  Title: The Bondman A Story of the Times of Wat Tyler (The Library of Romance, Vol. V) Author: Mrs. O'Neill Editor: Leitch Ritchie Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 E-text prepared by Graeme Mackreth |
| Note: | Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/bondmanstoryofti00oneirich |
THE
LIBRARY OF ROMANCE.
EDITED
BY LEITCH RITCHIE.
VOL. V.
THE BONDMAN.
LONDON:
SMITH, ELDER AND CO., 65, CORNHILL.
1833.
Printed by Stewart and Co., Old Bailey.
THE BONDMAN.
A STORY OF
THE TIMES OF WAT TYLER
LONDON:
SMITH, ELDER AND CO., 65, CORNHILL;
1833.
ADVERTISEMENT
The idea of the following tale was suggested on reading the first volume of Robertson's Charles the Fifth, on the Feudal Policy of Germany; and the picture of moral and political debasement presented in those pages, whether as regards the oppressor or the oppressed. Those revolting distinctions have, however, passed away—villein is but a thing that was. But if the old chronicles are to be credited, the monk, whom the author has endeavoured to pourtray in the course of this tale, was the first who whispered in the ear of an English serf, that slavery was not his birthright.
It may, perhaps, be superfluous to add, that all the legal information scattered through the volume, is strictly correct; and every historical event, as nearly so as the machinery of the tale permitted. The critical reader, whose indulgence the writer solicits, will immediately perceive from whence the information has been derived.
THE BONDMAN.
BOOK I.
CHAPTER I.
About a quarter of a mile south of Winchcombe, on the summit of a gentle elevation, are still the remains of a castle, which, as Fuller says, "was of subjects' castles the most handsome habitation, and of subjects' habitations the strongest castle."
In the month of August, in the year thirteen hundred and seventy-four, this distinguished place, called Sudley Castle, presented an interesting scene—the then owner, in consequence of his father's death, holding his first court for receiving the homage and fealty of his vassals.
The court-yards were thronged with the retainers of the Baron, beguiling the hour until the ceremony called them into the hall. This apartment, which corresponded in magnificence and beauty with the outward appearance of the noble pile, was of an oblong shape. Carved representations of battles adorned the lofty oaken ceiling, and suspended were banners and quarterings of the Sudley and De Boteler families. Ancestral statues of oak, clad in complete armour, stood in niches formed in the thick walls. The heavy linked mail of the Normans, with the close helmet, or skull cap, fastened under the chin, and leaving the face exposed, encased those who represented the early barons of Sudley; while those of a later period were clad in the more convenient, and more beautiful armour of the fourteenth century. The walls were covered with arms, adapted to the different descriptions of soldiers of the period, and arranged so, as each might provide himself with his proper weapons, without delay or confusion.
The hall had a tesselated pavement, on which the arms of the united families of Sudley and De Boteler (the latter having inherited by marriage, in consequence of a failure of male issue in the former) were depicted with singular accuracy and beauty. About midway from the entrance, two broad steps of white marble led to the part of the hall exclusively appropriated to the owner of the castle. The mosaic work of this privileged space was concealed on the present occasion by a covering of fine crimson cloth. A large arm chair, covered with crimson velvet, with the De Boteler arms richly emblazoned on the high back, over which hung a velvet canopy fringed with gold, was placed in the centre of the elevation; and several other chairs with similar coverings and emblazonings, but wanting canopies, were disposed around for the accommodation of the guests.
The steward at length appeared, and descended the steps to classify the people for the intended homage, and to satisfy himself that none had disobeyed the summons.
The tenantry were arranged in the following order:—
First—the steward and esquire stood on either side next the steps.
Then followed the vassals who held lands for watching and warding the castle. These were considered superior to the other vassals from the peculiar nature of their tenure, as the life-guards, as it were, of their lord.
Then those who held lands in chivalry, namely, by performing stated military services, the perfection of whose tenures was homage.
The next were those who held lands by agricultural or rent service, and who performed fealty as a memorial of their attachment and dependence.
The bondmen, or legally speaking, the villeins, concluded the array. These were either attached to the soil or to the person. The former were designated villeins appendant, because following the transfer of the ground, like fixtures of a freehold, their persons, lands, and goods, being the property of the lord; they might be chastised, but not maimed. They paid a fine on the marriage of females; who obtained their freedom on marriage with a free man, but returned again to bondage on surviving their husband. The latter class were called villeins in gross, and differed nothing from the others except in name; the term signifying that they were severed from the soil, and followed the person of the lord. Neither of the classes were permitted to leave the lands of their owner; and on flight or settlement in towns or cities, might be pursued and reclaimed. An action for damages lay against those who harboured them, or who refused to deliver them up,—the law also provided a certain form of writ by which the sheriff was commanded to seize, or obtain them by force. There was one mode, however, of nullifying the right of capture. If the runaway resided on lands of the king, for a year and a day, without claim, he could not be molested for the future; although he was still liable, if caught beyond the precincts of the royal boundary, to be retaken.
The classification had just finished, when a door at the upper end of the hall was thrown open, and the Baron of Sudley entered, attended by his guests, and followed by a page.
Roland de Boteler was a man about six-and-twenty, of a tall, well-proportioned figure, with an open, handsome countenance; but there was a certain boldness or freedom in the laughing glance of his large black eyes, and in the full parted lips, blended with an expression, which though not perhaps exactly haughty or cruel, yet told distinctly enough that he was perfectly regardless of the feelings of his dependants, and considered them merely as conducive to his amusement, or to the display of military power. A doublet of crimson cloth, embroidered with gold, was well chosen to give advantage to his dark complexion. His tunic composed of baudykin, or cloth of gold, was confined round the waist by a girdle, below which it hung in full plaits, nearly to the knee,—thus allowing little of his trunk hose, of rich velvet, corresponding in colour with the doublet, to be seen. Over his dress he wore a surcoat or mantle of fine violet-coloured cloth, fastened across the breast, with a gold clasp, and lined with minever. His hair, according to the fashion introduced by the Black Prince, when he brought over his royal captive, John of France, fell in thick short curls below a cap in colour and material resembling his mantle, and edged with minever; and the lip and chin wore neither mustachio nor beard.
His eye fell proudly for a moment on the assembled yeomen, as he took his seat for the first time as Lord of Sudley; but speedily the ceremony commenced.
The individual first summoned from among the group, was a tall athletic young man of about twenty-five, with a complexion fair but reddened through exposure to the seasons. His hair was light-brown, thick and curly, and there was a good-humoured expression in the clear grey eyes, and in the full, broad, well marked countenance, that would give one the idea of a gay, thoughtless spirit—had it not been for the bold and firm step, and the sudden change of feature from gay to grave as he advanced to the platform, and met unabashed the Baron's scrutiny, at once indicating that the man possessed courage and decision when occasion required these qualities to be called into action.
