CHAPTER XXIV.
It was in the great hall at Eltham--that splendid hall which still remains, attesting, like many other monuments, the magnificent ideas of an age which we, perhaps justly, term barbarous, but which displayed, amongst many rude and uncivilized things, a grasp of conception and a power of execution in some of the arts, that we seldom if ever can attain even in these more generally cultivated times.
In the great hall at Eltham, about an hour after sunset, was laid out a banquet, which in profuse luxury and splendour as far exceeded any, even of our state repasts, in the present day as the hall that overhung it excelled the lumbering architecture of the eighteenth century. The table actually groaned under masses of quaint and curious plate,--many of the cups and dishes blazing with jewels, and an immense emerald, in the shape of a cross surrounded by wax tapers, surmounting and ornamenting the centre of the board. The dresses of the guests were of all those bright and glittering colours so universally affected by rich and poor in those days; and gold and precious stones were seen sparkling all around, not alone ornamenting the persons of the fairer sex, but decorating also the garments of the men.
Though the guests themselves only amounted to seventy, and the broad table at which they sat looked small in the centre of the hall, yet the number of attendants, carvers, cup-bearers, butlers, and sewers, was not less than two hundred, without including the harps, the trumpets, the minstrels and the spectators, who were admitted within certain limits.
Various and curious were the dishes set upon the table; the wine was of the choicest vintages of France and Spain: and one may conceive how recklessly it was suffered to flow in those times, when we know that the consumption of a private nobleman's house was upon one occasion, three hundred and seventy pipes in the year, besides ale, metheglin, and hypocras.
The banquet was somewhat strangely ordered, according to our present notions, for there was but one large silver plate assigned to each two persons; but as, with scrupulous exactness, the male and female guests had been restricted to an equal number, this arrangement permitted a display of the courteous gallantry of the times, each gentleman carving for his fair companion, and taking care that she was supplied with all she wished for before himself.
Opportunity was also thus offered for all those little signs and tokens of chivalrous love which but too often, it must be confessed, deviated into vice and folly. But of all the hearts at that table--and there were some which fluttered with gaiety and excitement, some that beat with calm satisfaction, some that palpitated with eager and not over-holy joy,--none throbbed with higher and purer delight than those of Hugh de Monthermer and Lucy de Ashby, as, sitting by side, they bent together over the same board and drank from the same cup. Many a sweet-whispered word was there, while all was laughter and merriment around, and many an avowal of unchanged attachment, many a promise of future affection was spoken by the eyes when any pause in the general conversation might have betrayed the secret had it been intrusted to the lips.
Happy indeed was the young lover, happy indeed was she whom he loved, thus to commune with each other after so long a separation. But if anything could have added to Lucy's joy in thus meeting Hugh again, and sitting by his side, it would have been the terms with which Edward had that night brought him forward to the king.
"Let me beseech you, sire," he had said, "for your favour towards the friend of my youth, who, though for some time separated from me by unhappy feuds, now at an end for ever, forgot not, in a time of need, our early regard."
"His house have shown no great love for our throne," replied the King, looking coldly upon him; "but we welcome him for your sake, Edward."
"Do so, my lord," answered the Prince, "for while I was in prison he ever advocated my release, and when I was escaping, and he might have stayed me, he bade God speed me on my way."
"Then we welcome him for his own," replied the King, more warmly, and holding out his hand.
Hugh bent his head over it in silence, and retired.
The merriment had somewhat waned, the lights had grown rather dim, the tapers were burning low, when, taking advantage of a momentary rise in the sounds around, Lucy said, in a low voice, "I have still much to tell, Hugh, of great importance."
"Can you not do so now?" demanded her lover, in the same tone.
"I dare not, I dare not," whispered Lucy, "and yet I would fain that it were soon."
Hugh looked around. "This revel cannot last long," he said, "at least you fair ladies will not stay much longer, Lucy; I can find an excuse too, in my late wounds, to quit the board earlier than the rest, if we could but meet."
Lucy looked down and blushed, for though those were days of liberty, nay, of licence, when every lady held it little less than a duty to hear each tale of passion that was addressed to her,--ay, and to afford full opportunity for its being told,--yet still there was an inherent modesty in her nature, which made the warm blood rise into her cheek at the thought of meeting in secret the man which she loved best.
"I would tell the Princess," she replied, "and ask her advice and assistance, for she is as kind and as wise as ever woman was. But what I have to say no one must hear but you."
"There is a row of cloisters," answered Hugh, "just under the Princess's apartments; I will go thither, Lucy, as soon as I can steal away, and wait till all hope of seeing you be gone. Come if you can, my beloved,--come if you can! You know you can trust to me."
"Oh, yes," replied Lucy, in the same low voice; "I will come, Hugh, I will, for it is better."
