Forest Days: A Romance of Old Times
"Doubt it not, doubt it not," said the peasant--"you are a friend, not
an enemy. But now to add a word or two to anything else you may hear
to-day, let me warn you as we go, that one of those two men you saw
struggling with me last night is a traitor and a spy. Ay! and though I
must not say so much, I suppose, of a lord's kinsman, I rather think
that he who brought him is little better himself."
"Hard words, hard words, Master Ploughman, or whatever you may be,"
said the lord's man, with a serious air--"I trust it is not a broken
head, or an alehouse quarrel that makes you find out treason in the
man. Besides, if he be a spy, he can only be a spy upon his own
master."
"And who is his own master?" demanded Hardy. "Come, put your wit to,
and tell me that."
"Why, Sir Richard de Ashby, to be sure," replied the man; "Truly!"
answered Hardy. "Methought the cognizance of the house of Ashby was a
tree growing out of a brasier?"
"And so it is," said the man, "and he has it on his coat."
"And what has he on his breast?" demanded Hardy. "Three pards, what
they call passant?"
The man started. "Why that is the King's!" he cried.
"Or the Prince Edward's," added Hardy. "So now when you return, tell
your lord to look well to the Earl of Ashby's kinsman--if not to the
Earl himself. We had tidings of something of this kind, and I remained
to see--for you must not think me such a fool as to give a serving-man
hard words for nothing, and bring blows upon my head without an
object."
"Did you see the leopards, then?" demanded Blawket. "Did you see them
with your own eyes?"
"I grappled with him when he sprang upon me," answered his companion,
"and with my two thumbs tore open his coat, while he thought that we
were merely rolling on the floor like a terrier and a cat. Under his
coat he had a gipon of sendull fit for a king, with three pards
broidered in gold upon the breast. When I had seen that, I was
satisfied; but that mad girl Kate thought I was brawling in earnest, I
suppose, and dashed a pail of water over us, which made us all pant and
lose our hold, and as for the rest, you know what happened after. He is
no servant of Richard de Ashby; the poor knave keeps but one, and, on
my life, I believe, that having long ago sold his soul to the devil for
luxury and wastel bread, he has now sold the only thing he had left to
sell, his friends, to some earthly devil, for gold to win away pretty
Kate Greenly."
The yeoman cast down his eyes on the ground, and walked on for a step
or two in grave deliberation.
"Marry," he said, at length, "if this tale be true,--that is to say, I
do not doubt what you say, good comrade,--but if I can prove it to my
lord's content, I shall be a made man in his opinion for discovering
such a trick, and get the henchman's place, which I have long been
seeking.--I never loved that Richard de Ashby; though he is as soft and
sweet as his cousin Alured is rash and haughty."
"It will be easily proved," replied his companion. "Charge Sir Richard
boldly, when your good lord and his friends have met, with bringing
down a servant of the King, disguised as his own, to be a spy upon
their counsels."
"Nay, nay--not so," replied the serving-man. "I am more experienced in
dealing with lords than thou art. That will cause my master to take up
the matter, and may make mischief between the two earls. Nay, I will
pick a quarrel with him in the inn kitchen, will make him take off his
coat to bide a stroke or two with me; and then, when we all see the
leopards, we will drag him at once before his betters."
"First tell your lord the whole," said Hardy, somewhat sternly. "It may
behove him to know immediately who he is dealing with."
"I will--I will!" replied the man; "and I will let him know my plan for
proving the treachery. But what have we here?--Your cottage, I
suppose?--Why, you have a goodly sight of sons, if these be all your
children. Shooting at the butts, too, as I live! Ay, I see now how it
is!"
CHAPTER IV.
As merry a peal as ever was rung, though not perhaps as scientific a
one, ushered in the month of May, and as bright a sun as ever shone
rose up in the eastern sky, and cast long lines of light over the green
fields, glistening with the tears of departed night. The spring had
been one of those fair seasons which have but rarely visited us in
latter years, when, according to the old rhyme,
"March winds and April showers
Had brought about May flowers."
Almost every leaf was upon the trees, except, indeed, in the case of
some of those sturdy old oaks, which, in their brown hardihood, seemed
unwilling to put on the livery of spring. The snowdrop had had her
season and was gone, but the violet still lingered, shedding her
perfume in the shade, and the hawthorn flaunted her fragrant blossoms
to the wooing air. It was, in short, the merry, merry month of May, and
her ensigns were out in every hedge and every field, calling young
hearts to gaiety and enjoyment, and promising a bright summer in her
train.
Many a maiden had been out, before the sun rose, from behind the
distant slopes, to gather May dew to refresh her beauty, and many a
youth, seeking the blossom of the white-thorn, had met, by preconcerted
accident, the girl he loved under the lover's tree, and kissed her as
warmly as under the mistletoe. Young Harland, however, had looked for
Kate Greenly at the place where he had found her on the same day in the
former year, but had looked in vain; and, as he returned homeward,
somewhat disappointed, had found her with a party of gay girls,
sometimes laughing with their laughter, sometimes falling into deep and
gloomy thought.
