CHAPTER XIII.
Let us take up the history of the woodman, after he and the bishop ofEly had quitted Lord Chartley. They crossed rapidly over the road,hearing the sound of horses advancing, and of men speaking, as theydid so. Neither uttered a word; and the prelate was hastily directinghis steps towards a spot where, by the dim light, he saw what seemed acontinuation of the path he had just quitted, but the woodman seizedhis arm, and drew him on a little way up the road to a place where thebushes seemed so thick as to afford no passage through them. Puttingaside the branches, however, with his sturdy arm, Boyd dragged ratherthan led Morton forward; and, for some way, the good bishop fanciedthat they should never find a path again, so thick and difficultseemed the copse. It extended not fifty yards, however; and, thoughsomewhat scratched by the brambles, which clung round his feet andlegs at every step, Morton, at length, found himself emerging into anopen part of the wood, where the ground was covered with thick fern,out of which, every here and there, rose an old hawthorn or the bushyshoots of an oak or beech felled long ago.
"'Tis a rough road," said the woodman, in a low voice, as he relaxedhis hold of the prelate's arm.
"So are all the ways of life, my son," answered the bishop.
"And the roughest often the safest," answered Boyd. "I know it byexperience. Smooth paths end in precipices."
At that instant something started up before them out of the fern, anda quick rush was heard through the neighbouring brushwood. The bishopstarted, and drew a little back, but Boyd said with a laugh,--
"'Tis but a doe, my lord. If she find her way amongst the soldiers,there will be more chases than one to-night. Fear not, however. Iwill answer for your safety, though not for hers."
"I do not fear," answered the prelate. "Indeed, I am little given tofear; but, as you doubtless well know, my son, the mind has not alwaysthat command over the body which can prevent the mere animal impulsefrom starting at dangers, which calm consideration could meetunshrinking."
"True," replied the woodman. "So long as life is happy it may be so;but with the loss of all that makes existence valuable, the bodyitself loses its sensibility to all signs of danger. Hope, dread,anxiety, and the struggle with the ills of life, make us vibrate as itwere to the touch of all external things; but when hope and fear aredead, when there is neither care nor thought of existence, 'tiswonderful how this blind horse of the body, ridden by that ploddingwayfarer, the mind, learns to jog on, without starting at anythingthat glistens on the way.--But come on, my good lord, for I must takeyou first to my cottage, and then send you forward some miles uponyour journey."
Thus saying, he walked forward; and the good bishop followed throughthe more open space, musing as he went; for, to say the truth, he waspulled different ways by different inclinations. Self-preservation,was, of course, one great object, and that led him to desire immediateescape; but yet there was another object, which he had much at heart,and which would have bound him to remain. Nor was he a man who wouldsuffer the consideration of personal safety alone to make him abandonwhat he considered a duty; but, as yet, he knew not fully what werethe risks, and what the probabilities; and, as the only means ofobtaining information, he, at length, after some consideration,determined to have recourse to the woodman. Boyd was striding on,however; and it cost the prelate two or three quick steps to overtakehim, so as to be able to speak in that low tone which he judgednecessary in the existing circumstances.
"You think you can insure my safety," he said.
"Beyond a doubt," replied the woodman, laconically.
"But only, I suppose, by instant flight," said the prelate.
"By flight before daylight," replied Boyd.
"But if I tell you," continued the bishop, "that it is absolutelynecessary, for a great purpose I have in view, that I should remain inthis immediate neighbourhood for some few days, do you think itpossible for me to lie concealed here, till I receive the intelligenceI am seeking? Remember, I do not heed a little risk, so that my objectbe attained."
"That is brave," answered Boyd; "but yet 'tis difficult to weighnicely in the balance, for another man, the estimation of his ownlife. If I knew what you sought, I could judge better. However, I willsay this: the risk were very great to stay, but yet such as any one ofcourage would encounter for a great and noble object."
"Then I will stay," replied the bishop, firmly. "My object is a greatand, I believe, a just and holy one, and life must not be weighed inthe balance against it."
