Transcriber's Notes: 1. Page scan source:
https://books.google.com/books?id=RKhEAAAAYAAJ
(The University of Virginia).
Darnley:
or,
The Field of the Cloth of Gold
Darnley.
By
G. P. R. JAMES
LONDON
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE
AND SONS LIMITED
MDCCCCIII.
The Introduction is written by Laurie Magnus, M.A.: the Title-page is designed by Ivor I. J. Symes.
INTRODUCTION.
George Payne Rainsford James, Historiographer Royal to King William IV., was born in London in the first year of the nineteenth century, and died at Venice in 1860. His comparatively short life was exceptionally full and active. He was historian, politician and traveller, the reputed author of upwards of a hundred novels, the compiler and editor of nearly half as many volumes of letters, memoirs, and biographies, a poet and a pamphleteer, and, during the last ten years of his life, British Consul successively in Massachusetts, Norfolk (Virginia), and Venice. He was on terms of friendship with most of the eminent men of his day. Scott, on whose style he founded his own, encouraged him to persevere in his career as a novelist; Washington Irving admired him, and Walter Savage Landor composed an epitaph to his memory. He achieved the distinction of being twice burlesqued by Thackeray, and two columns are devoted to an account of him in the new "Dictionary of National Biography." Each generation follows its own gods, and G. P. R. James was, perhaps, too prolific an author to maintain the popularity which made him "in some ways the most successful novelist of his time." But his work bears selection and revival. It possesses the qualities of seriousness and interest; his best historical novels are faithful in setting and free in movement. His narrative is clear, his history conscientious, and his plots are well-conceived. English learning and literature are enriched by the work of this writer, who made vivid every epoch in the world's history by the charm of his romance.
The parodists of G. P. R. James have been quick to remark the sameness of his openings. He has established a kind of 'James-gambit' in historical fiction, and the present romance is no exception to the rule. Once more the irrepressible horseman is riding along the inevitable road, and once more the first chapter is devoted to a careful description of the traveller's accoutrements--material and moral. It is not inappropriately, therefore, that James selected as his motto for this chapter Dryden's conventional lines,
"In this King Arthur's reign,
A lusty knight was pricking o'er the plain."
Donne, Cowley, Ben Jonson, Dryden, Shakespeare, these are the authors to whom James has chiefly gone for his poetical headings to the chapters of this novel. The feature is a rare one in his works, nor can it truthfully be said that the literary flavour thus imparted is maintained by the text of the book. There is more familiarity, more banality, in its style than is common in James's writings. It is odd, for instance, to read the first paragraph of Chapter XVII.--"Oh, the man in the moon! the man in the moon! What a prodigious sackful of good resolutions you must have, all broken through the middle ...."--immediately after a solemn quotation from Macbeth; and a yet more flagrant example occurs at the beginning of Chapter XXXIX., where a couplet from Shakespeare is again used to usher in the following triumph of bathos: "And where was Osborne Darnley all this while? Wait a little, dearly-beloved, and you shall hear more." It should be added that the first sentence is not an intentional pentameter. But, however severely the shortcomings of style may be criticised in a writer who 'broke the record' for rapidity of production, James hardly ever fails to tell a good story, with plenty of adventure and accuracy of learning. "Darnley" does not fall behind the rest in these respects. The date is fixed in the first line, as well as in the sub-title, and the gorgeous festivities of Midsummer, 1520, as well as the character of King Henry VIII., are admirably conceived and described. The original picture of the scene in the Field near Calais, which is preserved at Hampton Court, should be visited by readers of this volume. Those curious in bibliography, by the way, will discover on page 372 a notable instance of want of skill in the abridgment of "Darnley" by James or his editors.
DARNLEY.
CHAPTER I.
In this King Arthur's reign,
A lusty knight was pricking o'er the plain.--Dryden.
On the morning of the 24th day of March, 1520, a traveller was seen riding in the small, rugged cross-road which, traversing the eastern part of Kent, formed the immediate communication between Wye[1] and Canterbury. Far be it from me to insinuate that this road pursued anything like a direct course from the one place to the other: on the contrary, it seemed, like a serpent, to get on only by twisting; and yet truly, as its track now lies pictured on the old county map before me, I can discover no possible reason for its various contortions, inasmuch as they avoid neither ascents nor descents, but proceed alike over rough and smooth, hill and dale, appearing only to wind about for the sake of variety. I can conceive the engineer who planned it laughing in his sleeve at the consummate meanderings which he compelled his travellers to undergo. However, as at the time I speak of this was the only road through that part of the country, every traveller was obliged to content himself with it, such as it was, notwithstanding both its circumvolutions and its ruggedness.
Indeed, the horseman and his beast, who on the afore-mentioned morning journeyed on together towards Canterbury, were apparently well calculated to encounter what the profane vulgar call the ups and downs of life; for never a stouter cavalier mounted horse, and never a stouter horse was mounted by cavalier; and there was something in the strong, quadrate form of each, in the bold, free movement of every limb, and in the firm, martial regularity of their pace, which spoke a habitual consciousness of tried and unfailing power.
The rider was a man of about five or six-and-twenty, perhaps not so old; but the hardy exposed life which had dyed his florid cheek with a tinge of deep brown, had given also to his figure that look of set, mature strength which is not usually concomitant with youth. But strength with him had nothing of ungracefulness, for the very vigour of his limbs gave them ease of motion. Yet there was something more in his aspect and in his carriage than can rightly be attributed to the grace induced by habits of martial exercise, or to the dignity derived from consciousness of skill or valour: there was that sort of innate nobility of look which we are often weakly inclined to combine in our minds with nobility of station, and that peculiar sort of grace which is a gift, not an acquirement.
To paint him to the mind's eye were very difficult, though to describe him were very easy; for though I were to say that he was a tall, fair man, with the old Saxon blood shining out in his deep blue eye, and in his full, short upper lip, from which the light brown moustache turned off in a sweep, exposing its fine arching line; though I were to speak of the manly beauty of his features, rendered scarcely less by a deep scar upon his forehead; or were I to detail, with the accuracy of a sculptor, the elegant proportion of every limb, I might, indeed, communicate to the mind of the reader the idea of a much more handsome man than he really was; but I should fail to invest the image with that spirit of gracefulness which, however combined with outward form, seems to radiate from within, which must live to be perfect, and must be seen to be understood.
