The White Rose of Langley Part 23

"Lo' you, my Lord! Lap you in this, and--"

And Constance glanced round the room for a safe hiding-place.

"And!"--said Le Despenser, smiling sadly, but doing as he was requested.

"Go up the chimney!" said Constance hurriedly. "They will never look there, and there is little warmth in yon ashes."

She caught up the shovel, and flung a quant.i.ty of cinders on the almost extinct fire. The idea was not a bad one. The chimney was as wide as a small closet; there were several rests for the sweep; and at one side was a little chamber hollowed out, specially intended for some such emergency as the present. With the help of the two ladies and Maude, Le Despenser climbed up into his hiding-place.

Ten minutes later, Sir William Hankeford was bowing low in the banquet-hall before the royal lady of the Castle, who gravely and very courteously a.s.sured him of her deep regret that her lord was not at home to receive him.

"An' it like you, Madam," returned the acute old judge, "I am bidden of the King's Grace to ensure me thereof."

"Oh, certes," said Constance accommodatingly. "Maude! call hither Master Giles, and bid him to lead my learned and worshipful Lord into every chamber of the Castle."

The judge, a little disarmed by her perfect coolness, inst.i.tuted the search on which he was bound. He turned up beds, opened closets, shook gowns, pinched cushions, and looked behind tapestry. So determined was he to secure his intended prisoner, that he went through the whole process in person. But he was forced to confess at last that, so far as he could discover, Cardiff Castle was devoid of its master. The baffled judge and his subordinates took their departure, after putting a series of questions to various persons, which were answered without the slightest regard to truth, the replicants being ignorant of any penalty attached to lying beyond confession and penance; and considering, indeed, that in an instance like the present it was rather a virtue than a sin. When they were fairly out of sight, Constance went leisurely back to her bower, and called up the chimney.

"Now, my good Lord, you may descend in safety."

Le Despenser obeyed; but he came down looking so like a chimney-sweep that Constance, whose versatile moods changed with the rapidity of lightning, flung herself on the bed in fits of laughter. The interrupted preparations were quickly resumed and completed; and when all was ready, and the boatman waiting at the Castle pier, Le Despenser went into the hall to bid farewell to his mother. She was sitting on the settle with an anxious, care-worn look. Maude stood in the window; and at the lower end three or four servants were hurrying about, rather restlessly than necessarily.

The old lady rose when her son entered, and her often-repressed love flowed out in unwonted fervour, as she clasped him in her arms, knowing that it might be for the last time.

"Our Lord be thine aid, my lad, my lad! Be true to thy King; but whatso shall befall thee, be truest to thy G.o.d!"

"G.o.d helping me, so will I!" replied he solemnly.

"And--Tom, dearest lad!--is there aught I can do to pleasure thee?"

The tears sprang to his eyes at such words from her.

"Mother dear, have a care of my Lady!"

"I will, so!" answered the Dowager; but she added, with a pang of jealous love which she would have rebuked sorely in another--"I would she held thee more in regard."

"She may, one day," he said, mournfully, as if quietly accepting the incontrovertible fact. "I told you once, and I yet trust, that the day may dawn wherein my Lady's heart shall come home to G.o.d and me."

Maude remembered those words five years later.

"And now, Mother, farewell! I trust to be other-whither ere Wednesday set in."

His mother kissed him, and blessed him, and let him go.

Le Despenser took his usual leave of the household, with a kind word, as was his wont, even to the meanest drudge; and then he went back to his lady's bower for that last, and to him saddest farewell of all.

His grave, tender manner touched Constance's impressible heart. She took her leave of him more affectionately than usual.

"Farewell, my Lady!" he faltered, holding her to his breast. "We meet again--where G.o.d will, and when."

"And that will be in France, ere long," said Constance, sanguinely.

"You will send me speedy word of your landing, my Lord?"

"You will learn it, my Lady."

Why did he speak so vaguely? Had he some dim presentiment that his "other-whither" might be Jerusalem the Golden?

No such hidden meaning occurred to Constance. She was almost startled by the sudden flood of pent-up, pa.s.sionate feeling, which swept all the usual conventionalities out of his way, and made him whisper in accents of inexpressible love--

"My darling! my darling! G.o.d keep and bless thee! Farewell once more-- Custance!"

They had never come so near to each other's hearts as in that moment of parting. And the moment after, he was gone.

In the court-yard little Richard was running and dancing about under Maude's supervision; and his father stayed an instant, to take the child again into his arms and bless him once more. And then he left his Castle by the little postern gate which led down to the jetty. There were barges pa.s.sing up and down the Channel, and Le Despenser's intention was to row out to one of those bound for Ireland, and so prosecute his voyage. He wore, we are told, a coat of furred damask; and carried with him a cloak of motley velvet. The term "motley" was applied to any combination of colours, from the simplest black and white to the showiest red, blue, and yellow. In the one portrait occurring in Creton's life-like illuminations, which I am disposed to identify with that of Le Despenser, he wears a grey gown, relieved by very narrow stripes of red. Perhaps it was that identical cloak or gown which hung upon the arm of Bertram Lyngern, just outside the postern gate.

"Nay, good friend!" objected Le Despenser, with his customary kindly consideration. "I have wearied thee enough these six days. Master Giles shall go with me now."

"My Lord," replied Bertram, deferentially, yet firmly, "your especial command except, we part not, by your leave."

Le Despenser acquiesced with a smile, and both entered the boat. When Davy the ferryman returned, an hour later, he reported that his master had embarked safely on a barge bound for Ireland.

"Then all will be well," said Constance lightly.

"G.o.d allowing!" gravely interposed the old lady. "There be winds and waves atween Cardiff and Ireland, fair Daughter."

Did she think only of winds and waves?

No news reached them until the evening of the following Thursday. They had sat down to supper, about four o'clock, when the blast of a horn outside broke the stillness. The Lady Le Despenser, whom the basin of rose-water had just reached for the opening washing of hands, dropped the towel and grew white as death.

"Jesu have mercy! yonder is Master Lyngern's horn!"

"He is maybe returned with a message, Lady," suggested Father Ademar, the chaplain; but all eyes were fixed on the door of the hall until Bertram entered.

The worst apprehensions which each imagination could form took vivid shape in the minds of all, when they saw his face. So white and woe-begone he looked--so weary and unutterably sorrowful, that all antic.i.p.ated the news of some heavy and irreparable calamity, from which he only had escaped alone to tell them.

"Where left you your Lord, Master Lyngern?"

It was the Dowager who was the first to break the spell of silence.

"Madam," said Bertram, in a husky, faltering voice, "I left him not at all--till he left me."

He evidently had some secret meaning, and he was afraid to tell the awful truth at once. Constance had risen, and stood nervously grasping the arm of her state chair, with a white, excited face; but she did not ask a question.

"Speak the worst, Bertram Lyngern!" cried the old lady. "Thy Lord--"

It seemed to Bertram as if the only words that would come to his lips in reply were two lines of an inscription set up in many a church, and as familiar to all present as any hackneyed proverb to us.

"'_Pur ta pite, Jesu, regarde, Et met cest alme en sauve garde_.'"