"Would that I knew what it is," said the woodman, "for methinks Imight show you that more may be gained by going than by staying. Ofthat, however, anon. Let me see if I can divine your object."
The bishop shook his head, saying--
"That is not possible. You are keen and shrewd, I see; but this youcould not discover by any means, without information from others."
"I may have more information than you fancy," answered Boyd; "but atall events you must tell me fairly if I am right. You were onceesteemed and promoted by Harry the Sixth. The house of Lancaster gaveyour first patrons."
The bishop winced a little--
"True," he said, "true!"
"The house of Lancaster fell," continued the woodman; "and, after theking's death, you continued in office under the opposite faction--I donot blame you, for the cause seemed hopeless."
"Nay, but hear me," said the bishop, in a louder tone than he hadhitherto used. "You speak somewhat authoritatively; and I mustexplain."
"I speak plain truth," replied the woodman. "At this hour of thenight, and under these grey boughs, we are upon a par. Elsewhere, itis, Morton, Lord Bishop of Ely, and Boyd the woodman. But I have said,I blame you not. What need of explanations?"
"Yes, there is need," answered the bishop. "I had my motive for doingas I have done, and that motive sufficient for my own conscience. Asyou say, the cause of Lancaster had fallen, and hopelessly fallen. Allefforts in its favour could but produce more bloodshed, and protract adesolating civil strife. By yielding to the conqueror, by giving himthe counsel of a christian man, not unversed in affairs of state, Idid believe--I do believe, that I could, and did, do more good than ifI had withdrawn from the counsels of the ruler of the country, andjoined with those who sought to throw him from his seat. I neveradvised in those affairs where York and Lancaster opposed each other.It was part of my compact with him, that I should take no share inacts or councils against a family I once had served. Yet in my humbleway I could do good, in moderating the fury of men's passions, and therancour of party strife."
"You plead, my lord, to an indictment I have never laid," replied thewoodman. "I blame you not. I never thought of blaming you. But hear meon! You became attached to a prince who favoured you greatly--a man ofmany high qualities, and also of many great vices; brave, courteous,graceful, and good-humoured; lewd, idle, insincere, and cruel; aconsummate general, a short-seeing statesman, a bad king, a heartlesskinsman, a man of pleasant converse, and a devoted friend. You lovedhim well; you loved his children better, and would not consent totheir murder."
"Nay, nay, not their murder," cried the bishop; "no one ever venturedto speak of their death. Even now, we know not that they are reallydead; but I believe it. If you had said, I would not be consenting totheir deprivation of their rights, you had been justified."
"'Tis the same thing," answered the woodman; "deposed princes live notlong, where they have many friends in the realm they lose. However,committed to the Tower, and then to the custody of Buckingham, youfound means to make of your jailor your friend, choosing dexterously amoment of disappointment to turn him to your purposes. I speak nowonly from hearsay; but, I am told, you two together framed a schemefor choosing a new king from the race you first served, and unitinghim to the heiress of your second lord. It was a glorious andwell-devised plan, worthy of a great statesman--ay, and of a christianprelate; for thereby you might hope to end for ever a strife which hasdesolated England for half a century--but rash Buckingham lost all atthe first attempt. The scheme st
ill lives however, I am told, thoughone of the great schemers is no more. The other walks here beside me,returned in secret to his native land, after a brief exile, and thequestion is, for what? Money, perhaps, or arms, or friends, I may betold. Yet he would linger still for some intelligence, even when hislife is staked! Has he heard of machinations going on in Britanny, forthe overthrow of all his plans, by the betrayal of him on whom theirsuccess depends? Has he heard of secret negotiations between theusurper and a feeble duke or his mercenary minister? Does he wish toobtain the certainty of such things? and is he willing to stake hislife upon the chance of discovering the truth?"
He paused as if for an answer; and the bishop, who had been buried indeep thought--considering less the questions put and the tale told,for all that was speedily digested, than the character of hiscompanion--replied at once--
"You are an extraordinary man, sir, and must speak from something moresure than a mere guess."
