The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Red Tavern, by Charles Raymond Macauley

THE
RED TAVERN

"'Hast thou peace and provender for a wayfaring knight?'"

[[Page 45]]

THE
RED TAVERN

BY
C. R. MACAULEY

NEW YORK AND LONDON
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1914

Copyright, 1914, by
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

Printed in the United States of America

[CONTENTS]

[THE RED TAVERN]

[PROLOGUE]

S-s-st, there, good gossip, wake up, I pray thee! Hearest thou not voices yonder in our lordship's tent? Methinks I can see between the trees the glimmer of his council-candle. Even now he doth plan the attack, whilst this cursed cross-bow is playing the very devil of a traitor! The stubborn latch balks at speeding the string. Come​—​come, wake thee, Jock! Spare me thy deft hand to its mending, or the first peep o' day will discover me impotent to fly a bolt against our crook-back enemy beyond the brook."

"Crook-back cross-bow​—​i' th' s-s-string​—​—" muttered the one addressed with drowsy incoherence.

"I tell thee, Jock, wake up!" the first speaker persisted. "Listen, I say! Dost hear the hum of voices in brave Richmond's tent? Fix me this damned cross-bow! Eftsoons it will come daydawn, man!"

"Daydawn, sayst thou?" returned the other, starting into broad wakefulness and arising to a sitting posture. "Why, Dickon, thou canst scarce glimpse thy five fingers before thine eyes; and the stars shine as merrily in the vault as ever they did yestereve. What's the noise i' the wood?" he added, sinking sleepily back upon his bent elbow.

"'Tis the sound of the rolling wheels of the crakys of war. Mark how the blazing links of those who attend upon them weave fantastic shadows amidst the trees. There! the cross-bow hath repented of its waywardness and mended itself. 'Tis said of these shooting-cylinders in yon wood that they can hurl a leaden slug of two score times the weight of a caliver billet."

"Marry, Dickon," the other said, "and that be not the least part of the weight of my nether stocks from lying knee-deep in this foul morass, thou mayst dub me a shove-groat sword and buckler man. Where thinkest thou," he added, "that King Richard hath gathered his forces?"

"I'll lay thee a round wager, friend Belwiggar, that the morning light will find him across the brook," replied Dickon, disposing his huge body for further rest upon the top of his cross-bow.

"I would it were not so," observed Belwiggar, yawning. "For here are we with our bonnetful of men at the very tail of the triangle. 'Twill be fight or die, comrade, and tyrant Richard deal with the hindermost." Whereupon the speaker clambered to a higher point of ground and prepared to resume his interrupted sleep.

Scenes and dialogues similar to the one here presented were being enacted in every corner of the field. Especially did a spirit of disquiet and apprehensive concern pervade that part of it so aptly termed by Belwiggar "the tail of the triangle." All along the borders of the morass, the banks of the creek, and within the dense forest were to be heard anxious whisperings, mingled plentifully with muttered oaths and threats of dire vengeance against a bitterly hated monarch; and despite the earliness of the hour, within the leader's tent the activities of a day destined to be so heavily fraught with historical significance had already been inaugurated.

The interior of this pavilion was of a considerable amplitude; and, in keeping with the manner of the period, was fitted out with every necessary, together with not a few of the luxuries, of the toilet of a prince of the royal house. Beside the couch with its silken covers and damask canopies, whereupon the Earl of Richmond was reclining, was a massive, carven table. Upon it stood a richly chased silver tankard bearing a profusion of crimson roses. Within their center, singularly enough, a pure white flower reared its beautiful head, the which served admirably to enhance the royal splendor of its compeers.

Round about the plush-carpeted floor were seated John de Vere, Earl of Oxford, Henry's chief of archery; Sir James Blunt, sometime captain of the Castle of Hammes, in Picardy (the same who had connived at Oxford's escape from that fortress); Sir Walter Herbert, and Sir Richard Rohan, Richmond's boyhood companion, squire, and chief of horse. All were armed at proof and full accoutered for the coming battle.

The last named, though but a youth of nineteen years, would without doubt have arrested attention above any in the distinguished party. The red crest of his helmet nodded quite two inches above that of his tallest compatriot; his features were uncommonly trim and perfect in the ensemble; and his every gesture abounded in that intuitive and careless grace appertaining to exuberant health and spirits and a well disciplined physical strength. As though to complete a picture already approaching perfection, from beneath the rim of his head-piece a lock of hair had escaped and shone golden in the mellow light of the wax tapers guttering in silver sconces above his plume.

"Knowest thou not, Sir Richard," said Henry, bending above the roses and inhaling their refreshing fragrance, "who sped to us these graceful messengers?"

"I beseech thee, your grace," warned Oxford, "to observe some measure of caution when breathing in their odors. 'Tis not impossible that a deadly poison is lurking within their fair petals. It sits plain upon my memory how poor Burgondy expired after the smelling of a nosegay."

"For the matter of that," spoke up the fair young knight, "had they been laden with a secret poison I had not lived to bear them within my lord's pavilion; for I sniffed of them a score of times whilst riding hither."

"Then, certes, we are double safe," laughed Henry, "for their sweet perfume, Sir Richard, hath filtered to our nostrils through thy good body. But what like, say you, was the messenger by whom they were bestowed?"

"It ill beseems me to say that I know not," the young knight replied, "but such is the truth, my lord. I had but finished relieving the guard at the further side of the wood when I heard a sound as of galloping hoofs along the road from Market Bosworth way. Approaching, the rider halted his steed where no ray of light from our blazing links could reach to raise the veil of his identity. Then, calling my name, he laid the flowers within my arms. 'For Henry, our noble liege,' he quickly whispered, and rattled off down the highroad ere I could return word of thanks."

"Saw you no cognizance upon his sleeve or upon the trappings of his horse?" queried Blunt.

"Methought there was a rayed sun emblazoned on his arm," the young knight answered. "Though, in truth, my lord, 'twas all done so quickly I may not swear 'twas surely so."

"A Yorkist gift, by the rood! Marry, and this be true, my friends, it is a good omen indeed," observed the Earl of Oxford, rising and going to the table. For quite a space he leaned above it, gazing fixedly upon the flowers, as though in the hope that they themselves might unravel the mystery their presence had aroused. "But this," he added presently, indicating the solitary white bloom, "doth sore defeat my understanding. Wherefore, prithee, mingle the white with the red?"

"Methinks I have the solution of that enigma," spoke up Herbert, whose form was merged in shadow, and who, until then, had taken no part in the discourse. "I would crave his lordship's indulgence, however, before adventuring my lame conjecture."

"Surely we would have thy answer to the riddle, Sir Walter," said Henry, yawning sleepily. "My mind doth refuse to probe its baffling depths."

"An I mistake me not," Herbert resumed, "my lord of Oxford in the very profession of his perplexity hath reached a good half way to the answer. Methinks 'tis meant to typify the peaceful mingling of the white rose with the red."

"Why​—​body o' God, I see it now!" Henry exclaimed. "But first, by force of arms, the red must overwhelm the white."

"Nay​—​not so, and your lordship, please," interjected Blunt. "But rather, let us hope, a mingling through the milder expedient of marriage."

"Ah! Princess Elizabeth!" cried Henry, assuming a sitting posture upon the edge of his couch. "Sir Walter, thou hast given us a fair answer and earned a guerdon for thy keen wit. But enough of soft speech, my noble knights. And now, sirs, to the sterner business of the day! My Lord of Oxford, where say'st thou camp Stanley's forces?"

"At a point equally distant from thine, most gracious liege, and those of the infamous Richard. He desires thee to understand that his beloved son's head hangs upon his dissembling devotion for yet a few hours to the murderous hunchback's cause."

"Aye​—​I know. We may depend upon him and his three thousand horse, think you?"

"With absolute certainty, my lord."

"'Tis well," observed Henry, laying aside his feathered cap and stooping to allow his young squire to adjust a steel helmet to his shoulder-guards. "Then do thou, my lord of Oxford," he resumed, "have thy archers well in hand and ready against the first show of dawn. The sun, standing in our enemy's eyes, should much confuse their aim. Bend thy every energy toward staying their advance with a cloud of well directed bolts. My good Captain Blunt, let our basilisks in the wood fling their leaden hail above the heads of our kneeling archers. Sir Walter Herbert, let thy mounted troop to the right and left be ready for the final charge. And you, Sir Richard, faithful friend, bear upon my right hand till the battle's done. Do thou each, noble gentlemen, take one of these roses and entwine it with thy helmet's crest. What, ho, guards! strip me this tent and bestow it with the camp litter behind the wood. Now, thy brave hands, noble sirs; and God smile upon our cause."

Into the dense vapors arising from the morass, which, in the gray light of daybreak, were rapidly changing to a pearly mist, the leaders then dispersed upon their several missions.

The droning of subdued conversation, the clanking of swords and steel gear, the twanging of bow-strings undergoing preliminary trial, and the tinkling of pewter flagons discharging their liquid cheer into parched throats could be heard over all the field. Each armed host was alert and ready, awaiting with tense drawn nerves the flaming signal in the eastern sky.

From afar off a cock crowed a cheery welcome to approaching day.

"I would the blessed light would discover me an eye-hole across the brook," one of the burly archers was saying. "I'd flick me a bolt into its yawning center for God and a better king."

"Yea​—​truly. And any king, my friend, would be a better king," another answered. "I would I could but fasten my aim upon the elfish-marked monster himself. 'Twould be a mark worth finding, i' faith."

"My lord of Oxford is a brave and clever captain, lad. Were it not for these leather guards our bow-strings would have been no whit more useful than frayed rope's ends with this cursed damp. As 'tis, they're fit to send a quiverful of white-hot billets into as many traitorous gizzards. I, too, would that one of them might make its home within the green midric of Richard himself."

