Part 16

What could they be talking about? she wondered. She always dreaded some terrible fate befalling her father. She knew his stern, fearless disposition, and she also knew that he nursed the most inveterate hatred to the Captain of the Wight. He had never told her why, but if ever his name were mentioned, she noticed that he seemed to lose all control over himself, and would utter the most dreadful maledictions on his name and family.

"There is going to be some fearful fight, I know there is," she murmured. "Oh, if only I could find out when it takes place and where. Perhaps Bowerman would tell me. He seems to wish to please me; why, I don't know."

She little knew that if only the Yorkist party, whose hopes were centred on the imprisoned Earl of Warwick, could upset the present government, her father would be a person of great distinction, and she would be the heiress of the Lisle property. It was well worth Bowerman, or any other aspiring youth, doing all he could to win her favour. Besides these substantial worldly advantages, she was a very sweet girl, with a fair face and noble nature. Entirely unspoilt by luxury, and brought up in the severe school of poverty and hardship, she had often compared herself to the "Blind Beggar's Daughter of Bednall Green," and would shyly wonder if her fate would be like that of "pretty Bessie," and whether her adventures would end "with joy and delight," and she should have for a bridegroom "the gentle young knight

"Who lived in great joy and felicitie, With his fair ladie, dear pretty Bessie."

When she had neatly put all the things away on some ledges of the cave which served for shelves, she went to the entrance and looked out. She noticed that the old boat, which was usually hidden under a deep cleft in the rock, out of reach of the highest tides, was now hauled down, and lying ready for launching, and that there were sundry kegs and bundles in it, looking as if there were preparations for an expedition.

The salt smell of the sea came up fresh and keen from the tumbling waves below, and the girl looked wistfully towards the south.

She felt very lonely, more so now than ever, for her father, always preoccupied before, seemed gloomier of late, and to notice her less than he used. There had been much going to and fro on the part of the seamen, and Magdalen had herself brought a missive from the Hermit only the day before, which had caused a great display of feeling on the part of her father, a flush of fierce joy passing over his countenance, as he muttered, after reading the cartel,--

"At last! Thank the saints! the matter will be settled once for all."

While Magdalen stood looking down the strange water-worn chasms, she was startled by hearing Bowerman say in a scoffing voice, but in an undertone, to Simon,--

"Marry, Simon, we are to take no part in the fray, eh?"

And then he laughed derisively, while the seaman added gruffly,--

"Not us! Well, I never; that be a good 'un. But I'll have some of their fine harness and gew-gaws, if I swing for it."

"Tush, man! thou canst have them easy enough; but 'tis their lives first we must have. He's sure to be there. He makes such a stir about him; all the more since this wound of his. Curse the weak stroke! why couldn't it have gone home?" broke off the esquire bitterly.

"Ay, ay, 'twas a bungling business that. He was but a greenhorn at that sort of work, whoever he was," said the seaman, eyeing Bowerman with a grim twinkle in his bleared eyes, as he went on furbishing up a steel breastpiece. "But he's a fine youth, that I will say," he added.

Magdalen changed her position so as to get a view of the faces of the speakers, but trying to draw as little attention to herself as possible. She noticed a flush pass over Bowerman's face as he bit his lip, but said nothing, only he felt the edge of a sword he had been scouring.

"We'll make better work of it, Simon, this time--eh?"

"Faith we will, or you may call me landlubber for the rest of my days. I owe him a grudge for having had me put in the stocks for nothing at all. 'Tis a chance will never come again. Think of his being such a fool as to trust hisself alone in a fight with our master. But he won't live long to repent it, if I get this knife into him," added the man, with an ugly "job" of the blade into a balk of timber on which he was sitting.

Magdalen shuddered. What were they talking about? She dreaded to think. There was something terrible going to take place. How should she find out? She resolved to ask her father. She stepped past the two men, and entered the cave. She found her father busied with the unusual and difficult operation of writing. He took no notice of her, and she sat still by his side, watching him laboriously forming his awkward letters.

