.
that I shall not fail, Sire," replied Richard; "for I shall have no cause to prevent or encourage Dacre--Simeon of Roydon will take good heed to that. But I trust neither the lady nor your Highness will forbid my chastising this man myself, if need should be; for, as I have told you, Sire, I cast him from his horse last night, before his comrades; and he will seek revenge in some shape, I am sure."
"To defend himself is every man's right," replied the King; "but I must insist, that no arranged encounter takes place between you and Sir Simeon of Roydon, without your sovereign's consent." The King spoke sternly, almost harshly; but he added a moment after, in a mild and familiar tone, "The truth is, Richard, that I have resolved, as much as possible, to put a stop, both to the trial by battle and combats at outrance between my subjects. The blood of Englishmen is too precious to their King and their country to be shed so frequently as it has hitherto been in private quarrels. The evil is increasing; and if it be not stayed, a time will come when every idle jest will be the subject of a combat, and the man of mere brute courage will venture upon any wrong he chooses to do another, because he values his life less than his neighbour. Such a state shall never grow up under me. The day may not be far distant when, in defence of the rights of this crown, I shall give every English gentleman an opportunity of displaying his valour and his skill; but, till then, I will hold a strong hand over quarrelsome folks. As a last resource for honour really wounded, or, under the sanction of the law, for the judgment of God in dark cases which human wisdom cannot decide, I may consent that an appeal be made to the lance; but not till every other means has been tried. Such is my resolution. Let that suffice you. I know you will obey; and in the court of Burgundy, if I hear right, you will have plenty of occasions, should you be too full of blood, to shed it freely. I have wished to give you some gift, my friend," he continued, in a tone of kindly condescension; "but for the present, I can think of nothing better than this."
He took a ring from his finger, and held it out to the young gentleman who stood beside him, adding, "Take it, Richard; wear it always; and when you look upon it, think of Hal of Hadnock. But should you at any time seek aught of the King of England, seal your letter with that ring, and I will open and read the contents myself, and immediately. It shall go hard, but I will grant you your boon, if it be such as the Richard of Woodville whom I know, is likely to request. So, farewell, and God speed you, and lead you to honour."
Richard of Woodville knelt, and kissed the gracious Prince's hand; and then, retiring from his presence, sped back to his inn without adventure.
All traces of the last day's festival had disappeared; the citizens had resumed their usual occupations; the artisan had gone to his work, the merchant to his warehouse, the tradesman to his stall, the monk to his cloister, the priest to his chapel or his church. The streets, though there was many a passenger hurrying to and fro, seemed almost empty, by comparison; and a scene that was in itself gay, looked dull from the want of all the glitter and pageantry of the preceding afternoon.
The inn, called the Acorn, at which Richard of Woodville had taken up his abode, was a low building, in what we still term the Strand, between the Cross at Charing and a very small monastery, which was soon after attached to the abbey of Roncesvalles in Navarre, and acquired the name of Roncêvaux. The entrance to the Acorn was a tall dark arch, and as soon as Richard of Woodville rode in, followed by his two attendants--for Ned Dyram he had not seen since the day before--the host presented himself, saying, with a low reverence and a smile, "There has been a fair maid seeking you, noble sir. There have been tears in her eyes, too, full lately. I hope you are not a faithless squire, to make the pretty maiden weep."
"Poor thing, she has good cause," answered Woodville, gravely. "She is the poor old man's daughter, I suppose, who was killed by the horses last night. When did she say she would return?"
"She is here now! she is here now!" cried the host's wife, from within. "How can you be such a fool, Jenkyn! I took her in till the noble gentleman returned. I knew she was no light o' love, but only came from foreign lands."
"I never said she was, good wife," replied her husband. "Shall I bring her up, sir, to your chamber?"
"No," answered Richard; "it wants an hour of dinner yet; let her come with me to the hall, if it be vacant."
"That it is, discreet sir," replied the host. "Now, I warrant you," he continued, murmuring to himself, as he walked away to call the poor girl to her kind benefactor, "he has got some lady love himself, and fears it should come to her ears, were he to entertain a pretty maiden in his own chamber."
Perhaps some such thought might pass through Richard of Woodville's mind; but certainly it would never have entered therein, had it not been for the host's first suspicion; and he would have received the poor girl in his own room without hesitation, though the minstrels of that day and their followers were generally a somewhat dissolute and licentious race. It has happened strangely, indeed, in all ages, that those who follow, as their profession, the sweetest of arts, music, which would seem intended to elevate and purify the mind and heart, should be so frequently obnoxious to the charge of immoral life; but so it has been, alas, though difficult to account for.
Finding his way through one or two long ill-lighted passages, Richard of Woodville opened the door of the room appropriated to the daily meals of the guests and their host, and had not long to wait for the object of his compassion. She was not dressed in the same manner as the night before, but still, her garb was singular. A bright red scarf, which had been twined through her black hair, was no longer there; and the rich, luxuriant tresses, were bound plainly round her head, which was partially covered also by a hood of simple gray cloth. The rest of her apparel was white, except at the edge of the petticoat, which came not much below the knee, and was bordered by two bands of gold lace. Her small, delicate ankles, as fair as alabaster, were, nevertheless, without covering; and her feet were clothed in small slippers of untanned leather, trimmed and tied with gold.
Bending down her beautiful head as she entered, she said, "I have come to thank you, noble sir."
"Nay, no thanks, my fair maiden," answered Woodville, placing a stool for her to sit, as the host retired. "I did but what any Christian and gentleman ought to do; so, say not a word of that. But I am glad you have come, for I wish much to hear more of you, and to know what will become of you now."
"Ah! what, indeed?" said the girl, casting down her eyes, which had before been fixed upon the young gentleman's countenance.
"Have you no friends, no home, to which you can go?" asked Woodville.
"In this country, no friends that would receive me--no home that would be open to me," replied the girl, the tears rolling over the long black lashes, and trickling down her cheek. "I am not given to yield to sorrow thus," she added; "had I been, it would have crushed me long ago. But this last blow has been heavy; and, like a reed beaten down by the storm, I shall not raise my head till the sun shines again."
"But you are of English birth?" inquired Richard of Woodville; "if not, you speak our tongue rarely."
"Oh, yes! I am English," she cried, eagerly; "English in heart, and spirit, and birth; but yet, my mother was from a distant land."
"And was that poor old man your father?" demanded her companion; "come, let me hear something of your former life, that I may think what can be done for the future."
The girl evidently hesitated; she coloured, and then turned pale; and Richard of Woodville began to fear that, in the interest he had taken in her, he had been made the fool of imagination. "She is probably like the rest," he thought; "and yet, her very shame to speak it, shows that she has some good feelings left."
But, while he was still pondering, the girl exclaimed, clasping her hands, "Oh, yes! I am sure I may tell you. You are not one who--whatever might be his errors--would deprive a poor old man of blessed ground to rest in, or the prayers of good men for his soul."
"Not I, indeed," replied the young gentleman; "methinks, we have no right to carry justice or punishment beyond the grave. When the spirit is called to its Creator, let him be judge--not man. But speak; I do not understand you clearly."
"I will make my tale short," she answered. "That old man was my father's father; a minstrel once in the house of the great