Stephen Holgrave ascended the marble steps, and proceeded on till he stood at the baron's feet. He then unclasped the belt of his waist, and having his head uncovered, knelt down, and holding up both his hands. De Boteler took them within his own, and the yeoman said in a loud, distinct voice—
"Lord Roland de Boteler, I become your man from this day forward, of life and limb and earthly worship, and unto you shall be true and faithful, and bear to you faith, for the lands that I claim to hold of you, saving the faith that I owe unto our sovereign lord the king."
The baron then bent his head forward and kissed the young man's forehead; and unloosing his hands, Holgrave arose, and bending his head, stood to hear what De Boteler might say.
"You have spoken well, Holgrave," said De Boteler, looking good-humouredly upon the yeoman, "and, truly, if the life of Roland de Boteler is worth any thing, you have earned your reward; and, here, in the presence of this good company, I covenant for myself and my heirs, that you and your heirs, shall hold the land for ever, in chivalry, presenting every feast of the Holy Baptist, a pair of gloves."
"Calverley," said the baron, as Holgrave retired, and while addressing his esquire, his features assumed a peculiar expression: "What a pity it is that a yeoman should reap the reward of a service that should have been performed by you had your health permitted!"
The sarcastic smile that accompanied these words, called up a glow even deeper than envy had done; yet, in a calm voice, Calverley replied, "The land, my lord, though the gift be fair, is of little account in comparison with the honour of the deed; but I may humbly say, that if Thomas Calverley had witnessed his master's peril, he would have been found as valiant in his defence as the yeoman, whose better fortune it was to be present."
"Aye, aye, my good 'squire," said the baron, still in a laughing tone, "your illness, I am told, gave you a most outrageous appetite—doubtless your feeble constitution needed strengthening! Come, come, man, it is but a joke—never look so blank; yet, if we laugh, there is no reason why those knaves should stand grinning there from ear to ear. Bid the senior vassal advance."
The vassals who were to perform homage then prepared to go through the customary form; and an old grey-headed man advanced first from the group to do fealty, and, standing before the baron, pronounced after him the following oath, holding his right hand on the gospels:—
"I, John Hartwell, will be to you, my Lord Roland de Boteler, true and faithful, and bear to you fealty and faith for the lands and tenements which I hold of you; and I will truly do and perform the customs and services that I ought to do to you, so help me God!" The old man then kissed the book, and retired to give place to the next; and so on till all who owed fealty had gone through the ceremony.
Lastly advanced from among the bondmen, or villeins, the oldest servitor, and, holding his right hand over the book, pronounced after De Boteler—
"Hear you, my Lord de Boteler, that I, William Marson, from this day forth unto you shall be true and faithful, and shall owe you fealty for the land which I may hold of you in villeinage, and shall be justified by you both in body and goods, so help me God and all the saints." After kissing the book he withdrew; and the bondmen successively renewed their servile compact.
While the vassals were retiring from the hall, the Lord de Boteler turned to the gentleman near him—
"Sir Robert," said he, "you saw that vassal who first did homage?—to that base-born churl I owe my life. I had engaged hand to hand with a French knight, when my opponent's esquire treacherously attacked me from behind. This was observed by my faithful follower, who struck down the coward with his axe, and, in a moment more, rid me of the knight by a blow that cleft his helmet and entered his brain. He also, by rare chance, I know not how, slew the bearer of that banner yonder, and, when the battle was over, laid it at my feet."
"You have made him a freeman since then?" inquired Sir Robert.
"No; he received his freedom from my father when a boy for some juvenile service—I hardly remember what. Yet I shall never forget the look of the varlet—as if it mattered to such as he whether they were free or not! He stared for an instant at my father—the tears trembling in his eyes, and all the blood in his body, I verily believe, reddening his face, and he looked as if he would have said something; but my father and I did not care to listen, and we turned away. As for the land he has now received, I promised it him on the field of battle, and I could not retract my word."
"No, baron," said Sir Robert; "the man earned it by his bravery: and surely the life of the Lord de Boteler is worth more than a piece of dirty land."
De Boteler, not caring to continue so uninteresting a subject, discoursed upon other matters; and the business of the morning having concluded, he retired with his guests from the hall.
It was about a fortnight after this court day that the fortunate yeoman one morning led his mother, Edith Holgrave, to the cottage he had built on the land that was now his own.
Edith entered the cottage, her hand resting for support upon the shoulder of her son—for she was feeble, though not so much from age as from a weak constitution. As she stepped over the threshold she devoutly crossed herself; and when they stood upon the earthen floor, she withdrew her left hand from the arm that supported her, and, sinking upon her knees, and raising up her eyes, exclaimed—
"May He, in whose hands are the ends of the earth, preserve thee, my son, from evil. And oh! may He bless this house!"
While she spoke, her eyes brightened, and her pale face for a short time glowed with the fervor of her soul.
"Stephen, my son," she continued (as with his aid she arose and seated herself upon a wooden stool), "many days of sorrow have I seen, but this proud day is an atonement for all. My father was a freeman, but thy father was a serf;—but all are alike in His eyes, who oftentimes gives the soul of a churl to him who dwelleth in castles, and quickens the body of the base of birth with a spirit that might honour the wearer of crimson and gold. My husband was a villein, but his soul spurned the bondage; and oftentimes, my son, when you have been an infant in my arms, thy father wished that the free-born breast which nourished you, could infuse freedom into your veins. He did not live to see it; but oh! what a proud day was that for me, when my son no longer bore the name of slave! I had prayed—I had yearned for that day; and it at length repaid me for all the taunts of our neighbours, who reviled me because my spirit was not such as theirs!"
"Come, come, mother," interrupted Holgrave, "don't agitate yourself; there is time to talk of all this by-and-bye."
"And so there is, child—but I am old; and the aged, as well as the young, love to be talking. Stephen, you must bear with your mother."
"Aye, that I will, mother," replied Holgrave, kissing her cheek which had assumed its accustomed paleness; "and ill befall the son that will not!"
Leaving his mother to attend to the visitors who crowded in to drink success to the new proprietor in a cup of ale, Stephen Holgrave stole unobserved out of the cottage towards nightfall.
Passing through Winchcombe, he arrived at a small neat dwelling, in a little sequestered valley, about a quarter of a mile from the town—the tenant of which lowly abode is of no small consequence to our story.
Like Holgrave, Margaret was the offspring of the bond and the free. Her father had been a bondman attached to the manor of Sudley; and her mother a poor friendless orphan, with no patrimony save her freedom. Such marriages were certainly of rare occurrence, because women naturally felt a repugnance to become the mother of serfs; but still, that they did occur, is evidenced by the law of villeinage, ordaining that the children of a bondman and free woman should in no wise partake of their mother's freedom.
