GASTON DE BLONDEVILLE.

INTRODUCTION.

“Well! now are we in Arden,” said an English traveller to his companion, as they passed between Coventry and Warwick, over ground, which his dear Shakspeare had made classic. As he uttered this exclamation of Rosalind, he looked forward with somewhat of the surprise and curiosity, which she may be supposed to have felt, and with an enthusiasm all his own, on beholding the very scene, into which the imagination of the poet had so often transported him with a faint degree 4of its own rapture. He was not, it appears, one of those critics, who think that the Arden of Shakspeare, lay in France. But he looked in vain for the thick and gloomy woods, which, in a former age, were the home of the doubtful fugitive, and so much the terror of the traveller, that it had been found necessary, on this very road, to clear the ground, for a breadth of six acres on each side, in order to protect the wayfaring part of his Majesty’s liege subjects.

Now, albeit the landscape was still wild and woody, he could not any where espy a forest scene of dignity sufficient to call up before his fancy the exiled duke and his court, at their hunter-feast, beneath the twilight of the boughs; nor a single beech, under the grandeur of whose shade the melancholy Jaques, might “lose and neglect the creeping hours of time,” while he sadly sympathized with the poor stag, that, escaped from the pursuit of man, came to 5drop his tears into the running brook, and to die in quiet. Not even a grove appeared, through whose deep vista the traveller might fancy that he caught, in the gayer light, a glimpse of the wandering Rosalind and her companions, the wearied princess and the motley fool, or of the figure of Orlando, leaning against an oak, and listening to her song: he could not even catch the last faint echo of that song, in a scene so different from the one his fancy had represented to him for the forest of Arden.

“Alas!” said he, “that enchanting vision is no more found, except in the very heart of a populous city, and then neither by the glimmering of the dawn, nor by the glow of evening, but by the paltry light of stage-lamps. Yet there, surrounded by a noisy multitude, whose cat-calls often piped instead of the black-bird, I have found myself transported into the wildest region of poetry and solitude; while here, on the 6very spot which Shakspeare drew, I am suddenly let down from the full glow of my holiday-feelings into the plain reality of this work-a-day world.”

Here ensued a conversation on illusions of the imagination and on the various powers of exciting them, shown by English poets, especially by Shakspeare and Milton, which it is unnecessary to repeat in this place. Such was its length, that Mr. Simpson’s part in it had gradually become less and less active, while Willoughton’s increased earnestness had rendered him less and less sensible of the deficiency of replies. At last, on his asking, rather peremptorily, whether his friend did not recollect some fine effects of the towers of Windsor Castle upon the imagination, Mr. Simpson, fortunately concealing how nearly he had approached to a nap, answered, “No, no; I do not recollect any thing of what you tell me; but you were talking a little while 7ago of Hamlet and towers; now, if you want towers that would do honour to Hamlet, go to Warwick Castle, and if we reach it, as we hope, this night, you can walk from the inn while supper is preparing, and you will find, on the terrace or platform before the gates, towers frowning and majestic enough. If the moon is up, you will see them to perfection, and, as you are so fond of ghosts, you can hardly fail to make an assignation with one there.” “I shall delight in the advantage,” replied Willoughton, laughing: “Though I am not so fond of ghosts in general, as you seem to think. It is only for a few of particular excellence, that I feel a friendship; for them, indeed, I am willing to own even an affection.”

Willoughton, not receiving a rejoinder, observed, that his friend had fallen again into his nap; and he returned to the busy thoughts, to which his first view of this 8land of Arden, the ground of Shakspeare, had led. Sunk in reverie, he was no longer in the living scene, but ranging over worlds of his own, till a jolt of the carriage awoke his companion; who, shaking his head, and looking out of the window, with the sudden alertness of one who thinks he has been losing time, now supposed himself bound to brush up his thoughts and to talk to his friend.

Willoughton could well have spared the interruption, till a remark, delivered with an air of self-satisfaction, touched the string that recalled him willingly to the present scene.

“There now is an oak,” said Simpson, “that may have been of Elizabeth’s time, by the hollowness of its vast trunk and the state of its branches.”

“Ay, long before her time,” said his companion, “and perhaps Shakspeare’s eyes have dwelt on it; perhaps he has rested 9under its shade:—O! we are coming now to something like the Forest of Arden: see how finely the woods rise in the distance, and what a rich gleam the western sun throws along the ground, beyond those low-hung boughs on our left.”

As the travellers advanced upon Kenilworth-chace, the country assumed a more forest-like appearance, and a new train of ideas engaged Willoughton, on approaching the venerable ruins of the once magnificent castle, at one period its prison, and at another, the plaisance of royalty, where Edward the II. groaned under the traiterous power of Mortimer, and his abandoned Queen; and where the crafty Leicester entertained Elizabeth, with princely splendour. The domain of this castle, with its parks and chaces, included a circuit of nearly twenty miles; and when a survey of it was taken in the reign of James the I., on its forfeiture by the voluntary exile 10and contempt of Sir Robert Dudley, the son of Leicester and of his first wife, the Lady Sheffield,—the woods alone were valued at twenty thousand pounds, according to Dugdale, who observes of the castle and its territory, that “the like, both for strength, state, and pleasure, was not within the realm of England.”

Recollections of the long and varied history of this castle, crowded upon the mind of Willoughton, and he looked out, with impatience, for a glimpse of its stately towers in the distance, and then of its mouldering gateways, in the sun gleam, beneath the woods that now rose round him with majestic shade. Here, at least, was a mass and pomp of foliage worthy of the noble ruin he was approaching and of the memory of Arden; and, when he first caught a view of the grey walls and turrets overtopping the woods, lighted up by the evening sun, whose long beams, slanting 11now under the boughs, touched with a golden flush the bending trunk of many an old beech standing deep within the shade, he uttered a note of admiration and curiosity that discomposed Mr. Simpson, who immediately directed the postilion to make his way to the nearest gate.

Soon afterwards they found themselves in a valley, whose woody slopes excluded all distant prospect, and confined their attention to the venerable relique, which seemed to characterise, with its own quiet gloom, the surrounding landscape. They observed the several fine and detached masses of the castle rising on a lone rock in the centre of this secluded little valley; and, as they drove towards the only entrance of the area of these deserted courts, near the square-turreted gateway, which Leicester built for the grand approach to the castle, the impatience of Willoughton became tempered with a gentle and 12luxurious melancholy, and he forgot even Shakspeare, while he was influenced by somewhat of the poet’s feelings.

But a sense of real life broke in upon him even in this scene of solemn grandeur, and it required somewhat of the patience of a philosopher to endure, in the full glow of his present enthusiasm, the clamorous impetuosity of idle children, who, on the first sound of wheels, were seen running to assail the strangers from every cottage on the neighbouring banks. The visions of quiet solitude and of venerable antiquity were, in an instant, dispersed; the chaise was surrounded, and the travellers, having alighted, made their way with difficulty to the little gate, that led through a garden beside Leicester’s ruined tower into the area that was once the lower court of the castle, followed by a noisy troop, whom neither money, nor command, could for some time disperse.

13The tower—the gateway being now closed up,—was no longer accessible to curiosity, nor could gratify it by any traits of the customs of former times. No warder’s bench lurked within the gloom, nor portcullis hung in the arch. The warden’s chamber for those, who, by military tenure, kept guard on certain nights of the year, was transformed into a light parlour, and the whole building changed into a modern habitation. From the green and broken square, anciently the lower court-yard, the travellers looked up to the noble mass of ruins that yet stand proudly on their rocky knoll, and form three irregular sides of what was once the inner and grand court.

Of the fourth side, which separated the upper from the lower court, are now no vestiges, save in the inequality of the ground where their foundations stood, and where the walls, fallen from above, 14may lie buried under the turf and briers, that now cover the spot.

On the left, the shattered walls of that lofty pile, built by Leicester and still called by his name, advance proudly to the edge of the eminence that overlooked the lower court, hung with the richest drapery of ivy; on the right, stands the strong square tower, called Cæsar’s, which, though the most ancient part of the castle, appears fresher and less injured by time, than parts that were raised some ages later. This was the keep, or citadel, of the castle; and the prodigious thickness of the walls appears through the three arches in front, proportioned and shaped like some which may yet be seen in aqueducts near Rome; the walls here show a depth of fifteen or sixteen feet. The stone, of which this noble tower is built, is of closer texture and of a greyer hue, than that in any other part of the building; and this hue harmonizes 15beautifully with the ivy towers, which overshadow its arches and doorcases, and with the ashlings and elder crowning its summit, which highly overtops every relique of this once magnificent abode of princes.

“It should seem,” said Willoughton, “that no human force could lay low walls of such strength as these; yet, as one side of the tower is destroyed, while the other three remain nearly entire, it must have been assailed by some power more sudden and partial than that of time.”

“Yes, Sir, yes,” said a man, who had been standing by, observing the strangers with attentive curiosity, “that part was pulled down by Cromwell’s soldiers, and, if they had had more time on their side, they would have pulled it all down; as it was, they did a mort of mischief.”

Willoughton turned to look at his informer, and saw a tall, thin man, who appeared 16to be a villager, and who, without waiting for encouragement, proceeded: “I have heard say, they destroyed all that stood between Cæsar’s and John O’Gaunts tower there, at the end of the great hall, and a deal on the other side of the court, between the Whitehall and Lord Leicester’s buildings.”

