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 Another Random Document on
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"And did this Holgrave dare to wed a nief of mine!—when I had
already disposed of her freedom and her hand?"
"Yes, my lord."
"By my faith, the knave is bold to thwart me thus."
"My lord," said Calverley; "the evening before you left the castle for
London, I went to the maiden's cottage to ask her hand; Holgrave
immediately came in, and I then distinctly told him that your lordship
had given me the maiden's freedom, and also had consented that I
should wed her, and yet, you see what regard he has paid to your
will!"
"Yes, this is the gratitude of these base-born vassals; but, Calverley,
what priest presumed to wed them?"
"The monk John."
"What! the wife's brother! He who has attended the chapel since the
death of the late good father?"
"Yes, my lord."
"By Heavens! they seem all conspiring to set my will at nought!—he,
at least should have better known what was due to the lord of this
castle."
"The monk," replied Calverley, "was not ignorant of my lord's will:
and it vexes me, not on my own account, for it was merely a passing
fancy; but it vexes me, that this proud, stubborn, priest, while he is
eating of your bread, and drinking of your cup, should, in the teeth
of your commands, do that which I could swear no other priest
would have dared to do; it ill becomes him to preach obedience who
——"
"True, true, I will see to him—he shall answer for what he has done
—but now Calverley, tell me honestly, for you are not wont to be
familiar even with your fellows—tell me what you saw in this maiden
that could make you wish to rival Stephen Holgrave?"
"Her beauty, my lord."
"What! is she so fair?"
"My lord, I have seldom looked upon one so fair. In my judgment
she was the loveliest I ever saw in these parts."
"Say you so!" returned De Boteler. "I should like to see this boasted
beauty, even if it were to convince me of your taste in these matters.
Calverley, order one of the varlets to go to Holgrave, and desire him
to come to the castle directly—and, mind you, he brings his wife
with him."
Calverley could scarcely repress a smile of exultation as the baron
delivered this command, but composing his countenance to its
general calm expression, he bowed to De Boteler, and immediately
withdrew.
Holgrave, when the henchman delivered the baron's command,
hesitated, and looked angrily to Margaret.
"What ails thee, my son," asked Edith. "Is she not thy wife?—and
can the baron break asunder the bonds that bind ye?—or dost thou
fear that Margaret's face may please him—and that he would strive
to take from the man who saved his life in the battle, the wife of his
bosom! Shame! shame!"
"No, no, mother," returned Holgrave, musing; "yet I would rather
she should not go to the castle—I have seen more of the baron than
you: and, besides, this Calverley——"
Holgrave, however, considering it better not to irritate the baron by a
refusal, at length consented that Margaret should accompany him,
and they quitted the cottage together.
"Come hither, Holgrave," said De Boteler, as Holgrave entered. "Is
this your wife?"
"Yes, my lord," replied the yeoman, with a humble reverence.
"Look up, pretty one," said De Boteler to Margaret!—"Now, by my
faith Holgrave, I commend your choice. I wonder not that such a
prize was contended for. Margaret,—I believe that is your name?
Look up! and tell me in what secret place you grew into such
beauty?"
Margaret raised her bright blue eyes, that had been as yet hidden by
the long dark lashes, and the downcast lids; but, meeting the bold
fixed gaze of the baron, they were instantly withdrawn, and the
deep blush of one unaccustomed to the eyes of strangers, suffused
her cheek and brow, and even her neck.
"Were you reared on this barony, Margaret?" resumed the baron.
"Yes, my lord," answered Margaret, modestly, raising her eyes: "my
mother was a freeman's daughter; my father was a bondman on this
land: they died when I was but a child; and Edith Holgrave reared
me till I grew up a girl and could work for myself—and then——"
"You thought you could not do better than wed her son through
gratitude. That was well—and so this good squire of ours could not
expect to find much favour in your eyes. But, do you not know, you
should not have wedded without my consent?"
"My lord," answered Holgrave; "I beg your pardon; but I thought
your lordship wouldn't think much of the marriage, as your lordship
was not at the castle, and I did not know when you would return.
Here is the merchet, my lord, and I hope you will forgive me for not
awaiting your return."
"I suppose I must, for there is no helping it now; and by my faith, it
is well you did not let me see that pretty face before you were
wedded,—but take back the merchet," he continued, waving back
with his hand, the money which Holgrave was presenting. "Keep it.
An orphan bride seldom comes rich; and here is a trifle to add to it,
as a token that De Boteler prizes beauty—even though it be that of a
bondwoman!" As he spoke, he held a broad piece of gold towards
Holgrave.
"Not so, my lord," said Holgrave, suffering the coin to remain
between De Boteler's fingers.—"Not so my lord. I take back the
merchet with many thanks, but I crave your pardon for not taking
your gold. I have no need of gold—I did not wed Margaret for dower
—and with your lordship's leave I pray you excuse my taking it."