"Father, can't I help you?" she ventured to say at last.

"What, little wench, you here still? I thought you were gone long since. What will the worthy Prioress say?"

"Oh, she won't mind; she bid me stay as long as I could help thee. But Sister Agnes looks most after me."

"Ay, and who is Sister Agnes? But there," seeing the child was going to enter upon a long account of her doings at the nunnery, "I am parlous busy now. Thou canst stay an thou mindest, and in the evening Bowerman can see thee on thy way home."

This was not at all to Magdalen's taste.

"But may I not aid thee now, father? Thou knowest I can write; and I have become a better scribe lately?"

"Hast thou so, my little wench?" said her father, stroking her head. "But these are matters beyond thee." He paused, and then went on. "Magdalen, my child, thou wilt always be a good girl, and do what the worthy Prioress tells thee. If aught taketh me away, thou wilt mind what I have said, and there will be those who will care for thee. Thou must learn to look kindly on Master Bowerman, and thy fortunes may one day be happier than now seemeth likely. But leave me now; I must settle these matters, and the time is not over long."

Magdalen, well knowing the reserved nature of her father, and not caring for the escort of Master Bowerman, especially after what she had overheard, resolved to go back to the nunnery; but she also made up her mind she would see the Hermit of St Catherine's on her way, and tell him of her anxiety.

She therefore took leave of her father, who seemed more affectionate than usual; and declining Bowerman's offer of accompanying her, she climbed the difficult path up the cliff, and disappeared over the brow of the gorge.

*CHAPTER XX.*

*HOW THE CAPTAIN KEPT TRYST.*

It was about a month after the tourney, when Ralph, who had entirely recovered from his wound, was summoned to attend the Captain of the Wight.

On entering the Lord Woodville's room, he found that nobleman standing before the fire in a contemplative attitude, and Ralph stood for a few moments in respectful silence.

Presently Lord Woodville looked up, and, noticing Ralph, resumed at once his usual manner.

"My young esquire," he said, "I have sent for thee because there is no one of my household whom I can trust more than thee."

Ralph coloured up with pleasure; he noticed with pride the change of title. He was no longer a page, but esquire to his lord. But what went to his heart far more than this was being addressed in such affectionate and trusting terms. Lord Woodville had won the boy's heart from the first by his noble bearing, handsome appearance, and lonely life. In the midst of a gay and martial household, always dignified, placid, and reserved, Lord Woodville seemed to him like some hero of romance, some knight-templar who had consecrated his life to God, and, unlike the common herd of monks, who withdrew from the world in timidity or selfish sloth, he remained in it to face the temptations, the pleasures, and the vices, and to face them not merely as an idle spectator, but as a splendid protest against the vanity of the world. Not pledged or bound by any such bonds as those by which weaker mortals sought to guard themselves from the allurements of life; not fleeing for protection to the feeble chains of monastic institutions, or even the semi-monastic life of the great military order which alone survived, but like a stout pinnacle of indestructible granite round which some stream for ever dashes its ceaseless waves, now striving to wear it away with the soft embrace and gentle murmurs of its softly wooing current, then dashing against the calm rock in the wild tumult of its turbid waters, and seeking to topple it from its base with the rage of its fierce turmoil, so stood out the life of the Lord Woodville in its tranquil strength.

Outwardly cold, but inwardly burning with the desire of martial fame; always the first in all warlike enterprise; a strict disciplinarian, but a most kind and gentle knight to all in distress or suffering, the Captain of the Wight was the beau ideal of a _preux chevalier_. In every battle of the fierce civil wars he had shown himself a daring man-at-arms, as well as a prudent chieftain, and, like his accomplished brother, he was devoted to the arts in times of peace. He was a strict observer of the religious life of the times, and although not blind to the many shortcomings of the clergy, yet he did all in his power to promote the influence of religion, and to improve all with whom he came in contact.

