Agincourt Part 2

"Ah, run-away!" cried Isabel Beauchamp, still laughing; "so you have come back?"

"Yes, sweet cousin," replied Richard of Woodville, advancing up the hall with his companion; "but I have a cause--I should have been half way to Winchester else.--Here is a gentleman, sir," he continued, addressing his uncle, "whom I have met seeking the right way, and finding the wrong; and I failed not in promising him your hospitality for the night."

"Right, Richard--you did right!" replied the old knight, raising his tall form from the seat by the fire. "Sir, you are most welcome.

Quick, Hugh of Clatford, leave cutting that bow, and speed to the b.u.t.tery and the kitchen. Bid them bring wine and meat. I pray you, sir, take the seat by the fire."

"Nay, not so, n.o.ble sir," replied Hal of Hadnock, in a courteous tone.

"I am not one to take the place of venerable years and high renown.

Thanks for your welcome, and good fortune to your roof-tree. I beseech you, let me make no confusion. I will place me here;" and he drew a stool from the table somewhat nearer to the fire, and seated himself, while all eyes were fixed upon him.

Richard of Woodville, too, took a better view of his companion than he had hitherto obtained, and that view satisfied him that he had not introduced to his uncle's hall a guest, who, in point of rank and station, at least, was not well deserving of a place therein.

The stranger was, as I have already said, a tall and somewhat slim young man, perhaps four or five and twenty years of age, with black hair and close-shaved beard, keen dark eyes, long and sinewy limbs, and a chest of great width and depth. His features were remarkably fine, his brow wide and expansive, his forehead high, and the whole expression of his countenance n.o.ble and commanding. His dress was rich and costly, without being gaudy. His coat of deep brown, covering the hips, like that of a crossbowman, was of the finest cloth, and ornamented with small lines of gold, in a quaint but not ungraceful pattern. Instead of the hood then commonly worn, his head was covered with a small cap of velvet, and one long pennache, or feather, clasped with a large jewel; his dagger and the hilt of his sword were both studded with rubies, and though his riding-boots of untanned leather were cut square off at the toe, instead of being enc.u.mbered with the long points still in fashion, over them were buckled, with a broad strap and flap, a pair of gilt spurs, showing that he had seen service in arms, and had won knightly rank. His tight-fitting hose were of a light philimot, or brownish yellow colour, and round the leg, below the knee, was a mark, as if the impression of a thong, seeming to prove that when not in riding attire, he was accustomed to wear shoes so long, that the horns points were obliged to be fastened up by a gilt chain, as was then not unusual. His manner was highly courteous; but it was remarked, that at first he committed what has, in most ages, been considered an act of rudeness, remaining with his head covered some minutes after he entered the hall. But, at length, seeming suddenly to remember that such was the case, he took off his cap, and laid it on the table.

Sir Philip Beauchamp, without asking any question of his guest, proceeded at once to name to him the different persons a.s.sembled round the fire; but as we have already heard who they were, it is needless to give a recapitulation here. Richard of Woodville, however, marked or fancied, that as the old knight p.r.o.nounced the name of Sir Simeon of Roydon, a brief glance of recognition pa.s.sed between that personage and his companion of the road; but neither claimed the other as an acquaintance, and Woodville said nothing to call attention to what he had observed.

"It will seem scarcely courteous, sir," said the guest, as Sir Philip ended, "not to give you my own name, though you in your hospitality will not ask it; but yet, for the present, I will beg you to call me simply Hal of Hadnock; and ere I go, Sir Philip, to your own ear I will tell more. And now, pray let me not kill mirth, or break off a pleasant tale, or stop a sweet lay; for doubtless you pa.s.s the long eves of March as did the knights and dames in our old friend Chaucer's dreams--

'Some to rede old romances, Them occupied for ther pleasances, Some to make verelaies and laies, And some to other diverse plaies.'"

"Nay, sir," answered the old knight, who had glanced with a smile at his guest's gilded spurs, as he gave himself the name of Hal of Hadnock, "we were but talking of some old deeds of arms, which, doubtless, you in your career have often heard of. As to lays, when my nephew Richard is away, we have but little poesy in the house, except when this sweet ward of mine, Mary Markham, will sing us a gay ditty."

"Not to-night--not to-night!" cried the lady on Isabel Beauchamp's left; "I am not in tune to-night."

