Agincourt (Historical Novel). G. P. R. James
and then, the deep tone of the organ, through the open windows of the Abbey, or a wild burst of martial music from the lesser court of the palace.
Habited in black, as mourning for his unhappy cousin, Richard of Woodville felt himself hardly fitted for so gay a scene; but his good mien and courteous carriage gained him many a civil word as he moved along, or perchance some shrewd jest, as the frank simplicity of those days allowed.
"Where is the black man going?" cried a pert London apprentice; "he must be chief mourner for the dead king."
"Nay, he is fair enough to look upon, Tom," replied a pretty girl by his side. "You would give much to be as fair."
"Take care of my toes, master," exclaimed a stout citizen; "your horse is mettlesome."
"He shall not hurt you, good sir," replied Woodville.
"Let me hold by your leg, sir squire," said a woman near, "so shall I have a stout prop."
"Blessings on his fair, good-natured face!" cried an old woman; "he has lost his lady, I will wager my life."
"You have not much there to lose, good mother," answered a man behind her.
"Well, he will soon find another lady," rejoined a buxom dame, who seemed of the same party, "if he takes those eyes to court."
"Out on it, master!" exclaimed a man who had been amusing the people round him by bad jokes; "is your horse a cut-purse? He had his nose in my pouch."
"Where he found nothing, I dare say," answered Woodville; and in the midst of the peal of laughter which followed from the easily moved multitude, he made his way forward to the gates, where he was stopped by a wooden barrier drawn across and guarded by a large posse of the royal attendants, habited in their coats of ceremony.
"What now?--what now?" asked one of the jacks of office, with a large mace in his hand, as Woodville rode up; "you can have no entrance here, sir squire, if you be not of the King's house, or have not an order from one of his lords. The court is crowded already. The King will not have room to pass back."
Before his master could answer, however, Ned Dyram pushed forward his horse, and addressed the porter, saying, in a tone of authority, "Up with the barrier, Master Robert Nesenham. 'Tis a friend of the King's, for whom he sent me--Master Richard of Woodville--you know the name."
"That's another affair, Ned," replied the other; "but let me see, are not you on the list of those who must not come to court?"
"Not I," replied Ned Dyram; "or if I be, you have put me on yourself, Robin; 'tis but the other day I left his Grace upon this errand."
"Well, come in, if it be so, varlet," replied the porter, lifting the barrier; "but if you come forbidden, the pillory and your ears will be acquainted. How many men of you are there?--Stand back, fellows, or I will break your pates. See, Tim, there is a fellow slipping through! Drive him back--give him a throw--cast him over--break his neck--five of you, that is all?--stand back, fellows, or you shall into limbo."
While the good man strove with the crowd without, who all struggled manfully to push through the barrier when it was open, Richard of Woodville and his followers made their way on into the court; and, dismounting from his horse in the more open space which it afforded, he advanced towards the passage which was kept clear by the royal officers, between the door of the great Hall and the Abbey. At first he was placed near a stout man, dressed as a wealthy citizen; and he inquired of him how long the King had been in the church.
"Three parts of an hour," replied the other; "did you not hear the shout and the bells begin to ring? Oh, it was a grand sight! There was----" but the rest of what he said was drowned by the noise around, aided by a loud flourish of trumpets from the Hall.
The crowd, however, was constantly changing, and swaying to and fro; and Woodville soon found himself separated from the man to whom he had spoken, by two or three of the secular clergy of the city, and a somewhat coquettish-looking nun, who wore over her grey gown a blue ribbon and a silver cross.
She turned round and looked at him with her veil up, showing a very pretty face, and a pair of bright blue eyes. A fat monk was behind, and a man dressed as a scrivener; but all were intent upon watching the door of the Abbey, as if they expected the royal procession soon to re-appear; and Woodville turned his eyes thither also. The next moment he heard a voice pronounce his own name, and then add, "Beware of Simeon of Roydon; and let not Henry Dacre fight with him."
Richard turned sharply round, and gazed at those behind him; but he saw no face that he knew, but those of Ned Dyram and one of his own men. The rest of the group in his immediate neighbourhood was composed of two monks, another nun, a doctor of divinity in his cope, a tall man in a surcoat of arms, and two elderly ladies with portentous headdresses, a full half yard broad and two feet high.
It was a woman's voice, however, that he had heard, and he inquired at once of the nearest woman, "Did you speak, lady?"
"To be sure I did," answered the good dame, in a sharp tone; "I asked my brother what the hour is. No offence in that, sir, I suppose?"
"Oh, none, assuredly," replied Richard of Woodville; "but I thought you mentioned my name."
"I do not know it, young sir," replied the lady; "come away, brother, the squire is saucy;" and she and her party moved on, making a complete change in the disposition of the group.
In vain Richard of Woodville looked beyond the little circle in which they stood; he could see no face that he knew; and at length, turning to Ned Dyram, he inquired if he had heard any one mention his name.
"That good dame, or some one near her certainly did," replied the man; "but I could not see exactly who it was. It might be the other woman."
"Was she old, too?" demanded Woodville.
"Too old for your wife, and too young for your mother," answered Ned--"somewhat on the touch of forty years."
As he spoke, there was a loud "hurrah!" from the ground adjacent to the Abbey door; a true, hearty, English shout, such as no other nation on the earth can give; and the royal procession was seen returning. All pressed as near as they could; and Richard of Woodville gained a place in front, where he waited calmly, uncovered, for the passing of the King.
On came the train, bishops and abbots, priests and nobles, the pages, the knights, the bearers of the royal emblems; but all eyes were turned to one person, as--with a step, not haughty, but calm and firm, such as might well accord with a heart fixed and confident to keep the solemn vows so lately made, in scrupulous fidelity; with a brow elevated by high and noble purposes, more than by the splendour of the crown it bore; and with an eye lightening with genius and soul--Henry of Monmouth returned towards his palace, amidst the gratulating acclamations of his people.
Richard of Woodville saw Hal of Hadnock in the whole bearing of the monarch, as he had seen the Prince in the bearing of Hal of Hadnock, and he murmured to himself, "He is the same. 'Tis but the dress is altered, either in mind or body. Excluded from the tasks of royalty, he assumed a less noble guise; but still the man was the same."
As he thus thought, the King passed before him, looking to right and left upon the long lines of people that bordered his way, though, marching in his state, he distinguished no one by word or gesture. His eyes, indeed, fixed firmly for an instant upon Richard of Woodville, and a slight smile passed over his lip; but he went on without farther notice; and the young gentleman turned, as soon as he had gone by, thinking, "I will seek some inn, and come to the palace tomorrow. To-day, it is in vain."
The pressure of the multitude, however, prevented him from moving for some time, and he was forced to remain till the whole of the procession had gone by. He then made his way out of the crowd, which gradually became less compact, though few retired altogether, the greater number waiting either to discuss the events of the day, or to see if any other amusements would be afforded to the people; but it was some time before the young gentleman could find his horses, for the movements of the people had forced them from the place where they had been left. Just as he was, at length, putting his foot in the stirrup, Ned Dyram pulled his sleeve, saying, "There is a King's page, my master,