Her young companions broke away to leave her alone with her
acknowledged lover; and Kate walked quickly home by his side, with a
varying and a changeful air, which we must notice for a moment, though
we cannot pause to tell all that passed between them. Sometimes she was
gay and saucy, as her wont; sometimes she was thoughtful and even sad;
sometimes she affected scorn for her lover's gentle reproaches;
sometimes she raised her eyes, and gazed on him with a look of
tenderness and regret that made him sorry he had uttered them. Her
demeanour was as varying as an April day; but that it had often been
before, and he saw not a deeper shadow that spread with an ominous
cloud-like heaviness over all. They parted at the door of her father's
house, and young Ralph Harland turned him home again, thinking of the
pleasure of the merry dance and all the sports that were to come, and
how a little gift, which he had prepared for her he loved, would quiet
all idle quarrels between him and fair Kate Greenly.
The village green, the sweet little village green which we have
described, was early decked out with all that could be required for the
sports of the day. The tall May-pole in the centre, surmounted with a
coronet of flowers, streaming with ribbons and green leaves, and every
sort of country ornament, was prepared for the dance around it, which
was soon to take place. Every tree was hung with garlands, and even the
old well was decorated with wreaths and branches of the hawthorn and
the oak. The inn itself was a complete mass of flowers; and, before the
door, at a very early hour, were arranged the various prizes which were
to reward the successful competitors in the rustic sports of the day.
There was a runlet of wine stood beside the little bench beneath the
eaves, and in a pen, formed by four hurdles, was a milk-white ram, with
his horns gilded, and a chaplet twisted round his curly pate; and
further off, leaning against the wall, stood a long yew bow, with a
baldric, and sheaf of arrows, winged with peacock's feathers, bearing
silver ornaments upon the quiver.
These prizes were the first object of curiosity, and at an early hour
many a group of boys and girls, and youths and maidens, gathered round
the pen where the fat, long fleeced ram was confined, and pulled him by
the gilded horns, while others looked at the bow, and every now and
then stretched out a hand to touch and examine it more closely, but
were deterred by a loud shrill voice from one of the windows of the
inn, shouting, "Beware the thong!"
No season of merriment occurred at that time in England without
bringing together its crowd of minstrels and musicians; and even then
so populous had the gentle craft become, and so dissolute withal, that
laws and regulations were found necessary for the purpose of
diminishing the numbers of its followers and regulating their manners.
"Free drink for the minstrels" was a general proverb assented to by
all, and the consequence was, that having the opportunity, they seldom
wanted the inclination to pour their libations too freely, a good deal
to the inconvenience, very frequently, of their entertainers. The
class, however, which came to a May-day merry-making in a common
country village was, of course, not of the highest grade, either in
musical skill or professional rank; and the first who appeared on the
village-green was a piper, with his bag under his arm, producing, as he
came, those extraordinary sounds which are found to have a very
pleasant effect upon some portions of the human species, but are almost
universally distasteful to the canine race. Upon this occasion almost
all the dogs in the village followed him, either barking or howling.
The good piper, however, did not seem to consider it as at all a bad
compliment, but sitting himself down upon the bench before the inn
door, played away to his square-headed auditory, till some human
bipeds, and amongst the rest Jack Greenly himself, came forth with a
jug of humming ale, and set it down beside him.
The piper drank, as pipers will drink, a long and hearty draught, then
looked around him, and as a matter of course, commended liberally to
the ears of his entertainer the preparations which had been made for
the May-day games.
A floyter, or player on the flute, was not long behind, and he himself
was succeeded by a man with a rote but the great musician of all, the
performer on the viol, without whom the dance would not have been
perfect, like all other important personages, caused himself to be
waited for; and at length, when he did appear, came accompanied by his
retinue, consisting of two long-eared curs, and a boy, carrying his
viol, carefully wrapped up in the recesses of a fustian bag. With great
airs of dignity, too, he took his way at once into the house, and both
prudently and humanely tuned his instrument in a room where few if any
ears were nigh to hear.
Fain would I, dear reader, could such a thing be permitted, indulge in
a long description of the May-day games of old England. Fain would I
tell you who in the wrestling match won the milk-white ram, or shot the
best arrow, or hurled the best quoit; but there are more serious things
before us, and to them we must hurry on, leaving to imagination to
undertake the task of depicting not only these, but the still greater
struggle which took place amongst many a hardy yeoman for a fine horse.
of Yorkshire breed, given by Ralph Harland himself in honour of her he
loved.
Suffice it then, for the present, that the sports of the morning were
over, that the noonday meal, too, was at an end, that the girls of the
village had rearranged their dress for the lighter amusement of the
evening, and were gathering gaily under the group of trees to begin
their first dance around the Maypole. Ralph Harland stood by Kate's
side, and was asking anxiously what made her so sad, when suddenly he
raised his eyes, and his countenance became even more overcast than
hers.
The sound which had made him look up had certainly nothing unusual in