“Are those walls before us the remains of the great hall?” inquired Mr. Simpson, pointing to a picturesque mass of ruins, standing on the third side of the upper court and seen in perspective between the other two.

“Yes, Sir,” said the man, “that there was the great banqueting-hall where”—

“Leicester entertained Queen Elizabeth,” observed Willoughton. “How beautifully the ivy falls over those light Gothic window-mullions and that arched door-way, so appropriately and elegantly sculptured with vine-leaves! The sun 17now slopes its rays through the arch, as if purposely to show the beauty of its proportion and the grace of the vine that entwines it.”

“Ay,” said Mr. Simpson, “many a pitcher of wine and many a baron of beef have been carried under that arch by the king’s yeomen, when Henry the Third kept his court here.”

“I doubt whether by yeomen,” replied Willoughton, “for, though yeomen of the household are mentioned, about this time, yeomen of the guard, a part of whose office it afterwards became to carry certain dishes to the king’s table, do not occur till the reign of Henry the Seventh. However, it is probable, that, before the appointment of the latter, yeomen of the household might perform this business on state occasions, and in that very hall may have stood before the long tables, in double row, with wine ewers in their hands.”

18“Those were times worth living in,” observed Mr. Simpson.

“Ay, those were jolly times! Sir,” said the stranger man; “it’s lonely and sad enough in that old hall now; nothing but briers and ivy. Why, there is an ivy tree now against that old wall there, partly as old as the wall itself. Look, Sir, it is as grey, and almost as sapless as the stone it crawls upon, though the trunk is such a size, and hardly shows a green leaf, spring or summer.”

The travellers made their way among the briers to take a nearer view of it; and, if verdant festoons of younger plants had charmed them, Willoughton, at least, was no less affected by the withered sinews and grey locks of this most forlorn and aged tree, which had itself become a ruin, while adorning another. He climbed over hillocks of briers and weeds, which now covered the ruins of walls, fallen into 19this court-yard, and he looked down into the area of the great hall, through a door-way which had once led from it by a vestibule towards the white hall, of which latter hardly a vestige remains, and to King Henry’s lodgings. Here he distinguished the upper end of that magnificent banqueting-room, the very spot where the deis, or high table, had stood, which had feasted kings and princes, its lords, or visitors; where Henry the Third had sitten, where John O’Gaunt had caroused, and where Elizabeth had received the homage of Leicester.

At one end of this platform were still the remains of the large bay-window, opening upon the grand court, where the cup-board had stood, and the golden plate was piled; at the other end, a windowed recess bowed out towards the spot, where there had been a lake, and to woods, that still flourished. This also, on state occasions, 20had probably held a plate-board, or cup-board, and, on others, had been occupied as a pleasant seat, commanding the finest views of the park.

The four walls only of this noble hall marked its former grandeur, not a fragment of either roof, or floor, remaining; the ground, upon which Willoughton immediately looked, having been the foundation of a chamber, or hall, for domestic and inferior guests, under the great one, which was eighty-six feet in length, and forty-five in width.

Those walls, where gorgeous tapestry had hung, showed only the remains of doorways and of beautiful gothic windows, that had admitted the light of the same sun, which at this moment sent the last gleam of another day upon Willoughton, and warned him, that another portion of his life too was departing.

21The melancholy scene around him spoke, with the simplicity of truth, the brevity and nothingness of this life. Those walls seemed to say—“Generations have beheld us and passed away, as you now behold us, and shall pass away. They have thought of the generations before their time, as you now think of them, and as future ones shall think of you. The voices, that revelled beneath us, the pomp of power, the magnificence of wealth, the grace of beauty, the joy of hope, the interests of high passion and of low pursuits have passed from this scene for ever; yet we remain, the spectres of departed years and shall remain, feeble as we are, when you, who now gaze upon us, shall have ceased to be in this world!”

“Why, here is a stone bench yet in this old window,” said Mr. Simpson; “and a pleasant window it is still. This homely 22bench has outlived all the trappings of the castle, though, I dare say, it was little valued in their time!”

“You see, Sir,” said the old man, “it belongs to the wall itself; else it would have been carried off long ago.”

Willoughton turned at the now repeated voice of this stranger, whose intrusion he did not entirely like, though his knowledge of the castle might be useful, and his conduct did not appear to be ill-meant. To an inquiry, whether he lived in the neighbourhood, he answered, “Hard by, Sir, in Kenilworth. I saw you was a stranger, Sir, and thought you might like to know a little about the castle here; and, unless you hap to light on such a one as me, you may go away as wise as you came—for, you will know nothing. No offence, I hope, Sir.”

“No, no; no offence at all;” replied Willoughton; “and since you are so well 23acquainted with this spot, let me hear a little of what you know of it.”

“Ay, let us hear what you have to say,” said Mr. Simpson.

Willoughton, turning as he heard this, perceived his friend seated in the recess he had before noticed. Much remained of the beautiful stone-work of this bay-window, and it now showed itself upon the glowing west, where the sun had just descended, behind the dark woods of the valley. He advanced into it, and looking out upon the scenery, was interested by the stillness and solemnity that began to prevail over it. At some distance down the steep bank on which the castle stands, he could distinguish fragments of the walls that once surrounded it, with here and there some remains of a tower, or a banqueting-house. The ground below seemed marshy, but pasture of a better green stretched up the opposite slopes, 24and mingled with the woods, that, on every side, shut out the world! This valley seemed the home of a composed melancholy.

“But where,” said Willoughton, “is the noble lake that, in Leicester’s time, surrounded this castle, on which, as you may have heard, Queen Elizabeth was welcomed with pageants and so much flattery?”

“Ay, where is it?” echoed Mr. Simpson, looking at the old man with an air that seemed to say, “Now we have some use for you, and will put you to the test.”

But Willoughton, without giving him time to reply, proceeded:—

“I am doomed to disappointment in Arden. For many miles, I could not discover any thing like a forest-shade, that might have sheltered a banished court, or favourite; and here not a wave of the lake, that delighted a festive one, and 25which might have supplied me with a floating island, moving to the sound of invisible music, or to the shells of surrounding tritons and sea-nymphs. Nay, I cannot even catch a gleam of the torches, which, on such an occasion, might have thrown their light on the woods and towers of the castle, and have quivered on the waters over which they passed.”

“No, sir,” said the old man, “it would be a hard matter to find any thing of all that now. Cromwell’s people would have knocked all that o’ the head, when they drained off the water, if such things had been there then.”

“Cromwell’s people again! However it is as well to remember them. What had the venerable scenes of Kenilworth to do with politics, or freedom? But thus it is; if even the leaders in political agitations have a better taste themselves than to destroy, for the mere sake of destruction, they let 26the envy and malice of their followers rage away against whatsoever is beautiful, or grand.”

So said Willoughton to his friend, who smiled, as he perceived that the indignant admirer of antiquity had allowed himself to speak of a military operation, as though it had been a popular commotion.

“Where went the line of the lake, my man of Kenilworth?” asked Simpson.

“Why, Sir, it flowed round two sides of the castle, as I have heard say; it went from the tilt-yard, all along the valley here, for half a mile, and spread out at the foot of these banks,—as wide as to the woods yonder, on the hill side.”

“What a noble sheet of water,” exclaimed Willoughton, “with lawns and woods sloping to its margin and reflected on its surface!”

“Yes, Sir, all that on the opposite side 27was a deer-park then, as I’ve heard from the account of some book, except that low ground further on, and that was pasture for cattle.”

“For cattle!” exclaimed Mr. Simpson,—“how they would poach such ground as that!”

“But what a beautiful picture they helped to make from the castle windows here,” said Willoughton; “when, on a summer’s noon, they lay under those shades, or stood in the cool waters of the lake.”

“Ay,” said Mr. Simpson, “to such as did not value the land.”

“It was just opposite the Pleasant, yonder,” said the aged historian.

“The Pleasant!”

“Yes, Sir; if you look this way, I will tell you where it stood:—it was a banqueting-house on the lake.”

“O! the Plaisance!”

“It stood on the walls there, down in 28the valley, to the right of John O’Gaunt’s tower here, and not far from the Swan Tower; but it is so dusk now you can hardly see where I mean.”

Willoughton inquired where the Swan Tower stood.

“Further off, a good way, Sir; but there is nothing of it to be seen now. It stood at the corner of the garden-wall, just where the lake came up; but there is nothing to be seen of that garden either now, Sir, though we know the place where it was. Queen Elizabeth used to take great delight in the banqueting-house, as I’ve heard.”

“It was pleasantly seated;” observed Willoughton.

“Yes, Sir; but there was rare feasting and music too, I reckon. She used to be fond of sitting in this very window, too!”

“How do you know all this, my friend?”

“Why, Sir, the place is called Queen Elizabeth’s turret, to this day, because she 29took such a fancy to it; and it was pleasant enough to be sure, for it overlooked the widest part of the lake;—this bench had velvet trappings enough then, I warrant.”

“I have no pleasure in remembering Elizabeth;” said Willoughton, as he turned to look for his friend.

“No!—not in remembering the wisest princess that ever reigned?” said Mr. Simpson.