A deep sorrow had fallen upon him in his domestic relations. His gallant father, the Earl of Rivers, together with his brother, Sir John Woodville, had been beheaded barbarously by the orders of the great Earl of Warwick. His brilliant brother, the Lord Scales, died under the executioner's sword at the cruel mandate of Richard, Duke of Gloucester, for no other crime than attachment to his nephews and his widowed sister. His two nephews had perished, no man knew how, in the Tower of London; and he himself had been blighted in his affections at an early age. His mother had laboured under the accusation of sorcery and witchcraft--a most dangerous charge in those days. His sister, the lovely Elizabeth Woodville, was mistrusted by the cold and calculating Henry; while his niece, the young and still more beautiful Elizabeth, although consort of the King, was not yet crowned Queen, in spite of having been married more than a year and a half, and having borne an heir to the two rival houses.

To relieve his active mind and vigorous frame from these anxieties, the Captain of the Wight welcomed every chance of wielding his sword or plying his lance in the stern excitement of war.

At this moment there was going on across the water a contest which had peculiar fascinations for a chivalrous mind. The aged and weak Francis, Duke of Brittany, with his young daughter, the celebrated Anne, the future wife of two kings, and mother of one Queen of France, was now being besieged by the whole force of that kingdom. The English King was repeatedly solicited to bring or send over assistance, and he was strongly tempted to interfere in the quarrel, on the urgent grounds of private gratitude and national policy; but, only just secured on his throne by a victorious battle over a desperate enemy, and well aware how many secret foes he had, Henry VII. was unwilling to draw upon himself the active hostility of France, as well as the perpetual machinations of the Dowager Duchess of Burgundy. He therefore listened to the ambassadors of both the contending powers, but publicly refused to interfere by men or money.

Many, however, of Henry's subjects, tired of inaction, and early inured to arms, longed to take part in the struggle, and no one believed that the King would really be sorry if private adventurers undertook what he was prevented from doing ostensibly from reasons of State policy.

The Lord Woodville was well acquainted with the cautious, cold, and calculating disposition of Henry VII. He had known him in exile, when they both fled to the hospitable Court of the Duke of Brittany, where the young Earl of Richmond had given promise of his virtues and his faults, and he had little doubt that, although he would forbid publicly any interference in the wars in Brittany, he would secretly be grateful to any one who would help to save that province from becoming an actual part of France, and thus inflict another blow on England's hereditary enemy. For no one then doubted that whatever weakened a neighbour was a gain to oneself.

The Captain of the Wight had lately pondered deeply over these matters, and he was urged by his inclination, as well as by motives of ambition, to take part in this struggle. He was also influenced by a strong impulse. His life had latterly become well nigh unbearable. Old memories of the lady he had loved so ardently had been strangely stirred. He had been strongly reminded of her by the face of the nun. He knew he was accused by his lost love's husband of having received her when she fled from her home--driven away by her own misery and the cruelty of her husband. Pledged to each other by mutual affection in early youth, Sir Edward Woodville had been separated by the animosities of the time, and his own want of fortune, from the object of his youthful love. Her father, a fierce Lancastrian, had died in the merciless battle of Towton, and the young lady, by the death of her father now become a ward of the Crown, was given, as a reward for his support, to young George Lisle, who had disobeyed his father, and taken part in the civil wars, on the side of the White Rose. The young esquire was knighted by Edward IV. on the battlefield, and from that time forward was first in tilt and fight, and the most devoted of the adherents of the House of York. But as the marriage was the result of compulsion on the one side, and of ambition on the other, no happiness could ensue; and the neglect of the husband, combined with his fierce temper and ungovernable ways, acting upon the passionate disposition of his wife, who fought against her destiny like some imprisoned bird against the bars of its cage, caused such misery to result, that at last, after the birth of an only daughter, the wretched wife fled, no one knew whither; but all men who knew her story suspected to her old love, Sir Edward Woodville, who was in exile. The successful fight of Bosworth Field reversed the situation, and the husband had to become the exile in turn, while Sir Edward Woodville, restored to his rank and position, succeeded his murdered brother in the lordship of the Wight. The two rivals had never met since the marriage, excepting once, about a month after that event. It was at a tournament, and Sir Edward Woodville purposely chose the opposite side to that on which Sir George Lisle was challenger. The shock was fierce, and both knights were unhorsed; but Sir Edward Woodville, in the second encounter, hurled his antagonist from the saddle, and carried off the prize of the tourney. After this, Sir Edward Woodville was employed on affairs of State which kept him away from the Court, and during the whole of the last reign he had resided abroad.

