The Woodman: A Romance of the Times of Richard III Read online

  CHAPTER II.

  Years had passed, long years, since the little scene took place whichI have described in the preceding chapter. The heads were grey whichwere then proud of the glossy locks of youth. Middle life wasapproaching old age; and children had become men.

  It was evening. The sun had gone down some two hours before; and thelights were lighted in a large comfortable well-furnished room. Theceilings were vaulted. The doorways and the two windows were richlydecorated with innumerable mouldings; and the discoloured stone workaround them, the clustered pillars at the sides, the mullions whichdivided the windows, and the broad pointed arches above, spoke thatstyle of architecture known as the early English. The tables, thechairs, the cupboard at the side, were all of old oak, deep in colourand rich in ornament. The floor was covered with rushes, over which,in the centre, was spread a piece of tapestry; and the stone work ofthe walls between the pillars was hidden by tapestry likewise, on oneside representing the siege of Troy, on the other the history of Davidand Goliath, and on a third the loves of Mars and Venus, which, thoughsomewhat too luscious for our irritable imaginations, did not in thosedays at all shock the chaste inhabitants of a nunnery. The fourth sideof the room was untapestried, for there spread the immense, wide, openchimney, with a pile of blazing logs on the hearth, and, in the openspace above the arch, a very early painting of the Madonna and child,with gilt glories around the heads of both, and the meek eyes of thevirgin fixed upon the somewhat profuse charms of the goddess of loveon the other side.

  This is description enough. The reader can easily conceive the parlourof an abbess towards the end of the fifteenth century, theheterogeneous contents of which would be somewhat tedious to detail.

  Let no one, however, form a false idea of the poor abbess ofAtherston, from the admission into her own private chamber of suchvery ungodly personages as Mars and Venus. She had found them therewhen she became abbess of the convent, and looked upon them and theirloves as upon any other piece of needlework. Nay, more, had it everoccurred to her that there was anything improper in having them there,she would probably have removed them, though to get a more decentpiece of tapestry might have cost her four or five marks. Not that shewas at all stiff, rigid, and severe, for she was the merriest littleabbess in the world; but she combined with great gaiety of heart aninfinite deal of innocence and simplicity, which were perfectlycompatible with some shrewdness and good sense. Shut up in a conventat a very early period, exposed to none of the vicissitudes of life,and untaught the corrupting lessons of the world, her cheerfulness hadbeen economised, her simplicity unimpaired, and her natural keennessof intellect unblunted, though there might be here and there a spot ofrust upon the blade. It was without her own consent she had gone intoa convent, but neither with nor against her wishes. She had been quiteindifferent; and, never having had any means of judging of otherstates of life, she was not discontented with her lot, and ratherpitied than otherwise those who were forced to dwell in a world ofwhich she knew nothing.

  As piety however had nothing to do with her profession, andmortification had never entered into her catalogue of duties, she sawno sin and could conceive no evil in making herself as comfortable andhappy as she could. Her predecessor indeed had done a little more, andhad not altogether escaped scandal; but our abbess was of a verydifferent character, performed her ceremonial duties accurately,abstained from everything that she knew or thought to be wrong, andwhile exacting a fulfilment of all prescribed duties from her nuns,endeavoured to make their seclusion pleasant, by unvarying gentleness,kindness, and cheerfulness. If she had a fault, perhaps it was a toogreat love for the good things of this life. She was exceedingly fondof trout, and did not altogether dislike a moderate portion of Gasconwine, especially when it was of a very superior quality. Venison shecould eat; and a well-fed partridge was not unacceptable--thoughmethinks she might have spared it from its great resemblance toherself. All these things, and a great number of other dainties,however, were plentifully supplied by the lands of the convent, whichwere ample, and by the stream which flowed near at hand, or by thelarge fish-ponds, three in number, which lay upon the common above.Indeed so abundant was the provision for a fast day, that the abbessand the nuns looked forward to it, as it came on in the week, withgreat satisfaction, from its affording them excuse for eating morefish than usual. Not that they fared ill on the other days of theweek; for, as far as forest and lea would go, they were well provided.