“No: her wisdom partook too much of craft, and her policy of treachery; and her cruelty to poor Mary is a bloody hand in her escutcheon, that will for ever haunt the memory of her.”

“You are too ardent,” observed Mr. Simpson; “much may be said on her conduct on that head.”

“She inspires me only with aversion and horror,” replied Willoughton.

“She gives other people the horrors, too,” said the villager.

“How do you mean, friend?”

30“There are strange stories told, Sir, if one could but believe them;—there are old men now in the parish, who say they have seen her about the castle here, dressed in a great ruff about her neck, just as she is in her picture; they knew her by that.”

Here Mr. Simpson, giving Willoughton a look of sly congratulation, on his having met with a person of taste seemingly so congenial with his own, burst forth into a laugh, or rather a shout, that made every echo of the ruin vocal, his friend smile, and the old man stare; who, somewhat gravely, proceeded——

“They say, too, she has been seen sitting there, in that very window, when there was but just light enough to see her by.”

“A ghost in a ruff and farthingale!” exclaimed Mr. Simpson, in exultation;—“that is, surely, the very perfection of propriety in the ghost-costume;” and again the roar of laughter rolled round every turret of the castle.

31“Why does that strike you as so absurd?” asked Willoughton; “this is only a ghost representing the familiar image of the person when alive. Can it be more ridiculous than the Scotch plaid for the supernatural being, whom we call a witch? And yet, when you and I used to discuss the taste of ghost-dresses, you did not object to that appearance; but justified it, as one with which popular superstition was familiar.”

“Yes,” replied Simpson; “but though the ruff and farthingale accompany our idea of Queen Elizabeth, it is of her, as a living character, not in that of her apparition.”

“And yet,” rejoined Willoughton; “if you remain in this ruin, half an hour longer, till you can scarcely distinguish the walls, you will feel less inclined to laugh at Queen Elizabeth’s ghost in a ruff and farthingale.”

“Perhaps I might,” said Mr. Simpson, “if you had not let me so much into the 32secret of effect in these cases. Yet I question whether it would have been possible for Elizabeth’s picture, arrayed in that ridiculous court-dress, supposing it actually to appear, to extort from me any thing but laughter.”

“They say, Sir,” said the aged man, “that she looked solemn and stern enough as she sat in that window, just where you do now, leaning her head upon her hand, or something that looked like one. She sat quite still, for some time, and old Taylor sat quite still looking at her, for he could not move;—but when she rose up and turned round, and made a motion with her hand—thus—as much as to say, ‘Go about your business!’ he thought he should have dropped, and would have gone fast enough if he could.”

“Ay,” said Mr. Simpson; “there was the characteristical in manner, as well as in dress. This must be a true history!”

33“Well, friend,” said Willoughton, “and what followed?”

“Why, Sir, then she went down this steep place you now stand upon, into the hall there, where he could not have gone, in broad day-light, without risk of his neck; she sank down, as it were, and he lost her awhile, it was so dark; but presently he saw her, all on a sudden, standing in that door-way there,—and I can almost guess I see her there now.”

“You are a silly old man,” said Mr. Simpson; and he looked immediately to the door.

“You would not like,” said Willoughton, smiling, “to inquire minutely into the difference between purposely avoiding to look, and purposely looking in the midst of this story;” but—turning to the old man—“what next?”

“Why, Sir, she stood in the arch some time with a very stern look; but I 34never rightly understood what became of her. Old Taylor said she passed away like a cloud; but then afterwards he was not sure but he saw her again, in a minute or two, in this very window.”

“And have you never been fortunate enough,” said Mr. Simpson, “to see any of those sights?”

“No, Sir, no; I hope I have no need of them; though, if I was that way given, I might have thought I saw things too sometimes. Once by Mortimer’s tower, down in the tilt-yard, I as good as thought I saw a man standing with a mask on his face, in a moonlight night, with a drawn sword in his hand.”

“That tower,” remarked Willoughton, “was doubtless named after Mortimer, the paramour of the infamous Isabel?”

“They say, Sir, some king was once shut up there.”

35“Ay, Edward the Second, for a short time.”

“And they will tell you a power of stories of what was to be seen about that tower, before it was pulled down, and after too; but I don’t believe a word of them. People are always conjuring up strange tales when they have nothing better to do. I have got an old book at home full of them, enough to make one’s hair stand on end, if one could but make it all thoroughly out. I showed it to Mr. Timothy, the school-master, and he could hardly make it out neither; but he said it was no matter, for it was full of nothing but nonsense. He read me some of it, and I could not get it out of my head again for a week.”

“Ay, it met with a thriving soil,” said Mr. Simpson, “it’s well you got the nonsense out of your head at all. But 36how happened you to buy a book in a language you could not read?”

“I did not buy it, Sir; and, as to the language, I could understand that well enough, but I could not read the letters; and Timothy himself bungled at the spelling.”

Willoughton inquired where this book was met with; and whether he could have a sight of it?

“Why, Sir, it was dug out of the ground, where an old chapel once stood, belonging to the Priory hard by.”

“O! I remember,” said Willoughton; “there was formerly a monastery of Black Canons at Kenilworth, founded by Geoffry de Clinton, lord chamberlain to the first King Henry, and the founder of this same castle too: but go on.”

“The place is used for a burial-ground still,” resumed the old villager; “and it happened, that as Guy, our sexton, was 37one day going to dig a grave there, he lighted upon a coffin, or the chest, or whatever it was, that held a many things besides this strange book.”

“Indeed!” said Willoughton, eagerly; “let us hear a little about this.”

“We shall not get to Warwick to-night,” said Mr. Simpson, gravely.

“Why, Sir, it was one day last autumn,—no, I believe it was as late as November; I remember it had rained hard all morning; but whether it was October or November, I cannot be sure.”

“That, I should suppose, does not much signify,” said Mr. Simpson.

“Come, now,” said Willoughton, “do let him be as circumstantial as he pleases.”

“Willingly, willingly, only remember, we are not to sleep at Kenilworth.”

“Well, Sir, I cannot be sure exactly of the time, only it had been a dismal day; but the rain was over, when old Guy came 38running to me in as great a fright as ever I saw a man, and said he had found something in the ground, he could not tell what, but he never felt any thing so heavy in his life; he could not move it, and desired I would go and help him to raise it; and he stared, as if he was out of his wits. When I heard it was so heavy, I thought we might as well have my son to help us, for he was a stout lad. Guy did not much like this, I saw, for he was thinking he should find a treasure, and Guy was always a close one, and for getting as much as he could; it was only two years before he got his money raised for tolling; and there is not one in the parish has liked him since. However, I got my son to go with me, and we set to work, without saying a word to any one; and it was so near dark that nobody was likely to see us in that lonely place.”

“Well! but if it had been treasure, it 39would have belonged to the Lord of the Manor,” said Mr. Simpson.

“Yes, Sir, I know that well enough; but you shall hear. We raised it out of the ground at last, and what should it be but an old oak chest. It was so large, a man might have lain down in it at full length; but what helped to make it so heavy was the iron bands that held it together, and three great iron locks, that fastened it. Now, as the place where it was dug up was the east end of the church, Guy took it into his head it contained church plate, that had been put there, in troublesome times, by the monks of the priory. If you had but seen him! he thought his fortune was made; he threw away his spade, and cut a caper as high as a wall. I thought myself there must be something worth looking at o’the inside, but by this time it was so dark we could hardly see what we were about; so I sent 40my son home for the lantern, and then we tried with old Guy’s crow to get the lid open. We got it off at last; and what do you think, Sir, we found? Why, nothing but old parchments; some with seals dangling to them, and some old books, dropping to pieces with the worms, though the leaves were thick enough, too: at the bottom of the chest was a great heap of dust.”

“Did you find nothing else?” asked Mr. Simpson, fixing his eyes on him.

“No, Sir, nothing else,” said the old man, with a little hesitation; “nothing else, except an old staff, with a large head; and there was a little silver on that and on a book I have at home.”

Mr. Simpson inquired what had made the chest so weighty.

“Why, Sir, it was made of solid oak, six inches thick, I warrant, and had a great deal of iron about it. I took a fancy 41to that book, though I could not read it, for I could not make out the letters; but there is some pretty pictures on the leaves, and the colours are as fresh as if they were just painted; and some of the great letters are done all over with gold as bright as the sun.”

“A manuscript, illuminated probably by some monk of the priory,” said Willoughton; “can I see it?”

“Yes, Sir,” replied the old man, “I have it at home; but what made me wonder most was to see it look so fresh, after it had lain all that time in the ground; to be sure it was well wrapped up in parchment, and the trunk was thick enough, for that matter; but some of the other books dropped to pieces as soon as the air came to them.”

Willoughton asked what had been done with the parchments; adding, to his companion, that they were probably the leigerbook 42and some other muniments of the Priory, hidden when the terrors of Henry the Eighth first prevailed in the monasteries, and afterwards pretended to be lost, first from some hope of their future utility, and then from a fear of avowing their concealment.

“When Guy,” resumed the old man, “found what sort of treasure he had gotten, he was ready to throw himself into the old chest, to be put under ground with it again; but I said there was no need of that; so we took out some of the best of the books, but none of the others had pictures; and Guy took the old staff, and then we did lay the trunk in the earth again.”