Equally with the rest of the world he was ignorant as to what had become of Lady Lisle; and although he was well aware that he was credited with aiding in her flight, and, indeed, of secretly providing her with a refuge, he was far too haughty to take any steps to contradict this statement, merely contenting himself by remarking that, 'if men wished to believe lies, certes he could not prevent them.'

"Ralph," said Lord Woodville, "I have need of a trusty esquire. I have noticed thy hardihood and devotion to me; wouldst thou wish to be put still more to the proof?"

"My lord, only try me; there is naught I would not do in thy service."

"Then, my fair esquire, as thou art now full strong again, and art in good trim to ride forth in harness, at ten o' the clock this evening thou must be on the road to Gatcombe, armed _cap-a-pie_, and mounted on thy stoutest charger. Thou wilt wait there, at about a mile from the castle, until I meet thee, and wilt go forth with me where I shall lead. It may be a dangerous service; that, I know well, will only make thee all the more wishful to go. But I would not willingly imperil thy young life, and I fain trust there is naught that will do thee hurt. Thou must tell no man, and prepare thee for the coming venture. Go now, therefore, and take rest, eat well, and make all ready against the time appointed."

Full of joyful pride at the thought of his lord's confidence, and delighted at the prospect of the mysterious adventure to be undertaken alone with the Captain of the Wight, Ralph retired.

"Why, Ralph, how joyous thou seemest," said Dicky Cheke, whom he met in the courtyard. "What's come to thee, man?"

But Ralph only gaily twitched his ear in passing, and went out to the stables to look at his horse, his favourite, White Willie. The injury to his other war-horse was so severe that it was still unfit for service, and those learned in horse-flesh gave it as their opinion that it was doubtful whether he could ever be of use again.

Although very careful search had been made for Eustace Bowerman, he had not been seen or heard of since the night of the attempt on Ralph's life. In the inquiry that followed, the fact of Newenhall having given Ralph the message which sent him to the gate told very greatly against that young man. Asked to explain, he said he was told to give the message to Ralph by an unknown man; and when asked to describe the stranger, he said it was so dark he could not make him out. As all this was very unsatisfactory, and as his conduct was totally unsuited to a page or esquire in the service of so martial a chief as the Captain of the Wight, Newenhall had been dismissed, and was now, much to the delight of the other pages, enjoying the tranquillity of his own home. Two new pages had lately come to take the place of Bowerman and Newenhall, who were merry, high-spirited boys, and with whom Dicky Cheke and Maurice Woodville got on very much better. Ralph had so greatly distinguished himself that he was far removed over the heads of the others, and, had it not been for his naturally sweet disposition, might have become spoilt by such rapid advancement.

The rest of the day was passed by Ralph in carefully examining his arms. Humphrey had seen to everything during the time his young master was laid by, and all the parts of his armour, or harness, as it was called, were in first-rate condition. In addition to his sword and lance, Ralph took a beautifully-made and accurately-weighted _martel de fer_, or mace, a most deadly weapon for close combat, where its keen and powerful edges, combined with its weight, told terribly in breaking up an opponent's armour.

As the hour approached, Ralph's impatience became more and more uncontrollable, and in order to hide it, he went for a stroll on the castle battlements.