His apparel was not such as his bearing seemed to warrant: though good, it was not costly, and though not faded, it certainly was not new. Nor was the fashion of it entirely English: the gray cloth doublet slashed with black, as well as the falling ruff round his neck, were decidedly Flemish; and his hose of dark stuff might probably have been pronounced foreign by the connoisseurs of the day, although the variety of modes then used amongst our change-loving nation justified a man in choosing the fashion of his breeches from any extreme, whether from the fathomless profundity of a Dutchman's ninth pair, or from the close-fitting garment of the Italian sworder. The traveller's hose approached more towards the latter fashion, and served to show off the fair proportions of his limbs without straitening him by too great tightness, while his wide boots of untanned leather, pushed down to the ankle, evinced that he did not consider his journey likely to prove long, or, at least, very fatiguing.
In those days, when, as old Holinshed assures us, it was not safe to ride unarmed, even upon the most frequented road, a small bridle path, such as that which the traveller pursued, was not likely to afford much greater security. However, he did not appear to have furnished himself with more than the complement of offensive arms usually worn by every one above the rank of a simple yeoman; namely, the long, straight, double-edged sword, which, thrust through a broad buff belt, hung perpendicularly down his thigh, with the hilt shaped in form of a cross, without any farther guard for the hand; while in the girdle appeared a small dagger, which served also as a knife: added to these was a dag or pistol, which, though small, considering the dimensions of the arms then used, would have caused any horse-pistol of the present day to blush at its own insignificance.
In point of defensive armour, he carried none, except a steel cap, which hung at his saddle-bow, while its place on his head was supplied by a Genoa bonnet of black velvet, round which his rich chesnut hair curled in thick profusion.
Here have I bestowed more than a page and a half upon the description of a man's dress and demeanour, which, under most circumstances, I should consider a scandalous and illegitimate waste of time, paper, and attention; but, in truth, I would fain, in the present instance, that my reader should see my traveller before his mind's eye, exactly as his picture represents him, pricking along the road on his strong black horse, with his chest borne forward, his heel depressed, his person erect, and his whole figure expressing corporeal ease and power.
Very different, however, were his mental sensations, if one might believe the knitted look of thought that sat upon his full, broad brow, and the lines that early care seemed to have busily traced upon the cheek of youth. Deep meditation, at all events, was the companion of his way; for, confident in the surefootedness of his steed, he took no care to hold his bridle in hand, but suffered himself to be borne forward almost unconsciously, fixing his gaze upon the line of light that hung above the edge of the hill before him, as if there he spied some object of deep interest, yet, at the same time, with that fixed intensity which told that, whilst the eye thus occupied itself, the mind was far otherwise employed.
It was a shrewd March morning, and the part of the road at which the traveller had now arrived opened out upon a wide wild common, whereon the keen north-west blast had full room to exercise itself unrestrained. On the one side the country sloped rapidly down from the road, exposing an extensive view of some fine level plains, distributed into fields, and scattered with a multitude of hamlets and villages; the early smoke rising from the chimneys of which, caught by the wind, mingled with the vapour from a sluggish river in the bottom, and, drifting over the scene, gave a thousand different aspects to the landscape as it passed. On the other hand, the common rose against the sky in a wide sloping upland, naked, desolate, and unbroken, except where a clump of stunted oaks raised their bare heads out of an old gravel-pit by the road-side, or where a group of dark pines broke the distant line of the ground. The road which the traveller had hitherto pursued proceeded still along the side of the hill, but, branching off to the left, was seen another rugged, gravelly path winding over the common.
At the spot where these two divaricated, the horseman stopped, as if uncertain of his farther route, and looking for some one to direct him on his way. But he looked in vain; no trace of human habitation was to be seen, nor any indication of man's proximity, except such as could be gathered from the presence of a solitary duck, which seemed to be passing its anchoritish hours in fishing for the tadpoles that inhabited a little pond by the road-side.
The traveller paused, undetermined on which of the two roads to turn his horse, when suddenly a loud scream met his ear, and, instantly setting spurs to his horse, he galloped towards the quarter from whence the sound seemed to proceed. Without waiting to pursue the windings of the little path, in a moment he had cleared the upland, towards the spot where he had beheld the pines, and, instead of finding that the country beyond, as one might have imagined from the view below, fell into another deep valley on that side, he perceived that the common continued to extend for some way over an uninterrupted flat, terminated by some wide plantations at a great distance.
In advance, sheltered by a high bank and the group of pines above mentioned, appeared a solitary cottage formed of wood and mud. It may be well supposed that its architecture was not very perfect, nor its construction of the most refined taste; but yet there seemed some attempt at decoration in the rude trellis that surrounded the doorway, and in the neat cutting of the thatch which covered it from the and weather. As the traveller rode towards it the scream was reiterated, now, guided by his ear, he proceeded direct towards a little garden, which had been borrowed from the common, and enclosed with a mud wall. The door of this enclosure stood open, and at once admitted the stranger into the interior, where he beheld--what shall be detailed in the following chapter.
CHAPTER II.
Patient yourself, madam, and pardon me.--Shakspere.
Now, doubtless, every romance-reading person into whose hands this book may fall will conclude and determine, and feel perfectly convinced in their own minds, that the scream mentioned in the last chapter announces no less important a being than the heroine of the tale, and will be very much surprised, as well as disappointed, to hear that when the traveller rode through the open gate into the little garden attached to the cottage, he perceived a group which certainly did not derive any interest it might possess from the graces of youth and beauty. It consisted simply of an old woman, of the poorest class, striving, with weak hands, to stay a stout, rosy youth, of mean countenance but good apparel, from repeating a buffet he had bestowed upon the third person of the group, a venerable old man, who seemed little calculated to resist his violence. Angry words were evidently still passing on both parts, and before the traveller could hear to what they referred, the youth passed the woman, and struck the old man a second blow, which levelled him with the ground.