  To a contented spirit all things are bright; and the good abbess couldhave been satisfied with much less than she possessed; so I supposewhatever little superabundance existed went to make the heart merryand the tongue glib; and there she sat with her feet on a footstool,sufficiently near the fire to be somewhat over warm, but yet hardlynear enough for that delicious tingling sensation, which the blaze ofgood dry wood produces till we hardly know whether it is pleasant orpainful. In her hand there was a book--a real printed book, rare inthose days, and which might well be looked upon as a treasure. As sheread, she commented to two young girls who sat near with tall framesbefore them, running the industrious needle in and out.

  I have called them young girls, not alone to distinguish them from oldones--though that might be necessary--but to show that they had barelyreached womanhood. The eldest was hardly nineteen; the other somefourteen or fifteen months younger. Both were beautiful; and there wasa certain degree of likeness between them, though the face of theelder had features more clearly, perhaps more beautifully, cut, and anexpression of greater thoughtfulness, perhaps greater vigour ofcharacter. Yet the other was very beautiful too, with that sparklingvariety, that constant play of everchanging expression, which is socharming. Its very youthfulness was delightful, for a gleam ofchildhood lingered still in the look, especially when surprised orpleased, although the lines of the face and the contour of the formwere womanly--perhaps more so than those of the other.

  That they were none of the sisterhood was evident by the mere matterof their dress, which also indicated that they had not a fixedintention of ever entering it; for it was altogether worldly in formand material, and though plain yet rich. Seated there, with a nearrelation, their heads were unencumbered with the monstroushead-dresses of the time, the proportions of which, not very longbefore, were so immense as to require doorways to be widened andlintels raised, in order to let a lady pass in conveniently. Each worea light veil, it is true, hanging from the mass of glossy hair behindthe head, and which could be thrown over the face when required; butit was very different from the veil of the nun or even of the novice.

  "Well, my dear children, I do declare," said the elder lady, "this newinvention of printing may be very clever, and I wot it is; but it ismighty difficult to read when it is done. I could make out plain courthand a great deal better when written by a good scribe, such as theyused to have at Winchester and Salisbury."

  The younger girl looked up, answering with a gay laugh. "The poorpeople never pretend to make you read it easily, dear aunt and mother.All they say is that they can make more copies of a book in a day thana scribe could make in a year, and that they can let you have forthree or four shillings what would cost you three or four crowns froma scribe."

  "Ay, that's the worst of it all, child," replied the old lady, shakingher head. "Books will get into the hands of all sorts of commonpeople, and do a world of mischief, good lack. But it can't be helped,my children. The world and the devil will have their way; and, even ifthere were a law made against any one learning to read or write underthe rank of a lord at least, it would only make others the more eagerto do it. But I do think that this invention ought to be stopped; forit will do a world of mischief, I am sure."

  "I hope not," replied the other young lady; "for by no contrivance canthey ever make books so cheap, that the lower class can read them; andI know I have often wished I had a book to read when I have hadnothing else to do. It's a great comfort sometimes, my dear aunt,especially when one is heavy."

  "Ay, that it is, child," said the abbess
; "I know that right well. Idon't know what I should have done after the battle of Barnet, if ithad not been for poor old Chaucer. My grandfather remembered him verywell, at the court of John of Ghent; and he gave me the merry book,when I was not much older than you are. Well-a-day, I must read itagain, when you two leave me; for my evenings will be dull enoughwithout you, children. I would ask sister Bridget to come in of anight, in the winter, and do her embroidery beside me, only if shestaid for my little private supper, her face would certainly turn thewine sour."

  "But, perhaps we shall not go after all, dear mother," said theyounger lady. "Have you heard anything about it?"

  "There now," cried the abbess, laughing, "she's just as wild to getinto the wicked world as a caged bird to break out into the open air."

  "To be sure I am," exclaimed the light-hearted girl; "and oh, how Iwill use my wings."

  The abbess gazed at her with a look of tender, almost melancholy,interest, and replied:

  "There are limed twigs about them, my child. You forget that you aremarried."

  "No, not married," cried the other, with her face all glowing."Contracted, not married--I wish I was, for the thought frightens me,and then the worst would be over."

  "You don't know what you wish," replied the abbess, shaking her head."A thousand to one, you would very soon wish to be unmarried again;but then it would be too late. It is a collar you can't shake off whenyou have once put it on; and nobody can tell how much it may pinch onetill it has been tried. I thank my lucky stars that made it convenientfor your good grandfather to put me in here; for whenever I go outquietly on my little mule, to see after the affairs of the farms, andperchance to take a sidelong look at our good foresters coursing ahare, I never can help pitying the two dogs coupled together, andpulling at the two ends of a band they cannot break, and thanking mygood fortune for not tying me up in a leash with any one."