It might be, perhaps, that this similarity in their condition had attracted them towards each other; or it might be that, as Margaret had been motherless since her birth, and Edith had nursed and reared her till she grew to womanhood, from the feelings natural to long association, love had grown and strengthened in Stephen's heart. Indeed, there were not many of her class who could have compared with this young woman. Her figure was about the middle height of her sex, and so beautifully proportioned, that even the close kerchief and russet gown could not entirely conceal the symmetrical formation of the broad white shoulders, the swelling bust, and the slender waist. Plain braids of hair of the darkest shade, and arched brows of the same hue, gave an added whiteness to a forehead smooth and high; and her full intelligent eyes, with a fringe as dark as her hair, were of a clear deep blue. The feminine occupation of a sempstress had preserved the delicacy of her complexion, and had left a soft flickering blush playing on her cheek. Such was Margaret the beloved—the betrothed—whom Holgrave was now hastening to invite, with all the simple eloquence of honest love, to become the bride of his bosom—the mistress of his home.
The duskiness of the twilight hour was lightened by the broad beams of an autumn moon; and as the moonlight, streaming full upon the thatch, revealed distinctly the little cot that held his treasure, all the high thoughts of freedom and independence, all the wandering speculative dreamings that come and go in the heart of man, gave place, for a season, to one engrossing feeling. Margaret was not this evening, as she was wont to be, sitting outside the cottage door awaiting his approach. The door was partly opened—he entered—and beheld a man kneeling before her, and holding one of her hands within his own!
"Stephen Holgrave!" cried the devotee, jumping up, "what brings you here at such an hour?"
"What brings me, Calverley!" replied Holgrave, furiously, "who are you, to ask such a question? What brings you here?"
"My own will, Stephen Holgrave," answered Calverley in a calm tone; "and mark you—this maiden has no right to plight her troth except with her lord's consent. She is Lord de Boteler's bondwoman, and dares not marry without his leave—which will never be given to wed with you."
"You talk boldly, sir, of my lord's intents," answered the yeoman sulkily.
"I speak but the truth," replied Calverley. "You have been rewarded well for the deed you did; and think not that your braggart speech will win my lord. This maid is no meet wife for such as you. My lord has offered me fair lands and her freedom if I choose to wed her: and though many a free dowered maid would smile upon the suit of Thomas Calverley, yet have I come to offer wedlock to Margaret."
"Margaret!" said Holgrave fiercely, "can this be true? answer me! Has Calverley spoken of marriage to you?—why do you not answer? Have I loved a false one?"
"No, Stephen," replied Margaret, in a low trembling voice.
Holgrave's mind was relieved as Margaret spoke, for he had confidence in her truth. He knew, however, that Calverley stood high in the favour of De Boteler, and he determined not to trust himself with further words.
"Margaret," said Calverley suddenly, "I leave Sudley Castle on the morrow to attend my lord to London. At my return I shall expect that this silence be changed into language befitting the chosen bride of the Baron de Boteler's esquire. Remember you are not yet free!—and now, Stephen Holgrave, I leave not this cottage till you depart. The maiden is my lord's nief, the cottage is his, and here I am privileged—not you."
Fierce retorts and bitter revilings were on Holgrave's tongue; but the sanctuary of a maiden's home was no place for contention. He knew that Calverley did possess the power he vaunted; and, without uttering a word, he crossed the threshold, and stood on the sod just beyond the door.
Calverley paused a moment gazing on the blanched beauty of the agitated girl, her cheek looking more pale from the moonlight that fell upon it; and then, in the soft insinuating tone he knew so well how to assume—
"Forgive me, Margaret," said he, "for what I have said. But oh," he continued, taking her hand, and pressing it passionately to his bosom, "You know not how much I love you!—Come, sir, will you walk?" Then kissing the damsel's hand he relinquished it; and Margaret, with streaming eyes and a throbbing heart, watched till the two receding figures were lost in the distance.
Holgrave and Calverley pursued their path in sullen silence. There were about a dozen paces between them, but neither were one foot in advance of the other. On they went through Winchcombe and along the road, till they came to where a footpath from the left intersected the highway. Here they both, as if by mutual agreement, made a sudden pause, and stood doggedly eyeing each other. At considerably less than a quarter of a mile to the right was Sudley Castle; and at nearly the same distance to the left was Holgrave's new abode. After the lapse of several minutes, Calverley leaped across a running ditch to the right; and Holgrave, having thus far conquered, turned to the left on his homeward path.
The reader will, perhaps, feel some surprise that an esquire of the rich and powerful Lord de Boteler should be thus competing with the yeoman for the hand of a portionless humble nief; but it is necessary to observe, in the first place, that in the fifteenth century esquires were by no means of the consideration they had enjoyed a century before. Some nobles, indeed, who were upholders of the ancient system, still regarded an esquire as but a degree removed from a knight, but these were merely exceptions;—the general rule, at the period we are speaking of, was to consider an esquire simply as a principal attendant, without the least claim to any distinction beyond. Such a state of things accorded well with the temper of De Boteler;—he could scarcely have endured the equality, which, in some measure, formerly subsisted between the esquire and his lord. With him the equal might be familiar, but the inferior must be submissive; and it was, perhaps, the humility of Calverley's deportment that alone had raised him to the situation he now held. Calverley, besides, had none of the requisites of respectability which would have entitled him to take a stand among a class such as esquires had formerly been.
About ten years before the commencement of our tale, a pale emaciated youth presented himself one morning at Sudley Castle, desiring the hospitality that was never denied to the stranger. Over his dress, which was of the coarse monks' cloth then generally worn by the religious, he wore a tattered cloak of the dark russet peculiar to the peasant. That day he was fed, and that night lodged at the castle; and the next morning, as he stood in a corner of the court-yard, apparently lost in reflection as to the course he should next adopt, the young Roland de Boteler, then a fine boy of fifteen, emerged from the stone arch-way of the stable mounted on a spirited charger. The glow on his cheek, the brightness of his eyes, and the youthful animation playing on his face, and ringing in the joyous tones of his voice, seemed to make the solitary dejected being, who looked as if he could claim neither kindred nor home, appear even more care-worn and friendless. The youth gazed at the young De Boteler, and ran after him as he rode through the gateway followed by two attendants.
He then wandered about with a look of still deeper despondence, till the trampling of the returning horses sent a transient tinge across his cheek. He followed Roland's attendants, and again entered the court-yard. By some chance, as the young rider was alighting, his eye fell on the dejected stranger, who was standing at a little distance fixing an anxious gaze upon the heir.
"Who is that sickly-looking carle, Ralph?" enquired De Boteler.
The attendant did not know. The youth interpreted the meaning of Roland's glance, and approached, and, with a humble yet not ungraceful obeisance—
"Noble young lord," said he, "may a wanderer crave leave to abide for a time in this castle?"
"You have my leave," replied the boy in the consequential tone that youth generally assumes when conferring a favour. "Indeed, you don't look very fit to wander farther;—Ralph, see that this knave is attended to."
The stranger was now privileged to remain, and a week's rest and good cheer considerably improved his appearance. He did not presume, however, to approach the part of the castle inhabited by the owners; but never did the young Roland enter the court-yard, or walk abroad, but the silent homage of the grateful stranger greeted him.
This strange youth was Thomas Calverley, and, by the end of a month, Roland's eyes as instinctively sought for him when he needed an attendant, as if he had been a regular domestic.
It was good policy in Calverley to propitiate the young De Boteler; for had he presented himself to his father, although for a space he might have been fed, he could never have presumed to obtrude himself upon his notice.