If one might judge from that traveller's appearance, he had seen many a sight of danger and of horror; but there was something in the view of the old man's white hair, mingling with the mould of the earth, that blanched his cheek, and made his blood run cold. In a moment he was off his horse, and by the young man's side. "How now, sir villain!" cried he, "art thou mad, to strike thy father?"
"He's no father of mine," replied the sturdy youth, turning away his head with a sort of dogged feeling of shame. "He's no father of mine; I'm better come."
"Better come, misbegotten knave!" cried the traveller; "then thy father might blush to own thee. Strike an old man like that! Get thee gone, quick, lest I flay thee!"
"Get thee gone thyself!" answered the other, his feeling of reprehension being quickly fled; and turning sharply round, with an air of effrontery which nought but the insolence of office could inspire, he added: "Who art thou, with thy get thee gones? I am here in right of Sir Payan Wileton, to turn these old vermin out; so get thee gone along with them!" And he ran his eye over the stranger's simple garb with a sneer of sturdy defiance.
The traveller gazed at him for a moment, as if in astonishment at his daring; then, with a motion as quick as light, laid one hand upon the yeoman's collar, the other upon the thick band of his kersey slop breeches, raised him from the ground, and giving him one swing back, to allow his arms their full sweep, he pitched him at once over the low wall of the garden into the heath-bushes beyond.
Without affording a look to his prostrate adversary, the stranger proceeded to assist the old man in rising, and amidst the blessings of the good dame, conveyed him into the cottage. He then returned to the little garden, lest his horse should commit any ravages upon the scanty provision of the old couple (for he was, it seems, too good a soldier even to allow his horse to live by plunder), and while tying him to the gate-post, his eye naturally turned to the bushes into which he had thrown his opponent.
The young man had just risen on his feet, and in unutterable rage, was stamping furiously on the ground; without, however, daring to re-enter the precincts from which he had been so unceremoniously ejected. The stranger contented himself with observing that he was not much hurt; and after letting his eye dwell for a moment on the cognisance of a serpent twined round a crane, which was embroidered on the yeoman's coat, he again entered the cottage, while the other proceeded slowly over the common, every now and then turning round to shake his clenched fist towards the garden, in the last struggles of impotent passion.
"Well, good father, how fares it with thee?" demanded the traveller, approaching the old man. "I fear that young villain has hurt thee."
"Nay, sir, nay," replied the other, "not so; in faith he did not strike hard: an old man's limbs are soon overthrown. Ah! well, I remember the day when I would have whacked a score of them. But I'm broken now. Kate, give his worship the settle. If our boy had seen him lift his hand against his father, 'faith, he'd have broken his pate. Though your worship soon convinced him: God's blessing upon your head for it!"
The stranger silently sat himself down in the settle, which the old woman placed for him with a thousand thanks and gratulations, and suffered them to proceed undisturbed with all the garrulity of age, while his own thoughts seemed, from some unapparent cause, to have wandered far upon a different track. Whether it was that the swift wings of memory had retraced in a moment a space that, in the dull march of time, had occupied many a long year, or that the lightning speed of hope had already borne him to a goal which was still far beyond probability's short view, matters little. Most likely it was one or the other; for the present is but a point to which but little thought appertains, while the mind hovers backwards and forwards between the past and the future, expending the store of its regrets upon the one, and wasting all its wishes on the other. He awoke with a sigh. "But tell me," said he to the old man, "what was the cause of all this?"
"Why, heaven bless your worship!" replied the cottager, who had been talking all the time, "I have just been telling you."
"Nay, but I mean, why you came to live here?" said the traveller, "for this is but a poor place;" and he glanced his eye over the interior of the cottage, which was wretched enough. Its floor formed of hardened clay; its small lattice windows, boasting no glass in the wicker frames of which they were composed, but showing in its place some thin plates of horn (common enough in the meaner cottages of those times), admitting but a dull and miserable light to the interior; its bare walls of lath, through the crevices of which appeared the mud that had been plastered on the outside: all gave an air of poverty and uncomfort difficult to find in the poorest English cottage of to-day. "I think you said that you had been in better circumstances?" continued the traveller.
"I did not say so, your worship," replied the old man, "but it was easy to guess; yet for twelve long years have I known little but misery. I was once gate-porter to my good Lord Fitzbernard, at Chilham Castle, here hard-by; your worship knows it, doubtless. Oh! 'twas a fair place in those days, for my lord kept great state, and never a day but what we had the tilt-yard full of gallants, who would bear away the ring from the best in the land. My old lord could handle a lance well, too, though he waxed aged; but 'twas my young Lord Osborne that was the darling of all our hearts. Poor youth! he was not then fourteen, yet so strong, he'd break a lance and bide a buffet with the best. He's over the seas now, alas! and they say, obliged to win his food at the sword's point."
"Nay, how so?" asked the traveller. "If he were heir of Chilham Castle, how is it he fares so hardly, this Lord Osborne?"
"We call him still Lord Osborne," answered the old woman, "for I was his nurse, when he was young, your worship, and his christened name was Osborne. But his title was Lord Darnley, by those who called him properly. God bless him for ever! Now, Richard, tell his honour how all the misfortunes happened."
"'Twill but tire his honour," said the old man. "In his young day he must have heard how Empson and Dudley, the two blackest traitors that ever England had, went through all the country, picking holes in every honest man's coat, and sequestrating their estates, as 'twas then called. Lord bless thee, Kate! his worship knows it all."
"I have heard something of the matter, but I would fain understand it more particularly," said the stranger. "I had learned that the sequestrated estates had been restored, and the fines remitted, since this young king was upon the throne."
"Ay, truly, sir, the main part of them," answered the old man; "but there were some men who, being in the court's displeasure, were not likely to have justice done them. Such a one was my good lord and master, who, they say, had been heard to declare, that he held Perkyn Warbeck's title as good as King Harry the Seventh's. So, when they proved the penal statutes against him, as they called it, instead of calling for a fine, which every peasant on his land would have brought his mite to pay, they took the whole estate, and left him a beggar in his age. But that was not the worst, for doubtless the whole would have been given back again when the good young king did justice on Empson and Dudley; but as this sequestration was a malice, and not an avarice like the rest, instead of transferring the estate to the king's own hand, they gave it to one Sir Payan Wileton, who, if ever a gallows was made higher than Haman's, would well grace it. This man has many a friend at the court, gained they say by foul means; and though much stir was made some eight years agone, by the Lord Stafford and the good Duke of Buckingham, to have the old lord's estates given back again, Sir Payan was strong enough in abettors to outstand them all, and then----; but I hear horses' feet. 'Tis surely Sir Payan sent to hound me out even from this poor place."