"Hast heard the latest from the hunchback's camp?" another whispered.

"Nay. What is 't?"

"'Tis said by the outposts along the slough that there were heard wild shriekings in King Richard's tent during the night."

"Ah! the foul fiends bidding him to their black abode. Mark you, Jock, once he gets there he'll have the whole dismal brood hanged, drawn, and quartered before the year's end."

"'Twould be his first gracious deed then, I give thee warrant."

From an opposite point of the compass a second cock crowed; and then another and another. The day at last was dawning; the mist lifting, dispersing. Slowly it thinned away, as though one after another of a myriad of gauzy curtains was being raised from between the opposing armies.

When eyes could penetrate from line to line hostilities began. A pallid, ghost-like form, grotesquely exaggerated, would emerge from the fog. Then would be heard a sharp cry, a groan, a horrible rattling in an expiring throat, a flinging aloft of a pair of arms, and a sinking of the spectral figure into the black mire above which it seemed to have been floating.

These emerging shadows multiplied from one into a score; from a score into a hundred; from a hundred into a thousand. There was no crash of sudden onset and meeting. Rather there was that which resembled a gentle crescendo of death. A blending together of two armed forces with the melting of the fog. It was as though a peaceful entity had gently risen to yield place to a warlike one.

By now, the din and crash were become incessant. Wading hip deep in the reddening waters of the brook and in the crimsoning black mire of the morass, the men of the opposed armies met and battled, hand to hand.

From the wood belched flashes of fire. Heavy smoke clouds rolled away among the leaves. The thunder of primitive artillery reverberated across the meadow, mingling its sound of a new kind of warfare with that of the decadent.

Wherever a crescendo occurs, a diminuendo is commonly indicated. The augmenting of Richmond's desperately battling forces by those of Stanley marked the climax of the crescendo. The downfall of Richard the Third before the sturdy lance of Richmond, the beginning of the diminuendo; the fitting finale to the whole.

Wild of eye, disheveled, his charger struck away from beneath him, King Richard faced his mortal foe. Dauntless to the last gasping breath, he made one frenzied, vain effort to rally his scattering army.

"A horse! a horse! My kingdom for a horse!" he shrieked aloud; and then, dying, pitched forward into the dust.

The Battle of Bosworth Field was with the history of things past.

"His kingdom for a horse, quotha!" shouted Stanley. "His kingdom? Bah! What is his kingdom now, honest gentles?" he added, leaping from his blood-slavered stallion and contemptuously spurning with his steel-booted foot the pitiful remains of the dead monarch. "What is his kingdom now?" Sir William repeated, looking inquiringly about him. "Why, somewhat above three cubits of unwashed dirt. A full cubit less, by the rood, than any man of us here shall inherit."

"Body o' God! an he had him a barb now, my lord of Stanley, whither, thinkest thou, would he be riding?" shouted someone out of the circle of mailed warriors that was exultingly closing in around the limp, misshapen figure huddled upon the ground.

"Whither else but to the foul fiend!" returned Stanley, smiling grimly up into the speaker's face. "'Tis an easy riddle thou hast set me, a'Beckitt. But he'll need him no barb to fleet him his black soul into the burning lake, I'm thinking."

"An Crookback sink not a treacherous dagger within the back of old Charon before he's ferried him across the Styx, I am wide of my guess," interrupted a third.

"Or strike off and pole the three heads of Cerberus when he does get over," suggested another.

"Look you yonder at the redoubtable Cheyney," again spoke Stanley, pointing toward a gigantic body, sprawled limply, face downward, over the top of a tangled clump of copsewood. "Him, good gentles, I saw totter and go down before this lump of bent clay like unto a lightning-riven oak. I' faith, much doth it marvel me at the furious strength that kept its abode within this crooked carcase."

Upon an ebon-black stallion, and apart from the men hovering, vulturelike, above Richard's body, sat the Earl of Richmond, the fortunate young leader beneath whose lance the tyrant king had fallen. By reason of a natural eminence of heaped earth and stone he was raised well above the field, the whole of which he could command by a simple turning of his head to right and left. Behind him the deep shadows of Sutton Ambien Wood served picturesquely to emphasize the flash and glitter of the plated and richly inlaid armor that girded him from head to toe.

It was then but a brief fortnight and a day since the ship in which he had embarked at Bretagne had brought him careening through Bristol Channel to a safe landing upon England's coast at Milford Haven. In that short time he had succeeded in setting a period to the devastating Wars of the Roses, and in exchanging his earl's coronet for that which fortune subsequently decided should be a crown.

The lifeless body stretched before him in the hollow marked the pitiful end of nearly a century of deadly, internecine strife. Intently he watched them denuding the stiffening corpse of its costly armor and kingly vestments.

During these moments that England was without a legal monarch, Henry Tudor, Earl of Richmond, remained motionless as a statue upon his black steed, solitary, unheralded, forgotten.

"Body o' God, men! we'll give him a horse," he heard them wildly shouting; and then impassively regarded them while they lashed the bent, and now naked body upon the broad back of a lively hackney. It was the final and brutal expression of a righteous indignation.

From every part of the field there rang in Henry's ears loud cries of exultation over the dead and vanquished Richard, which merged presently into a riotous pandemonium of inarticulate sound when the horse, bearing its gruesome burden, was paraded before the men in the direction of Market Bosworth Road.

"Le roi est mort,​—​vive le roi!" the clear voice of Henry's squire made itself manifest above the din.

Something the faintest of smiles broke upon the impassivity of the Earl's countenance as he turned his head in the direction whence this cry had come. Sir Richard, bearing a jeweled crown outstretched in his hands, was just leaping above the clump of copse-wood whereupon the body of Sir John Cheyney was lying.

Lord Stanley, who, by this time, had resumed seat upon his horse, quickly stationed himself between the approaching young knight and the Earl of Richmond. Then, taking the crown that had encircled Richard's helmet throughout the battle, he set it solemnly upon that of Henry.

Whereupon​—​"The King is dead, long live the King!" the cry rippled abroad over the sanguinary field of Bosworth; and the blazing August sun beat down upon a circle of upraised, flashing swords, unsheathed in promise of fealty to the new monarch.

[CHAPTER I]
A WARRANT UPON DOUGLAS

Upon a massive chair of state within the private audience chamber, which adjoined the throne room in the venerable castle of Kenilworth, sat King Henry VII, gloomily brooding. An ermine trimmed robe of softest velvet fell from his shoulders, rippling over the steps of the raised dais to the floor below; a golden, jeweled crown sat awry upon his head.

Five years as reigning monarch of a discontented and rebellious people had borne their weight more heavily upon him than had the whole of the twenty-nine preceding them. Though yet young, as time relatively to the man is commonly measured, his hair and carefully pointed beard were shot with premature gray. His countenance, deeply lined, was overspread with a sickly pallor. His hands, clutching upon the arms of the damask-covered chair into which he had thrown himself, and in which he was now half-sitting, half-reclining, trembled as though palsied with an enfeebled age.

His royal marriage with Elizabeth of York, daughter of Henry VI, had marked the consummation of his loftiest ambition. The omen of the white rose mingling with the red had been pleasantly fulfilled. Outwardly his position seemed sufficiently secure. But beneath the surface there were incessant ebullitions of seditious sentiment threatening momentarily to seethe to the top and engulf him. Always, must dissembling be met with keen and smooth diplomacy; plot, with adroit and clever counter-plot.

Because of his open aversion to war, his appreciation of the advantages of negotiation and arbitration, he was stigmatized by his secret enemies as being greedy and avaricious. Yet, on the other hand, had he amassed great armies and plunged them headlong into foreign conflict, thereby burdening his subjects with increased taxation, he would doubtless have been regarded by these same malcontents as being extravagant and needlessly cruel.

During the space of the greater part of an hour the King remained seated in the precise attitude in which the opening of the present chapter discovered him. His chin lowered upon his breast; his gaze fixed straight before him; his fingers tapping ceaselessly upon the arms of his chair.

Then, after the manner of a draped lay-figure imbued with sudden life, he sprang to his feet, threw aside the purple robes enveloping him and paced with nervous footfalls across the floor. Occasionally he would pause, incline his head, and pass his hand fretfully across his brow. Once he stopped, leaning heavily against a marble image of Kenelph, Saxon king of Mercia, from whom the castle had its name. The sun of a September afternoon shining brilliantly through one of the western windows bathed them, the marble effigy and the man, in squares of vari-colored light; affording thus a sharp contrast between the old and the new. In the chiseled head of stone the stamp of an iron will was predominant in every feature. Those of the living bespoke no less the possession of a will; but a will that would seek ever to achieve its purposes through the exercise of crafty cunning. The one had been grimly determined, brave, and openly cruel and tyrannical. The other was a secret coward, masking his cruelties beneath the guise of virtue.

Suddenly, looking up into the stone face of the dead king, the living king smiled.

"Yea," said he. "We will​—​rather we must​—​yea, we must command it to be done. And by doing it in that way, 'twill be transfixing two bullocks with a single dart."

Thereupon, mounting the steps of the dais and reseating himself in his chair, he carefully donned his robes of state, composed his features, and gently pulled a golden tassel depending from a silken cord at his elbow.

"Command my lord of Stanley instantly to attend me," was Henry's stern behest to the court attendant, who bowed himself within one of the curtained entrances.

Very soon thereafter Stanley came in. Approaching the dais, he knelt upon the lower step, touching with his lips the indifferent and cold hand extended to him.

"My lord of Stanley," said the King, "fetch yonder stool and dispose thyself beside our knee. We would have speech of thee​—​and council." Then, to the attendant waiting near the entrance, "Ralston," he ordered tersely, "we would have it known that we will brook no interruption till this conference be ended. But hold! do thou lay commands upon lords Oxford and de Vere, and Sir Richard Rohan, to be ready and waiting against our present summons. Thou mayst go, Ralston."