  The two girls laughed gaily; for, to say truth, they had neither ofthem any vocation for cloisteral life; but the youngest replied,following her aunt's figure of speech, "I dare say the dogs are verylike two married people, my aunt and lady mother; but I dare say too,if you were to ask either of them, whether he would rather go out intothe green fields tied to a companion, or remain shut up in a kennel,he would hold out his neck for the couples."

  "Why, you saucy child, do you call this a kennel?" asked the abbess,shaking her finger at her good-humouredly. "What will young maids cometo next? But it is as well as it is; since thou art destined for theworld and its vanities, 'tis lucky thou hast a taste for them; and Itrust thy husband--as thou must have one--will not beat thee aboveonce a-week, and that on the Saturday, to make thee more devout on theSunday following. Is he a ferocious-looking man?"

  "Lord love thee, my dear aunt," answered the young lady; "I have neverseen him since I was in swaddling clothes."

  "And he was in a sorry-coloured pinked doublet, with a gay cloak onhis shoulders, and a little bonnet on his head no bigger than the palmof my hand," cried the other young lady. "He could not be ten yearsold, and looked like some great man's little page. I remember it quitewell, for I had seen seven years; and I thought it a great shame thatmy cousin Iola should have a husband given to her at five, and I noneat seven."

  "Given to her!" said the abbess, laughing.

  "Well," rejoined the young lady, "I looked upon it as a sort ofdoll--a poppet."

  "Not far wrong either, my dear," answered the abbess; "only you musttake care how you knock its nose against the floor, or you may findout where the difference lies."

  "Good lack, I have had dolls enough," answered the younger lady, "andcould well spare this other one. But what must be must be; so there isno use to think of it.--Don't you believe, lady mother," she continuedafter a pause, interrupted by a sigh, "that it would be better if theylet people choose husbands and wives for themselves?"

  "Good gracious!" cried the abbess, "what is the child thinking of?Pretty choosing there would be, I dare say. Why lords' daughters wouldbe taking rosy-cheeked franklins' sons; and barons' heirs would bemarrying milkmaids."

  "I don't believe it," said the young lady. "Each would choose, Ithink, as they had been brought up; and there would be more chance oftheir loving when they did wed."

  "Nonsense, nonsense, Iola," cried her aunt. "What do you know aboutlove--or I either for that matter? Love that comes after marriage ismost likely to last, for, I suppose, like all other sorts of plants,it only lives a certain time and then dies away; so that if it beginssoon, it ends soon."

  "I should like my love to be like one of the trees of the park," saidthe young lady, looking down thoughtfully, "growing stronger andstronger, as it gets older, and outliving myself."

  "You must seek for it in fairyland then, my dear," said the abbess."You will not find it in this sinful world."

  Just as she spoke, the great bell of the abbey, which hung not farfrom the window of the abbess's parlour, rang deep and loud; and thesound, unusual at that hour of the night, made the good old ladystart.

  "Virgin mother!" she exclaimed--it was the only little interjectionshe allowed herself. "Who can that be coming two hours after curfew?"and running to the door, with more activity than her plumpness seemedto promise, she exclaimed, "Sister Magdalen, sister Magdalen, do notlet them open the gate; let them speak through the barred wicket."

  "It is only Boyd, the woodman, lady," replied a nun, who was at theend of a short passage looking out into the court.

  "What can he want at this hour?" said the abbess. "Could he not comebefore sundown? Well, take him into the parlour by the little door. Iwill come to him in a minute;" and returning into her own room again,the good lady composed herself after her agitation, by a moment's restin her great chair; and, after expressing her surprise more than once,that the woodman should visit the abbey so late, she bade her twonieces follow her, and passed through a door, different to that bywhich she had previously gone out, and walked with stately steps alonga short corridor leading to the public parlour of the abbey.

