CHAPTER XXXIX

THE LORDS DE OV

From the first hour of my arrival at Westminster, after returning from Calais, I had naturally been eager to visit my grandsire's homestead, of which, in the midst of battles and sieges, I had often dreamt pleasant dreams when stretched at rest on a foreign soil. But I felt, in some degree, responsible for the warning I had brought to England as to Calais being in peril; and during the time that elapsed between my communication to the Prince of Wales and the arrival of Aymery de Pavie I did not deem myself quite at liberty to leave the palace. No sooner, however, did I ascertain this much, at least, that the result of the Lombard's interview with the king had justified my intelligence, than I asked, and obtained, permission to repair, for a brief period, to the scene of my childhood.

Resolving to set out betimes next day, I availed myself of the interval to proceed to the Falcon, and hear such tidings of my kinsfolk as Thomelin of Winchester could impart. As I left the courtyard of the palace in a joyous mood, I encountered Lord De Ov, who was entering on horseback and with high feudal pride; and again he eyed me with a display of malice which renewed all the perplexity which his conduct had so frequently created in my mind.

"Why, in the name of all the saints, has this haughty young lord selected me, of all people, as the object of his hatred?" I asked myself for the hundredth time, and continued to question myself in vain, as I strode along the bush-grown Strand, and made for Gracechurch.

On reaching the Falcon, I found, to my disappointment, that Thomelin of Winchester was not at his hostelry, and, on inquiring more closely, I learned, somewhat to my alarm, that he had been summoned by my grandsire some days earlier, that he had set out in haste, and that he had not returned. Musing over this intelligence, and by no means in so joyous a mood as that in which I left Westminster, I was issuing from the Falcon, when a small body of horse halted at the door; and, looking up, I, by the twilight, recognised in their leader no less memorable a man than my Northern friend, John Copeland, now a knight banneret, and famous for his adventure with the King of Scots.

I doffed my bonnet as I made the discovery, and held the knight's stirrup as he dismounted from his strong steed.

"Ha, master page!" cried he, recognising me in turn, "you have not come North to try your prowess against the Scots, as I asked you. Nevertheless, we have met again."

"Even so, sir knight," I replied frankly. "And yet, to tell the truth, if I have refrained from coming North, it was not from any expectation of seeing you in the South, considering the high duties you are now called on to perform."

"And wherefore should you see me not in the South, boy?" asked Copeland. "Deem you," added he, not concealing the pride he felt in his elevation, "that the king, when he comes home, hath nothing to say to a man whom he trusts to hold such posts as Warden of Berwick, and Governor of the Castle of Roxburgh?"

"Nay, on my faith," replied I, laughing, "far be it from me to hazard any such assertion. Rather let me give you joy of your prosperous fortunes."

"Thanks, master page; and mayhap--as men, whether young or old, are ever envious--you would like to add that prosperity is not always a proof of merit. But be that as it may, I will, in this hostelry, rest my long limbs for a while ere I proceed to Westminster, and gladly drink a cup with thee for the sake of old acquaintance."

I accepted the invitation, and without delay we were seated and quaffing the wine of Bordeaux in the guest-room of the Falcon.

"Beshrew me, boy!" remarked Copeland, looking at me keenly as he raised his cup to his lips and took a long draught, "it grieves me to perceive that, young as you are, you have the marks of care on your face. What ails you?"

"I can scarce tell," replied I sadly; "but this I know--that, one short hour since, my heart was light and merry as the month of May."

"And what has since happened to sadden your brow?" asked he kindly.

"More than one thing has happened to discompose me; for, in truth, to be frank with you, I met, as I came hither, a young lord, of whom I know little, save that he is mine enemy, and that his hate seems as bitter as it is causeless. Now, as I wish to live in charity with all men, if I could, I own that, had I no other cause for sadness, this alone would vex my spirit."

"Of whom speak you?" asked Copeland, with unveiled curiosity.

"Of the young Lord De Ov," answered I.

"Ho, ho!" exclaimed the Northernman.

"What?" asked I; "know you aught of him?"

"Ay," answered Copeland slowly and grimly, "more, by St. John of Beverley! than he would care to hear; but nothing, I own, to enable me to guess why he should bear malice towards such as you."

"But what know you of him?" asked I eagerly.

"This, at least," replied Copeland in a low tone, "that he feels his seat less soft than a bed of down, and that his temper is severely tried at times."

"In what way?" asked I.

"Why, simply because men say--or, at least, whisper, if they dare not say it aloud--that he is not the true heir of the barons whose titles he bears and whose lands he possesses. But you must have heard something of the story?"

