Agincourt Part 24

The host put in his word, however, observing, "that the young lord might be tired with a long journey, that it were better to wait and part with the morning tide, and that it was Friday--an inauspicious day to put to sea."

But the surface of the water was calm; the sky was bright and clear; and it was the last day of the period which Woodville had fixed, in his communication with the King, for his stay in England. He therefore determined to follow the opinion of Ned Dyram, instead of that of the host, which there was no absolute impossibility to prevent him from supposing interested; and, ordering his horses and luggage to be embarked, with manifold charges to his skilful attendant to look well to the safety of the chargers, he sat down to the ample supper which was soon after on the board, proposing to be down on the beach before his orders regarding the horses were put in execution.

The master and the man, in those more simple days, sat at the same board in the inn, and often at the castle: and as he knew that his own rising would be a signal for the rest to cease their meal, Richard of Woodville remained for several minutes, to allow the more slow and deliberate to accomplish the great function of the mindless. At length, however, he rose, discharged his score, added largess to payment, and then, with the "fair voyage, n.o.ble sir," of the host, and the good wishes of drawers and ostlers, proceeded to the sh.o.r.e, where he fully expected to find Ned Dyram busily engaged in s.h.i.+pping his baggage.

No one was there, however, but two or three of the horse-boys of the hotel, who saluted him with the tidings that all was on board. As he cast his eyes seaward, he saw a large boat returning from a s.h.i.+p at some small distance from the sh.o.r.e, with Ned Dyram in the stern; and in a few minutes after, the active superintendent of the embarkation jumped ash.o.r.e, with a laugh, saying, "Ah, sir! so you could not trust me! But all is safe, no hide rubbed off, no knees broken, no shoulder shaken; and if they do not kick themselves to pieces before we reach Nieuport, you will have as stout chargers to ride as any in Burgundy.

But you are not going to embark yet? The tide will not serve for half an hour; and I have left my saddle-bags at the hostel."

"Well, run quick and get them," replied his master. "I would fain see how all is stowed before we sail."

"And know little about it when you do see," answered Ned Dyram, with his usual rude bluntness, or that which appeared to be such.

Richard of Woodville might feel a little angry at his saucy tone; but it was only a pa.s.sing emotion, easily extinguished. "I certainly know little of stowing s.h.i.+ps, my good friend," he answered, "seeing that I never was in one in my life; but common sense is a great thing, Master Dyram; and I am not likely to be mistaken as to whether the horses are so placed as to run the least chance of hurting themselves or each other. Back to the hostel, then, as I ordered, with all speed; and do not let me have to wait for you."

The last words were spoken in a tone of command, which did not much please the hearer; but there were certain feelings in his breast that rendered him unwilling to offend a master on whom he had no tie of old services; and he therefore hurried his pace away, as long as he was within sight. He contrived to keep Woodville waiting, however, for at least twenty minutes; and as the young gentleman gazed towards the s.h.i.+p, he saw the large and c.u.mbersome sails slowly unfurled, and preparations of various kinds made for putting to sea. His patience was well nigh exhausted, and he had already taken his place in the boat, intending to bid the men pull away, when Ned Dyram appeared, coming down from the inn, and carrying his saddle bags over his arm, while a man followed bearing a heavy coffre.

Richard of Woodville smiled, saying to his yeoman of the stirrup, "I knew not our friend Ned had such ma.s.s of baggage, or I would have given him further time."

"He has got his tools there, I doubt," observed the old armourer; "for he is a famous workman, both in steel and gilding, though somewhat new-fangled in his notions."

The minute after Ned Dyram was seated in the boat, the men gave way, and over the calm waters of a sea just rippled by a soft but favourable breeze, she flew towards the s.h.i.+p. All on board were in the bustle of departure; and, before Richard of Woodville had examined the horses, and satisfied himself that everything had been carefully and thoughtfully arranged for their safety, the bark was under weigh. He looked round for Ned Dyram, willing to make up, by some praise of his attention and judgment, for any sharpness of speech on the sh.o.r.e; but the yeomen told him that their comrade had gone below, saying that he was always sick at sea; and the young gentleman, escaping from the crowd and confusion which existed amongst horses and men in the fore part of the vessel, retired to the stern, and took up his position near the steersman, while the cliffs of England, and the tall towers of the castle, with the churches and houses below, slowly diminished, as moving heavily through the water the bark laid her course for the town of Nieuport.

The bustle soon ceased upon the deck; some of the yeomen laid themselves down to sleep, if sleep they might; the rest were down below; the mariners who remained on deck proceeded with their ordinary tasks in silence; the wind wafted them gently along with a soft and easy motion; and the sun, declining in the sky, shone along the bosom of the sea as if laying down a golden path, midway between France and England.

