to form splendid structures; and bright pictures of the far and the future, certainly did present themselves to the glowing fancy of Richard of Woodville, as he rode on upon his way. Knowing his own courage, his own skill, and his own strength; energetic in character, resolute, and persevering; animated by love, and encouraged by hope, he might well look forward to the world as a harvest-field of glory, into which he was about to put the sickle. Then came all the vague and misty representations that imagination could call up of distant courts and foreign princes, tilt and tournament, and high emprize; and the adventurous spirit of the times of old made his bosom thrill with dim visions of strange scenes and unknown places, accidents, difficulties, dangers, enterprises,--the hard rough ore from which the gold of praise and renown was still to be extracted.

Movement and exertion are the life-blood of youth; and as he rode on, the spirits of Richard of Woodville rose higher and higher; expectation expanded; the regrets were left behind; and "Onward, onward!" was the cry of his heart, as the grey cloud broke into mottled flakes upon the sky, and gradually disappeared, as if absorbed by the blue heaven which it had previously covered.

Through the rich wooded land of England he took his way for four days, contriving generally to make his resting-place for the night at some town which possessed the advantage of an inn, or at the house of some old friend of his family, where he was sure of kind reception. In the daytime, however, many of his meals were eaten in the open field, or under the broad shade of the trees; and, as he sat, after partaking lightly of the food which had been brought with him, while the horses were finishing their provender, the birds singing in the trees above often brought back to his mind the words of the minstrel's girl's lay:--

"The lark shall sing on high,

Whatever shore thou rovest;

The nightingale shall try

To call up her thou lovest.

For the true heart and kind,
Its recompence shall find;

Shall win praise,
And golden days,

And live in many a tale."

It seemed like the song of hope, and rang in his ear, mingling with the notes of the blackbird, the thrush, and the wood-lark, and promising success and happiness. The words, too, called up the image of Mary Markham, as she herself would have wished, the end and object of all his hopes and wishes, the crowning reward of every deed he thought to do. It is true that, with her, still appeared to the eye of memory the form of poor Ella Brune; but it was with very different sensations. He felt grateful to her for that cheering song; and, indeed, how often is it in life, that a few words of hope and encouragement are more valuable to us, are of more real and solid benefit, than a gift of gold and gems! for moral support to the heart of man, in the hour of difficulty, is worth all that the careless hand of wealth and power can bestow. But he felt no love--he might admire her, he might think her beautiful; but it was with the cold admiration of taste, not with passion. Her loveliness to him was as that of a picture or statue, and the only warmer sensations that he felt when he thought of her, were pity for her misfortunes, and interest in her fate. Nor did this arise either in coldness of nature, or the haughty pride of noble birth; but love was with him, as it was with many in days somewhat previous to his own, very different from the transitory and mutable passion which so generally bears that name. It was the absorbing principle of his whole nature, the ruling power of his heart, concentrated all in one--indivisible--unchangeable--a spirit in his spirit, a devotion, almost a worship. I say not, that in former times, before he had felt that passion, he might not have lived as others lived,--that he might not have trifled with the fair and bright wherever he found them,--that the fiery eagerness of youthful blood might not have carried him to folly, and to wrong; but from the moment he had learned to love Mary Markham, his heart had been for her alone, and the gate of his affections was closed against all others. Thus, could she have seen his inmost thoughts, she would have found how fully justified was her confidence, and might, perhaps, have blushed to recollect that one doubt had ever crossed her bosom.

It was about three o'clock on the evening of the fourth day, that Richard of Woodville--passing along by the priory, and leaving the church of St. Mary to the left, with the towers of the old castle frowning from the steep above, on one side, and the round chapel of the ancient temple house peeping over the hill upon the other--entered the small town of Dover, and approached the sea-shore, which, in those days, unencumbered by the immense masses of shingle that have since been rolled along the coast, extended but a short distance from the base of the primeval cliffs. Thus the town was then thrust into the narrow valley at the foot of the two hills; and the moment that the houses were passed, the wide scene of the sea, with a number of small vessels lying almost close to the shore, broke upon the eye.

The associations of the people naturally gave to the principal hostelry of the place a similar name to that which it has ever since borne. Though very differently situated and maintained, the chief place of public reception in the town of Dover was then called the Bark, as it is now called the Ship; and although that port was not the principal place through which the communication between England and France took place, yet, ever since Calais had been an English possession, a great traffic had been carried on by Dover, so that the hostelry of the Bark was one of the most comfortable and best appointed in the kingdom.

