“I cannot eat! And how shall I speak what I must say? I would have died for him.” Then, suddenly lifting his head, he spoke quickly, as if he wished to come at once to the end of his miserable task. “Noble ladies, my Lord of Salisbury is beheaden of the rabble at Cirencester, and my Lord of Exeter at Pleshy; and men say that Lord Richard the King lieth dead at Pomfret, and that God wot how.”
Constance spoke at last, but in a voice not like her own.
“God doom Henry of Bolingbroke!”
The words, if repeated, might have doomed her; but she feared no man.
That evening, Bertram told the details of that woeful story.
The barge-master whom they had accosted was sailing westwards, and he readily agreed to take Le Despenser and his suite over to Ireland. Somewhat too readily, Bertram thought; and he feared treachery from the first. When the boat had pulled off to some distance, the barge-master asked to what port his passengers wished to go. He was told that any Irish port on the eastern coast would suit them; and he then altered his tone, and roughly refused to carry them anywhere but to Bristol. The man’s evil intentions were manifest now; and Le Despenser, drawing his sword, sternly commanded him to continue his voyage to Ireland, if he valued his life. The barge-master’s only reply was a low signal-whistle, in answer to which twenty men, concealed in the hold, sprang on deck and overwhelmed the little band of fugitives. The barge then put about for Bristol, and on landing, the noble captive was delivered by the treacherous barge-master into the custody of the Mayor. That officer put him in close prison, and despatched a fleet messenger to Henry to inquire what should be done with him. But before the answer arrived, the capture became known in Bristol, and a clamorous mob assembled before the Castle. The Mayor, to his credit, did his best to resist the rabble, and to save his prisoner; but the mob were stronger than authority. They carried the gates, rushed pell-mell into the Castle, and dragged the captive forth into the market-place. And then Bertram saw his master again—a helpless prisoner, in the hands of a furious mob, among whom several priests were active. As he appeared, there was a great shout of “Traitor!” and a few cries, lower yet more terrible, of “Heretic!” They dragged him to the block erected in the midst of the market-place, by which stood the public executioner. Le Despenser saw unmistakably that his last hour had come; and he had not been so far from anticipating that closing scene, that he was unprepared for its coming.
“Sir,” he said, turning to the executioner with his ordinary courtesy, “I pray you of your grace to grant me time for prayer, and strike not ere”—touching his handkerchief—“I shall let this fall.”
The executioner, a quiet, practical man, unpossessed by the fury of the mob, promised what was asked of him. Meantime Bertram Lyngern contrived to squeeze himself inch by inch through the crowd, until at last he stood beside his master.
“Ah, my trusty squire!” was the prisoner’s greeting. “Look you—have here my signet, which with Master Mayor’s gentle allowing, you shall bear unto my Lady.”
The Mayor nodded permission. He was vexed and ashamed.