The evil custom of men prolonging the song, the wine cup, and the revel, after the table has been quitted by those whose presence softens and refines our coarser nature is of a very old date in this our land of England, and though certainly more honoured in the breach than the observance, has only been abandoned by fits and starts from the period of the Saxons till the present day.
At the early meal, which was called dinner in those times, such was not often the case, for every one started up quickly to pursue his business or his rude sports in the light; but after supper, when no occupation called them from the table, the baronage of England would frequently indulge in long revels, ending usually, especially under the monarchs of the pure Norman line, in scenes of the most frightful excess and disgusting licentiousness.
Henry I., though he did something to refine the people, and to soften the manners of his nobles, still tolerated every sort of vice in his court, and it was only with the sovereigns of The house of Plantagenet--though they themselves were often corrupt enough--that a certain degree of decency and courteous refinement was introduced which put a stop to the coarse debaucheries of the Norman race. Under Henry II., Richard, and John, amidst civil and foreign wars, a gradual improvement might be perceived, and even during the reign of the weak Henry III.--at least, by the time of which we speak--the high, pure character of his chivalrous son worked a vast change in the general tone of society.
Thus, though drinking and song, after the ladies of the court had withdrawn, generally succeeded to the evening banquet, yet the night never now terminated in those fearful orgies, to hide which altogether from the eyes of men, the second William had commanded that all lights should be suddenly extinguished in his palace at a certain hour.
On the evening in question, not long after the few words which we have mentioned had passed between Hugh and Lucy, the Princess Eleanor, with the rest of the ladies present, rose and left the hall, taking their way under the high gallery and through the small door which communicated with the royal apartments. As the Princess passed out she placed her hand gently upon Lucy's arm, saying--"Come with me, sweet cousin, I would fain speak with you;" and led the way towards her own chamber.
All her own attendants were dismissed one by one; and then, seating herself in a large chair, Eleanor beckoned her fair companion to take a place beside her. But Lucy quietly, and with that exquisite grace which is beauty's crowning charm, and she pre-eminently possessed, sunk slowly down upon the stool at the Princess's feet; and looked up in her face with a glance from which she strove hard to banish every trace of that impatience which was strong in her heart.
Eleanor gazed down upon her in return with a kindly and yet a thoughtful smile, keeping silence for nearly a minute, and then saying--"So you are very much in love, dear Lucy de Ashby?--Nay, do not blush and cast down your eyes, as if you thought I could doubt it, after your telling me and every body else that it is so, some five times during supper."
"Nay--nay," cried Lucy, turning round quickly with a look of alarm--"not so plainly as that!"
"Plainly enough for me to understand," replied the Princess, "and that is all that is necessary to talk of now. Edward told me something of this before, and I promised to ask if you knew what you were doing."
Lucy looked up again, but it was now with an arch smile; and she answered--"Right well, dear lady."
"I hope it is so," rejoined Eleanor; "for methinks I see difficulties before you--thorns in your path; which I fear may wound those tender feet more than you dream of. You love and are beloved, that is clear, and that were simple enough to deal with, as most loves in this world go, for very often the wild god's dart gives but a scratch as it passes, and wounds not one heart deeply in a thousand. But for those who love as you two seem to do, there is a world of anxieties and cares upon the way. In our state of life, Lucy, we cannot, like the happy country maid, give our hand at once where our heart is given, and seldom--seldom through ages, is it the lot of woman to find so happy a fate as mine, where the first lot I drew was the chief prize of the whole world--he whom alone my heart could ever love, and he who was destined to return it well.--He loves you, Lucy, I think,--this young captive lord?"
"I am sure of it, lady," replied Lucy, earnestly.
"Indeed!" said the Princess. "Then doubtless you have spoken on this theme--are plighted and promised to each other!"
Lucy turned somewhat pale, but it was with indecision, and doubt, and the Princess, marking her changing colour, added--"Nay, let me not force your confidence from you. I would fain help you, if I could; but trust, like bounty, must be free, Lucy, not extorted; and though your secret were as safe with me as in your own breast, yet let not the bird take wing if you fear its flight."
Her fair companion, turning round, sunk somewhat farther at the Princess's feet, and hid her eyes upon her knee, saying--"My confidence shall be free!--We are plighted by every promise that can bind heart to heart but the last one at the altar; and now that I have told you so much, I will tell you all," she continued,--"even now, I fear he is waiting for my coming in the cloisters down below."
"Nay!" exclaimed Eleanor, with a look of some surprise and disapprobation.
Lucy read her thoughts by the tone in which she spoke, and raising her head somewhat proudly, she replied--"You mistake me, I fear, dear lady; and do not know the purpose for which I go."
"To fly with him, perhaps," said Eleanor.