"Assuredly," replied the woodman, "I speak from calculation. He who,in the calm retirement of a lowly station, removed afar from hisfellow men, has still a fair view of the deeds they do, can often, byseeing things hidden from the eyes of those who are near the scene ofaction, judge of the motives and the result, which the one part ofthose engaged do not know, and the other do not perceive. I once stoodupon a high hill, while a battle raged at my feet, and could I havedirected, with the prospect of the whole before me, I could have madeeither army win the field; for I saw what neither saw, and understoodwhat neither understood. Thus is it with a man who stands afar fromthe troublous strife of human life, with his eye above the passions,the prejudices, and the vanities which more or less interrupt eachman's vision on the wide plain of the world where the combat is goingon. But yet you have not answered my question. Have I divined rightlyor not?"
The bishop paused for another instant, and then replied--
"Why should I not speak? My life is in your hand. I can trust nogreater thing than I have trusted. You are right. I have heard ofthese machinations; and I have laid my plans for frustrating them, orat least discovering them. My faithful servant, companion, and friend,who has accompanied me in all my wanderings, has gone on with SirCharles Weinants even now; for that is the man who has been entrustedwith many a secret negotiation between England and Britanny. He, myservant, will return in disguise to seek me at the abbey; and, if Ishould go before he arrives, I carry no definite information with me."
"You must go before he arrives," replied the woodman, "or 'tis likelyyou will not go at all; but you shall not go bootless.--Now let us besilent and cautious, for we are coming near more dangerous ground."
The hint was not lost upon the bishop, who, though bold and resolute,as I have shown, did not think it necessary to sport with life as athing of no value. While this conversation had been taking place, theyhad traversed that more open space of forest ground, which has beenmentioned, and were approaching a thicker copse, where sturdyunderwood filled all the spaces between the larger trees. It seemed tothe bishop, in the dimness of the night, that there would be nopossibility of penetrating the vast mass of tangled thicket which rosesweeping up the side of the hill before his eyes; but still thewoodman bent his step straight towards it, till at length he paused ata spot where there seemed no possible entrance.
"We are now coming near one of the wider roads of the wood," he said,in a whisper; "and the little path by which I will lead you runswithin a hundred yards of it, for more than a mile. We must thereforekeep silent, and even let our footfalls be light."
"If we have to force our way through all this brushwood," answered thebishop in the same tone, "the noise will instantly betray the way wetake."
"Fear not," replied Boyd, "only follow me close and steadily. Leadersmake bad followers, I know; but it must be so just now."
Thus saying, he pushed aside some of the young ash trees, and heldthem back with his strong arm, while the bishop came after. Threesteps were sufficient to bring them, through the thick screen, to theend of a small path, not above three feet in width, but perfectlyclear and open. It was drawn in a line as straight as a bowstring, andhad probably been formed for the purposes of the chase; for arrow orbolt sent along it could not fail to hit any object of large size,such as a stag or fallow deer, at any point within shot. The bishop,it is true, could not see all this, for the boughs were thickoverhead, though cleared away at the sides; and he followed slowly andcautiously upon the woodman's steps, setting down his feet with thatsort of timid doubt which every one feels more or less when plunged inutter darkness.
Steadily and quietly the woodman walked on, seeming to see his way aswell in the deep night as he could have done in the full day; and atlength, after having proceeded, for what seemed to his companion muchmore than one mile, he again stopped, where the path abruptlyterminated in another thicket. As no sign would have been effectual toconvey his meaning, in the profound darkness which reigned around, thewoodman was fain to whisper to his companion, to remain for a momentwhere he stood, while an examination was made to ascertain whether thegreat road was clear. He then forced his way forward through theboughs; and a moment after the bishop heard the whining of a dog,followed by the voice of the woodman, saying, "Down, Ban, down. Seek,boy, seek. Is there a strange foot?"
A short interval elapsed; and then was heard the sound of a low growl,very close to the spot where the prelate himself was stationed.