  This was a large and handsome room, lined entirely with beautifulcarved oak, and divided into two, lengthwise, by a screen of openiron-work painted blue and red, and richly gilt. Visitors on the oneside could see, converse, and even shake hands with those on theother; but, like the gulf between Abraham and Dives, the iron barsshut out all farther intercourse. A sconce was lighted on the side ofthe nunnery; and when Iola and her cousin Constance followed theiraunt into the room, they beheld, on the other side of the grate, theform of a tall powerful man, somewhat advanced in life, standing withhis arms crossed upon his broad chest, and looking, to say sooth,somewhat gloomy. He might indeed, be a little surprised at beingforced to hold communication with the lady abbess through the grate ofthe general parlour; for the good lady was by no means so strict inher notions of conventual decorum, as to exclude him, or any other ofthe servants and officers of the abbey, from her presence in thecourtyard or in her own private sitting-room; and perhaps the woodmanmight think it did not much matter whether his visit was made by nightor by day.

  "Well, John Boyd," said the abbess, "in fortune's name, what bringsyou so late at night? Mary mother, I thought it was some of the rovingbands come to try and plunder the abbey again, as they did lastMartinmas twelvemonth; and we cannot expect such a blessed chanceevery time, as that good Sir Martin Rideout should be at hand to helpour poor socmen. Had it not been for him, I wot, Peter our bailiffwould have made but a poor hand of defending us."

  "And a poor hand he did make," replied the woodman, in a cynical tone;"for he was nowhere to be found; and I had to pull him out of thebuttery, to head the tenants. But I hear no more of rovers, lady,unless it be the men at Coleshill, and King Richard's posts, plantedall along the highways, with twenty miles between each two, to lookout for Harry of Richmond."

  "Posts!" said the abbess; "posts planted on the highway! What mean youby posts?"

  "Why men on horseback, lady mother," answered the woodman; "with sharpspurs and strong steeds to bear
to Dickon, our king that is, news ofHarry, our king that may be, if he chance to land any where upon thecoast."

  "Now Heaven assoil us!" cried the abbess; "what more war, more war?Will men never be content without deforming God's image in theirfellow creatures, and burning and destroying even the fairest works oftheir own hands?"

  "I fear not," answered the woodman, twisting round the broad axe thatwas hung in his leathern belt. "Great children and small are fond ofbonfires; and nature and the devil between them made man a beast ofprey. As to what brought me hither, madam, it, was to tell you thatthe wooden bridge in the forest wants repairing sadly. It would hardlybear up your mule, lady, with nothing but yourself and your hawk uponits back; much less a war-horse with a rider armed at point. As for mycoming so late, I have been as far as Tamworth this morning, to sellthe bavins, and didn't get back till after dark. So marking the bridgeby the way, and thinking it would be better to begin on it early inthe morning, I made bold to come up at night for fear anyone, ridingalong to church or market or otherwise, should find their way into theriver, and say the abbess ought to mend her ways;" and he laughed athis own joke.

  While he had been speaking, both the young ladies, though he was nostranger to them, had been gazing at him with considerable attention.He was, as I have said before, a tall and still very powerful man,although he seemed to have passed the age of fifty years. Hisshoulders were very broad, his arms long and muscular; but his bodywas small in proportion to the limbs, and the head in proportion tothe height of the whole figure. His forehead was exceedingly broad andhigh, however; the crown of his head quite bald, with large masses ofcurling hair falling round his temples and on his neck. What hiscomplexion originally had been, could not be discovered; for thewhiteness of his hair and eye-brows and the sun-burnt weather-beatenhue of his skin afforded no indication. His teeth, however, were stillgood, his eyes large and bright, and the features fine, although thewide forehead was seamed with deep furrows, giving, apart from therest of his appearance, a look of much greater age than that at whichhe had really arrived.

  His dress was the ordinary woodman's garb of the time, which is wellknown to almost every one. There was the thick stiff leathern coat,which no broken branch or rugged thorn could pierce, the breeches ofuntanned hide, and the hoots of strong black leather, reaching abovethe knee. Round his waist, over his coat, he wore a broad belt,fastened by a brass buckle in front, and in it were stuck theimplements of his craft, namely, a broad axe, which required noordinary power of limb to wield, with the head uppermost, thrust underhis left arm like a sword; a large billhook, having a broad stoutpiece of iron at the back, which might serve the purposes of a hammer;and an ordinary woodman's knife, the blade of which was about eighteeninches in length. His head was on ordinary occasions covered with around cloth cap; but this, in reverence of the presence of the ladyabbess, he held by the edge in his hand.