Silently the attendant withdrew. Folding his arms and looking steadily into Lord Stanley's eyes, the King resumed.

"Now, Stanley, to the business in hand. From what source hast thou drawn thy information that secret emissaries are at this moment on their way hither to acquaint Sir Richard of the facts concerning his noble lineage?"

"Are they then facts, my liege?" queried Stanley, his arched eyebrows plainly evidencing his surprise. "Is it indeed true that this youthful, fair-haired upstart may lay a true and proper claim to the title of Earl of Warwick, and, through that title, a seat upon this very throne?"

"Presume not upon our indulgence, Lord Stanley," warned the King in a menacing tone. "Thou hast met question with question. Now, my lord, the source of thy information."

"I crave thy pardon, liege," Stanley hastened to return. "Full well thou knowest, august highness, that every foul rebellion doth breed its fouler traitors. From these coward turn-coats have I stumbled upon this knowledge. The information thus gained I have supplemented and verified with that gleaned by thine own honest and tireless servants. 'Tis, I fear me much, unimpeachable."

"But under God's heaven, Stanley, how came these rag-tag rebels upon the facts as to Rohan's lineage? Marry, my lord, methought 'twas hidden as though sunken within the very entrails of the earth."

"Through one Michael Lidcote, a captain of ship in Duke Francis's fleet. The same, I'll swear, who brought thee to England at Milford Haven," Lord Stanley explained. "'Twas done, I hear, out of a certain love for the young knight, and a desire to witness his elevation to his​—​true position."

For a considerable space thereafter the King remained silent, his chin resting upon the fingers of his clasped hands, his pale blue eyes gazing straight ahead of him into space. In retrospect, his mind had turned to the contemplation of some happy days in sunny Brittany when he and Sir Richard were being reared and disciplined together beneath the eye of the stern but kind old Duke. The images materialized must have been pleasing to him, for the hard lines of his face softened into the semblance of a smile. Then, with a sudden, determined lowering of his head, a straightening of his thin lips beneath his sparse beard, he turned again toward Stanley.

"Ah! how true it is," said he, "that desire for fame and power is but an insatiate parasite which gluts and fattens upon the care-free joys of youth. What is this glittering panoply, pray, but a mask? A shining veneer, shielding from view the process of decay within? And now, after yielding nearly all​—​my health, my strength, my happiness​—​you ask of me that I shall spill the blood of my dearest friend. The companion of my joyous youth. Him, say you, must I offer up on the gory altar of public expediency. That I must perforce still the one brave heart that beats with an unselfish devotion to my cause and person."

"'Tis needless to tell thee, my liege," purred Stanley, who was ever careful to guard his precedence at the throne, "that the peace and integrity of a nation depend upon thy secure hold upon this very seat. Even that which but remotely menaces should be rendered impotent. These expressions of thy tender sentiment, your highness, are attuned in harmony with thy noble character as a man, but​—​—"

"Yea, Stanley," interrupted Henry, making a show of partial surrender to the flatterer's wiles, "but am I longer a man? There's the question, my lord. Dare I think as a man, and not as a fear-stricken, fettered monarch? Is it not true that the ruler hath swallowed up the mortal, leaving naught but an outward pageant? An effigy of cold and heartless clay upon which to drape a tawdry robe; to set a jeweled crown; to hang a golden scepter?"

Stanley ventured no reply, and a somewhat prolonged interval of silence followed Henry's theatric outburst.

"Think not that I am mad, my lord of Stanley," the King at length resumed, and in a tone so low, melancholy, and sad, that its false note was scarcely to be perceived. "It is indeed true that my first concern must ever be to safeguard my beloved people. Hath these rumors concerning the young knight been spread broadcast, my lord? It were an ill time to essay a cure of the malady, and it had festered over all England."

"It hath not done so, your majesty," Lord Stanley assured him. "The aged seaman and all but two of the seditious leaders are now imprisoned within the tower. The pair who escaped the meshes of my net are now journeying hither from London in disguise. I have their names and know well what like they are."

"'Tis well. Thy station be the forfeit, an they elude thee. Still all their busy tongues, my lord. We lay upon thee royal warrant of their death, and that speedily. Concerning the young knight's progenitors, Lord Stanley, it doth please us to make of thee our single confidant. This noble is in truth the son of the Duke of Clarence​—​the good Duke, who came to his untimely end at the gentle hands of our esteemed father-in-law. Thou dost remember well that he was attainted of high treason, and that we took measures accordingly to have his issue pronounced illegitimate. 'Twas done, as thou canst see, to guard against such a contingency as hath now arisen. But to my tale. Sir Richard, when but a suckling infant, was carried secretly to Brittany, and enjoyed there, with me, the powerful protection of Duke Francis. Why the die of England's sovereignty was cast in my favor, I know not. God wot, Stanley, I wish that it had not been! Now, my lord, attend our every word. The weak stripling, whom base Richard the Third believed to be the true Earl of Warwick hath, under our command, for long been immured within the tower. It is perhaps the better part of wisdom that we should lesson thee that an exchange of infants was many years ago covertly effected by one Dame Tyrrell, wife of Sir James Tyrrell, the same who was bribed by Richard to strangle his two nephews, the boy dukes remaining betwixt himself and the throne. Within a fortnight, Stanley, do thou undertake to have the news of the death of this changeling early published over all our kingdom. 'Twere the more seemly, mayhap, and it appeared to have transpired through natural causes. A return of the sweating sickness, or some like subterfuge."

"And the young knight, Rohan; what of him, most mighty liege?"

"Him, we would have thee to know," said Henry, "we love and trust above any man, saving thyself, in all the length and breadth of England.

"Aye, marry, but​—​—"

"Hold! have patience, my lord, and attend me. We know well what thou wouldst say. Him, too, must we sacrifice for the sake of the peace and safety of a people who love us but little. Do thou this very hour issue warrant under the Great Seal and give it into Sir Richard's hands to be delivered by him upon Douglas, in Castle Yewe, in Scotland. Lay royal command upon Douglas that his courtiers shall engage the young knight in quarrel and honorable conflict to the end that he return not again into England."

"By the rood, august highness! wouldst make him the bearer of his own warrant of death? 'Tis a parlous risky business."

"Yea, my lord. But a risk that we are happy to assume out of a spirit of fair play, and as a mark of our highest confidence. And know, too, Stanley," Henry said, smiling shrewdly, "'twill rid us of many a Scottish enemy. The young man battles tremendously well. And, more in favor of this plan, 'twould be the death of Sir Richard's own choosing, mark you."

"Aye, marry, doth he fight well. I can see many a Scot's midriff lying open to his couched lance or drawn sword. My liege, shall I deliver warrant here?"

"Here, and now. Let Oxford and de Vere be witnesses of its delivery. Though, we charge thee solemnly, hint not to either of its purport. On yonder table thou wilt find parchment. Take point in hand and write. Send Ralston to me when thou hast done. The Queen doth await our presence within the Hall of Windows."

For an hour or more after the King had gone, the eagle's quill within Lord Stanley's fingers moved slowly back and forth across the sheet of parchment. When he had finished with the body of the document and signed his name he lifted his head and looked keenly, furtively about the room. Arising, he moved swiftly from curtain to curtain. Lifting each, he peered hastily beneath its heavy folds. Whereupon, satisfied that he was alone, and resuming his seat at the table, he spread before him another sheet of parchment and proceeded to copy, word for word, that which he had written upon the first.

So intently did he engage himself upon this task that he failed to notice the silent parting of a draped entrance, or the King's catlike tread upon the thick pile of the carpet as he moved stealthily across the floor. A long hand, very slender and very much be jeweled, moving across the table before him and taking up the original document, gave Stanley his first hint of his sovereign's presence.

Without a moment's hesitation, and not the slightest quivering of an eyebrow, Lord Stanley arose and bowed low before Henry. He met the look of stern inquiry on the King's face with a quiet smile.

"I crave thy pardon, liege, on the behalf of my sluggish fingers. Fitter are they to wield sword in thy cause than pen."

"So it would seem. What meaneth this second transcript, my lord of Stanley?"

"I bethought me that it would be well," replied Stanley upon the instant, "because of the grave importance of the document, to issue it in duplicate. The one to give the young knight safe conduct to his journey's end, the other to secrete within the lining of his cloak or doublet."

"'Tis a most excellent thought, by my faith!" exclaimed the King, the black cloud passing from his brow. "Command Oxford, de Vere, and Sir Richard to our presence. We would have done with the business, and with all speed dispatch the young knight upon his travels."

[CHAPTER II]
ON THE WAY TO CASTLE YEWE

The ceremony attending the departure of Sir Richard upon his singular errand was quickly over; and well within the limits of that day the massive pile of ivy-grown walls, crenelated towers and copper-tipped turrets of Kenilworth Castle had dipped beneath the undulating masses of autumn tinted foliage behind the young knight and John Belwiggar, whom the King had nominated to be Sir Richard's squire and attendant.

Within Henry's mind the expedient of dispatching the young knight as bearer of his own death warrant had been conceived in a spirit of absurd bravado. So far as his calculating and selfish character permitted, he was fond of him. But if he suffered a regret, it was wholly personal, and because of circumstances that had compelled him to part from one in whose companionship he had derived a great deal of pleasure. In respect of any feeling of genuine sorrow, the entire scene enacted between himself and Stanley had been a complete farce. Though he had invested that doughty warrior with many and distinguished honors and great power, he had never entertained on the behalf of his chief official that feeling of confidence so essential to the complaisance of mind of any ruler. It was his intention to set before that individual an example of integrity and devotion that the King fancied would be well worthy of emulation. As an additional safeguard, however, he caused secret spies of his own selection to be dispatched in the train of Sir Richard. In adopting this course he believed himself to be keeping the situation well in hand; at once guarding against any interruption of the final delivery of the unusual warrant, and providing him with the means of testing Lord Stanley's devotion to his cause.