There was a humility in the stranger which pleased Roland's imperious temper; he had granted the permission by which he abided in the castle, and he seemed to feel a kind of interest in his protegÉ; and the envy of his attendants was often excited by their young lord beckoning to Calverley to assist him to mount, or alight, or do him any other little service. Calverley began now to be considered as a kind of inmate in the castle, and various were the whispered tales that went about respecting him. At length it was discovered that he was a scholar—that is, he could read and write; and the circumstance, though it abated nothing of the whisperings of idle curiosity, entirely silenced the taunts he had been compelled to endure. If still disliked, yet was he treated with some respect; for none of the unlettered domestics would have presumed to speak rudely to one so far above them in intellectual attainments.
Such a discovery could not long remain a secret;—the tale reached the ears of young De Boteler, and, already prepossessed in his favour, it was but a natural consequence that Calverley should rise from being first an assistant, to be the steward, the page, and, at length, the esquire to the heir to the barony of Sudley. But the progress of his fortunes did but add to the malevolence of the detractor and the tale-bearer; theft, sacrilege, and even murder were hinted at as probable causes for a youth, who evidently did not belong to the vulgar, being thus a friendless outcast. But the most charitable surmise was, that he was the offspring of the unhallowed love of some dame or damsel who had reared him in privacy, and had destined him for the church; and that either upon the death of his protectress, or through some fault, he had been expelled from his home. Calverley had a distant authoritative manner towards his equals and inferiors, which, despite every effort, checked inquisitiveness; and all the information he ever gave was, that he was the son of a respectable artizan of the city of London, whom his father's death had left friendless. Whether this statement was correct or not, could never be discovered. Calverley was never known to allude to aught that happened in the years previous to his becoming an inmate of the castle: what little he had said was merely in reply to direct questions. It would seem, then, that he stood alone in the world, and such a situation is by no means enviable; and although duplicity, selfishness and tyranny, formed the principal traits in his character; and though independently of tyranny and selfishness, his mind instinctively shrunk from any contact, save that of necessity, with those beneath him, yet had he gazed upon the growing beauty of Margaret till a love pure and deep—a love in which was concentrated all the slumbering affections, had risen and expanded in his breast, until it had, as it were, become a part of his being.
Margaret had a brother—a monk in the abbey at Winchcombe, to whose care she was indebted for the instructions which had made her a skilful embroidress, and still more for the precautions which had preserved her opening beauty from the gaze of the self-willed Roland de Boteler. Though the daughter of a bondman, her services had never been demanded; and father John had ultimately removed her from Edith's roof to the little cottage already mentioned.
Calverley had intended to see Margaret again before leaving the castle; but De Boteler, having changed the hour he had appointed, there was not a moment to spare from the necessary arrangements. Never before had Calverley's assumed equanimity of temper been so severely tried; the patient attention with which he listened, and the prompt assiduity with which he executed a thousand trifling commands—although, from the force with which he bit his underlip, he was frequently compelled to wipe away the blood from his mouth—shewed the absolute control he had acquired over his feelings—at least so far as the exterior was concerned.
The chapel bell rang for mass, at which Father John, the brother of Margaret, officiated, in consequence of the sudden illness of the resident chaplain. Calverley waited till the service was concluded; and then, first pausing a few minutes to allow the monk to recite the office, he unclosed the door of the sacristy and entered. Father John was sitting with a book in his hand, and he still wore the white surplice.
The ecclesiastic, on whose privacy Calverley had thus intruded, was a man about thirty-five, of a tall muscular figure, with thick dark hair encircling his tonsure, a thin visage, and an aquiline nose. There was piety and meekness in the high pale forehead; and in the whole countenance, when the eyes were cast down, or when their light was partly shaded by the lids and the projecting brows: but when the lids were raised, and the large, deeply-set eyes flashed full upon the object of his scrutiny, there was a proud—a searching expression in the glance which had often made the obdurate sinner tremble, and which never failed to awe presumption and extort respect. Such was the man whom Calverley was about to address; and from whose quiet, unassuming demeanour at this moment, a stranger would have augured little opposition to any reasonable proposal that might be suggested: but Calverley well knew the character of the monk, and there was a kind of hesitation in his voice as he said—
"Good morrow, holy father."
The monk silently bent his head.
"My Lord de Boteler," resumed Calverley, "will, in a few minutes, depart hence. I attend him; but before I go, I would fain desire your counsel."
"Speak on, my son," said the monk in a full deep voice, as Calverley paused.
"Father John, you have a sister——"
"What of her?" asked the monk, looking inquiringly on the esquire.
"I love her!" replied Calverley, his hesitation giving place to an impassioned earnestness.—"Why look you so much astonished? Has she not beauty, and have I not watched the growth of that beauty from the interesting loveliness of a child, to the full and fascinating charms of a woman. Father John, you have never loved—you cannot tell the conflict that is within my heart."
"But," asked the monk, "have you spoken to Margaret?"
"Last evening I went to give her freedom and to ask her love, when Stephen Holgrave——"
"Did the baron empower you to free her?" eagerly asked the monk.
"Yes,—but Holgrave entered and——"
"She is still a nief?"
"Yes;—when that knave Holgrave entered, I could not speak of what was burning in my breast."
"Stephen Holgrave is not a knave," returned the monk. "He is an honest man, and Margaret is betrothed to him."
There was a momentary conflict in Calverley's breast as the monk spoke;—there was a shade across his brow, and a slight tremor on his lip, but he conquered the emotion—love triumphed, and, in a soft imploring tone, he said—
"Think you, father, Holgrave loves her as I do; or think you his rude untutored speech will accord well with so gentle a creature. Oh! father John, be you my friend. Bid her forget the man who is unworthy of her! She will listen to you—she will be guided by you—you are the only kinsman she can claim;—and surely even you must wish rather to see your sister attended almost as a mistress in this castle, than the harassed wife of a laborious yeoman. Oh! if you win her to my arms, I here swear to you, that not even your own heart could ask for more gentle care than she will receive from me. My happiness centres in her—to love her, to cherish her—to see the smile of joy for ever on her lips."
At this moment a knock was heard at the door. Calverley opened it, and De Boteler's page appeared to say, that if Thomas Calverley had wanted the aid of the priest, he should have applied sooner, for his lord was now waiting for him.
"Tell my lord," said Calverley, "I will attend him instantly."
The page withdrew, and Calverley, turning to the monk, asked hastily if he might reckon on his friendship.
"Thomas Calverley," replied John, "I believe you do love my sister, but I cannot force her inclinations;—I will not even strive to bias her mind; there is a sympathy in hearts predestined to unite, which attracts them towards each other;—if that secret sympathy exist not between you, ye are not destined to become as one."
"Then you will not seek to win her to my love," asked Calverley, impatiently.
"I will tell her," returned the monk, "that a love so devoted, so disinterested, deserves in return an affection as pure: but if, after all this, her heart still prefers the yeoman Holgrave, I will say no more."
