CHAPTER XLI.
In a large room, of the convent of Black Nuns, near Tewksbury, with avaulted roof and one window at the farther end, seated at a smalltable, and with an open parchment book upon it, was the Princess Maryor Margaret of Scotland--for she is occasionally called in history byboth those names. She was diligently examining the pages of thevolume, in which seemed to be written a number of names, with commentsattached to them, in the margin, in a different coloured ink. On theopposite side of the table stood an elderly man in the garb of a monk,who remained without speaking, and with his eyes fixed calmly upon theprincess, apparently not at all comprehending the object of hersearch.
At length, when she had run her eye and her finger down the whole lineof names upon every page, pausing for a moment here and there, toexamine the observations attached to some particular entry, theprincess raised her eyes to the old man's face, saying--
"And these are all the men of note, you are sure, good father, whofell at Tewksbury?"
"All who are buried here," replied the monk. "There were some others,whose names you will find, if you turn over two pages, who were borneaway to rest elsewhere. They were not many; for their friends did notlike to come forward and claim them, for fear of being compromised inwhat was called the treason. So all that were not claimed were buriedhere, and the rest, as I said, removed."
Mary turned over to the page which he mentioned, and found some twelveor fourteen other names, which, to her at least, were totally withoutinterest. She then closed the book, and gave it to the monk, saying "Ithank you much, good father. There is something to benefit yourconvent, and pay masses for the souls of those who fell."
The old man called down a blessing on her head, and walked slowlyalong to the end of the old vaulted room, in order to depart, passinga gay and sunny-looking girl as he did so. She advanced with a lightstep from the door, towards the princess's chair, looking, as she wentby the old man in his sober grey gown, like spring by the side ofwinter; and, when she came near the lady, she said, holding up a smallpacket in her hand--
"Here is a curious thing, your highness, which has just been shown tome by an extraordinary sort of man. He wishes you to buy it; and ingood truth it is not dear. I never saw anything more beautiful."
"I am not in the mood for buying gewgaws, child," replied theprincess. "Well, show it to me, not that I shall purchase it; for ofthat there is little chance."
The young lady immediately advanced, and placed in her hand a goldencross, ornamented with sardonix stones, Mary hardly looking at it tillshe had received it fully, her mind being probably busy with what hadjust been passing. When her eyes at length fixed on it, however, hercountenance underwent a strange and rapid change. Her cheek grew pale,her beautiful eyes almost started from their sockets, and with a lowcry, as if of pain and surprise, she sank back into her chair.
"Good Heaven, what is the matter, lady?" exclaimed the girl. "Yourhighness is faint. Let me fly for help."
But Mary waved her hand for silence, covered her eyes for a moment,and then bending down her head over the cross, seemed to examine itattentively. But the girl, who stood by her side, saw clearly tearsdrop rapidly from her eyes upon the trinket.
The moment after, the princess dashed the drops away, and, turning toher attendant with a face full of eagerness, demanded:
"Where is the man? Bring him hither instantly."
The changes of expression in her countenance had been solightning-like, so rapid, that the girl stood for a moment like onebewildered, but then, at an impatient gesture of the princess, hurriedfrom the room. At the end of a minute or two she returned, followed bythe piper, somewhat better clothed than usual, but still bearingevident signs of his class, if not of his profession, about him. Theprincess fixed her eyes upon his face, with a keen, penetrating,inquiring look, as if she would have searched his soul, and then said,turning to the girl who had accompanied him into the room: "Retire."
Still, after the attendant was gone, Mary continued to gaze upon theman before her in silence. It seemed as if she wished, before shespoke, to read something of his nature and his character from hislooks. At length, in a low and tremulous but yet distinct voice, sheasked:
"Where got you this cross?"
"That I must not say, lady," replied the piper. "Are you the princessMary of Scotland?"
"I am," she answered. "Must not say?--Good faith, but you must say!This cross is mine; and I will know how you possessed yourself of it."