Thus, had not Sir Richard taken it into his head to follow an itinerary entirely different from either the one suggested by Henry, or that secretly transmitted to him beside the portcullis by Lord Stanley, some state problems of vast magniture and importance might then have been solved. As it subsequently transpired, all along and between the roads that it was definitely supposed the young knight and his squire would make their pilgrimage, King's emissaries were constantly meeting and receiving entertainment of Stanley's lieutenants, as well as the other way about. Obviously, neither the one side nor the other dared to hint of its purpose of espionage or destination; nor yet dared to display any undue haste in parting to pursue its secret way. It also became necessary for them to observe every possible precaution in the matter of covering up their trails, one from another; and, in this way, the innocent cause of this rather amusing game of cross-purposes was permitted to go unmolested upon his way.

The route that Sir Richard had chosen rendered it necessary for himself and squire to tread paths and by-ways used chiefly by peasant farmers and sheep-herders. At times, after a heavy fall of rain, such of these as wound through the low lying valleys would become wholly impassable, making it needful for our pilgrims to await the draining of the flood into the rivers, or to make long detours to come upon the other side. For this reason, it had reached well along into October before they had passed through the Liberties of Berwick and set foot upon Scottish soil.

It was growing late in the afternoon of their second day in Scotland, and while they were skirting the edge of a rock-tarn lying in gloomy seclusion in the middle of a desolate moor, that Sir Richard was murderously deprived of the services of his squire and brave attendant. There had been no hint of the approach of the tragedy; no clue as to the identity or purpose of the cowardly perpetrators following its occurrence.

Mounted upon his mettlesome charger, which, though uncommonly powerful, was somewhat fatigued because of the many miles put behind him that day, the young knight was riding slowly along some two hundred yards in advance of Belwiggar. The sky was heavy, gray, and lowering; and the boulder-strewn, monotonously level expanse of moor affording no pleasant aspect or interesting contrasts to the eye, Sir Richard's gaze remained fixed upon the nodding head of his stallion. So near the brink was the narrow path winding along the waters of the tarn, and so unruffled was its surface, that steed and armored rider were mirrored faithfully, point for point, beneath.

Hearing a sharp rattling of steel-shod hoofs behind him, and vaguely marveling as to the cause of this unexpected and unusual burst of energy upon the part of his squire, the young knight turned, with a smile upon his face, to greet Belwiggar's approach. To his horrified surprise he was but just in time to see the honest fellow writhing in an agony of death, while the horse that he had so lately bestrode in the prime vigor of rugged health whisked blindly ahead of the young knight along the road, till, crashing against a huge boulder upreared within its path, it stumbled, seemed to hang for an instant in mid-air, and then, neighing with wild affright, disappeared with a tremendous splash beneath the surface of the tarn.

Apprehending some immediate danger to himself, Sir Richard, upon the instant, drew his visor close. Just as he had accomplished this move a bolt struck fair upon the joint of his neck-guard; and, though it did him no harm beyond causing his head to ring with the force of the impact, it was the cunning of his armorer alone that had saved him from a death similar to that of Belwiggar.

Having no means of knowing the exact direction from whence the arrows had been sped, and the nature of the ground precluding the possibility of sending his horse over it, the young knight made no attempt to seek out and punish his assailant. He shot a glance of the keenest scrutiny from boulder to boulder, but there was no sign of a living being upon the moor. Satisfied that Belwiggar's death must go unavenged for the time, he rode back to where he lay with a feathered shaft, still quivering, protruding from his broad breast.

He dismounted beside the body, tethering his horse in the hollow between two rocky promontories through which the path swung. He stood looking around him for a space, uncertain what to do. So overwhelmingly appalling and strange were the circumstances attending the tragedy, and to that degree was Sir Richard oppressed by his melancholy surroundings, that he became filled with a feeling of unspeakable dread, an almost uncontrollable desire to throw himself upon the back of his steed and gallop swiftly away. Torn by such emotions, it was no light task to remain upon the scene for the purpose of making such disposition of poor Belwiggar's body as his limited means would permit. By employing the dead warrior's battle-ax in lieu of mattock, however, he contrived to hollow out a sufficient space to lay him decently away. Then, piling up a mound of loose stones above the shallow grave, Sir Richard remounted and pursued his solitary way northward toward Bannockburn and Castle Yewe.

As he journeyed onward the young knight made many determined efforts to whistle and sing away a feeling of deep melancholy that persisted in setting somberly down upon him. In the manner of a gloomy procession passing in review before his mind's eye, he recalled all of the wild folklore with which his ears had been beguiled since his advent into Scotland.

"Scour ye'r hoorse ower the Sauchieburn Pass," a toothless and horrible old hag had whispered into his unwilling ear upon the morning of that very day. "Dinna ye ken," she had croaked, "that the deil flees there at fall o' nicht?" and the bare thought that he would be obliged to pass the night there alone, with nothing between his head and the limitless heavens but a possible shelving rock, caused icy shivers of fear to creep along his back.

There was one weird tale in particular that he had heard repeated with a stubborn insistence that gave to it some semblance of verity. It was that concerning a certain red tavern, which, according to the peasant's lively imaginations, appeared suddenly along lonely and unfrequented roadways, as though set there by the Evil One. After a time, then, it was reported to vanish as suddenly and mysteriously as it had appeared, taking along with it into the Unknown any luckless wayfarer that had chanced to seek shelter beneath its phantom roof.

"Now, I am free to own," Sir Richard argued with himself, "that there are certain strange phenomena of which the human mind can give no proper accounting. But when it comes to tales of gibbering ghosts, shadowy, phantom shapes and flying taverns​—​why, by 'r Lady! I'll set a barrier of common sense against my credulity and refuse to believe."

He was quite aware, moreover, that none of his countrymen had ever journeyed through Scotland without being bedeviled by somewhat of these same gruesome tales. While it was true that the wily Lord Bishop Kennedy had succeeded in effecting a truce of seven years' duration between England and Scotland, it was obviously beyond him to beguile the yeomanry into viewing an Englishman with anything approaching favor. Nor yet, by any possible chance or subterfuge, could he have set a truce to their wagging tongues. Legends and superstitions were a part of their daily existence, and in proportion as they were fearsome they enjoyed spreading them about.

Revolving these matters within an uneasy mind, Sir Richard gave small heed to his surroundings. By now, he had laid the moor well behind him. Through a slight rift in the rolling cloud-pall peered the last segment of the setting sun; and away to the westward could be caught an occasional glinting of the sea as the waves billowed through its golden reflection.

Just ahead of him the road dipped into a valley. Along its bowl-like bed lay a morass, which gave off continuously a heavy, bluish, and probably poisonous vapor. To the north of the morass the road ascended in easy gradients till it clipped the sky line at the distance of a league and a half, or thereabouts, from where he rode.

At the precise point where the road showed bold and clear against the clouds he fancied that he saw the expiring rays of the sun gleaming against a point of vivid color. As he descended into the valley to where the road divided the morass, the point of color disappeared from view, and all of the landscape resumed its gray and monotonous appearance.

Not wishing to inhale the miasmic vapor, in which, he feared, might lurk some dire fever, Sir Richard drank long and deep of untainted air. So much so indeed that the flesh of his back and breast impinged strong upon his steel harness. Then, setting spurs to his stallion, he galloped through the dank cloud without a breath of it reaching into his nostrils.

As he drew near the northern reaches of the valley and rounded a gigantic boulder that stood sentinel to the upper plain, he came full upon a tavern that he at once surmised to be the same of which he had heard so much. Upon the instant that he did so, he reined in his steed to a dead stand. Aside from its brilliant though somewhat weather-beaten coat of scarlet, it differed in many respects from the taverns then commonly to be seen along the highways. Saving at the very apex of its steep gable, its front was unpierced by windows. Above its single, narrow door, which opened beneath the jut of the upper story, hung a signboard bearing upon its surface the device of a vulture feeding its young. Withal, however, it appeared to be material enough, and this made it impossible for Sir Richard to account for a feeling of unutterable dread that took complete possession of his mind.

Once he had almost decided upon riding straight to its entrance to beat upon the rude panels of the door for admittance within. But before he could summon sufficient courage to carry out his half-formed design, a mortal terror returned strong upon him, and forthwith he sent his stallion past it at a furious gallop.

It stood a full quarter of a league at his back before the ungovernable fear within him gave ground to shame. He pulled up sharp, then wheeled, and rode slowly back to its sinister door.

As he knocked with the scabbard of his sword upon the heavy planks a drop of rain splashed against his helmet, trickled down over his closed visor, and dripped through one of its orifices upon his chin.

[CHAPTER III]
OF A NIGHT IN THE RED TAVERN

As Sir Richard glanced above the jutting cornice he noted that the clouds had turned to a murky green. Ragged tentacles were trailing ominously earthward as the storm raged down upon the sea. Appreciating the need of immediate shelter, and having as yet heard no answering sounds from within, he sent another fusillade of blows against the door.

Almost upon the instant there followed a loud clanking of iron chains and bolts. Then, as the door swung slowly inward, there stood revealed within the open space a singularly odd and striking figure of a man. So extraordinarily tall was he that he was obliged to stoop to make way for his head beneath the lintel as he set his foot upon the step. He vouchsafed no word of welcome or good cheer, but stood silent, waiting for the traveler to speak.