The feeling of parting from home was renewed in the bosom of Richard of Woodville, as he gazed back at the slowly waning sh.o.r.es of his native land, leaning his arms, folded on his chest, upon the bulwark of the stern. He felt no inclination to converse; and the man at the huge tiller seemed little disposed to speak. All was silent, except an occasional s.n.a.t.c.h of a rude song, with which one of the seamen cheered his idleness from time to time; till at length a sweeter voice was heard, singing in low and almost plaintive tones; and, turning suddenly round, Woodville beheld a female figure, clothed in black, leaning upon the opposite side of the vessel, and gazing, like himself, upon the receding cliffs of England. He listened as she sang; but the first stanza of her lay was done before he could catch the words.

SONG.

I.

Oh, leave longing! dream no more Of sunny hours to come; Dreams that fade like that loved sh.o.r.e, Where once we made our home.

Farewell; and sing lullabie To all the joys that pa.s.s us by.

They go to sleep, Though we may weep, And never come again.--Nennie.

II.

Oh, leave sighing! thought is vain Of all the treasures past; Hope and fear, delight and pain, Are clay, and cannot last.

Farewell; and sing lullabie To all the things that pa.s.s us by.

They go to sleep, Though we may weep, And never come again.--Nennie.

III.

Oh, leave looking--on the wave That dances in the ray; See! now it curls its crest so brave, And now it melts away.

Farewell; and sing lullabie To all the things that pa.s.s us by.

They go to sleep, Though we may weep, And never come again.--Nennie.

The voice was so sweet, the music was so plaintive, that, without knowing it, and though she sang in a low and subdued tone, the singer had every ear turned to listen. Richard of Woodville did not require to see her face, to recognise Ella Brune, though the change in her dress might have proved an effectual means of concealment, had she been disposed to hide herself from him. The peculiarly mellow and musical tone of her voice was enough; and, as soon as the lay ceased, Woodville crossed over and spoke to her.

But she showed no surprise at seeing him, greeting him with a smile, and answering gaily to his inquiry, if she knew that he was in the same s.h.i.+p,--"Certainly; that was the reason that I came. I am going to be headstrong, n.o.ble sir, for the rest of my life. I would not go to York, as you see; for I fancied that when people have got hold of that which does not belong to them, they may strike at any hand which strives to take it away, especially if it be that of a woman."

"You are right, Ella," answered Richard of Woodville; "I had not thought of that."

"Then I am going to Peronne, or it may be to Dijon," continued Ella, in a tone still light, notwithstanding the somewhat melancholy character of her song; "because I think I can be of service, perhaps, to some who have been kind to me; and then, too, I intend to ama.s.s great store of money, and marry a scrivener."

"You are gay, Ella," replied Woodville, somewhat gravely, sitting down beside her, as she still leaned over the side of the vessel.

"Do you see those waves?" she said; "and how they dance and sparkle?"

"Yes," replied her companion; "what then?"

"There are depths beneath!" answered Ella. "Henceforth I will be gay--on the surface, at least, like the sunny sea; but it is because I have more profound thoughts within me, than when I seemed most sad.

Keep my secret, n.o.ble sir."

"That I will, Ella," replied Woodville; "but tell me--Did my servant find you out?"

"Yes, and did me good service," answered the girl; "for he brought me here."

"And the poor fool was afraid I should be offended," said Woodville; "for he has avoided mentioning your name."

"Perhaps so," rejoined Ella; "for he knew, I believe, that you did not wish to have me in your company. 'Tis a charge, n.o.ble sir; and a poor minstrel girl is not fit for a high gentleman's train."

"Nay, you do me wrong, Ella," answered Richard of Woodville; "right willingly, my poor girl, now as heretofore, in this as in other things, will I give you protection. I thought, indeed, that it might be better for yourself to remain; and there were reasons, moreover, that you do not know."

"Nay, but I do know, sir," replied Ella, interrupting him; "I know it all. I have made acquaintance with your lady-love, and sat at her knee and sung to her; and she has befriended the poor lonely girl, as you did before her; and she told me, she would neither doubt you nor me, though you took me on your journey, and protected me by the way."

"Dear, frank Mary!" exclaimed Richard of Woodville; "there spoke her own true heart. But tell me more about this, Ella. How did you see her?--when?--where?"