"And, think you, I shall endure rejection without an effort?"
"It is now too late! Why, if your happiness rested upon her, did you defer declaring your love till the moment when she had promised to become the wife of another? Know you not, Thomas Calverley, that even as the rays of the bright sun dissolve the glittering whiteness of the winter snow, just so do kind words and patient love enkindle warm feelings in the bosom of the coldest virgin, and awaken sympathies in her heart that else might for ever unconsciously have slumbered."
"You talk strange language," replied Calverley in a voice that had lost all its assumed gentleness. "But—remember—I have not sought your sister's love to be thus baffled—remember!—--" Calverley was here interrupted by a quick knocking at the door.
"Remember, father John," he continued, pausing ere he unclosed the door, and speaking rapidly, "that mine is not the love of a boy—that Thomas Calverley is not one whom it is safe to trifle with—that Margaret is a bondwoman—and that her freedom is in my hands—remember!"
He repeated the last word in a tone of menace, and with a look that seemed to dare the monk to sanction the union of his sister with Holgrave. He opened the door, but, ere he passed through, his eye caught an expression of proud contempt flashing in the dark hazel eyes, and curving in the half-smiling lip of the man he had thus defied;—and prudence whispered, that he had not properly estimated the character of the priest.
CHAPTER II.
It was on a lovely October morning that the travellers returned to Sudley. The whole region of the sky was of so clear and deep a blue, that it seemed as if the pure cold breath of the morning had driven every cloud and vapour far from the skies of merry England. The sun shone brightly upon the yet green meadows, upon the hedges, and upon the trees with their broad branches, and their scanty brown leaves: the birds, rejoicing in the sun-light, were singing hymns of grateful melody, as they darted among the branches, or sailed and curved in the blue ether. Our fair Margaret, sympathizing in the gladness of nature, could almost have sung in concert with the feathered choir, as she tripped along with the light step that indicates a cheerful heart. She had just reached that point of the Winchcombe road where the green lane, turning to the left, led directly to her home, when, catching a glimpse of an approaching figure, she raised her eyes and beheld—Calverley.
Whether Calverley's quick glance had caught the marriage ring upon her uncovered finger, or, whether the basket on her arm, together with the circumstance of her being abroad at an hour that used to be devoted to her needle, told him she was no longer a thing to be thought of with hope, or looked on with love, it is difficult to say; but he stood suddenly still, and his cheeks and lips became pale—almost livid. Margaret turned and walked hastily down the path, her pallid cheek, and trembling limbs, alone telling that she had recognized Calverley. He stood silently gazing after her, till a winding in the path, shut her out from his view. He then walked rapidly on to Winchcombe, entered the first vintner's he came to, and, to the surprise of the host, who knew Master Calverley to be a sober man, called for a measure of wine, drank it off at a draught, and throwing down the money, departed as abruptly as he came. In a few minutes after, he entered the room of old Luke, the steward Sudley Castle.
"Master Luke," said he, with an assumed carelessness of manner, "you are rather chary of my lord's wine—you have not yet offered me the cup of welcome."
"I ask your pardon, Calverley," replied the steward, "but you so seldom care for wine, that one hardly thinks of offering it to you: here, however, is a cup that will do your heart good."
Calverley took the cup, and drinking it off with as much zest as if he had not already tasted wine that morning—"Any news?" said he, "master Luke—any news?"
"Not much, 'squire.—Stephen Holgrave, indeed, has got married, and, I'll warrant me, there will be a fine to do about it; for he has married a nief, and you know my lord is very particular about these matters:—he told me, no longer ago than just before he went away this last time, that he would not abate a jot of his due, in the marriages or services of his bond-folk. To be sure the lass is sister of the monk who now shrieves the castle, and, as my lord thinks much of Holgrave, it may all blow over."
"Who married them?" asked Calverley, in a stifled voice.
"Oh! Father John, to be sure—nobody else—"
"Did he!" said Calverley, in a voice that made the old man start; but, before the astonished steward could reply, he burst from the room. None of the inmates of the castle saw him again during the remainder of that day.
When he appeared before De Boteler the next morning, such a change had twenty hours of mental suffering produced in his countenance, that his lord, struck by the alteration, inquired if he were ill. Calverley said something about a fall that had partly stunned him, but assured De Boteler he was now perfectly well. While he yet spoke, the steward entered, to say that Stephen Holgrave had come to crave his lordship's pardon for marrying a nief without leave, and also to pay the merchet.
"Married a nief! has he?" returned De Boteler. "By my faith I thought the kern had too proud a stomach to wed a nief. I thought he had no such love for villeinage. I do not like those intermarriages. Were free maidens so scarce that this Holgrave could not find a wife among them?"
Calverley slightly coloured as De Boteler spoke; he knew his lord was no admirer of people stepping in the least out of their way, and it seemed probable it was to him he alluded, when he expressed his dislike of unequal marriages.
"Why, my lord," said Luke, in reply to De Boteler's interrogatory, "there is hardly a free maiden in the parish that would not have been glad of Stephen; but, though I have never seen her, I am told this wife of his is the comeliest damsel between this and Winchcombe: and, besides, she is not like a common nief—and then, my lord, she is the sister of the good monk John."
"Father John's sister, is she?" asked the baron. "Why then my good esquire here, has more to do with the matter than I—but however, Luke, go tell Holgrave I cannot attend to him now"—"Why, Calverley," continued De Boteler, when the steward had withdrawn. "Is not this the maiden you spoke to me about? Do not turn so pale man, but answer me."
"Yes, my lord," replied Calverley.
"And did this Holgrave dare to wed a nief of mine!—when I had already disposed of her freedom and her hand?"
"Yes, my lord."
"By my faith, the knave is bold to thwart me thus."
"My lord," said Calverley; "the evening before you left the castle for London, I went to the maiden's cottage to ask her hand; Holgrave immediately came in, and I then distinctly told him that your lordship had given me the maiden's freedom, and also had consented that I should wed her, and yet, you see what regard he has paid to your will!"
"Yes, this is the gratitude of these base-born vassals; but, Calverley, what priest presumed to wed them?"
"The monk John."
"What! the wife's brother! He who has attended the chapel since the death of the late good father?"
"Yes, my lord."
"By Heavens! they seem all conspiring to set my will at nought!—he, at least should have better known what was due to the lord of this castle."
"The monk," replied Calverley, "was not ignorant of my lord's will: and it vexes me, not on my own account, for it was merely a passing fancy; but it vexes me, that this proud, stubborn, priest, while he is eating of your bread, and drinking of your cup, should, in the teeth of your commands, do that which I could swear no other priest would have dared to do; it ill becomes him to preach obedience who——"
"True, true, I will see to him—he shall answer for what he has done—but now Calverley, tell me honestly, for you are not wont to be familiar even with your fellows—tell me what you saw in this maiden that could make you wish to rival Stephen Holgrave?"
"Her beauty, my lord."
"What! is she so fair?"
"My lord, I have seldom looked upon one so fair. In my judgment she was the loveliest I ever saw in these parts."
