Agincourt (Historical Novel). G. P. R. James
elevation covered with greensward, and ornamented with clumps of oak, and beech, and fir, amidst which might be discovered, here and there, some large stone houses, richly ornamented with sculpture, and surrounded with their own gardens. The lanes, the paths, the fields, were filled with groups of people in their holiday costume, all flocking towards Westminster; and what with the warm sunshine, the greenness of the grass, the tender verdure of the young foliage, and the gay dresses of the people, the whole scene was as bright and lively as it is possible to conceive. At the same time, the loud bells of St. Stephen's began to ring with the merriest tones they could produce, and a distant "Hurrah!" came upon the wind.
"Now, Ned, which is the way?" asked Richard of Woodville, calling up his new attendant to his side, as they came to a spot where the lane divided into two branches, one taking the right hand side of the hill, and one the left. "This seems the nearest," he continued, pointing down the former; "but I know nought of the city."
"The nearest may prove the farthest," replied Ned Dyram, riding up, "as it often does, my master. That is the shortest, good sooth! but they call the shortest often the fool's way; and we might be made to look like fools, if we took it--for though it leads round to the end of St. Stephen's Lane, methinks that to-day none will be admitted to the palace-court by that gate, as it is the King's coronation morning."
"Indeed!" said Woodville; "I knew not that it was so."
"Nor I, either," answered Ned; "but I know it now."
"And how, pray?" asked his new master.
"By every sight and sound," replied Ned Dyram. "By that girl's pink coats--by that good man's blue cloak--by the bells ringing--by the people running--by the hurrah we heard just now. I ever put all I hear and see together--for a man who only sees one thing at once, will never know what time he is living in."
"Then we had better turn to the left," said Woodville, not caring to hear more of his homily. "Of course, if this be the coronation day, I shall not get speech of the King till to-morrow; but we may as well see what is going on."
"To the left will lead you right," replied his quibbling companion; "that is to say, to the great gate before the palace court; and then we shall discover whether the King will speak with you or not. Each Prince has his own manners, and ours has changed so boldly in one day, that no one can judge from that which the lad did, what the man will do."
"Has he changed much, then?" asked Woodville, riding on; "it must have been sudden, indeed, if you had time to see it ere you left him."
"Ay, has he!" answered Dyram; "the very day of his father's death he put on, not the robes of royalty, but the heart; and those who were his comrades before, gave place to other men. They who counted much upon his love, found a cold face; and they who looked for hate, met with nought but grace."
"Then, perhaps, my reception may not be very warm," said Woodville, thoughtfully.
"You may judge yourself, better than I can, master mine," replied Ned Dyram. "Did you ever sit with him in the tavern, drinking quarts of wine?"
"No," answered Richard of Woodville, smiling.
"Then you shall be free of his table," said Ned. "Did you ever shoot deer with him, by moonlight?"
"Never," was his master's reply.
"Then you may chance to taste his venison," rejoined the man. "Did you ever brawl, swear, and break heads for him, or with him?"
"No, truly," said the young gentleman; "I fought under him with the army in Wales, when he and I were both but boys; and I led him on his way one dark night, two days before his father died; but that is all I know of him."
"Then, perchance, you may enter into his council," answered Dyram; "for, now that he is royal, he thinks royally, and he judges man for himself, not with the eyes of others."
"As all kings should," said Richard of Woodville.
"And few kings do," rejoined Ned. "I was not so lucky; but many a mad prank have I seen during the last year; and though he knows, and Heaven knows, I never prompted what others did, yet I was one of the old garments he cast off, as soon as he put on the new ones. I fared better than the rest, indeed, because I sometimes had told him a rough truth; and trust I shall fare better still, if I do his bidding."
"And what may be his bidding?" asked Richard of Woodville--"for, doubtless, he gave you one, when he sent you to me."
"He bade me live well, and forget former days, as he had forgotten them," replied Ned Dyram; "and he bade me serve you well, master, if you took me with you; so you have no cause to think ill of the counsel that he gave me in your case. But here we are, master mine; and a goodly sight it is to see."
As he spoke, they turned into the wide street, or rather road, which led from the village of Charing to the gates of the palace at Westminster; and a gay and beautiful scene it certainly presented, whichever side the eye turned. To the north was seen the old gothic building (destroyed in the reign of Edward VI.) where the royal falcons were kept, and called from that circumstance the Mew; while, a little in advance, upon a spot slightly elevated, stood the beautiful stone cross, one of the monuments of undying regard, erected in the village of Charing, by King Edward the First; to the left appeared the buttery and lodge, and other offices of the hospital and convent of St. James's, forming together a large pile of buildings, with gates and arches cutting each other in somewhat strange confusion--while the higher stories, supported by corbels, overhung the lower. The effect of the whole, however, massed together by the distance, was grand and striking; while the trees of the fields, then belonging to the nunnery, and afterwards formed into a park, broke the harsher lines, and marked the distances down the course of the wide road.
A little nearer, but on the opposite side of the way, with gardens and stairs extending to the river, was the palace, or lodging of the Kings of Scotland. The edifice has been destroyed--but the ground has still retained the name which it then bore; and many years had not elapsed, at the time I speak of, since that mansion had been inhabited by the monarchs of the northern part of this island, when they came to take their seats in Parliament, in right of their English feofs. Gardens succeeded, till appeared, somewhat projecting beyond the line of road, the old stern building which had once been the property of Hubert de Burg, Earl of Kent, more like a fortress than a dwelling, though its gloomy aspect was relieved by a light and beautiful chapel, lately built on the side nearest to Westminster, by one of the Archbishops of York.
Several smaller edifices, sometimes constructed of brick, sometimes of grey stone, were seen on the right and left, all in that peculiar style of architecture so much better fitted to the climate of northern Europe, and the character of her people, than the light and graceful buildings of the Greeks, which we imitate in the present day, generally with such heavy impotence; and still between all appeared the green branches of oaks, and beeches, and fields, and gardens, blending the city and the country together.
Up the long vista, thus presented, were visible thousands of groups, on horseback and on foot, decked out in gay and glittering colours: and as brilliant a scene displayed itself to the south, in the wide court before the palace, surrounding which appeared the venerable Abbey, the vast Hall, the long line of the royal dwelling, the monastery, the chapel of St. Stephen, with its tall belfry, and many another tower and lofty archway, and the old church of St. Margaret, built about a century and a half before, together with the lofty yet heavy buildings of the Woolstaple, and the row of arches underneath. Banners and pennons fluttering in the wind; long gowns of monks and secular clergymen; tabards and mantles of every hue under the sun; the robes and headdresses of the ladies and their women, and the gorgeous trappings of the horses, catching the light as they moved hither and thither, rendered the line from the Eleanor cross to the palace one living rainbow; while the river, flowing gently on upon the east, was covered with boats, all tricked out with streamers and fluttering ribbons. Even the grave, the old, and those dedicated to seclusion and serious thought, seemed to have come forth for this one day; and, amongst the crowd, might be distinguished more than one of the long, grey, black, or white gowns, with the coif and veil which marked the nun. All seemed gay, however; and nothing was heard but laughter, merriment, gay jests, the ringing of the bells, the sounding of clarions, and, every now