"As you please, unthankful kern," replied the baron, haughtily. "De
Boteler forces his gifts upon no one—here," he continued, throwing
the piece to an attendant, who stood behind his chair—"you will not
refuse it." He then turned round to the table and commenced a
game at cards, without further noticing Holgrave. The yeoman stood
a few minutes awaiting the baron's pleasure, but perceiving he did
not heed him, presently took Margaret's hand, and making a low
obeisance, retired.
When the game was finished, De Boteler threw down the cards.
"Calverley," said he, "think you that this Margaret loves her
husband?" A slight shade passed over Calverley's cheek as he
answered,
"I should hardly think so, my lord. She is—her temper is very gentle
—Holgrave is passionate, and rude, and—"
"It is a pity she should be the wife of such a carle"—mused his lord.
That afternoon De Boteler, throwing a plain dark cloak over his rich
dress, left the castle, took the path that led to Holgrave's abode, and
raising the latch, entered the cottage.
Margaret was sitting near the window at needle-work, and Edith in
her high-backed arm-chair, was knitting in the chimney-corner.
Margaret blushing deeply, started from her seat as her eyes so
unexpectedly encountered those of the baron.
"Keep your seat, pretty dame," said De Boteler. "That is a stout silk.
For whom are you working these bright colours?"
"It is a stole for my brother, the monk, my lord," replied Margaret in
a tremulous voice.
"Your work is so beautiful" returned De Boteler, looking at the silk,
"that I wish you could find time to embroider a tabard for me."
"My lord," replied Edith, rising from her seat and stepping forward a
few paces, "Margaret Holgrave has little leisure from attending to the
household of her husband. There are abundance of skilful
sempstresses; and surely the Baron de Boteler would not require this
young woman to neglect the duty she has taken upon herself."
De Boteler looked at Edith an instant with a frown, as if about to
answer fiercely; but after a moment he inquired calmly,
"Does your son find his farm answer, dame?"
"Yes, my lord, with many thanks to the donor. Stephen has all he
can wish for in this farm."
"That is well," returned De Boteler; and then, after a momentary but
earnest gaze at Margaret, he turned away and left the cottage.
Holgrave entered soon after the baron's departure. Margaret strove
to meet him with a smile; but it was not the sunny glow, that usually
greeted his return. He detected the effort; nay, as he bent down to
kiss her cheek, he saw that she trembled.
"What ails you, Margaret?" inquired he tenderly. "You are not well?"
"O yes," replied Margaret. "I am perfectly well, but—I have been a
little frightened."
"By whom? Calverley?"
"No; his master."
"The baron! Surely Margaret—"
"Oh! Stephen," said Margaret, alarmed at the sudden fierceness his
countenance assumed. "Indeed he said no harm. Did he, mother?"
"No," replied Edith, "and if he had, Stephen, your wife knew how to
answer him as befitting a virtuous woman."
"It was well," replied Holgrave; "I am a freeman, and may go where
I list, and not King Edward himself shall insult a freeman's wife!—but
do not weep, Margaret, I am not angered with you."
That evening De Boteler spoke little during supper, and while
drinking the second cup after the repast, he desired the page who
stood behind his chair, to order the monk John to attend him
directly. Father John presently appeared, and approaching the foot
of the table, made a low obeisance, and then with his hands crossed
on his bosom, and with eyes cast down, awaited till De Boteler
should address him. De Boteler looked for a moment earnestly at the
monk, ere in a stern voice he said:
"Father John, know you not why I have sent for you?"
"My lord, I await your pleasure," replied the monk submissively.
"Await my pleasure!" replied the baron scornfully. "Did you consider
my pleasure, monk, when you presumed to set at nought my
prerogatives?"
"My lord," answered the monk, still mildly, though in a firmer tone
than he had before spoken,
"My Lord de Boteler, servants must obey their masters."
"Hypocrite!" interrupted the baron, in a voice that resounded
through the hall. "Did you consider the obedience due to a master
when you presumed to dispose of a bondwoman of mine, without
my sanction—nay, even in direct opposition to my will? Answer me.
Did you consider the order of dependence then?"