"Nay, that is a friend," said the woodman, in a low tone. "Come in,Ban! To heel, good dog."
The sound of the stout and stalwart form of his companion, pushing itsway once more through the brushwood, was then heard; and Boyd againstood by the good prelate's side.
"All is safe," he said; "and now you must force your way forward, atthe risk of tearing your gown. But never mind that, for you must nottravel in this attire;" and he led the way on.
After a struggle of some difficulty with the brambles and thin shootsof the ash which formed the copse, the bishop found himself in themidst of a small open space, with the road running across it, and thewoodman's cottage on the other side. The door was open; and a faintglare, as from a half-extinguished fire, came forth into the air,showing the tall sinewy form of the woodman, and the gaunt outline ofhis gigantic hound. The cottage soon received the whole party; and,closing and barring the door, Boyd pointed to the threshold, saying tothe dog, "Down, Ban! Watch!" and immediately the obedient animal laidhimself across the door way, and remained with his head raised, hisears erect, and his muzzle turned towards the entrance, as iflistening for the sound of approaching footsteps.
"Now, reverend father and good lord," said Boyd, "we must not daily.You must throw away that gown, and put on this common waggoner'sfrock. You must cover the tonsure with this peasant's bonnet, and takepart in driving a load of wood a stage on the way to Litchfield. Youwill be met with by those who will see you safely to the coast;and you will have one with you who will in reality perform theoffice--unworthy of your profession and name--which you must seem tofulfil only for the sake of security. I will bring you the garments ina moment; but first," he continued, "let me place in your hands thisletter, which you must conceal with the greatest care, and contrive toconvey it to the earl of Richmond. How it fell into my hands mattersnot; but, if you run your eye over it, you will see that it containsall the information for which you were inclined to wait.--Stay, I willgive you a light;" and, stirring the fire into a blaze, he lighted alamp at the flame.
"Ha, from Landais, himself," exclaimed the bishop, as he read theletter, "with a promise to arrest the earl and all his companions, assoon as Richard's ambassador has arrived, and the money is paid!--Themoney is paid! What may that mean?"
"Can you not divine, good father?" asked the woodman. "In this goodworld of ours, there is a price for everything. We are all merchants,traders with what we make, or with what we possess. One man sells hisbarony, another his honour, another his conscience, another his soul.One acquires for himself power and sells the use of it, another gainsa reputation and
trades on that, as others do on learning or on skill.There is a difference of prices too; and the coin in which men requirepayment is various. A kingly crown is the price which some demand; ahigh office the price of others. The crosier or the triple crown isone man's price; the smile of a fair lady is another's; the sordidsoul requires mere money; and this Landais, this Breton peasant, risento be the minister and ruler of his imbecile prince, sells the duke'shonour and his own for hard gold, Ha, ha, ha! He is quite right; for,of all the things which go to purchase such commodities, gold is theonly solid permanent possession. What is honour, fame, power, or evenwoman's smile, but the empty, transitory, visionary deceit of an hour.Gold, gold, my lord bishop, untarnishable, persisting, ever-valuablegold is the only proper payment, when honesty, honour, feeling, andcharacter are to be sold--Upon my life, I think so!--But there is theletter. Let the duke have it; show him the toils that are around him;and bid him break through before they close upon him."
"This is important, indeed," said the bishop, who had been reading theletter attentively; "and it shall be in the hands of the earl as soonas it be possible to deliver it. One question, however, let me askyou. Who, shall I tell the earl, has procured and sent to him thismost valuable information? for I do not affect to believe that you arethat which you seem to be."
"Nothing is what it seems to be," replied the woodman; "no, nothing inthis world. It is a place of unreal things; but yet you might havesatisfied yourself at the abbey, that Boyd the woodman is a faithfulservant of the good abbess and nuns of St. Clare, and has been so longenough for them to have great confidence in him. However," hecontinued, in a somewhat changed tone, "tell the earl of Richmond, youhave had it from a man who may ask his reward hereafter; for we areall mercenary. That reward shall neither be in gold, nor estates, norhonours, nor titles; but, when the struggle before him isaccomplished, and he is successful, as he will be, then perchance Boydthe woodman may ask a boon; and it shall be but one.--Now I bring youyour disguise;" and, passing through the door in the back of the room,he disappeared for a moment or two, and then returned, loaded withvarious pieces of apparel. The bishop smiled as he put them on; andthe transformation was certainly most complete, as the frock of thecarter was substituted for that of the monk, and the peasant's bonnettook the place of the cowl.