As every man of wealth and consequence who landed at, or embarked from, that port, brought his horses with him, numerous ostlers and stable boys were always ready to take charge of the guests' steeds; and as soon as a gentleman's train was seen coming down the street, loud shouts from the host called forth a crowd of expectant faces, and ready hands to give assistance to the arriving guests.

The first amongst those who appeared was Ned Dyram, in his blue tabard; and, although he did not condescend to hold his master's stirrup, but left that task to others, yet he advanced to the young gentleman's side, with some pride in the numbers and gallant appearance of the train, and informed him as he dismounted, that he had performed his errand in London; and also the charge which he had received for Dover, having engaged a large bark, named the Lucy Neville, to carry his master, with horses and attendants, to the small town of Nieuport, on the Flemish coast.

"The tide will serve at five o'clock, sir," he said. "There is time to embark the horses and baggage, if you will, while you and the men sup. We have plenty of hands here to help; and I will see it all done safely. If not, we must stop till to-morrow."

The host put in his word, however, observing, "that the young lord might be tired with a long journey, that it were better to wait and part with the morning tide, and that it was Friday--an inauspicious day to put to sea."

But the surface of the water was calm; the sky was bright and clear; and it was the last day of the period which Woodville had fixed, in his communication with the King, for his stay in England. He therefore determined to follow the opinion of Ned Dyram, instead of that of the host, which there was no absolute impossibility to prevent him from supposing interested; and, ordering his horses and luggage to be embarked, with manifold charges to his skilful attendant to look well to the safety of the chargers, he sat down to the ample supper which was soon after on the board, proposing to be down on the beach before his orders regarding the horses were put in execution.

The master and the man, in those more simple days, sat at the same board in the inn, and often at the castle: and as he knew that his own rising would be a signal for the rest to cease their meal, Richard of Woodville remained for several minutes, to allow the more slow and deliberate to accomplish the great function of the mindless. At length, however, he rose, discharged his score, added largess to payment, and then, with the "fair voyage, noble sir," of the host, and the good wishes of drawers and ostlers, proceeded to the shore, where he fully expected to find Ned Dyram busily engaged in shipping his baggage.

No one was there, however, but two or three of the horse-boys of the hotel, who saluted him with the tidings that all was on board. As he cast his eyes seaward, he saw a large boat returning from a ship at some small distance from the shore, with Ned Dyram in the stern; and in a few minutes after, the active superintendent of the embarkation jumped ashore, with a laugh, saying, "Ah, sir! so you could not trust me! But all is safe, no hide rubbed off, no knees broken, no shoulder shaken; and if they do not kick themselves to pieces before we reach Nieuport, you will have as stout chargers to ride as any in Burgundy. But you are not going to embark yet? The tide will not serve for half an hour; and I have left my saddle-bags at the hostel."

"Well, run quick and get them," replied his master. "I would fain see how all is stowed before we sail."

"And know little about it when you do see," answered Ned Dyram, with his usual rude bluntness, or that which appeared to be such.

Richard of Woodville might feel a little angry at his saucy tone; but it was only a passing emotion, easily extinguished. "I certainly know little of stowing ships, my good friend," he answered, "seeing that I never was in one in my life; but common sense is a great thing, Master Dyram; and I am not likely to be mistaken as to whether the horses are so placed as to run the least chance of hurting themselves or each other. Back to the hostel, then, as I ordered, with all speed; and do not let me have to wait for you."

The last words were spoken in a tone of command, which did not much please the hearer; but there were certain feelings in his breast that rendered him unwilling to offend a master on whom he had no tie of old services; and he therefore hurried his pace away, as long as he was within sight. He contrived to keep Woodville waiting, however, for at least twenty minutes; and as the young gentleman gazed towards the ship, he saw the large and cumbersome sails slowly unfurled, and preparations of various kinds made for putting to sea. His patience was well nigh exhausted, and he had already taken his place in the boat, intending to bid the men pull away, when Ned Dyram appeared, coming down from the inn, and carrying his saddle bags over his arm, while a man followed bearing a heavy coffre.

Richard of Woodville smiled, saying to his yeoman of the stirrup, "I knew not our friend Ned had such mass of baggage, or I would have given him further time."

"He has got his tools there, I doubt," observed the old armourer; "for he is a famous workman, both in steel and gilding, though somewhat new-fangled in his notions."

The minute after Ned Dyram was seated in the boat, the men gave way, and over the calm waters of a sea just rippled by a soft but favourable breeze, she flew towards the ship. All on board were in the bustle of departure; and, before Richard of Woodville had examined the horses, and satisfied himself that everything had been carefully and thoughtfully arranged for their safety, the bark was under weigh. He looked round for Ned Dyram, willing to make up, by some praise of his attention and judgment, for any sharpness of speech on the shore; but the yeomen told him that their comrade had gone below, saying that he was always sick at sea; and the young gentleman, escaping from the crowd and confusion which existed amongst horses and men in the fore part of the vessel, retired to the stern, and took up his position near the steersman, while the cliffs of England, and the tall towers of the castle, with the churches and houses below, slowly diminished, as moving heavily through the water the bark laid her course for the town of Nieuport.