"Say you so!" returned De Boteler. "I should like to see this boasted beauty, even if it were to convince me of your taste in these matters. Calverley, order one of the varlets to go to Holgrave, and desire him to come to the castle directly—and, mind you, he brings his wife with him."
Calverley could scarcely repress a smile of exultation as the baron delivered this command, but composing his countenance to its general calm expression, he bowed to De Boteler, and immediately withdrew.
Holgrave, when the henchman delivered the baron's command, hesitated, and looked angrily to Margaret.
"What ails thee, my son," asked Edith. "Is she not thy wife?—and can the baron break asunder the bonds that bind ye?—or dost thou fear that Margaret's face may please him—and that he would strive to take from the man who saved his life in the battle, the wife of his bosom! Shame! shame!"
"No, no, mother," returned Holgrave, musing; "yet I would rather she should not go to the castle—I have seen more of the baron than you: and, besides, this Calverley——"
Holgrave, however, considering it better not to irritate the baron by a refusal, at length consented that Margaret should accompany him, and they quitted the cottage together.
"Come hither, Holgrave," said De Boteler, as Holgrave entered. "Is this your wife?"
"Yes, my lord," replied the yeoman, with a humble reverence.
"Look up, pretty one," said De Boteler to Margaret!—"Now, by my faith Holgrave, I commend your choice. I wonder not that such a prize was contended for. Margaret,—I believe that is your name? Look up! and tell me in what secret place you grew into such beauty?"
Margaret raised her bright blue eyes, that had been as yet hidden by the long dark lashes, and the downcast lids; but, meeting the bold fixed gaze of the baron, they were instantly withdrawn, and the deep blush of one unaccustomed to the eyes of strangers, suffused her cheek and brow, and even her neck.
"Were you reared on this barony, Margaret?" resumed the baron.
"Yes, my lord," answered Margaret, modestly, raising her eyes: "my mother was a freeman's daughter; my father was a bondman on this land: they died when I was but a child; and Edith Holgrave reared me till I grew up a girl and could work for myself—and then——"
"You thought you could not do better than wed her son through gratitude. That was well—and so this good squire of ours could not expect to find much favour in your eyes. But, do you not know, you should not have wedded without my consent?"
"My lord," answered Holgrave; "I beg your pardon; but I thought your lordship wouldn't think much of the marriage, as your lordship was not at the castle, and I did not know when you would return. Here is the merchet, my lord, and I hope you will forgive me for not awaiting your return."
"I suppose I must, for there is no helping it now; and by my faith, it is well you did not let me see that pretty face before you were wedded,—but take back the merchet," he continued, waving back with his hand, the money which Holgrave was presenting. "Keep it. An orphan bride seldom comes rich; and here is a trifle to add to it, as a token that De Boteler prizes beauty—even though it be that of a bondwoman!" As he spoke, he held a broad piece of gold towards Holgrave.
"Not so, my lord," said Holgrave, suffering the coin to remain between De Boteler's fingers.—"Not so my lord. I take back the merchet with many thanks, but I crave your pardon for not taking your gold. I have no need of gold—I did not wed Margaret for dower—and with your lordship's leave I pray you excuse my taking it."
"As you please, unthankful kern," replied the baron, haughtily. "De Boteler forces his gifts upon no one—here," he continued, throwing the piece to an attendant, who stood behind his chair—"you will not refuse it." He then turned round to the table and commenced a game at cards, without further noticing Holgrave. The yeoman stood a few minutes awaiting the baron's pleasure, but perceiving he did not heed him, presently took Margaret's hand, and making a low obeisance, retired.
When the game was finished, De Boteler threw down the cards.
"Calverley," said he, "think you that this Margaret loves her husband?" A slight shade passed over Calverley's cheek as he answered,
"I should hardly think so, my lord. She is—her temper is very gentle—Holgrave is passionate, and rude, and—"
"It is a pity she should be the wife of such a carle"—mused his lord.
That afternoon De Boteler, throwing a plain dark cloak over his rich dress, left the castle, took the path that led to Holgrave's abode, and raising the latch, entered the cottage.
Margaret was sitting near the window at needle-work, and Edith in her high-backed arm-chair, was knitting in the chimney-corner. Margaret blushing deeply, started from her seat as her eyes so unexpectedly encountered those of the baron.
"Keep your seat, pretty dame," said De Boteler. "That is a stout silk. For whom are you working these bright colours?"
"It is a stole for my brother, the monk, my lord," replied Margaret in a tremulous voice.
"Your work is so beautiful" returned De Boteler, looking at the silk, "that I wish you could find time to embroider a tabard for me."
"My lord," replied Edith, rising from her seat and stepping forward a few paces, "Margaret Holgrave has little leisure from attending to the household of her husband. There are abundance of skilful sempstresses; and surely the Baron de Boteler would not require this young woman to neglect the duty she has taken upon herself."
De Boteler looked at Edith an instant with a frown, as if about to answer fiercely; but after a moment he inquired calmly,
"Does your son find his farm answer, dame?"
"Yes, my lord, with many thanks to the donor. Stephen has all he can wish for in this farm."
"That is well," returned De Boteler; and then, after a momentary but earnest gaze at Margaret, he turned away and left the cottage.
Holgrave entered soon after the baron's departure. Margaret strove to meet him with a smile; but it was not the sunny glow, that usually greeted his return. He detected the effort; nay, as he bent down to kiss her cheek, he saw that she trembled.
"What ails you, Margaret?" inquired he tenderly. "You are not well?"
"O yes," replied Margaret. "I am perfectly well, but—I have been a little frightened."
"By whom? Calverley?"
"No; his master."
"The baron! Surely Margaret—"
"Oh! Stephen," said Margaret, alarmed at the sudden fierceness his countenance assumed. "Indeed he said no harm. Did he, mother?"
"No," replied Edith, "and if he had, Stephen, your wife knew how to answer him as befitting a virtuous woman."
"It was well," replied Holgrave; "I am a freeman, and may go where I list, and not King Edward himself shall insult a freeman's wife!—but do not weep, Margaret, I am not angered with you."
That evening De Boteler spoke little during supper, and while drinking the second cup after the repast, he desired the page who stood behind his chair, to order the monk John to attend him directly. Father John presently appeared, and approaching the foot of the table, made a low obeisance, and then with his hands crossed on his bosom, and with eyes cast down, awaited till De Boteler should address him. De Boteler looked for a moment earnestly at the monk, ere in a stern voice he said:
"Father John, know you not why I have sent for you?"
"My lord, I await your pleasure," replied the monk submissively.
"Await my pleasure!" replied the baron scornfully. "Did you consider my pleasure, monk, when you presumed to set at nought my prerogatives?"
"My lord," answered the monk, still mildly, though in a firmer tone than he had before spoken,
"My Lord de Boteler, servants must obey their masters."
"Hypocrite!" interrupted the baron, in a voice that resounded through the hall. "Did you consider the obedience due to a master when you presumed to dispose of a bondwoman of mine, without my sanction—nay, even in direct opposition to my will? Answer me. Did you consider the order of dependence then?"