Willoughton made many inquiries concerning the parchments with the seals, and the seals themselves, and whether his informant could find again the spot where they were deposited.

43“Come, come,” said Mr. Simpson; “let us leave this place; it is almost dark.”

The old man said he thought he could find the spot; but that would be of no use; for it had lain so deep in the ground, that there had been depth over it for graves, and it was now beneath them.

Willoughton, shocked at this circumstance, said no more on the subject; but the old man proceeded.

“Among other things in the book, Sir, is a view of this old hall. I should never have found it out myself; for it was no more like what it is now than nothing: but Timothy Crabb, our school-master, knew it at once by this very window—and he read something about this window, too,—and by a door-way in the wall, yonder.”

“How does it appear in the drawing?” asked Willoughton.

“Why, Sir,—but you shall see the book, 44if you like. The hall had a high roof, like a church there, and a gallery ran all along the bottom of it, and such a chimney!”—

“Ay! like the remains of what we see here now, I suppose,” said Mr. Simpson.

“No, Sir, as different as can be.”

“O! perhaps,” turning to Willoughton, “it was such an one as we saw at Penshurst; a raised hearth, with irons to hold wood, in the middle of the hall.”

“No; that style,” observed Willoughton, “was of later date than chimneys in English halls. It came in, I apprehend, with the castellated mansion, of which style is Penshurst, the more ancient part of the building at least. In the hall of the older castle, a chimney sloped back from the line of the wall into the thickness of it, and let out the smoke through a loop above. Thus, the raised hearth, on which the wood fire blazed, projected into the 45chamber, and was sometimes overhung by a canopy of stone-work supported by pillars, that gave it a resemblance to a gothic porch, such as adorn some of our finest cathedrals.”

“Yes, Sir, this in the book looks like something like a church porch without the sides, the top comes so far over the hearth. Then all down the hall are rows of tables, with gentle-folk and ladies sitting at them, and—”

“I must see this manuscript,” interrupted Willoughton; “it appears to be a curious one.”

“Come,” said Mr. Simpson, “it is already so dark, we can hardly see our way hence. There is scarce a gleam of light left on the horizon.”

“No, Sir, but the moon is rising yonder, and some gentry have a fancy to see this place by moonlight.”

“O! we have seen enough of it.”

46“I recommend you,” said Willoughton, “to avoid looking, just at this moment, towards the door at the bottom of the hall, lest you should see the stately form of Elizabeth in the archway; I had a glimpse of something like her just now; nay, I am not quite sure that I did not see the grave physiognomy of Leicester, under his small black velvet cap and feather.”

“We shall not get to Warwick to-night,” said Mr. Simpson, fretfully. “They talk of the patience of a painful antiquary; think what the patience of his friend must be.”

“I have not the honour to deserve the former title,” said Willoughton.

“Between us, we approach to it; the painful part of it, you will allow, belongs to me.”

“In the old sense of the word,” said Willoughton, “you do not claim it; and, as to the new one, your jests recompense 47you for your pain: I have all possible inclination to deserve the title, in its best sense; at least by cherishing those inquiries, which make us intimate with the characters and habits of our fellow creatures in past ages, which show them to us in their halls, their ceremonies, their tournaments, their banquets, their domestic usages and even in their monastic retirement. These picturesque visions, in which the imagination so much delights, and every discovery, however remote, awaken a peculiar kind of interest and of sentiment no less delightful, which render antiquity, of all studies, the least liable to the epithet of dry, though dull and dry people so liberally bestow it. Antiquity is one of the favourite regions of poetry.”

“Nay,” said Mr. Simpson, “your woods and your meadows are the region for that. Who ever thought of looking for a muse in an old castle? But come, let us remember, 48that we are on the road for Warwick.”

“Before we go, my friend here must show me his old manuscript; and I must see this fine ruin by moonlight.”

“By moonlight!” exclaimed Simpson; “would you really stay for so romantic a purpose? We have seen it already by sun-light, and almost by no light at all?”

“The moon is rising, now, Sir,” said the old man, “and by the time the gentleman has seen the book it will be risen high enough to give you light on your journey.”

“Meanwhile, the horses will have no objection to a little corn,” remarked Willoughton; “nor the postilion to a little ale, if this good man will direct him where to get it.”

Mr. Simpson having added, that he too should like a little Warwickshire ale, the old man replied, “The ale they sell is not 49much to brag on; but, if you please, gentlemen, I will direct the lad where he and the horses may rest themselves, and, if you will step with me, you can taste some of my home-brewed, and see the book at the same time.”

The travellers assented, and their conductor, after having directed the postilion to a house, accompanied them to his cottage, where he produced the desired manuscript. It was written on vellum, and richly illuminated, and purported to be an account of what passed at Kenilworth, when Henry the Third there kept the feast of Saint Michael, and of some wonderful accident that there befel.

“There is a title-page written almost in the form of a triangle,” said Willoughton, “and that about as closely as if it were printed. The date, which forms the apex of the reversed triangle, I cannot 50wholly make out, but it is twelve hundred and something.”

At the heads of chapters and sometimes on the broad margins, there were made drawings of parts of Kenilworth Castle, as it had appeared in the time of Henry probably, with some of the scenes which had there passed, and sometimes with single portraits of the chief persons engaged in them. These gave vivid ideas of the customs and manners of that period, and were traced, with more knowledge of perspective and more attention to proportion, than Willoughton expected. Among them was a procession of knights and ladies, led by numerous harpers, returning from the tilt-yard to the great hall, which showed a high sloping roof, while the windows below, at a considerable elevation from the ground, had round-headed arches, instead of pointed ones. The door-way, leading into it, accorded with the place where one 51still appears; but the arch was differently constructed, and the receding mouldings seemed to have been ornamented with chevron work, or zigzag, instead of the elegant vine now sculptured there, which latter he had no hesitation in assigning to the time of Leicester.

Another drawing gave an inside view of the hall, as mentioned by the old man. The roof was of great height, open to the rafters, and with pendent beams below, formed into arches, ornamented with inverted pinnacles, nicely carved. Another drawing gave the inside of a chapel, of which there are no longer any remains at Kenilworth.

The original style of the building appeared very ancient, but this was mixed with one more light and elegant, like that of the pointed arches of the windows; and Willoughton conjectured this improvement to have been made by Henry the Third, who is known to have repaired the chapel 52of the castle for his own use, during his occasional residence there.

There was a representation of a marriage ceremony in celebration at the altar, where a numerous assemblage of dignified persons were arranged in state. A king was giving the hand of the bride to a young man, who was decorated with many military insignia, but who was so far from receiving the gift with joy, that he appeared to be struck with consternation, while the lady, by her attitude, seemed to be fainting.

In the margin was a portrait of a king robed and wearing a crown of gold, which seemed intended for Henry the Third, to whose statue in brass, in his monument in Westminster Abbey, it bore a considerable resemblance.

At the head of another chapter was an inside view of a tower, where a man was sitting alone near a lamp. In the background 53a face appeared at the grate. The same chamber was represented afterwards, with a man stretched upon a low pallet, but whether asleep, or dead, was not expressed by the drawing. The lamp had gone out, and, instead of a face at the grate, the moon appeared through a window beyond, and threw a pale light on the couch.

Another drawing gave a view of a chapel, or hall; Willoughton was not certain which: there was, however, something like an altar at the farthest end, near which stood a figure alone, the face concealed in a vizor, the left arm, uplifted, held a shield, the right a lance, but the feet were in a position of rest, though another figure near a door was departing, as if with the fear of being pursued, his hands outstretched, and his face turned back over his shoulder. There, too, the moon appeared through a window, and the light fell upon the lifted shield.

54While Willoughton was musing what this could mean, the old man, looking upon the leaf, said, “Timothy Crabb, Sir, maintains this is a picture of the Priory-Chapel, he is sure, as it stood formerly. I should never have found it out myself, there is so little left of the chapel; but Tim makes it all out fine enough.”

“Does he tell you what that figure means?”

“Not as I remember, Sir; but the book tells that, I reckon.”

Willoughton turned over the leaves near the drawing; the language, the orthography and the characters were all so ancient, that he hesitated much. What he did make out, however, fixed his attention so deeply, that his friend lost the small remains of his patience, and declared he would set off without him. Willoughton then told his humble host, that, if he was willing to part with the manuscript, he was disposed to give him his own price for it.

55“Why, Sir, I like to look at the pictures sometimes, and the gold is so bright it is a pleasure to see it; but the book for other matters is not of much value to me, though it may be to other people, seeing as I can’t make it out; and, for that matter, if I could, I do not know any good it would do; for, what Tim did read made me as foolish almost as old John, and afraid to go near the castle, for some time, after dark, though I was always counted a little more sensible than some. But I see no good in such things, not I.”

“You are a sensible fellow,” said Mr. Simpson, “and I wish my friend here had a little less curiosity, and a little more such wit as yours. And now, Harry, do leave the book and come away.”

“No, I shall first console myself for the mortification of your compliments. What shall I give you for the book, my friend?”

“Why, Sir, I don’t know, I am sure; I don’t know the value of such things. 56Tim Crabb said it might be worth its weight in gold for aught he knew; but I leave it, Sir, to your generosity.”

“It is well you do not leave it to mine,” said Mr. Simpson, “for I should make a low reckoning of it.”