"We must get rid of your sandals, my lord," said the woodman; "andthat is the most difficult part of the matter; for my foot is wellnigh twice as large as yours, so that my boots will fit but ill."
"We will manage it," answered the bishop, "for I will thrust my feetin, sandals and all, and that will fill them up."
The woodman laughed; but the plan seemed a good one, and was adopted.
"Here is a little Venice mirror," said the woodman. "Now look atyourself, my good lord. I will not ask, if your best friend would knowyou, for dear friends always forget; but would your bitterest enemyrecognise you, though hatred has so long a memory?"
"I do not think he would," answered the bishop, smiling at his ownappearance; "but yet I fear, if we should be met in the wood by any ofthese people, and detained, they may discover me by the tonsure."
"We will not be met," answered Boyd. "Now, follow me; but first stickthis axe into your girdle, which may serve, both as an ensign of yournew trade, and a means of defence."
The woodman then led his companion through the door in the back of theroom into another large chamber behind. Thence, after locking thedoor, he took his way through a shed, half filled with piles offirewood; and then, proceeding through an orchard, surrounded on threesides by the forest, he entered a little garden of pot-herbs, at thefarther end of which was a fence of rough-hewn oak.
On approaching the paling, the bishop found himself standing on theedge of a very steep bank, at the bottom of which he could catch theglistening of a stream; and, after a warning to take good heed to hisfooting, the woodman led him down a flight of steep steps, cut in thebank, to a small path, which ran along by the side of the water. Thedell, which the stream had apparently channelled for itself, and whichwas flanked by woody banks, varying from twenty to forty feet inheight, extended for nearly a mile through the wood, and at lengthissued forth from the forest screen, at the edge of a rich andwell-cultivated tract of country.
At this spot there was a bridge, over which ran one of the roads fromthe abbey; but the little path, which the woodman and his companionwere following, passed under the bridge by the side of the river; andBoyd continued to pursue it for two or three hundred yards farther. Hethen ascended the bank, which had by this time become low and sloping,and took his way across a field to the right, so as to join the roadat some distance from the bridge. A few yards in advance was seen alantern, and a wood-cart with its team of horses, and two men standingby its side. To one of these the woodman spoke for a few moments in alow voice; and then, turning to the other, he said, "You understandyour orders, David. Here is the man who is to go with you--Now, mylord," he continued, in a whisper; "you had better get up on the frontof the waggon. I must here leave you; for I have the security of someothers to provide for."
"I trust my fair guide from the abbey has met with no peril on herreturn," said the bishop in a whisper. "It would be bitter to meindeed if any evil befel her in consequence of her charity towardsme."
"I trust not," said the woodman; "but yet I now find she could notreturn to the abbey, and has taken refuge elsewhere. There were eyeswatching her she knew not of, and help at hand in case she needed it.But I must go and provide for all this; for a fair girl like thatought not to be trusted too long with a gay young lord. He seems agood youth, 'tis true, though wild and rash enough."
"Oh, he may be fully trusted," replied the prelate. "I will be hissponsor, for he was brought up under my own eye, and I know every turnof his mind. His rashness is but manner, and his light gaiety but thesparkling of a spirit which has no dark thought or memory to make itgloomy. If he is with her, she is safe enough; for he would neitherwrong her nor see her wronged."
"Nevertheless, I must see to the safety of both," replied the woodman;"so now farewell, and peace attend you--Stay, let me help you up."
Thus saying, he aided the bishop to mount upon the front of the cart;and at a crack of the waggoner's whip the team moved slowly on.