  The expression of the good man's countenance, when not particularlymoved, was agreeable enough, though somewhat stern and sad; but whenhe laughed, which was by no means unfrequent, although the sound wasloud and hearty, an extraordinary look of bitter mockery hung abouthis lip and nostril, taking away all appearance of happiness from hismerriment.

  "Well, well, you might mend the bridge without asking me," said theabbess, in reply to his report. "It is a part of the head woodman'sduty, and the expenses would always be passed. So if you had nothingmore to say than that, you might have chosen another hour, goodmanBoyd."

  "Crying your mercy, lady," said the woodman, "I would always ratherdeal with you than with your bailiff. When I have orders from you, Iset him at nought. When I do anything of my own hand he is sure tocarp. However I had more to say. We have taken a score of mallards inthe great pond, and a pike of thirty pounds. There are two bitternstoo, three heronshaws, and a pheasant with a back like gold. I hadfour dozen of pigeons killed too, out of the colombier in the northwood; and--"

  "Mother Mary, is the man mad?" exclaimed the abbess. "One would thinkwe were going to have the installation of an archbishop."

  "And there are twenty young rabbits, as fat as badgers," continued thewoodman, taking no notice of her interruption. "If I might advise,lady, you would order some capons to be killed to-night."

  The good abbess stood as one quite bewildered, and then burst into afit of laughter, saying--

  "The man is crazed, I think;" but her eldest niece pulled the sleeveof her gown, whispering--

  "He means something, depend upon it. Perhaps he does not like to speakbefore me and Iola."

  The abbess paused for an instant as if to consider this suggestion,and then asked--

  "Well, have you anything more to say, goodman?"

  "Oh, yes, plenty more," answered the woodman; "when I find a meetseason."

  "On my word you seem to have found a fish and fowl season," rejoinedthe abbess, playing upon the word _meet_. We must recollect that shehad but little to amuse herself with in her solitude, and thereforeforgive her. She continued, however, in a graver tone: "Is it that youwish to speak with me alone?"

  "Yes, lady," answered the man. "Three pair of ears have generally gotthree mouths belonging to them, and that is too many by two."

  "Then I'll carry mine out of the way, goodman Boyd," said Iola, givinghim a gay nod, and moving towards the door; "I love not secrets of anykind. Heaven shield me from having any of my own, for I should neverkeep them."

  The woodman looked after her with a smile, murmuring in a low voice asif to himself--

  "Yet I think she would keep other people's better than most." Then,waiting till Constance had followed her cousin from the room, hecontinued, speaking to the abbess: "you'll have visitors at the abbey,lady, before this time to-morrow night."

  "Marry, that is news, goodman," answered the abbess; "and for thisthen you have made all this great preparation. It must be an earl, orduke at least, if not king Richard himself--God save the mark that Ishould give the name of king to one of his kindred. Methinks you mighthave told me this without such secrecy. Who may these visitors be?"

  "They are very simple gentlemen, my lady," answered the woodman,"though well to do in the world. First and foremost, there is theyoung Lord Chartley, a young nobleman with as many good points as ahorse-dealer's filly; a baron of the oldest race, a good man at arms.He can read and write, and thanks God for it, makes verses when he isin love--which is every day in the week with some one--and, to crownall, is exceedingly rich as these hard times go."

  "You seem to be of his privy chamber, goodman Boyd," said the abbess;"you deliver him so punctually."

  "I deliver him but as his own servants delivered him to me," answeredthe woodman. "Tell me, was he not in the battle of Barnet, fightingfor the red rose?" inquired the abbess. "Ay, and sorely wounded there.He shall be right welcome, if it were but for that."

  "Nay, Lord Chartley fought at Barnet," said the woodman; "and if tofight well and to suffer for the cause of Lancaster merit such highhonour, you might indeed receive him daintily, for he fought till hewas killed there, poor man; but this youth is his nephew, and has hadno occasion to fight in England either, for there have been no battlessince he was a boy. Lancaster he doubtless is in heart, though kingEdward put him into the guardianship of a Yorkist. However, with himcomes Sir Edward Hungerford, who, they tell me, is one of those gaylight-hearted gentlemen, who, born and bred in perilous and changingtimes, get to think at last, by seeing all things fall to pieces roundthem, that there is nothing real or solid in the world--no, not truthitself. But let him pass; a little perjury and utter faithlessness, aready wit, a bold heart, a reckless love of mischief, a pair ofhanging sleeves that sweeps the ground as he walks along, a coat ofgoldsmith's work, and a well-lined purse, have made many a finegentleman before him; and I'll warrant he is not worse than thegreater part of his neighbours. Then with these two, there is SirCharles Weinants, a right worshipful gentleman also."