Isabel bent her head to her fair companion, and whispered a word which made the blood come warm into Mary Markham's cheek; but Catherine, with a gay toss of her head, and a glance of her blue eye at the handsome stranger, exclaimed--"I love neither lay nor ballad; they are but plain English twisted out of form, and set to a dull tune."

"Indeed, lady!" said the stranger, gazing upon her with an incredulous smile. "I have ever thought that music and verse made sweet things sweeter; and, methinks, even now, were it some tender lay addressed to your bright looks, you would not find the sounds so rude."

A smile pa.s.sed round the little circle, but did not visit the lip of Sir Henry Dacre; and though Catherine Beauchamp laughed with a scornful smile, it seemed as if she knew not well whether to look upon the stranger's words as kind or uncourteous.

"Ha, Kate! he touched you there," said the old knight. "What think you, Abbot? has not our guest judged our niece aright?"

"I believe it is so with all ladies," answered the Abbot, gravely; "they find the words of praise sweet, and the words of blame bitter, whether it be in song or saying. You men of the world nurture them in such folly. You flatter them too much; so that, like the tongue of a wine-bibber, they can taste nothing but what is high-seasoned."

"Faith, not a whit, reverend lord," cried Hal of Hadnock, gaily; "craving your forgiveness, we deal with them as heaven intended. Fair and delicate in mind and frame, we shelter their persons from all rough winds and storms, as far as may be, and their ears from all harsh sounds. They were not made to cope with the rough things of life; and if they find wholesome exercise for body and soul, good father, in the chase and in the confessional, it is as much as is needed. The Church has the staple trade for truth, especially with ladies; and for any laymen to make it their merchandise would be against the laws of Cupid's realm."

"I fear you speak lightly, my son," said the Abbot, with a good-humoured smile; "but here comes your meal, and I will give it my blessing."

By such words as these, the ice of new acquaintance was soon broken, and, as the guest sat down at the side of the long table, to partake of such viands as his entertainer's hospitality provided for him, the party round the fire separated into various groups. The good master of the mansion approached to do the honours of his board, and press the stranger to his food. Catherine seemed smitten with a sudden fit of affection for her uncle, and placed herself near him, where, with no small spice of coquetry, she sought to engage the attention of the visitor to herself. Sir Henry Dacre remained talking by the fire with Isabel Beauchamp; and, whatever was the subject of their discourse, the faces of both remained grave, almost sad; while, at a little distance, Richard of Woodville conversed in low tones with fair Mary Markham, and their faces presented the aspect of an April sky, with its clouds and its sunshine, being sometimes overshadowed by a look of care and anxiety, sometimes smiling gaily, as if the inextinguishable hopes of youth blazed suddenly up into a flame, after burning low and dimly for a while, under some cold blast from the outward world.

The Abbot had resumed his seat by the fire, and Sir Simeon of Roydon had not quitted his; but the latter, though the good monk spoke to him from time to time, seemed buried in his own thoughts, answered briefly, and often vaguely, and then fell into a reverie again, turning occasionally his eyes upon his fair kinswoman and the stranger with an expression of no great pleasure.

With the old knight and Catherine Beauchamp, in the meanwhile, Hal of Hadnock kept up the conversation gaily, seeming to find a pleasure in so mingling sweet and bitter things together, in his language to the lady, as sometimes to flatter, sometimes to pique her; and thus, without her knowing it, he contrived to put her through all her paces, like a managed horse, till every little weakness and fault in her character was displayed, one after another.

At first, Sir Philip Beauchamp was amused, and laughed at the stranger's merry jests, thinking, "It will do Kate good to hear some wholesome truth from an impartial tongue;" but as he saw that, whether intentionally or not, the words of Hal of Hadnock had the effect of bringing out all the evil points in her disposition to the eyes of his guest, he grew uneasy for his brother's child, and felt all her faults more keenly from seeing her thus expose them, in mere vanity, to the acquaintance of an hour. He saw, then, with satisfaction, his guest's meal draw towards a close, and, as soon as it was done, proposed that they should all retire to rest.

There was some consideration required as to what chamber should be a.s.signed to Hal of Hadnock,--for small pieces of ceremony were, in those days, matters of importance,--but Sir Philip Beauchamp decided the matter, by telling Richard of Woodville to lead the visitor to the rose-tapestry room, and to place a good yeoman to sleep across his door. It was one of the princ.i.p.al guest-chambers of the house; and its selection showed that the good knight judged his nephew's fellow-traveller to be of higher rank than he a.s.sumed.