"Not a whisper," said I. "I pray you relate it. I am all attention."

"I will relate it," said Copeland; "but understand, master page, that what I say is under the rose: it is not safe to speak freely of the great."

"Credit me, sir knight, you are safe with me," exclaimed I firmly; "I am incapable of betraying any man's confidence."

"Well, then," began Copeland, "you must know that, in the year 1330, soon after King Edward--the second of the name--was cruelly murdered in Berkeley Castle--for a cruel murder it was--Isabel the queen and Roger de Mortimer, with whom Queen Isabel was deemed much too familiar, held sway in the country."

"I have heard that such was the case," said I.

"At that time," continued Copeland, "rumours, which assuredly were false, ran about to the effect that King Edward was still alive, and that he was a prisoner in Corfe Castle; and a conspiracy, in which many good men took part, was formed to restore him to liberty."

"Even so," said I; "of this I have heard vaguely."

"At the head of that conspiracy," continued Copeland, "was Edmund, Earl of Kent, the young king's uncle, who, believing his brother to be still alive, rashly went to Corfe Castle, and asked the governor of the fortress to conduct him to Sire Edward; for which indiscretion he was tried at Winchester and executed."

"I have heard that sad tale," said I, interrupting; "how the earl's sentence caused such indignation that even the headsman declined to do his office; how he remained four hours on the scaffold before any one could be found to enact the part of executioner; and how, finally, a malefactor from the Marshalsea, on being bribed with a promise of pardon, undertook to behead him."

"It was even as you relate it," said Copeland, resuming; "and it happened that one of the men of rank engaged in the conspiracy of which the Earl of Kent was head, was Edward, Lord De Ov, a brave warrior, whose wife was a daughter of the house of Merley. Now, it was generally considered that this Lord De Ov--who, I may mention, was marvellously skilful in those chivalrous tricks which you, and striplings like you, value so highly--might have escaped to France, as the Lord Viscount Beaumont and others did about the same time, and lived, like them, to return to England in happier days; but, unluckily for his chances of escape, he had a younger brother named Roger, who, from base motives, betrayed him. So, instead of getting off, he was taken, while lurking on the coast, carried to Winchester, and hanged in that city on a high gibbet."

"My curse on the brother who could be guilty of such treachery!" exclaimed I, my blood boiling with indignation.

"But," continued Copeland, heedless of my interruption, "this was not all. Edward, Lord De Ov, had a wife and infant son; and for Roger's purpose it was necessary to make away with them also; and accordingly the widow was decoyed away by Margery, one of the queen's gentlewomen, who pretended that she had been sent for by her husband, and, carrying with her the infant son, left her husband's castle at Winchester. For years neither mother nor son was heard of. At length, however, they were reputed to have died, and corpses, said to be theirs, were brought North, and buried in the chapel of the castle; and Roger De Ov became lord of all. But Roger soon after pined and died; and, when he went the way of all flesh, his son, who is now lord, succeeded to his feudal power. But men still say that, somewhere or other, the widow and son of Edward, Lord De Ov, yet live, and that one day or other there will be an overturn; and now you comprehend wherefore my lord sits less easy in his seat than he might otherwise, do, and how there may be people living whose demands put his temper to the test."

"Assuredly," said I, "the story is sufficiently plain, albeit involving a mystery."

"And, if I mistake not," remarked Copeland significantly, "there are at least two people alive who could clear that mystery up to satisfaction."

"Who may they be?" asked I.

"One," answered he in a whisper, "is no less a personage than Isabel the queen, now residing, in gentle captivity, at Castle Rising."

"And the other?" I inquired eagerly, for my curiosity was by this time excited.

"The other," answered he, "is a person of fewer years and lesser rank than Queen Isabel. She is daughter of a Northern squire who was an honest man, and mine own kinsman, and married the queen's gentlewoman of whom I spake. I cast my eyes by chance on the damsel when in the camp before Calais, and recognised her in an instant. Nay, more, I made enquiries, and learned that her beauty exercised enormous influence over the heart of Aymery de Pavie, and that her threats exercised as much over the conduct of Lord De Ov, insomuch that one did as she liked from love, and the other from fear."

I involuntarily uttered an exclamation of surprise, and my agitation was so great that it well-nigh got the better of my discretion and of all the resolutions I had formed. However, I regained my equanimity, and calmly renewed the conversation.

"And what name bears this wondrous demoiselle, sir knight? by what name is she known?" asked I, with what coolness I could command.

"The demoiselle is known by the name of Eleanor de Gubium," was Copeland's reply.