Forest Days: A Romance of Old Times

ashes would soon rise up a ph[oe]nix to destroy his enemies. The fellow is well tutored in his tale, so that you shall not catch him tripping, and I do beseech you to make use of him before the King without delay, so that, if possible, there may be an axe between our enemy's head and his body before noon to-morrow. If the forfeited estates be divided between you and my good lord of Pembroke, I would advise the one I love best to choose the northern ones. They are worth five hundred marks a year more than the others." All this was written in a fine and clerkly hand, while the letters below were rough and dashing, and somewhat difficult to read. The words, however, were as follows:-- "TRUSTY FRIEND,-- "The matter is settled. The King has called together all the Barons on the spot--luckily, Gloucester was away, and Talbot's voice was drowned in the rest. He dies to-morrow at daybreak. I have the warrant under the King's hand. Thanks for the hint. The northern estates are mine, and friends shall not go unrewarded by yours, "MORTIMER." "Ha!" said Robin Hood, after he had read the letter and the reply--"ha! this is mighty good. Why, what a nest of scorpions have we here; and this is the court of England! Oh, De Montfort!--noble De Montfort! if thou didst want an advocate to plead thy cause and justify thy holy zeal to crush the venomous reptiles that infest the land, this paper has a tongue that would convince the dead. But we will see. May God so help me, as I am at this execution to-morrow--if we find not other means to stay it! and beware, my Lord of Mortimer, how you come within mark of the English yew--for thy breast must be cased in steel, indeed, if I drown not the peacock's feather in your heart's black blood!--Do you hear them coming from the lodge, Miller?" "Not yet, Robin," replied the man to whom he spoke. "Tom is upon the hill--he will sound his horn." "We must give the youth warning what we are about to do," said Robin Hood, running his eye attentively over the form of the page before him--"we must give him warning.--Ha! Richard de Ashby! So--so!--Boy, this is news, indeed, you have brought me. Have you aught else to tell?" "Not now," answered the boy, "for I must be back to Nottingham with all speed, lest I be missed. To-morrow will do for my other tidings--I cannot think he will be so hasty there." "Nay--nay, if thou hast aught to tell," exclaimed Robin; "tell it now. One never can say to-morrow's sun will rise. There are precipices at every rood on the highway of human life, over which our best intentions fall, and dash themselves to pieces. Speak out--speak out! it will but take thee a spare minute." "Well, then," replied the boy, "doubtless you love not much the Earl of Ashby?" "Not much," answered Robin Hood, bluffly, "but his son much less." "It matters not," rejoined the page; "but I tell you the Earl's life is in danger from secret foes. There is a man--a base, bad man--the betrayer of all that trust in him----" The boy paused, and seemed to gasp for breath. "He seeks the Earl's death; ay, and that of his son also," he continued, "in order that--that--that he may wed the heiress of the house, and himself become its head. If I did know a friend of the Earl, I would beseech him earnestly to watch the old man well; ay, to watch his food--to watch his steps--to have his wine tried before he drinks it--never to let him forth alone, if it be but to taste the morning air upon a sunny bank.--But you are his enemies." "Yet we will act as friends," said Robin Hood. "He shall have warning, ay, and assistance at hand, in case of need.--And now," he added, in a low and soft tone, advancing a step, and taking the page's hand--"and now what is to become of thee, poor thing?--Dost thou think I do not know thee, Kate?" She shook terribly, and cast down her eyes, without reply. "'Tis well," he continued, finding that she did not answer. "But listen to me, Kate Greenly--listen to one that speaks to thee kindly. Thou hast done a good act this night; let it be balm to thy heart; nay, let it be more--let it be but as seed that thou hast sown, to bring forth still more plentiful fruit hereafter. Cast off the villain, whom thy better nature hates; leave him to the deeds which will, ere long, bring down destruction on his head; let him receive the reward of his own wickedness, and then----" "Die!" said Kate Greenly--"there is nothing else left for me to do. Nay, speak not of my father--utter not his name, for it is worse than fire even to hear it mentioned. Talk not to me of the cloister, where I might linger out long days of miserable memory. My life is near its close--my heart is broken--by my own act, I know; but all the more dreadful is the wound. There is no balm that can heal this--there is no time that can soothe it. He whom I trusted is a villain. Me he might have injured, betrayed, cast off, trampled upon. I might have wept, or raved, and still lived on; but to find him a traitor--a murderer--a fiend--to be forced, as if for my punishment on earth, to betray him who has betrayed me, and to blast his schemes and his fame who has blasted my name and my happiness--this is the cup of death, I tell thee, and a bitter death it is!--But I must go back! Thy people have promised that they will not stay me, and I must go back. Whatever tidings I can give, you shall have; for I have sworn to unravel the dark clue--to frustrate the wicked scheme, and to bring down upon his head the punishment he merits. God will give me strength to tread this path where every step is agony; and, oh! when it is done, may he receive the broken heart and penitent spirit, for the sake of Him who died to save us!" "Amen!" said Robin Hood. "Yet stay a moment, thou must have some one to guide thee back; thou art nearer the town than thou thinkest for.