  "But tell me more of him," said the abbess. "What is he? I have heardthe name before with
honourable mention, methinks--Who and what ishe?"

  "A lickladle of the court, lady," answered the woodman, "one who riseshigh by low ladders--who soars not up at once, either as the eagle orthe lark, but creeps into favour through holes and turnings. He ismarvellously discreet in all his doings, asserts nought boldly, but bydull insinuation stings an enemy or serves a friend. Oh yes, he hashis friendships too--not much to be relied on, it is true, but stilloften useful, so that even good men have need of his agency. All thathe does is done by under-currents, which bear things back to the shorethat seem floating out to sea. Quiet, and calm, and self-possessed, heis ever ready for the occasion; and with a cheerful spirit, which onewould think the tenant of an upright heart, he wins his way silently,and possesses great men's ears, who little know that their favour isdisposed of at another's will. He is an old man now; but I rememberhim when I was a boy at St. Alban's. He was then in much grace withthe great Lord Clifford, who brought him to the notice of king Henry.He has since lived, as much in favour, with Edwards and Richards andBuckinghams, and is now a strong Yorkist. What he will die, Heaven andtime will show us."

  "Goodlack, that there should be such things in the world!" exclaimedthe abbess; "but what brings all these people here? I know none ofthem; and if they come but to visit the shrine, I have no need toentertain them, nor you to make a mystery of their visit. I hatemysteries, my good son, ever since I read about that word beingwritten on the forehead of the poor sinner of Babylon."

  The woodman laughed irreverently, but answered, "I want to make nomystery with you, lady. These men bring a great train with them; andin their train there is a reverend friar, with frock, and cowl, andsandaled feet; but methinks I have seen a mitre on his shaven crown,though neither mitre nor cowl would save him from the axe, I wot, ifgood king Richard got his hands upon him. What he comes for--why hecomes, I cannot tell you; for I only heard that their steps tendedhitherward, and the lackeys counted on drinking deep of the abbey ale.But when that friar is beneath your roof, you will have a man besideyou, whose life is in much peril for stout adherence to the cause ofLancaster."

  "Then he shall have shelter and protection here," said the abbessboldly. "This is sanctuary, and I will not believe that Richardhimself--bad and daring as he is--would venture to violate thechurch's rights."

  "Richard has two weapons, madam," answered the woodman, "and bothequally keen, his sword and his cunning; and take my word for it, whathe desires to do that he will do--ay, even to the violation ofsanctuary, though perhaps it may not be with his own hand or in hisown name. You have had one visit from a roving band who cared littleabout holy church; and you may have another, made up of very differentmen, with whom the king might deal tenderly if they did him goodservice."

  "Then we will call in the tenants," said the abbess, "and defend ourrights and privileges."

  "The tenants might be outnumbered," said the woodman, shaking hishead. "There are many men straying about here, who would soon bandtogether at the thought of stripping the shrine of St. Clare;especially if they had royal warranty for their necks' safety, and thepromise of farther reward, besides all their hands helped them to."

  "Then what is to be done?" exclaimed the abbess, in someconsternation. "I cannot and I will not refuse refuge to a consecratedbishop, and one who has suffered persecution for the sake of hisrightful race of kings."

  "Nay, Heaven forbid," replied the woodman warmly; "but if you willtake a simple man's advice, lady, methinks I could show you a way tosave the bishop, and the abbey, and the ornaments of the shrine too."

  "Speak, speak," exclaimed the abbess eagerly. "Your advice is alwaysshrewd, goodman Boyd. What way would you have me take?"