"Baron of Sudley," replied the monk, in a voice which though
scarcely elevated above the ordinary pitch of colloquial discourse,
was nevertheless in that clear distinct tone which is heard at a
considerable distance—"Baron of Sudley, I am no hypocrite, neither
have I forgotten to render to Cæsar the things that are Cæsar's. If I
pronounced the nuptial benediction over a bondwoman and a
freeman without your lordship having consented, it was because you
had first violated the trust reposed in you. You are a master to
command obedience, but only in things that are not sinful; yet would
you sinfully have compelled a maiden to swear at the holy altar of
God to love and honour a man whom her soul abhorred. It was
because you would have done this, that I, as the only being besides
your lordship who could—"
"Insolent priest!" interrupted De Boteler, "do you dare to justify what
you have done? Now, by my faith, if you had with proper humility
acknowledged your fault and sued for pardon—pardon you should
have had. But now, you leave this castle instantly. I will teach you
that De Boteler will yet be master of his own house, and his own
vassals. And here I swear (and the baron of Sudley uttered an
imprecation) that, for your meddling knavery, no priest or monk shall
ever again abide here. If the varlets want to shrieve, they can go to
the Abbey; and if they want to hear mass, a priest can come from
Winchcombe. But never shall another of your meddling fraternity
abide at Sudley while Roland de Boteler is its lord."
"Calverley," he continued, turning to the squire, who stood at a
distance, enjoying the mortification of the monk—"Calverley, see that
the priest quits the castle—remember—instantly!"
The monk, for the first time, fully raised his eyes, and casting upon
the baron a momentary glance of reproach, turned, without
speaking, from the table. He walked on a few steps towards the
door, and then stopping suddenly, as if recollecting that Calverley
had orders to see him depart, he turned round, and looking upon
the squire, who was almost at his side, he said in a stern voice, and
with a frowning brow, "I go in obedience to your master; but even
obedience to your master is not to be enforced upon a servant of
the Lord by such as you. Of my own will I go forth; but not one step
further do I proceed till you retire!"
There was that in the voice and look of the monk, which made
Calverley involuntarily shrink; and receiving at the same instant a
glance from De Boteler, he withdrew to the upper end of the room;
and father John, with a dignified step, passed on through the hall,
and across the court-yard, and giving a blessing to the guard at the
principal gate, who bent his knee to receive it, he went forth, having
first shaken the dust from his sandals.
The next morning, when his lord had released him from attendance,
Calverley, little satisfied with the progress of his vengeance, left the
castle, and walked on to meditate alone more uninterruptedly on the
canker-worm within.
He had not proceeded far along his path, when the heavy tread of a
man on the rustling leaves, caused him to raise his eyes, and he saw
a short, thickset figure, in grey woollen hose, and a vest of coarse
medley cloth reaching no higher than the collar-bone, hastening
onward. A gleam of hope lighted Calverley's face as he observed this
man.
"What is the matter this morning, Byles?" said he, "you look
troubled."
Byles looked at Calverley for an instant, perfectly astonished at his
condescension.
"Troubled!" replied he—"no wonder. My farm is bad; and—"
"It is a poor farm," said Calverley hastily; "but there are many fine
farms that have lately reverted to my lord in default of heirs, or as
forfeitures, that must soon be given away or sold."
"But, Master Calverley, what is that to me?" said Byles, looking with
some surprise at the squire—"you know I am a friendless man, and
have not wherewithal to pay the fine the steward would demand for
the land. No, no, John Byles is going fast down the hill."
"Don't despair, Byles—there is Holgrave—he was once poorer than
you—take heart, some lucky chance may lift you up the hill again. I
dare say this base-born I have named thinks himself better now than
the free-born honest man."
"Aye, that he does, squire: to be sure he doesn't say any thing; but
then he thinks the more; and, besides, he never comes into the ale-
house when his work is done, to take a cheering draught like other
men. No, no, he is too proud for that; but home he goes, and
whatever he drinks he drinks at his own fireside."
For a moment Calverley's brow contracted; but striving to look
interested for the man he wished to conciliate, he replied, "Yes,
Byles, it is a pity that a good-hearted yeoman like you should not
prosper as well as a mere mushroom. Now, Byles, I know you are a
discreet man, and I will tell you a piece of news that nobody about
the barony has yet heard. My lord is going to be married—yes,
Byles, he leaves Sudley in a few days, and goes again to London,
and he will shortly return with a fair and noble mistress for the
castle."
"We shall have fine doings then," said Byles, in an animated tone,
and with a cheerful countenance; not that the news was of particular
moment to him, but people love to be told news; and, besides, the
esquire's increasing familiarity was not a little flattering.
"Oh yes," replied Calverley; "there will be fine feasting, and I will
see, Byles, that you do not lack the best. Who knows but your dame
may yet nurse the heir of this noble house."
"I am afraid not,—many thanks to you; John Byles is not thought
enough of in this barony—no, it is more likely Holgrave's wife, if she
has any children, will have the nursing."