"Oh no!" answered Lucy, "while my father lives I will never wed man without his blessing. No, lady--no! Neither must you think--although I hold there might be circumstances in which, but for the sake of cheering and soothing him I love in captivity and sorrow, I might well grant him a poor hour of my company alone--neither must you think, I say, that I go to him now either to please my ear with hearing his dear voice, or to comfort him with aught I can say in return. I know I may trust you, lady--I know I may tell you why I go, and that you will neither repeat it, nor ask me any farther question. I have a message to him from one he loves and sorrows for. I have news from those he has wept as dead; and though there be no treason in it, lady," she added, with a smile, "I dare not give it to any other lips to deliver than my own."
Eleanor bent down her head and kissed her brow--"Go--go, sweet Lucy," she said, "I give you leave. Ay, and even when your message is given, if you do linger out the hour, or, perhaps, even see him again by another clear moon like that, I will forgive and trust you both. The man that could sully such a thing as thou art, by prompting one wish--one act--one thought for which the pure heart would burn with grief hereafter, were somewhat worse than a fiend; and methinks," she added, laughing, "your lover does not look like one."
"Oh, no--no!" cried Lucy, "like anything but that; but I fear he may be waiting for me."
"Some women would tell you to make him wait," replied the Princess, "but I will not say so. I have heard my husband quote some Latin words, which mean that he gives twice who quickly gives; and a frank favour to a kind heart must surely make more impression than a greater boon wrung from us by long soliciting. Go, then, Lucy--go! see if he be there; if not, come back to me, and go again. I would not let him know I waited for him, were I you; for the best child may be spoiled, Lucy; but neither would I make him wait for me, lest ever the time should come when he might think he had waited long enough."
Lucy kissed the princess's hand, and after enquiring somewhat timidly her way, quitted the room and descended the narrow staircase which Eleanor directed her to take. Winding round and round till her head was almost giddy, and holding fast by the column, about which the small steps turned, Lucy at length reached the little archway that led out into the cloister, and which, as usual, was wide open.
The scene before her was the wide open park which surrounded the palace, and was then called Eltham Chase, and over it the moonlight was streaming peacefully, pouring in also under the cloister and paving it with silver, while across the glistening stones fell the dark shadows of the beautiful Norman arches. Lucy paused before she issued forth, seeing no one within the range of her eye at that moment; but there was the sound of a step, and the quick ear of love instantly recognised the well-known tread, which she had listened for, many a day in Lindwell Castle, ere the lover knew that he was loved in return.
She still kept back, however, under the shadow of the doorway, that she might be quite sure; but in a moment or two after, the step turned and came nearer and nearer, till at length the tall, graceful form of Hugh de Monthermer, with his arms folded on his chest, and his eyes bent upon the ground, as if he expected to play the sentinel some time, appeared in the moonlight, and approached the place where she was standing.
Lucy was soon by his side; and it was not easy for Hugh to find words to express his gratitude for her coming, and his joy at her presence. Although she had resolved to stay with him but a short time, to give him the message that she had received, at once, and then to return to the princess as speedily as possible, it must be owned, that the thoughts of both herself and her lover dwelt upon those dear subjects, which naturally presented themselves on being thus alone with each other for the first time after a long separation, and that half an hour passed in the sweet dalliance of two young hearts, full of warm and tender affection. Lucy felt almost grateful to Hugh for having forced her to confess her love, it was so delightful, now that it was confessed, to dwell upon it, and to give it voice unrestrained.
To Hugh it seemed almost a dream, to have her there beside him in the calm moonlight, to hold that fair soft hand in his, to see those dark eyes raise their fringed curtains and pour their living light upon his face. Who can wonder that they forgot the minutes in such joys as the human heart can know but once in life?
At length, however, some accidental circumstance woke them from their dream of love and happiness.
"I had forgot, Hugh," cried Lucy, disengaging her hand from his; "the princess expects me back again soon, and I had to tell you much that I have not told.--We have been at Nottingham since I saw you, for they sent me to Lindwell while the army lay at Worcester. After that fatal battle, which I thought would have killed your poor Lucy, too--for with a brother, and a father, and a lover there, ranked upon opposite sides, I had well-nigh died with fear and anxiety--after that battle of Evesham, I used to listen eagerly for tidings, converse with every countryman I met, and glean even the lightest rumours that might tell me of the fate of those I loved. I could hear nothing of you or your uncle, however, till one day, as I was walking near the castle, and alone, I sat down beneath the shadow of an oak.--You remember the old oak within sight of the hall window, where once----"
"Where first I fancied that Lucy might love me," answered Hugh.