The sum Willoughton offered accorded with his own estimation of so curious a relick, rather than with the expectation of his host, who heard it with exclamations of thankfulness; while Mr. Simpson expressed not merely surprise but reprehension, and the vulgar proverb of “Fools and their money—” was nearly audible on his lips.

“What other books did you find in the same place?” asked Willoughton.

“Ah! bless you, Sir,” replied the ancient villager, “I wish I had a score of them.”

“Well you may, my friend, if they would fetch you such a price as this!” was the ready remark of Mr. Simpson.

57“It is his honour’s own generosity, Sir, and I suppose he thinks the book worth the money, or he would not give it.”

“Come, Harry,” continued Simpson, “here has been folly enough for once; let us be gone.”

“You are sure you have no other book like this?” inquired Willoughton.

“There is another or two, that do still hold together, I think,” said the old man; “They have got no pictures; but then they have the same kind of letters, that cannot be understood.”—He went for them.

“You will tempt the man to steal the parish-register, and offer it to you as a curious relick,” said Mr. Simpson; “and indeed it will deserve your money better than this.”

The old man returned with a small quarto, printed in black letter and bound in real boards, which had been guarded at the corners with brass; the marks of 58clasps remained on it and those of a lozenge in the centre of each board.

“Though this is of later date, much later date, than the manuscript,” said Willoughton, “I see it is one of the earliest books that came from the press in England. It appears also by its contents, to have been intended to assist the purposes of the monks of that dark age.”

“A Boke of Sprites!” exclaimed Simpson, with a shout of exultation: “a boke of sprites, with the signs they may be known by, and divers rules to keep you from harm: the like was never known before!”

“Excellent! excellent!” said Willoughton; “and here is another black-letter volume. Well, friend, without looking further, what shall I give you for them?”

“This is past endurance!” said Mr. Simpson; “my patience is out!”

59“O Sir! I will give you these into the bargain,” said the old man, smiling; an offer which Willoughton would not accept, who paid the old man what he thought they were worth. Mr. Simpson, then taking his friend by the arm, desired his host to direct them to the chaise.

“I must see the ruin by moonlight,” said Willoughton; “but I will not detain you many minutes.”

“No, no; you will see the towers of Warwick by moonlight; which will be much finer.”

“My good friend here,” said Willoughton, “will order the chaise round to the gate where it set us down; and, by the time it arrives, I shall have seen what I wish to see.”

“Be it so,” said Mr. Simpson, with an air of resignation; “one is sure of you when a journey is to be begun; but never when one would end, or hasten it. I have 60not forgotten our midnight rambles about Stonehenge! Doubtless we were the first human beings, who had appeared there, at such an hour, for many centuries; and what astonished me afterwards, more than any thing I saw, was, that I myself should have been conjured there at such an unseasonable hour; I, whose brain never hatched any of those ‘high and unimaginable fantasies,’ as your poet Gray calls them, ‘which distract the heads of some of his readers.’”

“Ay! those shadows of the moon at full,” said Willoughton laughing, as they walked towards the ruin, his friend remonstrating with him on the imprudence of this passion for antiquities and on his credulity. “And can you really hold,” said he, “that these books were found in the manner related; and that any of them, especially the ‘Boke of Sprites,’ ever belonged to the library of the priory?”

61“It does not seem probable,” replied Willoughton, “that the old man should have invented the story he has related of the discovery of them; but, be that as it may, the books themselves announce their own genuine antiquity. The manuscript is laboriously illuminated, and it is well known, that such works were chiefly performed by the inhabitants of monasteries. The Boke of Sprites even was likely to have served the purposes of the monks. We know that the libraries of monasteries contained a most heterogeneous assemblage: Ovid, the Romance of Charlemagne, Guy of Warwick, and the Rimes of Robin Hood, have been found on the shelf with Homilies, and other books; which, although they might be tinged with the corruptions of the Papal school, ought not to have had such companions. You may recollect, that Warton, 62in the interesting sketches of ancient manners which he gives in his History of English Poetry, mentions this very fully; and that, among others, the library of Peterborough contained ‘Amys and Amdion,’ ‘Sir Tristram Merlin’s Prophecies,’ and the ‘Destruction of Troy:’ and books of this sort were not only copied, but often invented by the monks, sometimes for their amusement, sometimes for worse purposes.”

“One of the old books you have relates to their castle, I think,” said Mr. Simpson, looking up at the shadowy masses; which, shown thus faintly by the rising moon, seemed more majestic than before.

“Yes, and I perceive,” continued Willoughton, “that even you feel a curiosity to know what may have passed so many ages back, on the spot we now stand upon.”

“Why,” acknowledged Simpson, “when one looks up at the very walls now crumbling into ruin, that were once so magnificent, 63and that inclosed beings with passions as warm as our own—beings, who have so long since vanished from the earth, one cannot help wishing to know a little of their history and of the scenes they witnessed; but, for your legend, I fear to trust it.”

“It speaks of the times of Henry the Third,” said Willoughton, “those were lawless enough to permit many adventures; and, if the citizens of London were then robbed in the streets even at noon-day, what could travellers in the forest of Arden expect? But this Manuscript seems to tell of princely feasts given in the castle, and of adventures passing in the presence of the Court.”

“Ay, if one could but believe them.”

“A great part of the castle,” pursued Willoughton, “which then existed, is now gone; and much that we look at, stands in its place; but that noble hall, and Cæsar’s tower and several other towers, 64such as those where the moonlight falls, beheld the very court of Henry the Third, ay, and Montfort, on whom he had bestowed Kenilworth, and who added ingratitude to treason, by holding the fortress against his benefactor and liege lord.”

They stood for some minutes in silence, looking up at the ruin and listening, as the breeze rushed by, to the shivering of the ivy, that overhung it,—all the shining leaves trembling in the moonlight. The pauses of solemn stillness, that followed these sighings of the air among the old branches, were very solemn, and the sound itself—so still, uncertain, and sudden, Willoughton could have fancied to have been the warning murmurs of one, who, in his mortal state, had lived within these walls, and now haunted the scene where it had once revelled, or, perhaps, suffered. It seemed like a voice imperfectly uttering forth some dark prophecy, and telling of the illusion of life 65and the certainty of death. To Willoughton’s recollection this spectacle of the remains of ages past, now glimmering under the soft shadows of moonlight, brought those touching lines of Beattie—

“Hail, awful scenes, that calm the troubled breast,

And woo the weary to profound repose,

Can passion’s wildest uproar lull to rest,

And whisper comfort to the man of woes.”

Willoughton stood so wrapt, that he heard not his friend’s inquiry, whether he meant to pass a night at Kenilworth, as a sequel to a former one at Stonehenge; nor was he immediately aware of the nearer approach of his aged conductor, who said, in a tone somewhat tremulous, “You are now on the very spot, Sir, where Mortimer’s tower stood; it was the main entrance to the castle, when there was a lake, and it opened from the tilt-yard, that ran along the end of the water into the lower court: you see, Sir, it was quite on 66the opposite side of the castle from Lord Leicester’s great gate.”

Willoughton surveyed the place, but not a vestige of the building remained. “Here then,” said he, “the unhappy Edward the Second was, for a while, imprisoned, before he was removed to Corfe and Berkeley Castles, his last abodes.”

“If you please, Sir,” said the man, “the chaise is at the gate; and, if you will take my advice, you will not stay here long, for I cannot say I like it myself; I shall begin to think I see that strange figure again, and I had rather not.”

“Well, let us go,” said Mr. Simpson, “or I shall begin to fancy something of the same sort, too. What did you say, it had a mask on its face?”

“Yes, Sir, and a drawn sword in its hand; but I don’t like the place, Sir, let us go.”

67“Ay, ay,” said Mr. Simpson, “let us go; we—we—we shall not get to Warwick to-night.”

A laugh from his friend, which he too well understood, both vexed and ashamed him. “I did not think it possible,” said he, “that I could have yielded to the contagion of this folly thus; remember, however, it is not Elizabeth in her ruff and farthingale, that I fear, nor any thing else distinctly.”

Willoughton laughed again triumphantly. “Better and better; your feelings are true to my arguments, in spite of your own. I desire no farther proof of the effects of time and circumstances—of solitude and obscurity on the imagination.”

As they passed by Cæsar’s tower, and inquired where the line of the castle-ditch had been traced, he observed, that probably the chief entrance had at first been 68over a draw-bridge to that tower, though now no sign of it could be distinguished.

When the travellers were once more seated in the chaise, Mr. Simpson betook himself to sleep; while, on their journey of four miles through the checkered moonlight of woody lanes to Warwick, Willoughton did not lament the silence of his friend, which left him to the quiet musings of his own mind, and to the peace of nature, reposing under this soft and beautiful shade. The air was so still that scarcely a leaf trembled of the lofty boughs that overshadowed the road; and when the postilion stopped to make some alteration of the harness, the breathing of the horses alone was heard through all this scene of night.

There is a peace of the spirits, which has surely somewhat holy in it. Such is the calmness which the view of a midsummer-dawn communicates, or that of moonlight 69on woods and green plains; and such Willoughton experienced during this short ride, till he drew near Warwick, when the beautiful towers of Saint Mary’s appeared on the right, and the more lofty and distant ones of the castle on the left of the perspective; and these awakened the stronger interest of expectation.