--I will speak a word with thee by the way." CHAPTER XXX. It was an hour past midnight--the sentries had just been relieved upon the castle wall--and Hugh de Monthermer sat by the window, looking out into the depth of sight, and gazing at the far twinkling of the stars. The mind was occupied in the same manner as the body, for it was looking forth into the dark night of death, and marking the small bright shining lights from heaven, that tell of other worlds beyond. His fate had been announced to him--that he had been judged and condemned without his presence--and that the first ray of the morning sun was to witness his death. He had solemnly appealed against the sentence, telling Lord Pembroke, who had brought the announcement thereof, that such a deed was mere murder. Neither had he left anything undone that behoved him to do, to check the base purposes of his enemies, by apprehensions of after retribution. But they scoffed at his threats, and heeded not his remonstrances, justifying the illegal course they pursued by declaring that he had been taken in the act of treason. All communication was denied him with the world without, and even the materials for writing were refused--perhaps to guard against the chance of his doom being made known to others who might interfere to stay the execution, or, perhaps, to prevent him from recording for after times the iniquity that was about to be committed. A priest eras promised him in the morning; but in the meanwhile he remained in solitude. He heard his good yeoman, Blawket, driven back from the door by the guards; and, with nought but his own thoughts to comfort and console him, he sat preparing himself for the grave as best he might. How often had he met the abhorred enemy, Death, in the battle-field? How often he staked life's bright jewel on the chances of an hour? How often had fate seemed near at hand in the burning march through the barren sands of the east, and in the deadly pestilence? But in all these shapes had the grim inevitable Lord of the grave seemed less terrible than when waiting through the livelong night, with the certainty of being murdered, unresisting, on the morning. Active exertion, gallant daring, the exercise of the high powers of the soul, set at nought the idea of annihilation; and when, with eager fire, man puts forth all his faculties in the moment of danger, their very possession tells him that he is immortal, and makes the open gate of the tomb appear but the portal of a better world. It is the cold, calm, slow approach of the dark hour of passage, when the mind has nought to work upon but that one idea, which smears the dart with all the venom that it is capable of bearing. Then rise up all those dark doubts and apprehensions with which the evil spirit besieges the small garrison of faith. Then come the sweet and lingering affections of the world--the loves, the hopes, the wishes, the prospects, the enjoyments. Then speak the memories of dear things past, never to be again--of voices heard for the last time--of looks to be seen no more. Oh! it is a terrible and an awful thing, even for the stoutest heart and best prepared spirit, to wait in silence and in solitude for the approach of the King of Terrors! The young knight strove vigorously to repel all weakness; but he could not shut out regret. Twelve hours had scarcely passed, since, in the pride of success and the vanity of hope, he had clasped her he loved in his arms, and fancied that fate itself could scarcely sever them--and now he was to lose her for ever. Would she forget him when he was gone? Would she give her hand to another? Would the gay wedding train pass by, and the minstrel's song sound loud, and the laugh, and the smile, and the jest go round, and all be joyful in the halls of Lindwell, and he lay mouldering in the cold earth hard by? But love, and trust, and confidence said, No; and, though it might be selfish, there was a balm in the belief that Lucy would mourn for him when he was gone--ay, that she had promised to love him and be his even beyond the grave. Of such things were his thoughts, as he gazed forth on that solemn night; but suddenly something, he knew not what, called his attention from himself; and he looked down from the window of his chamber upon the top of the wall below. The distance was some thirty feet, the night was dark, for the moon had gone early down, but, even in the dim obscurity, he thought he saw something like a man's head appear above the battlement. In a moment after, with a bound as if it had been thrown over by an engine, a human body sprang upon the top of the wall, ran forward to the tower in which he was confined, and struck the stonework with its arm. The next instant, without any apparent footing, he could perceive one leg stretched upwards, while the hand seemed to have obtained a grasp of the wall itself, and then the rest of the body ascended to the height of about four feet from the ground, sticking fast, like a squirrel swarming up a large beech tree. A long thin arm was then extended, far overhead, to a deep window, just beneath that at which the young knight stood, and by it the whole body was drawn up into the aperture of the wall, while a sentinel passed by with slow and measured steps. As soon as the soldier was gone, the arm was again stretched forth in the direction of the casement from which Hugh was gazing down, and the hand struck once or twice against the wall, in different places, making a slight grating sound, as if it were armed with some metal instrument. At length it remained fixed, and then the head and shoulders were protruded from the opening of the window below, the feet resting upon the stonework. Then came one of those extraordinary efforts of agility and pliability of limb which Hugh had never witnessed but in one being on the earth.