As he spoke, the loud neighing of the stranger's horse announced the approach of some of his four-footed fraternity, and opening the cottage door, the old man looked forth to ascertain if his apprehensions were just.
The cloud, however, was cleared off his brow in a moment, by the appearance of the person who rode into the garden.
"Joy, good wife! joy!" cried the old man; "it is Sir Cesar! It is Sir Cesar! We are safe enough now!"
"Sir Cesar!" cried the traveller; "that is a strange name!" and he turned to the cottage door to examine the person that approached.
Cantering through the garden on a milk-white palfrey, adorned with black leather trapping, appeared a little old man, dressed in singular but elegant habiliments. His doublet was of black velvet, his hose of crimson stuff, and his boots of buff. His cloak was black like his coat, but lined with rich miniver fur, of which also was his bonnet. He wore no arms except a small dagger, the steel hilt of which glittered in his girdle; and to turn and guide his palfrey he made use of neither spur nor rein, but seemed more to direct than urge him with a peeled osier stick, with which he every now and then touched the animal on either ear.
His person was as singular as his dress. Extremely diminutive in stature, his limbs appeared well formed, and even graceful. He was not a dwarf, but still considerably below the middle size; and though not misshapen in body, his face had that degree of prominence, and his eye that keen vivacious sparkle, generally discovered in the deformed. In complexion he was swarthy to excess, while his long black hair, slightly mingled with gray, escaped from under his bonnet and fell upon his shoulders. Still, the most remarkable feature was his eye, which, though sunk deep in his head, had a quickness and a fire that contradicted the calm, placid expression of the rest of his countenance, and seemed to indicate a restless, busy spirit; for, glancing rapidly from object to object, it rested not a moment upon any one thing, but appeared to collect the information it sought with the quickness of lightning, and then fly off to something new.
In this manner he approached the cottage, his look at first rapidly running over the figures of the two cottagers and their guest; but then turning to their faces, his eye might be seen scanning every feature, and seeming to extract their meaning in an instant: as in the summer we see the bee darting into every flower, and drawing forth its sweet essence, while it scarcely pauses to fold its wings. It seemed as if the face was to him a book, where each line was written with some tale or some information, but in a character so legible, and a language so well known, that a moment sufficed him for the perusal of the whole.
At the cottage-door the palfrey stopped of itself, and slipping down out of the saddle with extraordinary activity, the old gentleman stood before the traveller and his host with that sort of sharp, sudden motion which startles although expected. The old man and his wife received their new guest with reverence almost approaching to awe; but before noticing them farther than by signing them each with the cross, he turned directly towards the traveller, and doffing his cap of miniver, he made him a profound bow, while his long hair, parted from the crown, fell over his face and almost concealed it. "Sir Osborne Maurice," said he, "well met!"
The traveller bowed in some surprise to find himself recognised by the singular person who addressed him. "Truly, sir," he answered, "you have rightly fallen upon the name I bear, and seem to know me well, though in truth I can boast no such knowledge in regard to you. To my remembrance, this is the first time we have met."
"Within the last thousand years," replied the old man, "we have met more than a thousand times; but I remember you well before that, when you commanded a Roman cohort in the first Punic war."
"He's mad!" thought the traveller, "profoundly insane!" and he turned an inquiring glance to the old cottager and his wife; but far from showing any surprise, they stood regarding their strange visiter with looks of deep awe and respect. However, the traveller at length replied, "Memory, with me, is a more treacherous guardian of the past; but may I crave the name of so ancient an acquaintance?"
"In Britain," answered the old man, "they call me Sir Cesar; in Spain, Don Cesario; and in Padua, simply Cesario il dotto."
"What!" cried Sir Osborne, "the famous----?"
"Ay, ay!" interrupted the old man; "famous if it may so be called. But no more of that. Fame is but like a billow on a sandy shore, that when the tide is in, it seems a mighty thing, and when 'tis out, 'tis nothing. If I have learned nought beside, I have learned to despise fame."
"That your learning must have taught you far more, needs no farther proof than your knowledge of a stranger that you never saw, at least with human eyes," said Sir Osborne; "and in truth, this your knowledge makes me a believer in that art which, hitherto, I had held as emptiness."
"Cast from you no ore till you have tried it seven times in the fire," replied Sir Cesar; "hold nothing as emptiness that you have not essayed. But, hark! bend down thine ear, and thou shalt hear more anon."
The young traveller bowed his head till his ear was on a level with the mouth of the diminutive speaker, who seemed to whisper not more than one word, but that was of such a nature as to make Sir Osborne start back, and fix his eyes upon him with a look of inquiring astonishment, that brought a smile upon the old man's lip. "There is no magic here," said Sir Cesar: "you shall hear more hereafter. But, hush! come into the cottage, for hunger, that vile earthly want, calls upon me for its due: herein, alas! we are all akin unto the hog: come!"
They accordingly entered the lowly dwelling, and sat down to a small oaken table placed in the midst; Sir Cesar, as if accustomed to command there, seating the traveller as his guest, and demanding of the old couple a supply of those things he deemed necessary. "Set down the salt in the middle, Richard Heartley; now bring the bread; take the bacon from the pot, dame, and if there be a pompion yet not mouldy, put it down to roast in the ashes. Whet Sir Osborne's dagger, Richard. Is it all done? then sit with us, for herein are men all alike. Now tell me, Richard Heartley, while we eat, what has happened to thee this morning, for I learn thou hast been in jeopardy."
Thus speaking, he carved the bacon with his dagger, and distributed to every one a portion, while Sir Osborne Maurice looked on, not a little interested in the scene, one of the most curious parts of which was the profound taciturnity that had succeeded to garrulity in the two old cottagers, and the promptitude and attention with which they executed all their guest's commands.