Having reached the inn, and Mr. Simpson, late as it was, having ordered a good supper, they walked out to take a view of the castle. Finding that, at this hour, they could not gain admittance by the porter’s gate, they went to the bridge over the Avon, on the outside of the town, and thence had a fine retrospect of the castle, with all its towers crowning the high, woody bank of that peaceful and classic stream. One vast, round tower of most warlike air, looking down upon the precipice, delighted Willoughton more than any 70other. A part of the edifice, repaired and adorned in the time of James the First, containing the state rooms, which run in a long line upon the steep, was not in harmony with this tower, and gave very different ideas of the character and manners of the respective ages to which they belonged. The moonlight touched this tower with a fine solemnity, and fell on the tops of the dark cedars and other trees, that clothe the precipice, as it glanced to Shakspeare’s stream below, where it rested in all its silver radiance, as if pleased to claim it for its home.

Willoughton leaned over the bridge, and looked upon the scene in silence. The brightness of the river, the dark, clear shade of the woods, reflected on its margin and rising with majesty up the steep, with the grey towers, in softened light, crowning all, formed a harmony of tints and of objects such as he had not often 71seen, and which recalled to him that state of holy peace he had so lately experienced.

Amidst the stillness of this scene, there arose a strain, as if commanded by Shakspeare’s wand, and to which his words might have been applied. “O! it came o’er mine ear, like the sweet south, that breathes upon a bank of violets.” It was the music of French horns, sweetened by distance and by the water, over which it passed, accompanied by a few voices addressing the river and celebrating the bard in the well-known song of Garrick and Arne,—“Thou soft-flowing Avon!”

Nothing could exceed the beauty of some of the cadences, prolonged by the deep, mellow tones of the horns, or of the chorus, and of the close, that gave these words:—

“The fairies by moonlight dance round the green bed,

For, hallow’d the turf is, that pillows his head.”

72They brought tears into the eyes of Willoughton, and drew from him a deep sigh long after silence had returned.

Mr. Simpson looked about to discover whence this charming tribute to the memory of the loved poet came, and perceived two little boats stealing along the margin of the stream, under shadow of the bank that rose to the castle. The white awning of the first betrayed it to his eye, before it emerged on the moonlight; and now the measured trampling of the oars told its departing course upon the waters, till once again that chorus died along the air, and then the steps of the oars were heard no more.

The travellers remained for some moments, as if spell-bound, in thoughtful silence; and they left this enchanting scene, and returned to their inn, without having uttered a word. This was an unusual 73mood with Mr. Simpson; he had caught it from his companion, rather than from the scene; and now, on the entrance of supper, he rejoiced to get rid of it, and to return to the more substantial pleasures of this world.

Willoughton, when he had retired to his chamber, and had, as was his custom, looked out upon the night, now overcast with gloomy clouds, sat down to examine his manuscripts, instead of seeking repose. Bound up with that of the “Trew Chronique,” was another, entitled “A Trew Historie of two Mynstrells, that came by night to the Priory of Saint Margaret, and what they disclosed, and what one in the convent by his art, proved them to bee.” This “Trew Historie” was more difficult to be deciphered than the “Trew Chronique,” and Willoughton left it for the present, and took the “Boke of Sprites.”

74As he turned over the leaves, curious to see the thraldom of superstition to which the people of a remote age were liable, he often smiled at the artless absurdities he discovered, the clumsy inventions practised upon the fears of the ignorant by the venality of the monks. Yet he sometimes found his attention seized, in spite of himself, by the marvellous narratives before him; till, at length, he began to feel that he was alone, to recollect that it was past midnight, to observe that all around him was still as death; and gradually to think he might as well lay aside the “Boke of Sprites” till day-light should return and the world again sound busily around him.

He did so, and again took the “Trew Chronique,” desirous of ending his long day, with some new traits of an age so distant from his own and of the style, in 75which they might be shadowed forth. The mere spelling did not render this so difficult, as the character in which it was written, with its abundance of abbreviations and contractions.

The following is a modernized copy, which he afterwards wrote out for the amusement of a friend, who was fond of the subjects it touched upon, but had not industry enough to work his way through the obstructions of the original. In this copy, while Willoughton endeavoured to preserve somewhat of the air of the old style, without its dryness, he was often compelled to regret, that much of the effect of the story was lost, with the simplicity, brevity and quaintness of the ancient manner. However, he often retained the old words, where they did not seem to form too glaring a contrast with the modern style, and, now and then, somewhat 76of the quaintness of the original, the title of which ran thus:—

A Boke,

Contenynge a trew chronique of what passed at

Killingworth, in Ardenn, when Our Soveren

Lord, the Kynge, kept ther his fest of

Senzt Michel; with ye marveylous

accident, that ther befel, at the solempnissazion

of the marriage

of Gaston de Blondeville.

With divers things, curious

to be known,

thereunto purtayning.

With an

account of the

grete Turney,

ther held

in the

yere

MCCLVI.

Changed out of the Norman tongue

By Grymbald, Monk of Senzt Marie

Priori in Killingworth.

78

THE FIRST DAY.

At the head of this chapter was a drawing, of the King and Queen, with their train, passing under the towers of Kenilworth. Near the King rode a young knight of a very spirited air; in one hand he held his cap, bending towards the King, who seemed to be speaking to him, and with the other he reined in his fiery courser. At some distance, was a man pressing through the crowd, with eager gesticulation and a wild countenance, towards the King. The royal banner, on the tower above, was tinged by the setting sun, and the arms and caps of the soldiers on the battlement there glistened with the rays. The cap of one of these, who, as if to obtain a longer view of the King, appeared to have stretched too far forward, was falling on the multitude below; some of whom were laughing.

79

FIRST DAY.

It was at the feast of Saint Michel, that King Henry, the third of his name, with his Queen and sundrie of the nobles of the realm and a marvellous train of estates and gentils, came to keep court in Ardenn, at his castle of Kenilworth. The day was drawing to an end ere they arrived: and it was a goodly sight to see this noble company coming over the forest, till then so lonesome; and the last light of this day’s sun glittering upon the helmets and lances of the King’s guard; likewise on the gorgeous apparelling of 80their horses and trumpets, with their banners unrolled, that went before his grace; also on the litters of the Queen, covered with cloth of gold and with tapestry of rich colours, brought from her own land beyond the sea.

This noble train, with all the spear-men attendant on the King, was like unto a little army covering the paths and tracks, for many miles, as they wound amongst the woods of Ardenn; or like unto some mighty river, that flowing along, appears, where the shades open, in shining bends upon the plain, and is lost again as they enter beneath the gloom; but yet may you judge of their course throughout all the prospect. Like as you may the broken lines of the great aqueduct, stretching over the plains of our dear father of Rome; which, as we perceive its distant points athwart those solitudes, we connect in our minds into one great whole, grander 81in its sweep than it might have shown when it stood complete.

There went before the King a hundred archers in pairs, sumptuously apparelled, and having the feathers of their arrows stained with green; the horns sounded before them through the woods: then fifty demi-lancemen, two abreast; then fifty pike-men; then trumpets, with their banners also displayed; then officers at arms, in their sur-coats, the serjeants with their maces. In the midst was borne up the royal banner, by six of the standard-bearers: the pipes of it were of silver, and were slided along the banner-staff; which was held with horn in a girdle of white leather, embroidered, worn by the King’s chief standard-bearer.

The King’s Highness came riding on a noble grey, widely encompassed about with pike-men, and attended by divers nobles of the realm and by knights and gentils, 82without number. His Highness wore that day a cloak of purple velvet, lined with yellow satin, and furred with martin and ermine; on his head was a cap of black velvet, bearing a sable plume. His countenance was goodly and gracious, and he often turned and spoke to those about him.

On his right hand, rode the young Prince Edward, holding in his fiery charger, yet looking as though he would fain spur him to the top of his speed. Next to him rode the Archbishop of York. On the King’s left, was his brother, the Earl of Cornwall. The Bishop of Coventry would have been there, but he was then lying sick on his bed; but the Prior and divers of the monks attended on the King.

First amongst the knights, that waited on his grace, was Gaston de Blondeville, a young Provençal; whom King Henry had raised, for some daring exploits in his dominions 83beyond the sea, to be a knight of his household. He was of comely person and gallant air; and managed his proud charger with such easy grace, as a lady might, with silken bandage, guide a fawn. He wore a cloak of pale olive, lined and guarded with rose colour; his cap was of velvet like to it, and he wore his feathers in the French fashion: for he was of the Queen’s country, and had all the gaiety of her nation in his countenance and ’haviour.

Yet were there some in the court, men of English ground, who liked him not; it may be, because he was a stranger in our land, or that he bore a proud defiance in his eye, or that they envied him his favour with the King.

Some way before the Queen, went fifty of the foresters of Ardenn clothed in green, sounding their horns. She was in her litter, tapestried with cloth of gold, and she 84was compassed all about with her ladies and her nobles and esquires. Her litter was borne by two brave coursers, right richly trapped with velvet, and led by pages apparelled in sumptuous liveries; other pages, in ‘broidered doublets, went beside her, or following. Then came her master of the horses, leading her palfrey, very richly appointed, the bridle and breast-chain studded with jewels, followed by another of her palfreys, led by a page. Her Highness was adorned in a close gown of velvet, ’broidered about with pearls, and bearing upon her head a great hood of black velvet, richly sewed with large pearls. Following her Highness, came her ladies and gentlewomen mounted on fair palfreys, richly appointed and apparelled; a goodly company.