The bustle soon ceased upon the deck; some of the yeomen laid themselves down to sleep, if sleep they might; the rest were down below; the mariners who remained on deck proceeded with their ordinary tasks in silence; the wind wafted them gently along with a soft and easy motion; and the sun, declining in the sky, shone along the bosom of the sea as if laying down a golden path, midway between France and England.

The feeling of parting from home was renewed in the bosom of Richard of Woodville, as he gazed back at the slowly waning shores of his native land, leaning his arms, folded on his chest, upon the bulwark of the stern. He felt no inclination to converse; and the man at the huge tiller seemed little disposed to speak. All was silent, except an occasional snatch of a rude song, with which one of the seamen cheered his idleness from time to time; till at length a sweeter voice was heard, singing in low and almost plaintive tones; and, turning suddenly round, Woodville beheld a female figure, clothed in black, leaning upon the opposite side of the vessel, and gazing, like himself, upon the receding cliffs of England. He listened as she sang; but the first stanza of her lay was done before he could catch the words.

The voice was so sweet, the music was so plaintive, that, without knowing it, and though she sang in a low and subdued tone, the singer had every ear turned to listen. Richard of Woodville did not require to see her face, to recognise Ella Brune, though the change in her dress might have proved an effectual means of concealment, had she been disposed to hide herself from him. The peculiarly mellow and musical tone of her voice was enough; and, as soon as the lay ceased, Woodville crossed over and spoke to her.

But she showed no surprise at seeing him, greeting him with a smile, and answering gaily to his inquiry, if she knew that he was in the same ship,--"Certainly; that was the reason that I came. I am going to be headstrong, noble sir, for the rest of my life. I would not go to York, as you see; for I fancied that when people have got hold of that which does not belong to them, they may strike at any hand which strives to take it away, especially if it be that of a woman."

"You are right, Ella," answered Richard of Woodville; "I had not thought of that."

"Then I am going to Peronne, or it may be to Dijon," continued Ella, in a tone still light, notwithstanding the somewhat melancholy character of her song; "because I think I can be of service, perhaps, to some who have been kind to me; and then, too, I intend to amass great store of money, and marry a scrivener."

"You are gay, Ella," replied Woodville, somewhat gravely, sitting down beside her, as she still leaned over the side of the vessel.

"Do you see those waves?" she said; "and how they dance and sparkle?"

"Yes," replied her companion; "what then?"

"There are depths beneath!" answered Ella. "Henceforth I will be gay--on the surface, at least, like the sunny sea; but it is because I have more profound thoughts within me, than when I seemed most sad. Keep my secret, noble sir."

"That I will, Ella," replied Woodville; "but tell me--Did my servant find you out?"

"Yes, and did me good service," answered the girl; "for he brought me here."

"And the poor fool was afraid I should be offended," said Woodville; "for he has avoided mentioning your name."

"Perhaps so," rejoined Ella; "for he knew, I believe, that you did not wish to have me in your company. 'Tis a charge, noble sir; and a poor minstrel girl is not fit for a high gentleman's train."

"Nay, you do me wrong, Ella," answered Richard of Woodville; "right willingly, my poor girl, now as heretofore, in this as in other things, will I give you protection. I thought, indeed, that it might be better for yourself to remain; and there were reasons, moreover, that you do not know."

"Nay, but I do know, sir," replied Ella, interrupting him; "I know it all. I have made acquaintance with your lady-love, and sat at her knee and sung to her; and she has befriended the poor lonely girl, as you did before her; and she told me, she would neither doubt you nor me, though you took me on your journey, and protected me by the way."

"Dear, frank Mary!" exclaimed Richard of Woodville; "there spoke her own true heart. But tell me more about this, Ella. How did you see her?--when?--where?"

Ella Brune did as he bade her, and related to him all that had occurred to her since he had left London. As she spoke, her eye was generally averted; but sometimes it glanced to his countenance, especially when she either referred to Sir Simeon of Roydon, or to Mary Markham; and she saw with pleasure the flush upon her young protector's cheek, the knitted brow, and flashing eye, when she told the outrage she had endured, and the look of generous satisfaction which lighted up each feature, when she spoke of the protection she had received from good Sir Philip Beauchamp and the King.