Ella Brune did as he bade her, and related to him all that had occurred to her since he had left London. As she spoke, her eye was generally averted; but sometimes it glanced to his countenance, especially when she either referred to Sir Simeon of Roydon, or to Mary Markham; and she saw with pleasure the flush upon her young protector's cheek, the knitted brow, and flas.h.i.+ng eye, when she told the outrage she had endured, and the look of generous satisfaction which lighted up each feature, when she spoke of the protection she had received from good Sir Philip Beauchamp and the King.

"Ah! my n.o.ble uncle!" he said; "he is, indeed, somewhat harsh and rash when the warm blood stirs within him, as all these old knights are, Ella; but there never was a man more ready to draw the sword, or open the purse, for those who are in need of either, than himself. And so the King befriended you, too? He is well worthy of his royal name, and has done but justice on this arch knave."

"Not half justice," answered Ella Brune, with a sudden change of tone; "but no matter for that, the hand of vengeance will reach him one of these days. He cannot hide his deeds from G.o.d!--But you speak not of your sweet lady:--was she not kind to the poor minstrel girl?"

"She is always kind," answered Richard of Woodville. "G.o.d's blessing on her blithe heart! She would fain give the same suns.h.i.+ne that is within her own soft bosom, to every one around her."

"That cannot be," answered Ella Brune; "there are some made to be happy, some unhappy, in this world. Fortune has but a certain store, and she parts it unequally, though, perhaps, not blindly, as men say.

But there's a place where all is made equal;" and, resuming quickly her lighter tone, she went on, dwelling long upon every word that Mary Markham had said to her, seeming to take a pleasure in that, which had in reality no small portion of pain mingled with it. Such is not infrequently the case, indeed, with almost all men; for it is wonderful how the bee of the human heart will contrive to extract sweets from the bitter things of life; but, perhaps, there might be a little art in it--innocent art, indeed--most innocent; for its only object was to hide from the eyes of Richard of Woodville that there was any feeling in her bosom towards him but deep grat.i.tude and perfect confidence. She dwelt then upon her he loved, as if the subject were as pleasing to her as to himself; and, though she spoke gaily--sometimes almost in a jesting tone--yet there were touches of deep feeling mingled every now and then with all she said, which made him perceive that, as she herself had told him, the lightness was in manner alone, and not in the mind.

At all events, her conduct had one effect which she could have desired: it removed all doubt and hesitation from the mind of Richard of Woodville, if any such remained, in regard to his behaviour towards her;--it did away all scruple as to guarding and protecting her on the way, as far as their roads lay together.

One point, indeed, in her account puzzled him, and excited his curiosity--which was the sudden departure of his uncle and Mary from Westminster. "Well," he thought, "I never loved the task of discovering mysteries, and have ever been willing to leave Time to solve them, else I should have troubled my brain somewhat more about my sweet Mary's fate and history than I have done;" and, after pondering for a few moments more, he turned again to other subjects with Ella Brune. Pleased and entertained by her conversation, he scarcely turned his eyes back towards the coast of England, till the cliffs had become faint and grey, like a cloud upon the edge of the sky; while the sun setting over the waters seemed to change them into liquid fire. In the meantime, wafted on by the light breeze, the s.h.i.+p continued her slow way; and, as the orb of day sank below the horizon, the moon, which had been up for some little time, poured her silver light upon the water--no longer outshone by the brighter beams. The sky remained pure and blue; the stars appeared faint amidst the l.u.s.tre shed by the queen of night; and the water, das.h.i.+ng from the stern, looked like waves of molten silver as they flowed away. Nothing could be more calm, more grand, more beautiful, than the scene, with the wide expanse of heaven, and the wide expanse of sea, and the pure lights above and the glistening ripple below, and the curtain of darkness hanging round the verge of all things, like the deep veil of a past and future eternity.

Neither Ella Brune nor Richard of Woodville could help feeling the influence of the hour, for the grand things of nature raise and elevate the human heart, whether man will or not. They lived in a rude age, it is true; but the spirit of each was high and fine; and their conversation gradually took its tone from the scene that met their eyes on all sides. They might not know that those stars were unnumbered suns, or wandering planets, like their own; they might not know that the bright broad orb that spread her light upon the waves was an attendant world, wheeling through s.p.a.ce around that in which they lived; they had no skill to people the immensity with miracles of creative power; but they knew that all they beheld was the handiwork of G.o.d, and they felt that it was very beautiful and very good. Their souls were naturally led up to the contemplation of things above the earth; and while Richard of Woodville learned hope and confidence in Him who had spread the heaven with stars and clothed the earth in loveliness, Ella Brune took to her heart, from the same source, the lesson of firmness and resignation.

They gazed, they wondered, they adored; and each spoke to the other some of the feelings which were in their hearts; but some only, for there were many that they could not speak.