The old gentleman's question seemed to untie Richard Heartley's lips, and he communicated, in a somewhat circumlocutory phrase, that though he had built his house and enclosed his garden on common land, which, as he took it, "was free to every one, yet within the last year Sir Payan Wileton had demanded for it a rent of two pounds per annum, which was far beyond his means to pay, as Sir Payan well knew; but he did it only in malice," the old man said, "because he was the last of the good old lord's servants who was left upon the ground; and he, Sir Payan, was afraid, that even if he were to die there, his bones would keep possession for his old master; so he wished to drive him away altogether."
"Go forth on no account!" interrupted Sir Cesar. "Without he take thee by force and lead thee to the bound, and put thee off, go not beyond the limits of the lordship of Chilham Castle; neither pay him any rent, but live house free and land free, as I have commanded you."
"In truth," answered the old man, "he has not essayed to put me off; but he sent his bailiff this morning to demand the rent, and to drive me out of the cottage, and to pull off the thatch, though our Richard, who has returned from the army beyond the seas, is up at the manor to do him man service for the sum."
"Hold!" cried Sir Cesar, "let thy son do him man service, if he will, but do thou him no man service, and own to him no lordship. Sir Payan Wileton has but his day; that will soon be over, and all shall be avenged; own him no lordship, I say!"
"Nay, nay, sir, I warrant you," replied the old man; "'twas even that that provoked Peter Wilson, the young bailiff, to strike me, because I said Sir Payan was not my lord, and I was not his tenant, and that if he stood on right, I had as much a right to the soil as he."
"Strike thee! strike thee! Did he strike thee?" cried Sir Cesar, his small black eyes glowing like red-hot coals, and twinkling like stars on a frosty night. "Sure he did not dare to strike thee?"
"He felled him, Sir Cesar," cried the old woman, whose tongue could refrain no longer; "he felled him to the ground. He, a child I have had upon my knee, felled old Richard Heartley with a heavy blow!"
"My curse upon him!" cried the old knight, while anger and indignation gave to his features an expression almost sublime; "my curse upon him! May he wither heart and limb like a blasted oak! like it, may he be dry and sapless, when all is sunshine and summer, without a green leaf to cover the nakedness of his misery; without flower or fruit may he pass away, and fire consume the rottenness of his core!"
"Oh! your worship, curse him not so deeply; we know how heavy your curses fall, and he has had some payment already," said the old cottager: "this honourable gentleman heard my housewife cry, and came riding up. So, when he saw the clumsy coward strike a feeble old man like me, he takes him up by the jerkin and the slops, and casts him as clean over the wall on the heath as I've seen Hob Johnson cast a truss out of a hay-cart."
"Sir Osborne, you did well," said the old knight; "you acted like your race. But yet I could have wished that this had not happened; 'twould have been better that your coming had not been known to your enemies before your friends, which I fear me will now be the case. He with whom you have to do is one from whose keen eye nought passes without question. The fly may as well find its way through the spider's web, without wakening the crafty artist of the snare, as one on whom that man has fixed his eye may stir a step without his knowing it. But there is one who sees more deeply than even he does."
"Yourself, of course," replied Sir Osborne; "and indeed I cannot doubt that it is so; for I sit here in mute astonishment to find that all I held most secret is as much known to you as to myself."
"Oh, this is all simplicity!" replied the old man; "these are no wonders, though I may teach you some hereafter. At present I will tell you the future, against which you must guard, for your fortune is a-making."
"But if our fate be fixed," said Sir Osborne, "so that even mortal eyes can see it in the stars, prudence and caution, wisdom and action, are in vain; for how can we avoid what is certainly to be?"
"Not so, young man," replied Sir Cesar: "some things are certain, some are doubtful: some fixed by fate, some left to human will; and those who see such things are certain, may learn to guide their course through things that are not so. Thus, even in life, my young friend," he continued, speaking more placidly, for at first Sir Osborne's observation seemed to have nettled him; "thus, even in life, each ordinary mortal sees before him but one thing sure, which is death. It he cannot avoid; yet, how wholesome the sight to guide us in existence! So, in man's destiny, certain points are fixed, some of mighty magnitude, some that seem but trivial; and the rest are determined by his own conduct. Yet there are none so clearly marked that they may not be influenced by man's own will, so that when the stars are favourable he may carry his good fortune to the highest pitch by wisely seizing opportunity; and when they threaten evil or danger, he may fortify himself against the misfortunes that must occur, by philosophy; and guard against the peril that menaces, by prudence. Thus, what study is nobler, or greater, or more beneficial, than that which lays open to the eye the book of fate?"
The impressive tone and manner of the old man, joined even with the singularity of his appearance, and a certain indescribable, almost unearthly fire, that burned in his eye, went greatly in the minds of his hearers to supply any deficiency in the chain of his reasoning. The extraordinary, if it be not ludicrous, is always easily convertible into the awful; and where, as in the present instance, it becomes intimately interwoven with all the doubtful, the mysterious, and the fearful in our state of being, it reaches that point of the sublime to which the heart of every man is most sensible. Those always who see the least of what is true are most likely to be influenced by what is doubtful; and in an age where little was certainly known, the remote, the uncertain, and the wild, commanded man's reason by his imagination.
Sir Osborne Maurice mused. If it be asked whether he believed implicitly in that art which many persons were then said to possess, of reading in the stars the future fate of individuals or nations, it may be answered, No. But if it be demanded whether he rejected it absolutely, equally No. He doubted; and that was a stretch of philosophy to which few attained in his day, when the study of judicial astrology was often combined with the most profound learning in other particulars; when, as a science, it was considered the highest branch of human knowledge, and its professors were regarded as almost proceeding a step beyond the just boundary of earthly research: we might say even more, when they produced such evidence of their extraordinary powers as might well convince the best-informed of an unlettered age, and which affords curious subjects of inquiry even to the present time.
In the mean while, Sir Cesar proceeded: "I speak thus as preface to what I have to tell you; not that I suppose you will be dismayed when you hear that immediate danger menaces you, because I know you are incapable of fear; but it is because I would have you wisely guard against what I foretell. Know, then, I have learned that you are likely to be in peril to-morrow, towards noon; therefore, hold yourself upon your guard. Divulge not your proceedings to any one. Keep a watchful eye and a shrewd ear. Mark well your company, and see that your sword be loose in the sheath."