  "Should you ever have in sanctuary," answered the woodman, "a man sohated by the king that you may expect rash acts committed to seizehim, and you find yourself suddenly attacked by a band that you cannotresist, send your sanctuary man to me by some one who knows all theways well, and I will provide for his safety where they will neverfind him. Then, be you prepared for resistance, but resist not if youcan help it. Parley with the good folks, and say that you know wellthey would not come for the mere plunder of a consecrated place, thatyou are sure they have come seeking a man impeached of high treasonwho lately visited the abbey. Assure them that you sent him away,which you then may well do in all truth, and offer to give admissionto any three or four to search for him at their will. Methinks, ifthey are privately set on by higher powers, they will not venture todo anything violent, when they are certain that success will notprocure pardon for the act."

  The abbess mused and seemed to hesitate; and, after a short pause, thewoodman added, "Take my advice, lady. I do not speak withoutknowledge. Many a stray bit of news gets into the forest by one way oranother that is never uttered in the town. Now, a messenger stops totalk with the woodman, and, overburdened with the secret, pours partof it out, where he thinks it can never rise in judgment against him.Then, a traveller asks his way, and gossips with his guide as he walksalong to put him in the right road. Every carter, who comes in for hisload of wood, brings some intelligence from the town. I am rightlyinformed, lady, depend upon it."

  "It is not that; it is not that," said the abbess, somewhat peevishly."I was thinking whom I could send and how. If they surround the abbeyaltogether, how could I get him out?"

  "There is the underground way to the cell of St. Magdalen," said thewoodman. "To surround the abbey, they would have to bring their men inamongst the houses of the hamlet, and the cell is far beyond that."

  "True, but no one knows that way," said the abbess, "but you, and I,and sister Bridget. I could trust her well enough, cross andill-tempered as she is; but then she has never stirred beyond theabbey walls for these ten years, so that she knows not the way fromthe cell to your cottage. I trust she knows the way to heaven better;"and the abbess laughed.

  "'Twere easy to instruct some one else in the way to the cell," saidthe woodman. "The passage is plain enough when the stone door isopen."

  "Ay, doubtless, doubtless," continued the abbess; "but you forget, mygood friend, that it is against our law to tell the secret way out toany of the sisterhood, except the superior and the oldest nun. Marymother, I know not why the rule was made; but it has been so, eversince bishop Godshaw's visitation in 1361."

  "I suppose he found the young sisters fond of tripping in the greenwood with the fairies of nights," answered the woodman, with one ofhis short laughs; "but however, you are not forbidden to tell thosewho are not of the sisterhood; otherwise, lady, you would not havetold me."

  "Nay, that does not follow," rejoined the abbess. "The head woodmanalways knows, as the cell is under his charge and care, ever since thepoor hermit died. However, I do not recollect having vowed not to tellthe secret to any secular persons. The promise was only as to thesisters--but whom could I send?

  "Iola? Nay, nay, that cannot be," said the abbess. "She is not of astation to go wandering about at night, guiding strangers through awild wood. She is my niece, and an earl's daughter."

  "Higher folks than she have done as much," answered the woodman; "butI did not think that the abbess of Atherston St. Clare would haverefused even her niece's help, to Morton, bishop of Ely."

  "The bishop of Ely!" cried the abbess. "Refuse him help? No, no, Boyd.If it were my daughter or my sister, if it cost me life, or limb, orfortune, he should have help in time of need. I have not seen him nowthese twelve years; but he shall find I do not forget--Say no more,goodman, say no more. I will send my niece, and proud may she be ofthe task."

  "I thought it would be so, lady," answered the woodman; "but still oneword more. It were as well that you told the good lord bishop of hisdanger, as soon as you can have private speech with him, and then takethe first hour after sundown to get him quietly away out of the abbey,for to speak truth I much doubt the good faith of that Sir CharlesWeinants--I know not what he does with men of Lancaster--unless hethinks, indeed, the tide is turning in favour of that house from whichit has ebbed
away so long."

  Although they had said all they really had to say, yet the abbess andthe woodman carried on their conversation during some ten minutes orquarter of an hour more, before they parted; and then the excellentlady retired to her own little comfortable room again, murmuring toherself: "He is a wise man, that John Boyd--rude as a bear sometimes;but he has got a wit! I think those woodmen are always shrewd. Theyharbour amongst the green leaves, and look at all that goes on in theworld as mere spectators, till they learn to judge better of all thegames that are playing than those who take part therein. They can lookout, and see, and meddle as little as we do, while we are shut outfrom sight, as well as from activity."