"Ah! my noble uncle!" he said; "he is, indeed, somewhat harsh and rash when the warm blood stirs within him, as all these old knights are, Ella; but there never was a man more ready to draw the sword, or open the purse, for those who are in need of either, than himself. And so the King befriended you, too? He is well worthy of his royal name, and has done but justice on this arch knave."

"Not half justice," answered Ella Brune, with a sudden change of tone; "but no matter for that, the hand of vengeance will reach him one of these days. He cannot hide his deeds from God!--But you speak not of your sweet lady:--was she not kind to the poor minstrel girl?"

"She is always kind," answered Richard of Woodville. "God's blessing on her blithe heart! She would fain give the same sunshine that is within her own soft bosom, to every one around her."

"That cannot be," answered Ella Brune; "there are some made to be happy, some unhappy, in this world. Fortune has but a certain store, and she parts it unequally, though, perhaps, not blindly, as men say. But there's a place where all is made equal;" and, resuming quickly her lighter tone, she went on, dwelling long upon every word that Mary Markham had said to her, seeming to take a pleasure in that, which had in reality no small portion of pain mingled with it. Such is not infrequently the case, indeed, with almost all men; for it is wonderful how the bee of the human heart will contrive to extract sweets from the bitter things of life; but, perhaps, there might be a little art in it--innocent art, indeed--most innocent; for its only object was to hide from the eyes of Richard of Woodville that there was any feeling in her bosom towards him but deep gratitude and perfect confidence. She dwelt then upon her he loved, as if the subject were as pleasing to her as to himself; and, though she spoke gaily--sometimes almost in a jesting tone--yet there were touches of deep feeling mingled every now and then with all she said, which made him perceive that, as she herself had told him, the lightness was in manner alone, and not in the mind.

At all events, her conduct had one effect which she could have desired: it removed all doubt and hesitation from the mind of Richard of Woodville, if any such remained, in regard to his behaviour towards her;--it did away all scruple as to guarding and protecting her on the way, as far as their roads lay together.

One point, indeed, in her account puzzled him, and excited his curiosity--which was the sudden departure of his uncle and Mary from Westminster. "Well," he thought, "I never loved the task of discovering mysteries, and have ever been willing to leave Time to solve them, else I should have troubled my brain somewhat more about my sweet Mary's fate and history than I have done;" and, after pondering for a few moments more, he turned again to other subjects with Ella Brune. Pleased and entertained by her conversation, he scarcely turned his eyes back towards the coast of England, till the cliffs had become faint and grey, like a cloud upon the edge of the sky; while the sun setting over the waters seemed to change them into liquid fire. In the meantime, wafted on by the light breeze, the ship continued her slow way; and, as the orb of day sank below the horizon, the moon, which had been up for some little time, poured her silver light upon the water--no longer outshone by the brighter beams. The sky remained pure and blue; the stars appeared faint amidst the lustre shed by the queen of night; and the water, dashing from the stern, looked like waves of molten silver as they flowed away. Nothing could be more calm, more grand, more beautiful, than the scene, with the wide expanse of heaven, and the wide expanse of sea, and the pure lights above and the glistening ripple below, and the curtain of darkness hanging round the verge of all things, like the deep veil of a past and future eternity.

Neither Ella Brune nor Richard of Woodville could help feeling the influence of the hour, for the grand things of nature raise and elevate the human heart, whether man will or not. They lived in a rude age, it is true; but the spirit of each was high and fine; and their conversation gradually took its tone from the scene that met their eyes on all sides. They might not know that those stars were unnumbered suns, or wandering planets, like their own; they might not know that the bright broad orb that spread her light upon the waves was an attendant world, wheeling through space around that in which they lived; they had no skill to people the immensity with miracles of creative power; but they knew that all they beheld was the handiwork of God, and they felt that it was very beautiful and very good. Their souls were naturally led up to the contemplation of things above the earth; and while Richard of Woodville learned hope and confidence in Him who had spread the heaven with stars and clothed the earth in loveliness, Ella Brune took to her heart, from the same source, the lesson of firmness and resignation.

They gazed, they wondered, they adored; and each spoke to the other some of the feelings which were in their hearts; but some only, for there were many that they could not speak.

"I remember," said Ella, at length, in a low voice, "when I was at a town called Innsbruck, in the midst of beautiful mountains, hearing the nuns chant a hymn, which I caught up by ear; and the poor old man and I turned it, as best we might, into English, and used often in our wanderings to console ourselves with singing it, when little else had we to console us. It comes into my mind to-night more than ever."

"Let me hear it, then, Ella," said Richard of Woodville; "I love all music."

"I will sing it," replied Ella; "but you must not hear it only. You must join in heart, if not in voice."