"Certainly, good Sir Cesar, will I follow your counsel," replied Sir Osborne. "But might I not crave that you would afford me farther information, and by showing me what sort of danger threatens me, give me the means of avoiding it altogether?"
"What you ask I cannot comply with," answered the old man. "Think not that the book of the stars is like a child's horn-book, where every word is clearly spelled. Vague and undefined are the signs that we gain. Certain it is, that some danger threatens you; but of what nature, who can say? Know that, at the same time as yourself, were born sixty other persons, to whom the planets bore an equal ascendancy; and at the same hour to-morrow, each will undergo some particular peril. Be you on your guard against yours."
"Most assuredly I will, and I give you many thanks," replied Sir Osborne. "But I would fain know for what reason you take an interest in my fate more than in any of the other sixty persons you have mentioned."
"How know you that I do so?" demanded Sir Cesar drily. "Perchance had I met any one of them in this cottage, I might have done him the same good turn. However, 'tis not so. I own I do take an interest in your fate, more than that of any mortal being. Look not surprised, young man, for I have cause: nay more--you shall know more. Mark me! our fates are united for ever in this world, and I will serve you; though I see, darkling through the obscurity of time, that the moment which crowns all your wishes and endeavours is the last that I shall draw breath of life. Yet your enemy is my enemy, your friends are my friends, and I will serve you, though I die!"
He rose and grasped Sir Osborne's hand, and fixed his dark eye upon his face. "'Tis hard to part with existence--the warm ties of life, the soft smiling realities of a world we know--and to begin it all again in forms we cannot guess. Yet, if my will could alter the law of fate, I would not delay your happiness an hour; though I know, I feel, that this thrilling blood must then chill, that this quick heart must stop, that the golden light and the glorious world must fade away; and that my soul must be parted from its fond companion of earth for ever and for ever. Yet it shall be so. It is said. Reply not! Speak not! Follow me! Hush! hush!" And proceeding to the door of the cottage, he mounted his palfrey, which stood ready, and motioned Sir Osborne to do the same. The young knight did so in silence, and rode along with him to the garden-gate, followed by the old cottagers. There Richard Heartley, as if accustomed so to do, held out his hand; Sir Cesar counted into it nine nobles of gold, and proceeded on the road in silence.
CHAPTER III.
Illusive dreams in mystic forms expressed.--Blackmore.
That which is out of the common course of nature, and for which we can see neither cause nor object, requires of course a much greater body of evidence to render it historically credible than is necessary to authenticate any event within the ordinary operation of visible agents. Were it not so, the many extraordinary tales respecting the astrologers, and even the magicians of the middle ages, would now rest as recorded truth, instead of idle fiction, being supported by much more witness than we have to prove many received facts of greater importance.
Till the last century, the existence of what is called the second sight, amongst the Scots, was not doubted: even in the present day it is not disproved; and we can hardly wonder at our ancestors having given credence to the more ancient, more probable, more reasonable superstition of the fates of men being influenced by the stars, or at their believing that the learned and wise could see into futurity, when many in this more enlightened age imagine that some of the rude and illiterate possess the same faculty.
It is not, however, my object here to defend long-gone superstitions, or to show that the predictions of the astrologers were ever really verified, except by those extraordinary coincidences for which we cannot account, and some of which every man must have observed in the course of his own life. That they were so verified on several occasions is nevertheless beyond doubt; for it is not the case that, in the most striking instances of this kind, as many writers have asserted, the prediction, if it may be so called, was fabricated after its fulfilment. On the contrary, any one who chooses to investigate may convince himself that the prophecy was, in many instances, enounced, and is still to be found recorded by contemporary writers, before its accomplishment took place. As examples might be cited the prognostication made by an astrologer to Henry the Second of France, that he should be slain in single combat; a thing so unlikely that it became the jest of his whole court, but which was afterwards singularly verified, by his being accidentally killed at a tournament by Montgomery, captain of the Scottish guards. Also the prediction by which the famous, or rather infamous, Catherine de Medicis was warned that St. Germains should be the place of her death. The queen, fully convinced of its truth, never from that moment set foot in town or palace which bore the fatal name; but in her last moments, her confessor being absent, a priest was called to her assistance, by mere accident, whose name was St. Germains, and actually held her in his arms during the dying struggle.
These two instances took place about fifty years after the period to which this history refers, and may serve to show how strongly rooted in the minds of the higher classes was this sort of superstition, when even the revival of letters, and the diffusion of mental light, for very long did not seem at all to affect them. The habits and manners of the astrologers, however, underwent great changes; and it is, perhaps, at the particular epoch of which we are now writing, namely, the reigns of Henry the Eighth of England and Francis the First of France, that this singular race of beings was in its highest prosperity.
Before that time, they had in general affected strange and retired habits, and, whether as magicians or merely astrologers, were both feared and avoided. Some exceptions, however, must be made to this, as instances are on record where, even in years long before, such studies were pursued by persons of the highest class, and won them both love and admiration; the most brilliant example of which was in the person of Tiphaine Raguenel, wife of the famous Constable du Guesclin, whose counsels so much guided her husband through his splendid career.
The magicians and astrologers, however, who were scattered through Europe towards the end of the fifteenth century, and the beginning of that which succeeded, though few in number, from many circumstances, bore a much higher rank in the opinion of the world than any who had preceded them. This must be attributed to their being in general persons of some station in society, of profound erudition, of courtly and polished manners, and also to their making but little pretension on the score of their supposed powers, and never any display thereof, except they were earnestly solicited to do so.
There was likewise always to be observed in them a degree of eccentricity, if a habitual difference from their fellow-beings might be so called, which, being singular, but not obtrusive, gave them an interest in the eyes of the higher, and a dignity in the estimation of the lower classes, as a sort of beings separated by distinct knowledge and feeling from the rest of mankind. In those ages, a thousand branches of useful knowledge lay hid, like diamonds in an undiscovered mine; and many minds, of extraordinary keenness and activity, wanting legitimate objects of research, after diving deep in ancient lore, and exhausting all the treasures of antiquity, still unsated, devoted themselves to those dark and mysterious sciences that gratified their imagination with all the wild and the sublime, and gained for them a reverence amongst their fellow-creatures approaching even to awe.