Lighted by a page, Richard of Woodville led the way, and entered with his companion, when they reached the apartment to which they had been directed. Although it was now late, he remained there more than an hour, in conversation deeply interesting to himself, at least.

CHAPTER III.

THE FOREGONE EVENTS.

"Come, Richard of Woodville," said his companion, as soon as they entered the chamber of the rose-tapestry, "let us be friends. You have served me at my need; and I would fain serve you; but I must first know how."

"Faith, sir, that is not easy," answered Woodville, "for I do not know how myself."

"Well, then, I must think for you, Richard," rejoined Hal of Hadnock; "what stays your marriage?"

Woodville gazed at him with some surprise, and then smiled. "My marriage!--with whom?" he asked.

"Nay, nay," answered his new friend, "waste not time with idle concealments. I am a man who uses his eyes; and I can tell you, methinks, all about every one in the hall we have just left."

"Well, stay yet a moment, till we can be alone," replied Woodville; "they will soon bring you a livery of wine and manchet bread."

"In pity stop them," cried Hal of Hadnock; "I have supped so late that I can take no more." But, as he was speaking, a servant entered with a cup of hot wine, and a small roll of fine bread upon a silver plate.

As bound in courtesy, the guest broke off a piece of the manchet, and put the cup to his lips; but it was a mere ceremony, for he did not drink; and the man, taking away the rest of the wine and bread, quitted the room.

"Now, Richard, you shall see if I be right," continued Hal of Hadnock.

"There is one pretty maid, called Mary Markham, or I heard not your uncle right, whose cheek sometimes changes from the soft hue of the rose's outer leaves, to the deep crimson of its blushing breast, when a certain Richard of Woodville is near; and there is one good youth, called Richard of Woodville, who can whisper sweet words in Mary Markham's ear, while his uncle holds converse with a new guest at a distance."

Woodville laughed, and made no answer; and his companion went on.

"Well, then, there is a fair Lady Catherine, beautiful and witty, but somewhat shrewish withal, and holding her own merits as most rare jewels, too good to be bestowed on ordinary men; who would have a lover, like a bird in a cage, piping all day to her perfections, and would think him well paid if she gave him but one of the smiles or looks whereof she is bountiful to those who love her not: and, moreover, there is one Sir Harry Dacre, a n.o.ble knight and true--for I have heard his name ere now--whom I should fancy to be her husband, were it not that----"

"Why should you think them so nearly allied?" asked Woodville.

"Because she gave him neither word nor look," replied Hal of Hadnock.

"Is not that proof enough with such a dame?"

"You have read them but too rightly," rejoined Richard of Woodville, with a sigh. "He is not, indeed, her husband, but as near it as may be--betrothed in infancy; a curse upon such doings, that bind together in the bud two flowers that but destroy each other's blossoms as they grow. They are to be wedded fully when she sees twenty years; and poor Dacre, as n.o.ble and as true a heart as e'er was known, looks sternly forward to that day, as a prisoner does to the hour of execution; for she has taught him too early, and too well, all those secrets of her bosom which a wiser woman would have hidden."

"He does not love her, that is clear," answered his companion, in a graver tone than he had hitherto used. "Did he never love her?"

"No, not with manly love," replied Richard of Woodville. "I remember well, when we were both boys together, and she as lovely a girl as ever was seen, he used to be proud then of her beauty, and call her his fair young wife. But even then she began the lessons, of which she has given him such a course, that never pale student at Oxford was better indoctrinated in Aristotle, than he is in her heart. Even in those early days she would jeer and scoff at him, and if he showed her any little tenderness, would straightway strive to make him angry; would pretend great fondness for some other--for me--for any one who happened to be near; would give his gifts away; admire whatever was not like him. Oh, then fair hair was her delight, blue eyes were beautiful. She hated him, I do believe, because she was tied to him, and that was the only bond upon her own capricious will; so that she resolved to use him as a boy does a poor bird tied to him by a string, pulling it hither and thither till its little heart beats unto bursting with such cruel tyranny! Had she begun less early, indeed, her power of grieving him would have been greater, for he was well inclined to let affection take duty's hand, and love her if he could.

But she herself soon ended that source of torture. She may now play the charmer with whom she will, she cannot wring his heart with jealousy."

"He does not love her, that is clear," repeated Hal of Hadnock, in a still graver tone, "but he may love another."

"Ha!" exclaimed Woodville; "whom think you, sir?"

"Nay," replied his companion, after a pause, "it is not for me, my good friend, to sow suspicious doubts or fears, where I find them not.