With his sparse hair streaming in the augmenting wind, his keen eyes burning within the shadow of a thicket of brows; his veritable beak of a nose​—​vying with that of the crudely painted vulture above his head​—​and his thin, bloodless lips, he appealed to the young knight like anything but a picture of a hospitable inn-keeper. It being habitual to associate with these highway entertainers a certain rotundity of figure and jollity of demeanor. The one confronting Sir Richard was attenuated to the last degree, though in despite of this the breadth of his wrist, and the clutch of his bony fingers upon the latch, betrayed his possession of a more than usual measure of physical strength.

"Hast thou peace and provender for a wayfaring knight and horse?" our astonished pilgrim made out to inquire.

Even then the landlord did not trouble himself to speak. Bowing assent, however, he signed Sir Richard to dismount and enter. As he complied, another man, with features very much resembling the first, but whose figure was grossly misshapen, squat, hunchbacked, and long-armed, emerged from the obscurity of the room and led away his horse. This move was not accomplished without a considerable effort upon the hunchback's part, for the spirited animal pricked up its ears, champed its bit, and hung back on the bridle at sight of the apparition tugging at the other end.

It was not without an inward sense of fear that the young knight moved toward the glowing blaze, after he had seen his horse safely led, though stubbornly contesting every inch of the way, around the corner of the building. As he approached the chimney-side, a huge wolfhound lying upon the hearth half rose upon its haunches.

In the bright light of the fire Sir Richard could see the stiff, wiry gray hairs elevating along its spine, and the gleaming of white fangs as it curled its lips from off them and emitted a savage growl.

"Crouch, Demon!" commanded the inn-keeper in a voice which, though low, seemed by far more menacing than the savage grumble of the beast.

The hound instantly obeyed, resuming its recumbent attitude and regarding the intruder furtively the while out of the tail of its yellow eyes.

By now the wind had risen to the strength of a hurricane; whining and shrieking dismally, it was dashing the rain with tremendous violence against the northern and eastern walls of the tavern. With an inward acknowledgment of his indebtedness to a kind providence for having set a haven of refuge of any description along the highway, the traveler took his place in a deep-seated bench beside the fire, unloosed the fastenings of his helm and removed his gauntlets. He made as if to unlock his greaves, but desisted upon a vivid recollection of the sharp fangs of the wolfhound.

"By the rood, my good man, but how it doth blow," said he, rubbing his benumbed hands in front of the warm and cheery blaze. "A stoup of red wine or runlet of canary would scarce come amiss upon such a night, i' truth."

With his foot touching the muzzle of the dog, the inn-keeper had taken his station before the fire; and, whilst the lower portion of his tall body was bathed in its ruddy glare, his head towered among the shadowy beams above. By the dim semi-light that barely laid itself against his pallid cheek, Sir Richard could see that his host was measuring him up point by point; and in a manner so insolently intent that he became possessed of a mad itching to attempt a chastisement of his tormentor. But two words, and these spoken to the hound, had the landlord uttered since the young knight had dismounted before the door.

"Well!" exclaimed our pilgrim, rapping impatiently upon the table before him, "an thou hast finished with thy inventorying, man; bring on a stoup of wine. And be good enough to see to it, sir, that the drink be advance guard to a bit of supper."

Thereupon the inn-keeper bent the incensed Sir Richard a bow that Lord Cardinal Bourchier himself might properly have envied.

"Saidst thou not something, sir knight," he returned in the smoothest of tones, "of a runlet of canary?"

His manner was faultlessly deferential, but the modulations of his voice conveyed a world of ironical badinage that was wellnigh intolerable. The young knight was tired, lonely, and, if the truth be said, half fearful; and for these reasons proved no match at all for the extraordinary tavern-keeper at that soft game. Losing for the moment all control of his temper, he sprang petulantly to his feet and rapped angrily upon the wooden bench with the scabbard of his sword.

"Devil fly away with the canary, sirrah!" he retorted, threateningly. "I tell thee now, it were the better suited to thy health that thou shouldst do my bidding, man."

"This tavern, good my knight," said the inn-keeper, apparently not in the least ruffled, and wholly ignoring his guest's display of anger, "boasts but a meager fare. Plain venison, I fear me much, must needs pass muster with thy dainty palate in lieu of larks and pigeons."

A nature prone to sudden disarrangement of poise is usually amenable to swift reasoning and control. By this time, Sir Richard, repenting of his burst of passion and appreciating the imbecility of a resort to violence, had determined in his mind to do his utmost to meet the inn-keeper upon his own ground. He arose, thereupon, and swept toward mine host his most profound curtesy.

"Venison from thy cupboard," said he, smiling in a good humor that was not altogether assumed, "would stand substitute for even Karum-pie."

With a grim chuckle the inn-keeper then took himself off. The hunchback returned presently bearing upon a broad platter a warmed over venison pasty and a stoup of wine; which, upon tasting, Sir Richard found to be of a most excellent vintage. He was disappointed in one particular, however; for, from the moment of the landlord's exit from the room, the young knight had entertained the hope that his supper might be served through the offices of a comely maid. In that event, as was the habit of the times, he would have enjoyed her companionship through the hour of eating. He could accordingly scarcely conceal his vexation and chagrin upon beholding the lugubrious hunchback.

"The Fates defend us!" he exclaimed beneath his breath. "Merely to look at the fellow doth steal away mine hunger."

Well within the zone of pleasing warmth of the fire, and with the not untuneful beating of the wind and sleet against the hollow clapboards singing in his ears, Sir Richard, after he had partaken of his supper, remained beside the table, his elbows resting upon its top, his head reclining against his hand. A delightful drowsiness was stealing over him, causing his head to nod lower and lower. Then, with a relaxation of every muscle of his body, he fell forward into a deep sleep.

The air of absolute confidence with which the inn-keeper presently entered the room; the deliberate manner in which he went about unfastening and intruding his hand within the traveler's wallet seemed adequately to indicate that the entire circumstance had grown out of a well meditated plan of action. As he withdrew King Henry's warrant and clapped his eyes upon the great red seal his eyebrows went up in token of astonishment. With extreme deliberation he broke the seal and proceeded to acquaint himself with its purport.

"'Tis a passing strange and untoward business, this," he muttered, after having read and read again the contents of the singular document. "Aye, a passing strange business. Is it but an idle frolic of a king? some cruel wager, conceived in wanton jest? Certes, and this youth were an enemy to the throne, his fair head, ere this, had fallen beside the tower block. I would that we could attach men as stanch, devoted and incorruptible to our great cause. But now, since the young prince is dead, what cause have we?" Folding carefully the parchment, he vented a deep sigh. "The labor of these seven years is gone for naught. Aye, for naught. And the great army that is bivouaced here to-night in Scotland is like unto an avenging Juggernaut with none to guide its course. A beast of prey bereft of a head wherewith to devour its enemy."

Concluding his meditations, the inn-keeper, moving toward the fire, took up a blazing splinter and addressed himself to the task of mending the broken seal. Having accomplished this to his apparent satisfaction, he returned the parchment whence it had been taken, seated himself beside the table opposite to the sleeping young knight and resumed the thread of his gloomy thoughts.

"'Tis passing strange that I​—​I, James Tyrrell​—​wearing the stigma of a murderer, expatriate and outlawed from my country, should feel toward this comely youth a sentiment akin to pity. Even would I make attempt to save him, and I could. But, I fear me, 'tis impossible. The very nature of his errand furnishes such proof of his stubborn integrity that 'twere but folly to make trial of dissuading him from going on. An I had awakened him to display the violated parchment, he would have had at me with his sword for an arrant traitor. Even as he bent me that pretty bow, I could see the fighting-man in his gray eye. An I caused him to be trussed up as he sleeps to hold it before his conscious eyes, he would dub me liar and base imitator of King Henry's signature to my very teeth. Reluctant though I am thus to do, I must perforce allow him to fare away upon his pilgrimage to death."

With that Tyrrell arose, leaning, for a brief instant, upon the table above the sleeping knight. Upon the instant that he did so his manner underwent a marked transformation from passive contemplation to that of intent and earnest scrutiny. Bending his eyes upon the point where the young man's neck escaped from his steel shoulder-guards, he stood for some time regarding two small and blood-red moles, which were curiously joined together by a slender filament of raised flesh. In any other but the recumbent position that the sleeping man's head had naturally assumed, the birth-mark would have been hidden from view beneath the masses of golden-brown hair growing in a profusion of ringlets behind his delicately modeled ears.

Then: "'Tis a glorious dispensation of Divine Providence," declared Tyrrell solemnly, straightening to his full height and upraising his right hand, whilst his left remained upon the unconscious knight's shoulder. "And we thank thee, merciful God, for thy kindness in thus sending another to take the place of one whom thou didst see fit to take away."

Thereupon, with many a halt, and many a backward glance, he stole quietly from the room.

His advent into another, wherein four armed men were amusing themselves over a game of cards and conversing together in guarded undertones, was dramatic in the extreme.

He took his stand in the center of the floor, the flare of a single torch speeding waves of light and shadow along his tall figure.

"Noble gentles," said he, "fellow conspirators: Know ye all that a just God hath this night deigned to smile upon our cause. That even now, in the room without, steeped in sweet slumber 'neath the influence of one of Friar Diomed's harmless potions, there is a fit and proper candidate for a throne in which now sits a base usurper."

"Ay​—​marry, is this true, eh? Well, he is a good enough looking young fellow. But, 'tis no more than fair that the traveler should well requite us for thus depriving us of the comforts of a cheery room​—​eh!" muttered a bearded warrior, who, because of a conspicuous absence of stools or chairs, was obliged to take what ease he could upon the floor. "I would that friend Zenas might fetch bench or stool," he added, "so that I might listen to thy tale in seemly comfort​—​eh!"