As we have said before, whatever was the reality of their powers, or however they contrived to deceive themselves, as well as others, they certainly received not only the respect of the weak and vulgar; but if they used their general abilities for the benefit of mankind, they were sure to meet with the admiration and the friendship of the great, the noble, and the wise. Thus, the famous Earl of Surrey, the poet, the courtier, the most accomplished gentleman and bravest cavalier of that very age, is known to have lived on terms of intimacy with Cornelius Agrippa, the celebrated Italian sorcerer, to whose renown the fame of Sir Cesar of England is hardly second; though early sorrows, of the most acute kind, had given a much higher degree of wildness and eccentricity to the character of the extraordinary old man of whom we speak, than the accomplished Italian ever suffered to appear.
In many circumstances there was still a great degree of similarity between them: both were deeply versed in classical literature, and were endowed with every elegant attainment; and both possessed that wild and vivid imagination which taught them to combine in one strange and heterogeneous system the pure doctrines of Christianity, the theories of the Pagan philosophers, and the strange, mysterious notions of the dark sciences they pursued. Amongst many fancies derived from the Greeks, it seems certain that both Sir Cesar and Cornelius Agrippa received, as an undoubted fact, the Pythagorean doctrine of the transmission of the souls through the various human bodies for a long period of existence: the spirit retaining, more or less, in different men, the recollection of events which had occurred to them at other periods of being.
One striking difference, however, existed between these two celebrated men. Cornelius Agrippa was all mildness, gentleness, and suavity; while Sir Cesar, irritated by the memory of much sorrow, was wild, vehement, and impetuous; ever striving to do good, it is true, but hasty and impatient under contradiction. The same sort of mental excitement hurried him on to move from land to land and place to place, without seeming ever to pause for any length of time; and as he stood not upon the ceremony of introduction, but made himself known to whomsoever the fancy of the moment might lead him, he was celebrated in almost every part of the world.
So much as we have said seemed necessary, in order to give our readers some insight into the character of the extraordinary man whose history is strongly interwoven with the web of the present narrative, and to prevent its being supposed that he was an imaginary being devised for the nonce; but we shall now proceed with him in his proper person.
"Let us reason," said Sir Cesar, breaking form abruptly, after he had ridden on with the young knight some way in silence; "let us reason of nature and philosophy; of things that are, and of things that may be; for I would fain expel from my brain a crowd of sad thoughts and dark imaginings, that haunt the caverns of memory."
"I should prove but a slow reasoner," replied the young knight, "when compared with one whose mind, if report speak truth, has long explored the deepest paths of science, and discovered the full wealth of nature."
"Nay, nay, my friend," answered the old man; "something I have studied, it is true; but nature's full wealth who shall ever discover? Look through the boundless universe, and you shall find that were the life of man extended a thousand fold, and all his senses refined to the most exquisite perfection, and had his mind infinite faculty to comprehend, yet the portion he could truly know would be to the great whole as one grain of sand to the vast foundation of the sea. As it is, man not only contemplates but few of nature's works, but also only sees a little part of each. Thus, when he speaks of life, he means but that which inspires animals, and never dreams that everything has life; and yet it is so. Is it not reasonable to suppose that everything that moves feels? and we cannot but conclude that everything that feels has life. The Indian tree that raises its branches when any living creature approaches must feel, must have sensation; the loadstone that flies to its fellow must know, must perceive that that fellow is near. Motion is life; and if viewed near, everything would be found to have motion, to have life, to have sensation."
Sir Osborne smiled. "Then do you suppose," demanded he, "that all vegetables and plants feel?"
"Nay, more, much more!" answered the old man. "I doubt not that everything in nature feels in its degree, from the rude stone that the mason cuts, to man, the most sensitive of substantial beings."
"It is a bold doctrine," said the young knight, who, willing to gain what insight he could into his companion's character, pressed him for a still further exposition of his opinions, though at the same time he himself felt not a little carried away by the energy of manner and rich modulation of tone with which the old man communicated his singular ideas. "It is a bold doctrine, and would seem to animate the whole of nature. Could it be proved, the world would acquire a glow of life, and activity of existence, where it now appears cold and silent."
"The whole of nature is animated," replied Sir Cesar. "Life combined with matter is but a thousandth part of life existent. The world teems with spirits: the very air is thick with them. They dance in the sunshine, they ride upon the beams of the stars, they float about in the melodies of music, they nestle in the cups of the flowers; and I am forced to believe that never a flower fades, or a beam passes away, without some being mourning the brief date of loveliness on earth. Doubt not, for this is true; and though no one can prove that matter is sensitive, yet it can be proved that such spirits do exist, and that they may be compelled to clothe themselves with a visible form. It can be proved, I say, and I have proved it."
"I have heard the same reported of you," replied Sir Osborne, "when you, with the renowned Cornelius Agrippa, called up a spirit to ascertain what would be the issue of the battle of Ravenna. Was it not so?"
"Speak not of it!" cried the old man, "speak not of it! In that battle fell the bright, the gallant, the amiable Nemours. Though warned by counsel, by prophecy, and by portent, he would venture his life on that fatal battle, and fell. Speak not of it! But now to you and yours. Whither go you?"
"My first care," replied Sir Osborne, "must be to seek my father, at whose wish I have now returned to England. To you, who know far more of me and mine than I ever dreamed that mortal here had heard, I need not say where my father dwells." As he spoke, Sir Osborne drew up his horse, following the example of his companion, whose palfrey had stopped at a point where the road, separating into two branches, gave the traveller the option of proceeding either towards Canterbury or Dover, as his business or pleasure might impel. At the same time the young knight fixed his eye upon the other's face, as if to ascertain what was passing in his mind, seeking, probably, thence to learn how far the old man's knowledge really extended in respect to himself and his concerns.
"It is a long journey," said Sir Cesar, thoughtfully, "and 'twill take you near three weeks to travel thither and back. Much may be lost or won in three weeks. You must not go. Hie on to Dover, and thence to London: wait there till I give you farther news, and be sure that my news shall be of some avail."