Lucy paused for a moment, and then replied; "You might have fancied it before, Hugh; if your eyes had but been bright.--Well, I was sitting beneath the shadow of that oak, when, suddenly, I heard something rustle-overhead, and in a moment, down from the branches like a falling acorn, dropped the strange boy, that accompanied us from the forest, on that sweet ride, which I shall never forget. At first, I was alarmed, and was going to run to the castle; but when I saw who it was, I lost my fear, and asked him what he wanted. He then told me more than I had ever heard before: that the battle had gone against the English party; that Hugh de Monthermer was wounded and prisoner; and also, that I was ere long to be called upon to join my father at Derby, and go with him to London. 'And now,' said the dwarf, 'I am to charge you with a message. Sooner, or later,' he continued, 'you will meet the young lord in the capital; tell him that his uncle lives, that he is nearly well of his wounds; but that, as he knows his life is forfeited, he dare not show himself. A report is rife, that he has escaped to France. Such, however, is not the case, he is even now under the boughs of merry Sherwood, and he would fain see his nephew there in secret. So, tell him, lady, when you find him; but tell him when he is quite alone, when there is no ear but yours and his to hear, for the lives of more than one good man and true, are trusted to your discretion.' Such, dear Hugh, was the message he bade me give you, and I willingly undertook to do so, though I knew not when I might have the means. But, I have a prayer to put, Hugh--I have a boon to ask, which you must not refuse to Lucy de Ashby, if you be a true knight and a true lover."
"Ask it, dear Lucy," he replied, "whatever it be, consistent with my honour, I will do it, were it to carry the cross from the top of the chapel into Palestine, and make the Sultan bow down and worship it."
"Nay--nay!" cried Lucy, with a smile, though such strange vows were not uncommon then; "it is not so hard as that, Hugh, it is but that you promise me, you will take no farther part in these secret conspiracies to levy war against the throne. The cause is lost, Hugh, whether it was a good or a bad one; and if Hugh de Monthermer mingles with it more, he will but bring destruction upon himself, and misery upon Lucy de Ashby. See your noble uncle, dear Hugh; but try and lead him to make submission. At all events, for my sake, promise to abstain yourself from any further efforts in an enterprise which is hopeless and past away."
"You must ask another boon, Lucy," said Hugh.
"What, will you not grant the first request I make?" cried Lucy, quickly.
"Nay, not so," answered her lover; "it is, that this is no request at all, my Lucy, for I have made the same promise to myself, beforehand. I can never bear arms more against Edward Plantagenet, let who will call me to the field. So wherever his banner floats, mine shall never be raised to oppose it. This makes me bid you ask another boon, dear Lucy."
"Well, I will," said Lucy; but ere she could, explain what it was, she was interrupted.
During their conversation they had wandered backwards and forwards under the cloister, and at this time were pausing at the end farthest from the door leading to the apartments of the Princess. It unfortunately happens but too often, that, not only love, but a lover is blind--blind to all external objects as well as to the faults of her he loves; and certainly such must have been the case with Hugh de Monthermer at that moment; otherwise he would have seen before, that while he turned hither and thither with Lucy de Ashby, the cloister did not remain untenanted, as he believed. More than once, two or three figures had come round the farther angle of the palace the moment his back was turned, and entering the cloister, had watched him and Lucy with laughing, and yet malicious looks.
At the very moment, however, that Hugh de Monthermer and the Lady paused at the end of the southern front, a voice, coming from the dark arcade which ran along the western side of the building and joined that where they now stood, at a right angle, said in a low but distinct tone, as if the speaker were close to them, "You are watched--you are watched! Go back, or you will be caught!"
Hugh's first impulse was to start forward to discover who it was that spoke; but Lucy, terrified at the bare idea of being found there by any of the licentious minions of Henry's court, sprang from him, crying, "Let me fly, Hugh--let me fly! Adieu adieu!" and, darting along the cloister with the speed of a startled deer, she ran towards the doorway leading to the stairs.
Hugh de Monthermer followed at a somewhat slower pace, thinking that on that side she was safe; but just when Lucy was within a few yards of the arch to which her steps were directed, some three or four men came out from under the pillars, and advanced towards her with a shout of ribald laughter. With a bound like that of a sword-player, Hugh de Monthermer sprang forward, and was by her side before they could reach her.
"Halloo, halloo!" cried one; "we have started the game."
"Run it down--run it down!" exclaimed another; and a third, evidently bearing more wine than wit, added something still more offensive.
Another step brought the lovers close to the doorway, but one of the revellers cast himself in the way, as if to stop the passage.
"Stand back, Sir Guy de Margan!" cried the young knight, sternly; "stand back, I say."
But, finding that instead of doing as he was directed, the other spread wide his arms to catch Lucy as he passed, Hugh struck him one blow with his clenched hand which laid him prostrate on the pavement.
Lucy sprang through the doorway and ran up the steps like lightning; and her lover, folding his arms upon his chest, walked slowly onward through the midst of those opposed to him. They regarded him with frowning brow, and muttering voices, but suffered him to pass; and as he reached the gate which led towards his own chamber, he heard a sound of loud laughter, succeeding apparently to the anger which the blow he had struck had produced.