"Have done with thy grumblings, de Claverlok," spoke up another member of the quartet. "Pray, Sir James, keep not longer from us the identity of this God-given substitute. We are all ears to hear."

"Ay, so must we be," de Claverlok interrupted. "But one great ear, for 'tis from a great height we must listen​—​eh!"

"First," resumed Tyrrell, unheedful of the interruption, "I would hear thy separate oaths registered that no hint shall escape thee of that which I am about to tell. This oath of secrecy, noble gentlemen, doth most of all include the solitary traveler now asleep in the outer room. Until such time as I shall give thee warrant, him must we keep in ignorance of our purpose. It is my firm resolve to bring him within view of our great armed force, before laying bare our plans. Zenas, my good brother," Sir James pursued, turning to the dwarf, "do thou, for a time, stand sentinel above our honorable guest. I charge thee, guard him zealously from harm till I am ready to join thee."

After Zenas had closed the door behind his retreating figure, the inn-keeper, turning toward the three men remaining, divulged to them at great length and with fine regard to details our traveler's true name and titles, as well as the nature of his errand to Douglas.

"My good wife, gentles," he said, concluding the explanation of the source of his knowledge, "was nurse and godmother to the suckling infant. Full oft did we, in secret, discuss the significance of these marks that I have but this moment again looked upon. And, now, Friar Diomed," he said, addressing himself to the churchman, "art thou skilled enough in the assembling of herb and root to prepare me a sleeping potion that for three days or more will not lose its hold upon the senses?"

"Aye​—​that can I," replied the monk cheerfully. "An you but set it to the nostrils thrice in the day 'twill sleep a man safely the week through."

"Then do thou have it ready betwixt this hour and midnight. De Claverlok, do thou, with all dispatch, ride to our nearest encampment. Bring back with thee a dozen mounted men and a covered litter. Whilst awaiting Sir Lionel's speedy return, we will give our time to the further discussion of plans and expedients."

By now the storm had abated. The wind, no longer a shrieking tornado, had died away to a plaintive sighing about the eaves. The rain had entirely ceased, and in the dead solitude of the night the hoofbeats of de Claverlok's charger, as he galloped away upon his errand, were plainly audible to those within the tavern; to all saving Sir Richard, who, still sleeping beside the fire, was all unconscious of an eye, a patient, gleaming, malevolent eye, which remained fixed upon the interior through a narrow window set high in the eastern wall of the room.

[CHAPTER IV]
THE INCIDENT OF THE WOLF-HOUND

The eye at the window was the hunchback's, who was perched upon the top of a boulder, which he had rolled to the side of the building for the purpose of enabling him to see within. His attitude was as that of a spider awaiting its victim, and betrayed his anticipation of a pleasurable event to come. If Sir James could have witnessed his brother's unaccountable demeanor, he would doubtless have been convinced of the truth of a rumor that was commonly traded among his men to the effect that Zenas was of unsound mind, and a menace to his ambitious plans.

The tottering of Zenas's reason was directly due to the circumstance of his having been Sir James's intimate confederate in one of the most brilliant and daring conspiracies in a time when conspiracies were among the chief products of England's soil. The plot in question had been conceived in Tyrrell's brain at the time when he had been commissioned by Richard III to make away with his two nephews in the room in which they were then imprisoned in the Tower; and involved the secret transportation of the young princes to a place of safety till such time as a sufficiently armed force could be gathered to set the older of the two upon the throne. That one of the boy dukes was actually murdered and only one so transported, Sir James attributed to the egregious blunder or willful defection of one Dighton, his groom, who was bribed handsomely by Tyrrell to assist him in his gigantic enterprise. Dighton had suffered a summary death as the penalty of his fault. Zenas, garbed in the habit of a Sister of the Faith, had received into his charge in one of the by-ways of London a fair-haired young girl, who was the escaped prince in disguise. Together they had traveled from hamlet to hamlet till they had come to the haven of refuge prepared for them in Scotland. From whence he had been so indiscreet as to return to England and hint, while in his cups, of the incubation of a vast uprising in the North, in consequence of which he had been seized, thrown into the torture chamber, and released only after he had been blinded in one eye and reduced to a repulsive caricature of his former self. While he had incurred Sir James's stern displeasure because of his indiscretion, he had also won his highest regard and confidence because of his stubborn refusal to divulge a single secret through the whole of his agonized sufferings.

Now, as Zenas patiently maintained his post upon the top of the boulder, he kept up an almost incessant mumbling. "I'll keep guard over him," he was saying. "Aye​—​I'll see that no harm comes to our honorable guest!" whereupon he would smile craftily and press his face more closely to the window. "They know not​—​ha, ha! not one of them hath divined that it was I​—​I, Zenas, the detestable hunchback, who put the quietus to the young prince. Slow poison​—​that's the thing. Slow poison! I'll teach them to steal from me the affections of my beloved and noble brother. Zenas, the crookback, will teach them! Slow poison put an end to the last, and now 'twill be Demon's turn to finish this one. At him, good Demon! At him, sir!" he concluded, with a sibilant hiss that penetrated every corner of the interior of the room.

It was just at this moment that Sir Richard awakened with a sudden and violent start. During the interval of several seconds he remained in a sort of drowsy stupor, with his gaze fixed upon the curling flames. Doubtless from that instinct that gives warning of impending peril, he set his first sentient glance upon the forbidding beast lying before him upon the hearth. The hound's red eyeballs were glaring straight into his own. In the dim firelight he could see that its hair was bristling over its entire savage body, and that slowly and with deadly menace the brute was gathering its huge paws beneath it and assuming a crouching posture. Feeling certain that the slightest perceptible movement upon his part would precipitate the threatened spring, the young knight's fingers, under cover of the table, crept warily toward his sword-hilt. Distinctly he could hear the tap​—​tap​—​tapping of the raindrops as they splashed upon the ground from off the eaves. What, with the deathlike quiet, the red eyeballs and gleaming fangs of the hound, and the uncanniness of it all, it is a matter of wonderment that Sir Richard maintained his faculties to the degree that he did.

Inch by inch his hand neared the familiar point where his sword-hilt should have been. Groping beyond, however, it encountered but an empty scabbard. His blade was gone!

A crooked mouth beneath the malevolent eye at the window smiled exultingly.

As the young knight started in a maze of utter bewilderment upon discovering his loss, the hound, straight and true as an arrow sped from a cross-bow, sprang full at his unprotected throat. With a light bound Sir Richard gained the top of the bench, and the powerful jaws of the bloodthirsty brute closed upon his greaves at the precise point where his unprotected throat had been but the instant before. It had been a right lucky stroke for him when he had bestowed a second thought to the matter of unlocking his stout leg-pieces.

Discovering that it could inflict no hurt upon its enemy at that point, and not fancying, in all likelihood, the grating of the tough steel against its teeth, the hound released its hold, gave back, and now, with jaws afoam, and giving tongue the while to deep, fierce growls, it crouched low upon the hearth and gathered its body for another spring. By this time Sir Richard was aware of the circumstance that he was without a weapon of any description, as his dagger had been removed with his baldric, which had evidently been unbuckled from off his shoulder during his sleep. Quick as a flash the young knight swept up one of his heavy metal gauntlets from off the top of the table. Again good fortune was with him, for it turned out to fit upon his right hand. It was but the work of a moment to adjust it, and he met the brute's second leap with a blow set fair between its eyes and delivered with every ounce of weight and strength at his command. After the manner of a doe pierced through by a shaft in mid-leap the hound crashed lifeless to the floor, with a great spout of blood issuing from its mouth and nostrils.

The burning eye at the window withdrew its gaze. The crooked lips, so lately smiling, were now muttering curse upon curse to the sighing winds.

"Hoa! Well, by my soul, sir knight! I am, indeed, happily come to witness a blow so true and mightily delivered."

The voice was that of the inn-keeper, and sounded out of the darkness beyond the semi-circle of wavering light shed by the now expiring fire.

As Sir Richard leapt from off the bench to the floor, Tyrrell strode into the zone of illumination and, stooping, hung above the still quivering body of the dying hound. For quite a space he remained thus, as though graven in stone, with the gentle raindrops tap-tapping outside for an accompaniment.

"Knowest thou, sir knight," he observed at length, "that thou art the very first successfully to withstand the onslaught of this savage brute?" Tyrrell straightened up, folded his arms, and touched the dead hound lightly with the point of his foot. "Methought," said he, "that Demon was the nearest thing to me upon earth, and, mayhap, the dearest. Like me, sir, he was savage, cruel, and unrelenting; and, like me, expatriated by his kind."

The deep cadence of the inn-keeper's voice, the knitting of his brows, and a slight, mournful drooping of his shoulders betrayed to the young knight that his host was touched with a genuine sorrow. Filled ever with a generous-spirited goodwill, he felt himself entertaining a sense of regret for the deed that he had been compelled to do.

"In very truth it grieves me," said he, "that necessity bade me to set a period to a life that you held so precious. I can, good sir, but make offering of reparation in the way of gold."

Tyrrell turned toward the young knight and smiled sadly.

"Gold?" he softly answered. "It doubts me much whether all the gold in Christian England could salve the wound made by the death of this hound. An outcast, sir knight, he came to me, an outcast. I took him in and suffered him to tarry here till he grew kindred to my every wish, and the very manner of my likes and dislikes. As I am, noble sir, he was a bitter misanthrope, and would permit none, besides me, to approach him but Zenas, my unfortunate brother." He paused in his speech, regarding Sir Richard intently. As was habitual with this inimitable conspirator, he was but playing a part. If he had it in mind thereby to win his way to Sir Richard's sympathies, he was succeeding admirably.