"It cannot be," answered Sir Osborne Maurice. "Before I take any step whatever I must see my father; and though I doubt not that your advice be good, and your knowledge more than natural, I cannot quit my road, nor wait in any place, till I have done the journey to which duty and affection call me."
"Your own will then be your guide, though it be a bad one," answered Sir Cesar. "But mark, I tell you, if you pursue the road you are on you will meet with danger, and will lose opportunity. My words are not wont to fall idly."
"Whatever danger may occur," replied Sir Osborne, "my road lies towards London, and it shall not be easy to impede me on my way."
"Ho, ho! so headstrong!" cried the old knight. "I' God's name, then, on! My palfrey goes too slow for your young blood. Put spurs to your steed, sir, and get quick into the perils from which you will need my hand to help you out. Spur, spur, sir knight; and good speed attend you!"
"By your leave, then," replied Sir Osborne, taking the old man at his word, and giving his horse the spur. "Sir Cesar, I thank you for your kindness: we shall meet again, when I hope to thank you better; till then, farewell!"
"Farewell, farewell!" muttered the old knight; "just the same as ever! If I remember right he was killed in the first Punic war, for not taking the advice of Valerius the soothsayer; and though now his soul has passed through fifty different bodies, he is just as headstrong as ever." And with these sage reflections Sir Cesar pursued his way.
Leaving him, however, to his own meditations, we must now, for some time, follow the track of Sir Osborne Maurice, whose horse bore him quickly along that same little tortuous road in the midst of which we first encountered him. To say sooth, some speed was necessary; for whatever might be the cause that induced the young knight to linger at the cottage of old Richard Heartley, and whatever might have been the ideas that had occupied him during so long a reverie, he had wasted no small portion of the day, between listening to the garrulity of the old man, thinking over the circumstances which that garrulity called up to memory, and conversing with the singular being from whom he had just parted; and yet, within a mile of the spot where he had left the astrologer, Sir Osborne drew in his bridle, and standing in the stirrup, looked round him on both sides over the high bank of earth which in that place flanked the road on either hand.
After gazing round for a moment, and marking every trifling object with an attention which was far more than the scenery merited from any apparent worth or picturesque beauty, he turned his horse into a small bridle-path, and riding on for about a mile, came in front of a mansion, which, even in that day, bore many a mark of venerable antiquity.
A small eminence, at about five hundred yards' distance from it, gave him a full view of the building, as it rose upon another slight elevation, somewhat higher than that on which he stood. Through the trees which filled up the intermediate space was seen gliding a small river, that, meandering amongst the copses, now shone glittering in the sun, now hid itself in the shades, with that soothing variety, gay yet tranquil, placid but not insipid, which is the peculiar characteristic of the course of an English stream. The wind had fallen, the clouds had dispersed, and the evening sun was shining out, as if seducing the early buds to come forth and yield themselves to his treacherous smile, and all the choir of nature was hymning its song of joy and hope in the prospect of delightful summer. Above the branches, which were yet scarcely green with the first downy promise of the spring, was seen rising high the dark octagon keep of Chilham Castle. It was a building of the old irregular Norman construction; and the architect, who probably had forgot that a staircase was requisite till he had completed the tower, had remedied the defect by throwing out from the east side a sort of square buttress, which contained the means of ascending to the various stories of which it was composed. On the west side of the keep appeared a long mass of building of a still more ancient date, surrounded by strong stone walls overgrown with ivy, forming a broken but picturesque line of architecture, stretching just above the tops of the trees, and considerably lower than the tower, while a small detached turret was seen here and there, completing the castellated appearance of the whole.
Sir Osborne paused and gazed at it for five or ten minutes in silence, while a variety of very opposite expressions took possession of his countenance. Now it seemed that the calm beauty of the scene filled him with thoughts of tranquillity and delight; now that the view recalled some poignant sorrow, for something very bright rose and glistened in his eye. At last his brow knit into a frown, and anger seemed predominant, as, grasping the pommel of his sword with his left hand, he shook his clenched fist towards the antique battlements of the castle, and then, as if ashamed of such vehemence of passion, he turned his horse and galloped back on the road he came.
The moment after he had again entered upon the road to Canterbury, a sudden change took place in the pace of his horse, and perceiving that he had cast a shoe, the young knight was forced, although the sun was now getting far west, to slacken his pace; for the lady who walked over the burning ploughshares would have found it a different story, had she tried to gallop over that road without shoes. Proceeding, therefore, but slowly, it was nearly dark when he reached the little village of Northbourne, where, riding up to the smithy, he called loudly for the farrier. No farrier, however, made his appearance. All was silent, and as black as his trade; and the only answer which Osborne could procure was at length elicited from one of a score of boys, who, with open eyes and gaping mouths, stood round, listening unmoved for a quarter of an hour, while the knight adjured the blacksmith to come forth and show himself.
"Can I have my horse shod here or not, little varlet?" cried he at length to one of the most incorrigible starers.
"Ye moy, if ye loyke," answered the boy, with that air of impenetrable stupidity which an English peasant boy can sometimes get up when he is half frightened and half sullen.
"He means ye moy if ye can," answered another urchin, with somewhat of a more intellectual face: "for Jenkin Thumpum is up at the hostel shoeing the merchant's beast, and Dame Winny, his wife, is gone to hold the lantern. He! he! he!"
"Ha! ha! ha!" roared his companions, to whose mind Dame Winny holding the lantern was a very good joke. "Ha! ha! ha! wherever Jenkin Thumpum is, there goes Dame Winny to hold the lantern. Ha! ha! ha!"
"But how far is it to the inn, my good boy?" demanded Sir Osborne.
"Oh! it's for half an hour up the road, ye see," replied the boy, who still chuckled at his own joke, and wanted fain to repeat it.
"But are you sure the blacksmith is there?" demanded Sir Osborne.
"Oy, oy!" replied the boy; "as sure as eggs are bacon, if he's not coming back again. So, if ye go straight up along, you'll meet Jenkin coming, and Dame Winny holding the lantern. Ha! ha! ha!"
CHAPTER IV.