"Baron of Sudley," replied the monk, in a voice which though scarcely elevated above the ordinary pitch of colloquial discourse, was nevertheless in that clear distinct tone which is heard at a considerable distance—"Baron of Sudley, I am no hypocrite, neither have I forgotten to render to CÆsar the things that are CÆsar's. If I pronounced the nuptial benediction over a bondwoman and a freeman without your lordship having consented, it was because you had first violated the trust reposed in you. You are a master to command obedience, but only in things that are not sinful; yet would you sinfully have compelled a maiden to swear at the holy altar of God to love and honour a man whom her soul abhorred. It was because you would have done this, that I, as the only being besides your lordship who could—"
"Insolent priest!" interrupted De Boteler, "do you dare to justify what you have done? Now, by my faith, if you had with proper humility acknowledged your fault and sued for pardon—pardon you should have had. But now, you leave this castle instantly. I will teach you that De Boteler will yet be master of his own house, and his own vassals. And here I swear (and the baron of Sudley uttered an imprecation) that, for your meddling knavery, no priest or monk shall ever again abide here. If the varlets want to shrieve, they can go to the Abbey; and if they want to hear mass, a priest can come from Winchcombe. But never shall another of your meddling fraternity abide at Sudley while Roland de Boteler is its lord."
"Calverley," he continued, turning to the squire, who stood at a distance, enjoying the mortification of the monk—"Calverley, see that the priest quits the castle—remember—instantly!"
The monk, for the first time, fully raised his eyes, and casting upon the baron a momentary glance of reproach, turned, without speaking, from the table. He walked on a few steps towards the door, and then stopping suddenly, as if recollecting that Calverley had orders to see him depart, he turned round, and looking upon the squire, who was almost at his side, he said in a stern voice, and with a frowning brow, "I go in obedience to your master; but even obedience to your master is not to be enforced upon a servant of the Lord by such as you. Of my own will I go forth; but not one step further do I proceed till you retire!"
There was that in the voice and look of the monk, which made Calverley involuntarily shrink; and receiving at the same instant a glance from De Boteler, he withdrew to the upper end of the room; and father John, with a dignified step, passed on through the hall, and across the court-yard, and giving a blessing to the guard at the principal gate, who bent his knee to receive it, he went forth, having first shaken the dust from his sandals.
The next morning, when his lord had released him from attendance, Calverley, little satisfied with the progress of his vengeance, left the castle, and walked on to meditate alone more uninterruptedly on the canker-worm within.
He had not proceeded far along his path, when the heavy tread of a man on the rustling leaves, caused him to raise his eyes, and he saw a short, thickset figure, in grey woollen hose, and a vest of coarse medley cloth reaching no higher than the collar-bone, hastening onward. A gleam of hope lighted Calverley's face as he observed this man.
"What is the matter this morning, Byles?" said he, "you look troubled."
Byles looked at Calverley for an instant, perfectly astonished at his condescension.
"Troubled!" replied he—"no wonder. My farm is bad; and—"
"It is a poor farm," said Calverley hastily; "but there are many fine farms that have lately reverted to my lord in default of heirs, or as forfeitures, that must soon be given away or sold."
"But, Master Calverley, what is that to me?" said Byles, looking with some surprise at the squire—"you know I am a friendless man, and have not wherewithal to pay the fine the steward would demand for the land. No, no, John Byles is going fast down the hill."
"Don't despair, Byles—there is Holgrave—he was once poorer than you—take heart, some lucky chance may lift you up the hill again. I dare say this base-born I have named thinks himself better now than the free-born honest man."
"Aye, that he does, squire: to be sure he doesn't say any thing; but then he thinks the more; and, besides, he never comes into the ale-house when his work is done, to take a cheering draught like other men. No, no, he is too proud for that; but home he goes, and whatever he drinks he drinks at his own fireside."
For a moment Calverley's brow contracted; but striving to look interested for the man he wished to conciliate, he replied, "Yes, Byles, it is a pity that a good-hearted yeoman like you should not prosper as well as a mere mushroom. Now, Byles, I know you are a discreet man, and I will tell you a piece of news that nobody about the barony has yet heard. My lord is going to be married—yes, Byles, he leaves Sudley in a few days, and goes again to London, and he will shortly return with a fair and noble mistress for the castle."
"We shall have fine doings then," said Byles, in an animated tone, and with a cheerful countenance; not that the news was of particular moment to him, but people love to be told news; and, besides, the esquire's increasing familiarity was not a little flattering.
"Oh yes," replied Calverley; "there will be fine feasting, and I will see, Byles, that you do not lack the best. Who knows but your dame may yet nurse the heir of this noble house."
"I am afraid not,—many thanks to you; John Byles is not thought enough of in this barony—no, it is more likely Holgrave's wife, if she has any children, will have the nursing."
"What! Margaret Holgrave?—never"—said Calverley, with such a look and tone, that the yeoman started, and felt convinced, that what he had heard whispered about the esquire's liking for Margaret was true: "but, however," added Calverley, in a moment recovering his self-possession, "do not despair, Byles. My lord tells me I shall replace old Luke as steward in a few months, and if I do, there is not a vassal I should be more inclined to favour than you; for I see, Byles, there is little chance of your doing good unless you have a friend; for you are known to the baron as an idle fellow, and not over-scrupulous of telling a falsehood. Nay, my man, don't start, I tell you the truth."
"Well, but squire, how could the baron hear of this?"
"Perhaps Stephen Holgrave could answer——"
"The base-born kern," replied Byles, fiercely; "he shall answer——"
"I don't say he told the Baron," said Calverley; "but I believe Holgrave loves to make every body look worse than himself; and to be plain with you, John Byles, I love him not."
"No, sir, I believe you have little reason to love him any more than other people—"
"Byles," interrupted Calverley, speaking rapidly, "you are poor—you are in arrear with your rent; a distress will be levied, and then what will become of you—of your wife and the little one? Listen to me! I will give you money to keep a house over your head; and when I am steward, you shall have the first farm at my lord's disposal, if you will only aid me in my revenge! Revenge!" he repeated, vehemently—"but you hesitate—you refuse."
"Nay, nay, squire, I don't refuse: your offer is too tempting for a man in my situation to refuse; but you know—"
"Well," interrupted Calverley, with a contemptuous smile—"well, well, Byles, I see you prefer a jail for yourself, and beggary and starvation for your wife and child. Aye—perhaps to ask bread from Stephen Holgrave."
"Ask bread from him!—of the man who crows over us all, and who has told my lord that I am a liar! No, no, I would sooner die first. I thank you for your kindness, Master Calverley, and I will do any thing short of——"
"Oh, you need not pause," interrupted Calverley, "I do not want you to do him any bodily harm."
"Don't you?—oh! well, then, John Byles is yours," said he, with a brightening countenance: "for you see I don't mind saying any thing against such a fellow as he."