"If you be the princess Mary of Scotland, and that cross be yours,"replied the piper, who was now quite sober, and had all his wits abouthim, "I was bid to tell you that the fate of the person you seek formay still be heard of near the abbey of St. Clare of Atherston. Youmay keep the cross without payment, for in reality it was sent to youas a token."
"Keep it," cried the princess, pressing it to her bosom, "that I will!I will never part with it more. Payment! Here, hold out your hand;"and, half emptying her purse into it, she added: "Had you brought me aking's crown, you had brought me nothing half so precious." Then,leaning her brow upon her fair hands, she fell into a long deep trainof thought, which, perhaps, led her far away, to early days, andscenes of youthful joy and happiness, while hope, and love, andignorance of ill, the guardian angels of youth's paradise, watchedround her path and round her bed. At length, She seemed to tearherself away from the visions of memory; and looking up, she said, ina slow and somewhat sad voice--
"St. Clare of Atherston. Ay, it was near there, at Atherston moor.But, how can that be? I have watched, and enquired, and examined, andseen with mine own eyes; and there was no trace."
"I cannot tell your highness how it can be," replied the messenger;"for I know little or nothing; and guesses are often bad guides. Butthis I can do. I can lead you to one who can give you all the tidingsyou desire."
"Ha!" cried the princess, starting up. "Let us go. Let us go at once. Iwill give instant orders."
"Nay, sweet lady," answered the piper. "In good sooth, my horse musthave some time for rest; and my old bones are weary too; for I havehad scanty fare and long riding."
"You shall have refreshment," said the princess. "I would not beunmerciful, even in my impatience; but yet we must set out to-night. Iwill not lay my head upon a pillow till I am upon the way. Now tellme, before I send you to get food and rest, who is the person to whomyou take me?"
"Nay, that I know not," replied Sam. "I have given my message as Ireceived it. I know no more."
"Now this is very strange," exclaimed Mary, "and raises doubts. I knownot that I have injured any one, or that there is any who should wishto do me wrong; but yet I have found that men will wrong each otherfull often without a cause, sometimes without an object. Yet thiscross, this cross! I will go, whatever befall. This cannot lie orcheat. I will go. But one thing at all events you can tell me. Whitherare you going to lead me. You must know the place, if not the person."
"Ay, that I can tell, and may tell," replied Sam. "It is to the houseof a poor honest Franklin, who labours his own land, in the heart ofan old wood. A quiet and a secret place it is, nearly half way 'twixtAtherston and St. Clare. The man is a good and honest man too, lady,of more than seventy years of age, who lives in great retirement,rarely seen but once in every summer month at Atherston market, wherehe sells his corn and sheep; and when they are sold, he goes back uponhis way, holding but little talk with any one."
"Seventy years of age," said the princess, thoughtfully. "Nay, thatcannot be then."
"But indeed it is, lady," replied the piper, mistaking her meaning;"for I have known him twenty years myself and more, and have seen hishair grow grizzled grey, and then as white as snow."
"Did you ever know or hear," demanded the princess, "of a dying orwounded knight being carried thither, from any of the last combatsthat took place between Lancaster and York--I mean about the time ofTewksbury?"
"No," replied Sam; "but I was lying ill then, being hurt with a pikeat Barnet, and could not walk for many a month.
"
"And you can tell no more?" asked the princess.
"No, nothing more," he answered, "but that there you will have thetidings which you seek, as surely as you see that cross in your hand."
"Come of it what will, I will go," said the princess. "But which isthe safest road? for it is strongly rumoured here, that the earl ofRichmond has landed somewhere on the coast, and that armies aregathering fast to meet him. We might be stopped."
"Oh no, all is quiet in this part of the land," replied the other;"and we can easily go by Evesham and Coventry. I heard all the newsas I journeyed on. The earl, they say, has indeed landed in the farparts of Wales; but his force is very small, and not likely to standagainst Sir Walter Herbert who commands there. A mere scum of thatever-boiling pot called France, with scattered and tatteredgabardines, lean and hungry as wolves."