Then came her Highness’s chariot empty, drawn by six horses, led by pages in jackets of scarlet damask, with the English 85crown ’broidered on their backs. They bore in their caps a white feather; dropping aside, in the manner of France, whereat the people murmured, and well they might; for such a sight of strangers, from her own land, the like was never seen! But the Queen bore herself so graciously towards the people, smiling upon them with her comely countenance, that she won away their discontent. Other gentlewomen of her court followed her car, mounted on palfreys.

Next came Eleanor, the widowed Countess of Pembroke, the King’s sister, now Countess of Leicester, in her litter, with a sumptuous train: and then Cincia, the Countess of Cornwall, the sister of the Queen, right freshly apparelled, and sumptuously attended by noble dames and gentils; and a sight of people followed, in the different liveries of their masters.

Before the Queen, went her mynstrells 86of music; who, when they came nigh to Kenilworth, began to blow upon their pipes, and to strum their stringed instruments with most sweet noise—so that the bells of a village there, which were rung for mirth, could not be heard so far.

Amongst the damsels attending the Queen, none were so fair as the lady Isabel, daughter of the Earl of Arundel, and the lady Barbara, daughter of the Earl of Huntingdon; who followed her Highness, on white palfreys. Ychon of them was beautiful beyond thought: the lady Isabel was the more stately and carried a higher brow; but Lady Barbara’s smiles were blyther than the morn.

Soon as the towers of Kenilworth showed themselves upon the West, which, if it had not been for the glowing spears of those on the battlements, would hardly have been known from the dark woodtops,—soon as they appeared, some halfscore 87of the foresters rode forward with their bugles, to give sign of the King’s approach; but were straight sounded back by the trumpets, which blew up a blast, that filled the forest, and echoed to the very castle walls, ere the proud trumpeters would stop.

Then his Highness courteously commanded, that those who had come forth so many miles, to welcome him on his way, should be appointed to proclaim him at the gates. They waited not for second bidding; but, tuning up so clear and sweet, set spurs to their hobbies, and flew swiftly as the arrows from their own bows.

All the way hence to Kenilworth was lined with other troops of foresters in green; who, at certain distances, saluted the King, as he passed, with their bugles, in spite of the trumpets, that charged so loud and shrill their minet-flourishes: and 88they followed in the Queen’s train. The King’s pike-men and lance-men going after of all.

At the first sound of the bugles before the gate, you might see the great banner of England raised upon the keep of Kenilworth. Then, the chief wardour of the castle appeared upon the turret; though he stayed not long there, but went down to join his lord, in their service at the gate. The archers behind the battlements stood in order; other bow-men and the lance-men ranged themselves behind the tower-walls, and the trumpets there answered the summons, with a blast, that shook the forest, and made the fair waters of the valley tremble; roughening the portraiture of towers and woods, which had seemed to sleep upon their surface, as in a glass of chrystal.

Then the Lord Constable, coming down from the keep, followed by a posse of his 89officers, took to horse and went out to meet the King. As he turned out of the gate, he met the Prior of Saint Mary’s, with the twelve canons, and a long train processioning, all in full ceremony, bearing precious reliques, to welcome his Highness; after them came the priest and sundry of the parish-church, singing.

The press of people, from all the country about, was so thick, that hardly could the monks make way among them. The castellan, a man proud and jealous of his high place, was not well pleased, that they should try to present themselves to the King, before himself; but they were soon right glad to follow in his train, for strait as he appeared, the crowd was forced back, and they passed, without difficulty, in that wise, full three furlongs.

The castellan, coming in presence of his Highness, leaped from his horse, and, on his knee, presented him the keys of 90the castle, on a rich plate; the which his Highness readily delivered to him again, with a gracious speech, bearing, that they were well in his custody. Then, the Prior and canons of Saint Mary’s showed themselves in procession, with banners, and chaunting sweet anthems, and his Highness looked kindly on them; after which they went on to the Queen, and, paying duty, attended her to the castle. But my Lord Constable, remounting his horse, rode bareheaded before his Highness, to the very gates.

Immediately before the King, was borne his sword of justice, by the Lord Hubert de Lacey; where, on the sheath, you might behold, in letters of rubies, these words, “Truth and Right.” As he passed all the people cried out, “King Henry, King Henry, long live King Henry! and blessings on your sweet-favoured visage!”

Then, they threw forth on the air, for 91joy, among other tokens, corn and flour; so that many of the nobles of the realm, nay, some of the King’s guard, liked it not, for the flour-dust, falling on their garments, disguised them like unto grinders of corn: but they held their peace, as needs must, passing on in solemn stateliness.

Before the castle gates, a great show of the King’s bow-men were drawn out to receive him, and the courts within were lined, and every tower and battlement was thronged with his soldiers. There, too, were the foresters ready at the gates, who, on the King’s approach tuned up their merry bugles, with might and main; as though one breath sounded through the whole of them. But, when the heralds passed under the towers, their trumpets took their revenge, for they gave many blasts, that made every court within shake for joy; and showed more like a triumph 92of war than a flourish of festival. They on the ramparts now seemed to take the hint, and joined them with such warrior-sounds of fierce disdain, that the clear bugle seemed but as a shepherd-pipe beneath them, and, for a season, was not heard at all.

Certes, the noise of the trumpets and cornets, the clanging of bells, the trampling of horses over the bridge, the striking of swords upon shields, with, ever and anon, the shouts of the multitude, astounded cattle and fowl in the woods, far and wide. Old wives and they that might not leave their homes for sickness could hear the mingled uproar; and could know as surely, when the King reached Kenilworth, as those, who had journeyed thither to behold him. And many an outlaw in the forest, who feared to show his face among the crowd, lay hearkening in his den, or stalked under the old oaks, while 93he watched the minutes of the coming twilight, and reckoned on the booty he should seize from careless travellers, returning, at night, to distant towns.

Some too there were, who, in the pathless holds of this forest, heard the far-off voice of joyance and society, with bitter grief; finding out, too late, they were not made for that lonesomeness of heart their thoughtless vices had condemned them to. Alas! for such, let them shrive and betake themselves, as penitents, to holy cloister.

When the Queen’s litter came near the gates of the castle, her minstrels of music sang with most sweet glee, and the bugles saluted her as she passed into the barbican, or first tower of defence; but, soon as she appeared on the draw-bridge, the trumpets from the ramparts blew up a flourish, and then the minstrels stopped, though they had not finished their fit. And they did well; for hardly could there be heard the 94trampling of the horses’ hoofs upon the bridge, nor the distant music in the courts before the King. The walls and turrets, thronged with faces, seemed to be alive, and to shout, as with one voice, “Queen Eleanor! Queen Eleanor! long live Queen Eleanor!”—but some few were heard to shout, “Away with the foreigners!—away with all foreigners!” which the good Queen seemed not to hear, though she guessed in her heart what they said; and many a noble knight and lady near her knew well. She, with unchanged countenance, showed only sweet smiles to those numberless eyes, darting from the walls and battlements, all turned upon her litter, as it passed over the bridge, glittering in the last beams of this day’s sun, and then entered beneath that deep and dark archway of the great tower, leading into the base court.

Beyond, in the sunshine, could be seen 95the King’s Highness, preceded by the Lord Constable, and having the Archbishop on his right and Prince Edward on his left, passing forward to the upper court; where, on the steps, stood the marshals of the hall, the stewards, the esquires of the household, with many officers of the castle, waiting to receive him, some with chains of gold on their necks: the royal banner waving over all. They stood so thick, looking over one another’s shoulders, face above face, on the steps there, that they seemed like a rampart of heads; while, below them, in the same court, the lance-men and yeomen of the household stood waiting to receive the Queen.

And truly it was a pleasureful sight, to behold that vision of light appearing beyond the deep portal, under which stood, on either hand, the wardours in their niches, to the number of eight; so dim, they showed like shadows more than substance, 96albeit, they did not lack of that. And a more delightful sight it was to behold the Queen and all her train, winding through that dark arch into the beams beyond; the rich trappings of steeds and men, their breast-plates and spears and steel caps, all glancing in the setting sun. There, too, you might see, through the higher bars of the portcullis, the windows of the great chamber hung out with tapestry of silk and cloth of gold.

But that, which caused some surprise to those who watched without, was a sudden turmoil, that appeared around the King in the court, just as the Queen’s litter was advancing forth of the archway. A man was seen forcing himself among the guards, towards his Highness, who turned his face backwards in the sun, as if to see what was going on; and seemed to rein in his steed, while he held forth his right arm to Sir Gaston de Blondeville, who, with cap 97in hand, leaned forward on his courser, as if receiving some command. The while, the heads and spears of soldiers gathered round, moving in tumultuous hurry, rising and falling incessantly, like unto those stormy white tops coming on over a darkened sea.

On a sudden, the King disappeared: some thought he had fallen from his steed, struck by the hand of the stranger; and then, such was the throng of people beyond the portal to get forward for more certainty, that hardly could the Queen’s guard keep them back, till his Highness was seen ascending the steps of the high court.