"Yes, Byles, and especially since you will not be asked to say it for nothing," returned Calverley with a slight sarcastic smile; but immediately assuming a more earnest and friendly tone, he continued, "I have promised you gold, and gold you shall have. I will befriend you to the utmost of my power, and you know my influence is not small at the castle; but you must swear to be faithful. Here," said he, stooping down and taking up a rotten branch that lay at his feet, and, breaking it in two, he placed it in the form of a cross. "Here, Byles, swear by this cross to be faithful." Byles hesitated for an instant, and then, in rather a tremulous voice, swore to earn faithfully his wages of sin.
It was nearly four months subsequent to the departure of De Boteler from the castle, ere Byles proceeded to earn the gold which had, in some measure, set him to rights with the world. It was about the middle of March;—the morning had risen gloomily, and, from a dense mass of clouds, a slow heavy rain continued to pour during the whole of the day. "Sam," said Byles to a servitor, a faithful stupid creature, with just sufficient intellect to comprehend and obey the commands of his master.—"Sam, if this rain continues we must go to work to-night?"
The rain did continue, and, after Byles had supped, he sat at the fire for two or three hours, and scarcely spoke. His countenance was troubled;—the deed he had promised to do—which he had contemplated with almost indifference, was now about to be accomplished; and he felt how different it is to dwell upon the commission of a thing, and actually to do it. Frequent draughts of ale, however, in some measure restored the tone of his nerves; and, as the evening wore away, he rose from the fire, and, opening the door, looked out at the weather. A thick drizzling rain still fell; the moon was at the full; and though the heavy clouds precluded the possibility of her gladdening the earth, yet even the heavy clouds could not entirely obscure her light;—there was a radiance spread over the heavens which, though wanting the brightness of moonlight, was nevertheless equal and shadowless.
"'Tis a capital night," said Byles, as he looked up at the sky in a tone of soliloquy; "I could not have wished for a better—just light enough to see what we are about, and not enough to tell tales. Sam," continued he, closing the door and sitting again at the fire, "bring me the shafts and let me look if the bow is in order."
The serving man took from a concealed place a couple of arrows, and a stout yew-tree bow, and handed them to his master.
"You did well, Sam, in getting these shafts from Holgrave. You put the quiver up safe?—there is no fear of his missing them?"
"I should think not, master. It would be hard if he missed two out of four-and-twenty."
"Mary," said Byles, addressing his wife, "put something over the casement, lest if, by chance, any body should be abroad, they may see that we are up:—and now, bring me the masks. Never fear, Mary, nobody is out such a night as this. Now Sam," he continued, "fetch the hand-barrow and let us away."
Mary began to tremble;—she caught her husband by the arm, and said something in a low and tremulous voice. As the fire revealed her face, Byles started at the strange paleness it exhibited.
"What ails you, Mary?" said he. "Have you not all along urged me to this? and now, after taking Calverley's gold, and spending it, and signing the bond, you want me to stand still! No, no, I must go to the Chase this night, were I sure to be hung to-morrow morning!" He then pushed her away with some violence, and the servitor preceding him, he passed over the threshold and closed the door.
They entered the Chase—and the wind, as it came in sudden gusts through the branches of the tall trees, gave an air of deeper gloom to the night. Frequently they paused and listened, as if fearful of being discovered; and then, when convinced that no human being was near, hastened on to the spot where the deer usually herded at night. A deep ravine, ten or twelve feet in breadth, intersected the Chase at a few paces from the inclosure; and, about a stone's throw to the right of this inclosure, stood the dwelling of the keeper.
"Sam," said Byles, "is not that a light in the cottage?"
"Yes, master, but I think they are in bed, and may be have forgotten to rake the ashes over the fire."
"It may be so," answered Byles, doubtfully; "keep in the shade of the trees, and let us stop awhile—I do not much like this light." They watched the cottage anxiously, and, in about twenty minutes, the light disappeared.
"Sam," said Byles, "I believe you were right—that last faint flicker, I doubt not, came from the dying embers. Creep softly to the inclosure, and gently rustle the brushwood. Don't let them see you. Softly—there—go on."
Byles drew his shaft from beneath his garment, and fixed it in the bow as Sam crept into the inclosure and did what he was ordered. The animals started on their legs, and stretched their heads forward in various directions, as if to ascertain whence the danger seemed to threaten.
"Down, Sam, a little to the left," whispered Byles, as a noble buck bounded forward towards the servitor, who had sheltered himself so as to avoid being seen by the animal. Sam dropt on the drenched grass to avoid the shaft that now sped from the bow of the marksman. The arrow entered the neck of the affrighted creature, as, for an instant, it stood with upraised head, its lofty antlers touching the branches. It then bounded forward, but, in its giddy effort to clear the obstruction of the opposing chasm, fell gasping among the brushwood that lined the sides of the ravine.
"Confound him, he has escaped us!" exclaimed Byles. "See the whole herd scudding off, as if the hounds were in full cry at their heels. But forward, Sam, and creep to the edge, for he may not have fallen into the stream."
Sam obeyed; but whether owing to his trepidation or the slippery surface of the earth, he lost his footing and disappeared, uttering a cry of terror. Byles stood for an instant, irresolute whether to advance to the succour of his servitor, or leave him behind, for he apprehended that the cry would arouse the guardians of the Chase. Recollecting, however, that it would be as dangerous to abandon him as to attempt his extrication, he rushed forward to the spot where Sam had disappeared. The man had, in his fall, grasped the root of a tree from which the late heavy rains had washed the earth, and he lay suspended midway down. Byles hastily threw him a rope, with which he had intended to bind the animal on the barrow, and, with some difficulty, succeeded in dragging him up.
The dying throes of the buck recalled Byles to the object of his journey; and they were about making an effort to extricate the animal from the brushwood, when the servitor's eye caught the gleam of a light in the cottage.
"It's all over," said Byles, in a disappointed tone; "but the arrow may answer our purpose where it is. Take up the barrow and fly, but keep in the shade of the trees."
A quick knock aroused Mary from her seat at the fire. She approached the door on tiptoe, and hesitated a moment ere she unclosed it; but the rapid breathings of Byles relieved her alarm, and she opened it hastily. A pale, haggard look met her eyes as her husband rushed in. "Fasten the door, Mary," said he—"haste, quench the fire. Here, put these wet clothes in the hiding place"—stripping himself of his garments—"and when you have done, hasten to bed. I am afraid they have overtaken poor Sam."
"Oh!" said Mary, dropping the clothes, and staggering to a seat—"oh! Byles, Byles, we are lost! What will become of us! Sam will tell all!"
"Hold your tongue, woman," said Byles, jumping out of the bed into which he had thrown himself, and taking up the clothes, concealed them in the pit. "Do you want to have me hanged? To bed, I tell you."
She tremblingly obeyed, and Byles listened with breathless anxiety for the signal that would assure him of his servant's safety. At length a footstep and a low tap at the door summoned Byles from his bed. "Who is there?" said he.
"Hasten, master, open the door," answered the servitor.
"All is well; Sam is returned!" He opened the door, and the servitor panting with fear and fatigue, threw the barrow on the floor.