"They may be found as fierce as wolves," said the princess. "But itmatters not. I will go, even should they be fighting in the midst ofthe road. Now, good man, you shall have food, and your horse too. Igive you till four o'clock--time enough for rest. Be you ready; and,if you lead me aright, you shall have further recompense."
Her impatience somewhat outran the clock. She was on horseback withher train, some minutes before four; and, ere they paused for thenight, they reached the small town of Evesham. The next day broughtthem to Coventry, and thence a short day's journey remained toAtherston. They arrived in the evening; but still there were two orthree hours of light; and as soon as the princess had entered thesmall inn, to which she had sent forward harbingers, she ordered herguide to be called, and told him that in half an hour she would beready to set out.
"The place cannot be far," she said, "for I remember the road well;and 'tis not a two hours' ride hence to St. Clare."
"Were it not better to wait till morning?" demanded Sam, with a lookof some doubt. "It will take you well nigh an hour and a half to reachthe place we are going to, and--"
"And what?" demanded Mary, seeing the man pause and hesitate.
"I was going to say," replied Sam, "that you must take but twoattendants with you--men to hold the horses; and it might be as wellto wait till morning, as I hear troops are gathering fast, and tendingtowards Nottingham, so that 'tis better to ride by daylight."
Mary gazed at him with some suspicions rising again in her mind; butyet the very wish to travel by daylight seemed to speak honesty ofpurpose.
"Was that what the man told you, whom I saw speaking to you at thedoor?" she asked.
"Yes," replied Sam. "He told me there were troops moving about in alldirections."
"And why must I have only two men with me?" she demanded.
"I know not," replied the piper. "So I am told. But, if you have anyfears, I will remain in the hands of your men, while you go in. Theycan easily drive a sword through me, if any evil happens to you; but Ionly say it is better to go in the morning, lest we should meet any ofthe roving bands which always flock to the gathering of armies. Be it,however, as you please."
Mary thought for two or three moments, but then rose, saying--
"I will go, and at once. I cannot rest in uncertainty. Let them bringforth the horses as soon as they are fed. We will ride quick, and makethe way short."
From Atherston, for about half a mile, the little party pursued thehighway, till shortly after crossing the little river Anker, from thebanks of which they turned through lanes and by-paths, till they cameto a piece of sloping ground, where two hills crossed each other witha low dell between them. A small stream ran in the valley; and beyondthe opposite slope, towards the north west, extended a considerablemass of wood-land, over which were seen, rising at the distance offive or six miles, the ruined walls and towers of the old castle nearSt. Clare. The sun was already on the horizon, and the spot over whichthey rode was in shadow; but the sky was beautifully clear, and thegolden light of the setting sun caught the high distant ruins, and theyoung trees upon the hill on which it stood.
"Here," said the piper, who was riding beside Mary to show her theway, "here was fought the last skirmish of the war. It was one of themost bloody too; for little quarter was given, and many a bravesoldier and noble gentleman fell here."
"I know it well," said Mary, with her eyes full of tears. "I have beenhere to weep before now. Oh, that my eyes could pierce those greengrassy mounds, and know who sleeps beneath."
"They were not all buried here," said Sam, in a low tone. "Some wereburied at the abbey, and some at Atherston. Those were the knights andcaptains. The common soldiers lie here."
Mary rode on in silence; and more than once she wiped the tears fromher eyes. A mile farther brought them to the wood; but from this sidethe distance to the franklin's house was farther; and the last quarterof a mile was ridden in twilight. At length, however, while they couldstill see, they came in sight of the low house, with its single story,and the cultivated ground around it; and pointing with his hand, thepiper said, in a low voice--
"That is the house. Now you must go forward alone, lady; and when youreach the door knock hard with your hand, and they will give youadmission. Ask to see the lady."
"The lady!" said Mary, in a tone of surprise.
"Yes," replied her guide, "the lady. I will stay here with the horses,in the hands of your servants. There you will get the tidings whichyou have long sought."
The lady dismounted, and, bidding the servants wait, walked along thelittle path. They could see her approach the house, and knock with herhand at the door. It was opened instantly, and she disappeared.