"Whilst thou wert sleeping," he resumed at the proper moment, "I caused thy sword and baldric to be removed, so that thy rest might forsooth give thee a greater measure of comfort. I likewise laid command upon Zenas to stand guard over thy slumbers. Much sorrow doth it give me that he should have left thee without the protection of his presence whilst I was absent. But, marry, noble knight, the deed can now no more be recalled than can the sped shaft be returned from mid-flight to the string."

From top to toe Tyrrell was habited in somber black; and, as he talked, his lank body loomed anon through the half-circle of flickering light, and then would be blotted out in the deep shadows beyond, as he continued to pace slowly back and forth before the chimney. To the imaginative Sir Richard's mind it recalled a play that he had once witnessed with Henry and his court in London. In it there had been an actor who had affected to play the part of the devil; and who had appeared suddenly, and then as suddenly vanished, in a manner designed to appear miraculous.

"Though, in very truth," decided the young knight, "he did not resemble that grisly character one half so much as my mysterious landlord."

The scene in which Sir Richard was playing an involuntary part brought back to him the many evil tales that had been dinned into his ears since coming to Scotland of this same Red Tavern, together with a vivid recollection of the reported fate of the unwary, who, through any misadventure, chanced to seek the hospitality of its shelter. A dozen times it had been upon the tip of his tongue to make mention of these rumors, but the words persisted in halting upon the threshold of utterance. In the light of the reality and substance of his surroundings they appeared as nothing more than weirdly fantastic creations, or ridiculous superstitions, and as such he did his utmost to dismiss them from his mind.

He was just meditating some appropriate subject of conversation by which the prolonged and somewhat uncomfortable silence might be interrupted, when the hunchback came into the room, bearing upon his back a billet of wood that was vastly greater in length and girth than he.

"Dost know, Zenas," said Tyrrell sternly, "that thou hast committed a most grievous fault in not remaining to stand watch over our honored guest? Where hast thou been?"

"I did but go without to fetch this log. The night hath grown cold, and I was but bethinking me of the sir knight's comfort," Zenas explained.

"'Tis an ill excuse, I tell thee, Zenas. Prithee bestow the log upon the fire. Then bring in a torch, and a mattock and spade. We will bury at once the body of yonder hound."

Arching his brows the dwarf looked toward his brother, toward Richard, and then upon the body of the hound.

"But he does but sleep, good brother," he said, depositing the log amidst a shower of sparks within the fireplace.

"Aye, 'tis true he sleeps," replied Tyrrell. "And a sleep, Zenas, from which none shall again awaken him. Our good knight yonder of the wondrous thews, dealt him a buffet that would have felled the stoutest ox in broad Scotland. Methinks it might e'en have staggered a Papist Bull, with such a hearty goodwill was it delivered."

Going to the side of the hound, the hunchback bent above it, fondled the massive head and shook the fast stiffening paws. Then, with a furtive look toward his brother, who happened to be unobservant of his actions, he shot a black look of malignant hate in Sir Richard's direction.

"And wilt thou suffer this​—​—"

With a finger upon his lips Tyrrell warned Zenas to instant silence. Then, leading him toward the outer door, he talked earnestly with him for several minutes. During a pause in their animated conversation the hunchback stooped and peered at the young knight in something of an odd manner. Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he took his way without further ado through the door.

In a little while he returned, carrying a gnarl of pine wood, which he set to blazing at the fire. Thus did Tyrrell, in a most respectful manner, beg Sir Richard to carry, whilst he and Zenas, he said, would drag out the carcass of the hound and make ready its grave.

"'Twould be better that thy brother should bear the light," said Sir Richard. "I'll lend thee a hand to the carrying of the hound, and then wield either the mattock or the spade."

"Tut, tut! Of the two, dost think thou art the stronger?" queried the hunchback sharply, addressing himself to Sir Richard for the first time. "Then," he added, "let me show thee."

Unceremoniously thrusting the torch within the young knight's hand he lifted a heavy iron bar standing against the chimney. With but little more effort, apparently, than one would have bestowed upon the breaking of a twig he thereupon bent it fair double across his knee. Tossing aside the twisted rod he looked into Sir Richard's eyes and smiled. Rather, it was a mirthless leer, cunning, cruel, menacing. The young knight easily gathered that between Zenas and himself there remained yet an unsettled score.

"Have done with this childish vaunting of thy strength," said Tyrrell. "An thou wilt but expend thy energies to the task in hand, 'twill soon be done."

"But, can our honored guest be of a mind to exchange me a buffet, good my brother, I should be remiss in the matter of common courtesy did I not stand ready to favor him," returned Zenas.

"Come, come!" impatiently exclaimed Tyrrell, allowing Sir Richard no opportunity of answering the implied challenge. "Let us have done at once with the burial of poor Demon."

He and his brother then led the way outside, carrying between them the body of the hound. Sir Richard followed them to where they laid it down at the foot of the jagged rock that, in the daylight, could be seen at a great distance along the roadway. By this hour the night had turned keen, as nights are wont to do along the Highlands, and as he stood idly by watching the inn-keeper and the hunchback busily plying spade and mattock, he grew uncomfortably sensible of the increasing cold, which seemed to set its chill touch upon his very bones.

At rare intervals the pale disc of the moon could be vaguely distinguished when one of the thinner clouds scudded across its face. But when the heavier clouds rolled beneath it, the land was blotted out in deepest darkness, which the splotch of light shed by the wavering torch served well to accentuate.

Fantastic shadows wove themselves about the grave-diggers' feet. These, as they rippled away, grew to tremendous proportions as they merged with the circle of gloom that hemmed them in after the manner of an ebon wall. It was during this dismal half-hour, more than ever after, that Sir Richard missed the jovial companionship of poor Belwiggar. The thought came to him that he was a being apart, who had been set down there alone in a mystic environment, and, willy-nilly, his mind again became tenanted with calamitous forebodings. He fair ached again to stretch his legs before the fire, and hailed with unmingled delight the moment when the inn-keeper and his brother clambered from out the grave and lowered the hound within.

It was as they were heaving back the loosened earth that he heard a faint, clear sound steal out upon the silence of the night. It seemed to him as the sound of a maiden's voice released in song. He was straining eagerly to catch the next sweet, quivering note when Tyrrell's deep voice broke suddenly into an English war song, and with a tuneful lilt that came far from appealing unpleasantly to the ear. Moreover, with such a hearty goodwill did he sing it that the echoes of the resonant notes were flung reverberating far across the plain.

So unexpected was this occurrence, and so foreign did it seem to the inn-keeper's melancholy character, that Sir Richard was no less startled than surprised. When the young knight turned toward his host he discovered that grim individual engaged in shoveling great clods of earth into the grave, and unconcernedly timing each movement of his body in a rhythmical beat with his song.

Not until the last bit of clay had been firmly tamped above the hound, and they had started for the tavern door, did he for a moment relax his stentorian singing.

"Didst thou not hear that sound as of a woman's voice?" Sir Richard made bold to inquire as they were passing indoors.

"Not I," Tyrrell brusquely replied. "For long, sir knight, my ears hath grown accustomed to the plaint of bird and beast, and the shrieking of the wraiths of shipwrecked mariners along the coast. An I had heard a sound, I should, belike, have attributed it to one of these. Zenas," he pursued, thus dismissing the subject of the young knight's inquiry, "look well to our guest's steed for the night. After thou hast done, return and conduct the good knight to his bed."

Turning toward Sir Richard as the hunchback took himself from the room, Tyrrell, linking within the young knight's arm his own, led him toward the comfortable warmth of the fire.

"Thou hast marked, I know, the shattered form of my brother," he said sadly, as they seated themselves together beside the table. "'Tis what remains of the cursed rack and wheel. 'Tis near beyond belief that Zenas was once as supple and straight as either thou or I. And this good body, too, Sir Richard" (the young knight started at the utterance of his name), "they would have drawn, twisted and maimed like unto his had I not defeated their evil purposes by fleeing the borders of my beloved country. God's direst curse rest upon them​—​dead and living​—​one and all!" He paused for some moments, looking gloomily into the fire. "Most humbly do I crave thy pardon for this unseemly display of emotion, sir knight," he added, "and permit me to requite thy forgiveness by setting before thee another stoup of wine. 'Twill certes not come amiss after thy prolonged stay in the crisp air."

He arose from the table accordingly, opened a cupboard upon the farther side of the chimney and took from a shelf the wine, which he set before his guest. As he was making fast the door, Sir Richard noted within the cupboard's shadowy depths the bright points of reflection against pieces of steel harness​—​swords, battle-axes, and shields.

"No doubt thou art deliberating now within thy mind," Tyrrell resumed, again seating himself, "as to the manner, Sir Richard, in which I came upon thy name?"

Abruptly pausing, he gazed reflectively for quite a space upon the young knight's puzzled countenance.

"Know then," said he, "that as thou wert sleeping, thy helmet rested there upon the table. The light of yon blaze shone full upon thy name and thy armorial bearings, which thou seest fit to carry within that safe receptacle."

Sir Richard flushed to his temples. He tried his best, despite his embarrassment, to answer in an indifferent manner.

"Gramercy for thy caution, good my landlord," he returned, with a careless smile; "and hereafter I shall keep that receptacle upon my foolish noddle, where, i' faith, 'twill be safe from prying eyes."

"From me, sir knight, thou hast no cause to fear," Tyrrell hastened to assure his guest. "It may even transpire that the momentary relaxation of thy caution hath earned for thee a friend. Mayhap, a friend in need​—​who knows?"

"In need of nothing at present above a restful pillow, a roof, and a bite to eat before I fare away in the morning," replied Sir Richard.

"Ah​—​yea, yea! Art thou so fortunate, sir knight, as to be making thy lonely pilgrimage upon matters of state? or art merely seeking lightsome pleasures, as is the manner of many a young court buck?"