At last, out of the midst of the confusion a shield was seen raised upon the traversed spears of six soldiers, and borne towards the outer gate, having upon it a man stretched, as if dead. But at the great portal the soldiers stopped, and drew aside to make way for the Queen; his 98Highness, meanwhile, with his nobles and young knight, had withdrawn into the state apartments.

When her Highness was gone by, they brought the man upon the shield into the free air without the walls, and lowered their burden on the grass; but the tumult of the people was so great, (they suspecting that he had attempted the Kings life) that the soldiers with their spears had much ado to save him from their fury, or to keep a little space open around him.

He was a man of goodly appearance, that lay there, seeming without life. Anon, he began to stir himself, and in a little while opened his eyes; the which, when the people saw it, redoubled their fury; and they demanded, that he should be had to prison, for “he has assailed the life of our good King!” With that they made such a roaring, that the shouts of the soldiers, who wanted to set them right, 99could not be heard, the women brawling louder than all of them together.

Thus it went for some time: and then, the noise being hushed, they found out the man was innocent of what they had suspected.

When the stranger had recovered himself a little, he stared wildly; and, raising himself up, he looked round him, as if examining the countenance of every one, whom curiosity or anger had made to bend over him. And so he looked again and again, till they asked him, if he thought he saw the countenance of any one there, whom he knew. Then he fetched a deep sigh, and said, “I as surely saw him as I now breathe, but he is not here.”

Divers present then asked him, of whom he spoke, but he only muttered to himself, “I could not be deceived; it is impossible for me ever to forget him.” Then he 100shook from limb to limb, and was nigh going off into a swoon again. The people, meanwhile, pressed upon the soldiers to know what all this meant; and curiosity and pity began to take the place of rage.

The tale went, that, as King Henry had approached the entrance of the second court, this man, who had passed the portal amongst the King’s horses, at the risk of his life, came beside him, and, having fixed his eyes with the greatest attention upon a knight of the King’s household, cried out, “Justice! most noble Henry.” Then, as if unable to utter something he would have spoken, he fell down in strong convulsions, and was nigh being trampled to death. His Highness, seeing the condition of the man, had commanded he should be taken forth of the court, and aid administered to him; and this was all the soldiers could tell.

101There were some amongst the crowd who thought they had seen him before, and questioned him of his name, and wherefore he had presumed to approach the King in such manner; to all which he would nothing answer; but seemed heavy at heart, and as if his very sadness would not let him speak; only these words he uttered, once or more,—“It was he himself! I should have known him at Cairo!”

Some still said they had seen the poor man before; naithless he proved to be a stranger in Kenilworth. When he could walk, he was led back to the little hostel, where he had taken up his lodging, and there he remained closely hid from the eyes of every one, all that night.

104

THE SECOND DAY.

At the head of this chapter was a view of the tilt-yard, at the end of the great lake, with the towers of Kenilworth above.—In the lists were two armed knights, on foot, each poising his spear at the other. They were cased in complete steel; their visors closed, each bearing on his helmet his plume and crest. There was somewhat very impressive in the station and in the whole appearance of these armoured figures. Each stood with his right foot advanced; the right arm, holding the spear, was raised high, displaying at once the strength and grace of an accomplished warrior. At the end and along one side of the tilt-yard, were galleries hung with tapestry, where sat the Queen and her ladies, and the King and his nobles, waiting to behold the encounter. The opposite sides were open to the lake, the woods, and the castle.

105

THE SECOND DAY.

In the morn, next after the King came to Kenilworth, there was tilting in the great yard of the castle, at which his Highness, with the Queen and her court, were present. This was the day of Turney; but, although this noble company made a goodly show, they were not apparelled with that splendour they showed on the chief day, as will be hereafter rehearsed.

Among the ladies of the court, none surpassed for beauty the lady Barbara, daughter of the Earl of Huntingdon and a favourite damsel of the Queen; her the King intended to bestow in marriage, during 106his sojourn in Ardenn. She was innocent and graceful, as the fawns that bound in our forest, and excelled in all the accomplishments of the court. She had fixed her heart on Sir Gaston de Blondeville, a young knight of the King’s household, who had entreated her of her father in vain; for, though he was of a good family, it was a foreign one, being of the Queen’s country, and he had little besides the favour of his master to depend on. The youth was of a comely person and gallant bearing; well practised in all martial exercises of war, of which he had given some proof in exploits, and had latterly so much displayed himself in a fierce adventure against some of King Henry’s rebellious subjects, beyond sea, that his Highness had incontinently advanced him to be one of his own knights. Moreover, the King, on hearing of his ill-faring suit, had taken that matter into his special cognizance; and the King knew 107so well how to command the earl, that he consented to give his daughter to the knight, and his Highness determined the marriage should be solemnized forthwith.

But, on this very first day, after his arrival, his spirit was ruffled by a strange accident. As his Highness was returning from the Tilt-yard, accompanied by the Queen, and attended by the whole court, his harpers playing before him, a stranger came forth of the crowd, and falling at his feet, called out boldly for justice. Many there present knew him for the man who, the night before, had showed such striking signs of a disturbed mind; and now, noting his unseemly vehemence, they stopped and asked for what offence he demanded justice. The King, too, remembered him; and listening what he should say, the man, observing that, addressed his looks and his voice eagerly to him, and exclaimed, that he demanded justice upon robbers and 108murderers who infested the highways of his kingdom with more violence and frequency than was ever known before, so that none of his peaceable subjects were safe from them.

The King, seeing the wildness of his look and the strangeness of his gesture, guessed the man was not rightly himself; yet he commanded him forthwith into the castle, there to wait, till he should speak with him, or order some others to do so; and the procession passed on.

Meanwhile, the King determined not to leave this matter, till he should have seen something more about it, with his own discernment. He went speedily into the white hall, which was the court of justice, keeping only a few of his nobles and other attendants, where he summoned the stranger before him, and had question put to him, who he was and of what particular grievance he had to complain.

109The man answered, that his name was Hugh Woodreeve, a merchant of Bristol: and then he told his story—that, three years before, travelling with a very large sum of money in his possession, and, being in company with three other travellers, two of them merchants of good repute, and the other a kinsman of his own, they were attacked in the forest of Ardenn, when about two miles from Kenilworth, and robbed of nearly all they carried. They did not part with it quietly, it was so much. His kinsman, however, was the only one of the party that had good arms; he had served in the wars, and he now manfully resisted the ruffians, who directed most of their vengeance to him; he was murdered on the spot; for the rest of his company, they escaped with some hurts. No one of the robbers was killed, but two or three were wounded.

Here the merchant stopped and seemed 110ready to sink. His Highness, having declared his indignation at this villany, assured the merchant, that justice should be done upon the guilty, if they could be found, and asked whether he could swear to them, if he should see them again. The stranger straight replied, that he could truly swear to the murderer, and that he had seen him in the very court, nay, that he saw him at that very instant, standing even beside the King’s chair.

King Henry, struck with astonishment, fixed his eyes sternly on the stranger, for a moment, and then looked at those around him. On his right hand, was his son, Prince Edward, and, on his left, his young favourite, Gaston de Blondeville, upon whom all eyes were fastened; for to him the answer pertayned, and to him the accuser pointed, with a look of horror, which convinced every one present, except his Highness, he did indeed believe he 111saw before him the murderer of his friend, whether his fancy deceived him, or not. For the King himself, he inclined to think the accuser was either disordered in his mind, or that, from some unknown cause, he was the enemy of Sir Gaston; and his Highness knew well of the unreasonable and deadly abhorrence, in which many of his subjects of Britain held some of those strangers from France, who had risen into favour.

At the boldness of this accusation, Sir Gaston stood, at first, like one stricken with dismay; then, moving his hand towards his sword, he said, “but for the presence of the King, my master, I should soon avenge me for so foul a slander.”

To which the merchant, now much more tranquil than he had been, said, “The same reason must restrain all; but I do not need it: I would not set my life 112against that of an assassin! I ask for justice from his Highness.”

At these words, Sir Gaston was hardly withheld from his accuser. King Henry commanded silence: and, as soon as all noise had ceased, he turned with a severe countenance to the stranger, and said, “Know you not, that he, whom you accuse is a knight of my household, advanced to honour for his valour?”

“Yea, noble King Henry,” replied the merchant, “I have heard so; but, I repeat, he is the man who killed my kinsman! I never can forget that face: if I had met him in a distant land, I should have seized him for the murderer!”

The King, more fully convinced of the unsoundness of his mind, said, “Your passion has deceived you; thus far I am willing to pardon you; if you go farther, you must be taught what it is to dishonour a gentleman and a knight.”

113Upon this, the merchant fell at the King’s feet; and, with uplifted hands, again cried out for justice! Henry, hardly less astonished at the resolution of the man, than that one of his household should be thus accused, (although he might have bethought him of the law he had himself found it expedient to make heretofore at Kenilworth, respecting robberies then committed in a very extraordinary manner on the highways)—King Henry, though astonished, began to doubt. He fixed a look, in which there was somewhat of inquiry, upon Sir Gaston, whose visage was pale, though his eye was fierce; but who may say, whether fear or anger maketh some men pale?