It was now the second week in November. The weather had been mild for the time of year. As Ralph stepped out into the courtyard, he noticed that the moon, now at its first quarter, was rising over Mountjoy's Tower, projecting the shadow of its well-proportioned battlements across the quadrangle. A yellow haze round the moon gave signs of a change in the weather, and the breeze seemed to come keener over the north-east wall, causing the ivy to rustle and the vane over the chapel belfry to creek and rattle. As the young esquire paused, a melodious boom vibrated on his ear. It was the big bell of Quarr Abbey sounding the curfew.

"The wind is in the east," thought Ralph; "there will be snow anon; but 'tis time Humphrey came to arm me. I marvel he cometh not. Ah, there he is," he added, and joyfully turned to go to his room.

The arming did not take long, and clad in complete steel, wearing a plain tabard, with only the red cross of St George on it, like any other man-at-arms, Ralph strode down to the hall door. He had told no one of his coming expedition, and had carried out his lord's commands as to secrecy implicitly.

Humphrey soon brought round his noble war horse, and the young esquire mounted immediately.

How exciting it seemed to him as the horse's iron shoes clanked over the drawbridge, and he heard the massive chains grating over the wheels as it was drawn up again. He rode out into the misty night, and turned his horse's head southward.

This was the first time in his life he had gone forth on a service of danger fully armed and prepared to face a foe. There was something thrillingly exciting in this night adventure alone with the Captain of the Wight. What could it mean? What danger could there be? And why, if there were any, should he, the lord of the island, go forth attended but by one esquire to affront it alone? The delight of uncertainty and mystery hung round the future, and heightened still more the glory of being the only sharer in his Captain's peril. Ralph felt he could dare anything in the presence and on behalf of such a master.

He had now reached a lonely part of the rough track which had been his road on the night when he was so nearly being dashed to pieces over the edge of that cliff. Ralph had not visited the place since, and the whole adventure seemed more than ever like a dream. As he recalled the circumstances, his thoughts reverted to the tournament, and as he thought, he suddenly recollected the curious episode of the little glove. He had never before dreamt of connecting the wearing of that glove with his success in the tilt. It now all came before him, and he pondered deeply on the strange circumstance. While thus lost in thought, he did not notice the distant sound of a horse's hoofs, and was abruptly recalled to life by seeing a steel-clad figure gleaming in the moonlight coming steadily towards him.

With the prompt action of one well trained in the skill of a man-at-arms, Ralph grasped his lance, which he had hitherto been carrying slung behind him, and placed it in rest, holding his horse in readiness to charge, and wheeling him round so as to face the newcomer, for he could not tell whether he were friend or foe.

But in another moment he brought his lance to its erect position again, and saluted his lord. It was the Captain of the Wight. He was fully armed, and wore a tilting helmet, but perfectly plain, only a little ribbon fluttered in the breeze from the spike on the crown of the helm. He looked a splendid figure of knightly grace and strength, as he sat with perfect seat his powerful horse. Round his gorget was suspended his shield, but there was no blazon on it, and he wore no tabard or surcoat over his magnificent suit of ribbed Milanese armour. The light of the moon gleamed on his steel helmet, his globular corslet, and the taces cuisses, or thigh pieces, and steel jambs which protected his legs. He carried his long lance slung from his right arm, and the butt resting in a socket at his right stirrup.

"Well met, Master Lisle," called out Lord Woodville through his closed helm. "Thou art true to tryst; 'tis a fair promise of thy worth. But haste we onward. I would be loth to be last in the field."

Wheeling his horse round, Ralph rode after his lord, keeping at a respectful distance. In this way they rode for some three miles, when the Lord Woodville called to Ralph to come up.

"My son," he said gravely, "I have sure trust in thee, as I have told thee before; that is why I have brought thee with me. As no man knoweth what may be in store for him, I have left on my table, in a casket of wrought metal, a missive. In case aught should befall me, thou wilt ride back, and have a care to take that casket with the missive to Appuldurcombe Nunnery, and leave it for Sister Agnes. Thou comprehendest perfectly? But whatever befalls, bear in mind that no word of what I have told thee get to other ears."

Ralph promised obedience, and they once more lapsed into silence.