"As for making my pilgrimage alone, sir, 'tis the fault of an evil accident that befell but this very day. Till he was foully murdered not many leagues from here, I had, for attendant, a squire as faithful and brave as any in England, mauger the fact that he was a trifle weak at sword-play. Give him in hand a battle-axe, though, and he would have cleaved through the stoutest wrought bonnet in all Scotland. Poor Belwiggar! God rest his bones, say I. Concerning thy inquiry as to my mission, sir, I am not free to answer," concluded Sir Richard.

"Then, an it be not a further dire impertinence, good sir knight," persisted Tyrrell, "lesson me from whom thou hast thy cognizance? Marry, I, who bethought me acquainted with every scroll in England, know thine not at all."

"From whom else but my good sovereign," Sir Richard replied. "By his royal command did the College of Heralds issue it. Thus much do I please to tell thee. Of my parentage I can lesson thee naught. My progenitors I have never seen, never known. That I am alive, well, and the free subject of a generous and noble king is sufficient for me, sir; and, by my good sword, must be sufficient for all to whom I am known."

"'Tis well and bravely said," the inn-keeper replied. "But more upon this subject at a later time, my dear Sir Richard. The night doth grow apace, and here cometh Zenas, who is now ready to conduct thee to thy couch." Upon which he arose and bade the young knight a kindly and respectful good-night.

Bearing a rush-light, the hunchback led Sir Richard up a narrow stairway to a room immediately above the one he had just quitted. Bidding his sour visaged guide to set the basin, in which burned the rush-light, in the center of the floor, he bespoke for him a peaceful rest and dismissed him from his chamber. Zenas, answering never a word, backed toward the door. Then, from its threshold, he dropped a curtsey that would have made a fitting obeisance to a monarch, after which he silently took himself off.

The room in which the young knight now found himself was of an ample size, but exceedingly raw and cold, as no fire burned within the deep-throated chimney. The four walls were roughly coated with mortar. The rafters overhead were bare. In the gloom of the space between the steep gabled roof and the skeleton beams he could hear the occasional whirring of a bat's wings, as it darted hither and thither across the room. He lost precious little time in speculating upon his surroundings and, quickly removing his steel gear, sought the comforts of the bed, which he discovered, with much inward gratification, to be of a good and easeful kind.

A few vagrant thoughts, some of them being of the wild tales he had heard of the tavern wherein he was now tarrying, flitted vaguely across his mind. Then, very soon after laying his head against the pillow, he sank into the blissful unconsciousness of sleep.

[CHAPTER V]
THE INCIDENT OF THE CUTTING OF SAFFRON VELVET

The walls of the room adjoining that in which Sir Richard was now sleeping framed a scene that provided a singular and pleasing contrast to the bleak and uninviting rooms within the tavern with which the reader is already somewhat familiar. So beautifully, and in such exquisite taste were its rich trappings disposed, that a princess might have found comfort and contentment within its cosy precincts. Indeed, not anything seemed to be missing that could have been demanded in the surroundings of the most refined and fastidious of royal personages.

Upon one of the pillowed couches two young maidens were reclining gracefully at their ease. One was lying at full length and resting upon her elbows, with her chin pressed against her interlocked fingers; the other was engaged with needles and some bright colored silk in weaving a design upon a piece of linen cloth. Without risking hyperbole it may be said of them that the jewels they wore were scarce an adornment to their distinguished setting, for it would have offered a difficult task to have set out to discover two lovelier types of young womanhood. It was unusual in that between them there existed no conflict of beauty; rather did the bewitching charms of the one serve the complimentary purpose of enhancing the pure and almost ethereal comeliness of the other.

"It would surely be a famous prank, Rocelia," said the one who was lounging upon her elbows. "I cannot understand why you should oppose me. Are we not come to an age, my over-discreet cousin, where a champion should be ours by right?"

"By right of what, pray, madcap Isabel?" queried Rocelia, laying aside her needlework upon a table that stood near the couch.

"Why​—​by right of conquest, little dunce," returned Isabel with a gay laugh. "Here does my stern guardian​—​and by the same token your implacable father​—​see fit to keep us mewed within this dismal, fly-by-night prison, deprived of every pleasure and innocent pastime that other maids, similarly stationed, are permitted to enjoy. I tell you, sweet Rocelia, 'tis nothing less than downright cruel."

"Say not so, ungracious maid," observed Rocelia in mild disapproval. "Are we not surrounded with everything, my dear, that heart of maid could wish?"

"Everything, say you? Why​—​far, far from everything," demurred Isabel, tossing back a strand of raven black hair that persisted in straying over her shoulder. "A champion! Give to me a champion!" she cried with a mock seriousness, raising on high her right arm, from which her loose robe fell, displaying a dazzling array of captivating curves and dimples.

Rocelia smiled in a gentle toleration of the other's extravagance of manner.

"Your wondrous beauty, my dear cousin," she said, "will win for you a champion all in good time."

"Time?" retorted Isabel, gathering her lips in a pretty pout and arching her brows. "Time, say you? And what, I pray you, have we to do with time? Does not time fade and wither that beauty by which, but a moment ago, you have recommended to me a champion? Is not time our mortal and deadly foe?"

"Too much of it, mayhap, would be," admitted Rocelia; "but a little of it should serve well in rounding out our minds, and in providing us with that sane discretion which, as you remember, Lord Bishop Kennedy, our kind tutor, has taught us is the most precious of earthly perquisites."

"Bah! a murrain upon Bishop Kennedy and his dry pedantries. An I had that old prate-apace inside an oven, right well would I warm his icy blood for him. Look not upon me, sweet coz, with such wideopen eyes of ravished virtue! I declare to you, Rocelia, I'll have me a champion​—​and before this very night is over. You could never divine, I'm sure, why I begged you awhile ago to sing without yon open window. Of a truth, you knew not, or your voice would never have left your throat. It was vicariously to beguile my brave champion's ears that you were singing so sweetly, dear. He was then outside with your father and Zenas burying the hound. Ah! you should have seen him fell the savage brute, Rocelia. A single mighty blow of his mailed fist and 'twas all over."

"Were you not afraid? 'Twould have fared ill with you, an Father had seen you standing at the tap-room door."

"Nay​—​I was not afraid. Your father was in another room with the men. Zenas had gone outside. I heard him go muttering through the door as I crept softly down the steps. I peeped through the split panel​—​my champion was there ... sleeping. But, already have I told you the story. Ah! how brave was he. Not once did he flinch the battle, or look about him, or call for help. And he is handsome; marry, sweet coz, but he is handsome! All girded up in shining, inlaid armor. His brown-gold hair flowing almost to his shoulders. His health-bronzed cheeks smooth and shapely. And his mouth! Um-m-m! Well​—​—"

"Why, cousin! some wicked witch has cast a spell above you, I fear."

"Nay​—​'tis not witchery, sweetest Rocelia," said Isabel, seating herself beside her fair-haired cousin and lovingly entwining her arms about her slender form. "I am but filled to overflowing with the joy of living. A something of excitement is both sup and drink to me. Now listen. Bear with your madcap cousin whilst she discourses with you in deepest earnest. A champion I must and will have. But he need not know me, or even look upon my face."

"I cannot understand. You are speaking in riddles, Isabel."

"Nay, give ear till I've finished and you shall see it plain enough. My knight of the brown-gold curls, an I mistake me not, is even at this moment slumbering within the next chamber. With a bodkin a cleft in the wall can be used as a slight avenue of secret communication. Then a missive, and a bit of cloth clipped from my​—​no yours, 'tis of a more enticing color​—​your saffron gown, I'll say, dear cousin; and thus I have my champion and no soul but you and I the wiser. Do not say me nay, good, generous Rocelia. It will be a right merry and harmless frolic, think you not?"

"'Twould be a sorry one for you, I fear, an my father found you out," replied Rocelia, half in jest, half earnestly.

"Enough. Let the hazard be mine, sweet. And now to business. Whilst I am at work with the bodkin, do you shear me a strip from off your saffron velvet kirtle."

*****

Sir Richard, sleeping soundly, was all unconscious of the widely varying activities of which he was now become the center. Beneath the room in which Isabel, now singing, now laughing, was engaged upon the wall, Friar Diomed had finished brewing and mixing the herbs and chemicals of his narcotic.

"My oath on 't, Friar Diomed," Tyrrell was saying from his seat beside the fire, "your cloth shall not save your shaven pate, an this potion bring one jot of harm to the young noble."

"An it be administered with your usual skill and caution, Sir James," returned the monk, elevating a phial filled with the liquid between his squinting eyes and the light of the fire, "'twill bring no more harm than so much aqua pura. But, by my church! 'tis beside my understanding why you must observe all of these dark ceremonies. Let the young knight but read the King's warrant in his slop pouch, an he were a long-eared ass not to embrace our cause."

"Have I not already said, my stupid friend, that he would at once charge us with substitution and false writing? Think you not that the young noble hath heard a many an evil tale of this tavern along the way? Marry, an he had not, all our trouble and precaution to shield the young prince from discovery and harm would have been but of slight avail. But only once again, good friar, need this phantom inn disappear, and then 'twill serve as a blazing torch to light the start of our movement southward."

"Pity 'tis that the young prince died," observed the monk, giving the phial into Tyrrell's hand and standing with his broad back to the blaze. "And just at the point, too, when you had gathered a sufficient power to hurl effectively against Henry. So fire shall consume our refuge, you say? Well, Sir James, ab igne ignem, say I."

"Yea, and I. But regarding the young prince, regret not that which is beyond mending. In truth, Friar Diomed, I like this young Earl of Warwick mightily. He's a right goodly youth to look upon, and brave​—​aye, as fearless as a lion cub. Nay​—​let us not regret, but rather return thanks to a generous God for having thus dropped down upon us a proper and legal substitute."