"What! Margaret Holgrave?—never"—said Calverley, with such a look
and tone, that the yeoman started, and felt convinced, that what he
had heard whispered about the esquire's liking for Margaret was
true: "but, however," added Calverley, in a moment recovering his
self-possession, "do not despair, Byles. My lord tells me I shall
replace old Luke as steward in a few months, and if I do, there is not
a vassal I should be more inclined to favour than you; for I see,
Byles, there is little chance of your doing good unless you have a
friend; for you are known to the baron as an idle fellow, and not
over-scrupulous of telling a falsehood. Nay, my man, don't start, I
tell you the truth."
"Well, but squire, how could the baron hear of this?"
"Perhaps Stephen Holgrave could answer——"
"The base-born kern," replied Byles, fiercely; "he shall answer——"
"I don't say he told the Baron," said Calverley; "but I believe
Holgrave loves to make every body look worse than himself; and to
be plain with you, John Byles, I love him not."
"No, sir, I believe you have little reason to love him any more than
other people—"
"Byles," interrupted Calverley, speaking rapidly, "you are poor—you
are in arrear with your rent; a distress will be levied, and then what
will become of you—of your wife and the little one? Listen to me! I
will give you money to keep a house over your head; and when I am
steward, you shall have the first farm at my lord's disposal, if you
will only aid me in my revenge! Revenge!" he repeated, vehemently
—"but you hesitate—you refuse."
"Nay, nay, squire, I don't refuse: your offer is too tempting for a man
in my situation to refuse; but you know—"
"Well," interrupted Calverley, with a contemptuous smile—"well, well,
Byles, I see you prefer a jail for yourself, and beggary and starvation
for your wife and child. Aye—perhaps to ask bread from Stephen
Holgrave."
"Ask bread from him!—of the man who crows over us all, and who
has told my lord that I am a liar! No, no, I would sooner die first. I
thank you for your kindness, Master Calverley, and I will do any
thing short of——"
"Oh, you need not pause," interrupted Calverley, "I do not want you
to do him any bodily harm."
"Don't you?—oh! well, then, John Byles is yours," said he, with a
brightening countenance: "for you see I don't mind saying any thing
against such a fellow as he."
"Yes, Byles, and especially since you will not be asked to say it for
nothing," returned Calverley with a slight sarcastic smile; but
immediately assuming a more earnest and friendly tone, he
continued, "I have promised you gold, and gold you shall have. I will
befriend you to the utmost of my power, and you know my influence
is not small at the castle; but you must swear to be faithful. Here,"
said he, stooping down and taking up a rotten branch that lay at his
feet, and, breaking it in two, he placed it in the form of a cross.
"Here, Byles, swear by this cross to be faithful." Byles hesitated for
an instant, and then, in rather a tremulous voice, swore to earn
faithfully his wages of sin.
It was nearly four months subsequent to the departure of De Boteler
from the castle, ere Byles proceeded to earn the gold which had, in
some measure, set him to rights with the world. It was about the
middle of March;—the morning had risen gloomily, and, from a
dense mass of clouds, a slow heavy rain continued to pour during
the whole of the day. "Sam," said Byles to a servitor, a faithful stupid
creature, with just sufficient intellect to comprehend and obey the
commands of his master.—"Sam, if this rain continues we must go to
work to-night?"
The rain did continue, and, after Byles had supped, he sat at the fire
for two or three hours, and scarcely spoke. His countenance was
troubled;—the deed he had promised to do—which he had
contemplated with almost indifference, was now about to be
accomplished; and he felt how different it is to dwell upon the
commission of a thing, and actually to do it. Frequent draughts of
ale, however, in some measure restored the tone of his nerves; and,
as the evening wore away, he rose from the fire, and, opening the
door, looked out at the weather. A thick drizzling rain still fell; the
moon was at the full; and though the heavy clouds precluded the
possibility of her gladdening the earth, yet even the heavy clouds
could not entirely obscure her light;—there was a radiance spread
over the heavens which, though wanting the brightness of
moonlight, was nevertheless equal and shadowless.
"'Tis a capital night," said Byles, as he looked up at the sky in a tone
of soliloquy; "I could not have wished for a better—just light enough
to see what we are about, and not enough to tell tales. Sam,"
continued he, closing the door and sitting again at the fire, "bring
me the shafts and let me look if the bow is in order."
The serving man took from a concealed place a couple of arrows,
and a stout yew-tree bow, and handed them to his master.
"You did well, Sam, in getting these shafts from Holgrave. You put
the quiver up safe?—there is no fear of his missing them?"
"I should think not, master. It would be hard if he missed two out of
four-and-twenty."
"Mary," said Byles, addressing his wife, "put something over the
casement, lest if, by chance, any body should be abroad, they may
see that we are up:—and now, bring me the masks. Never fear,
Mary, nobody is out such a night as this. Now Sam," he continued,
"fetch the hand-barrow and let us away."
Mary began to tremble;—she caught her husband by the arm, and
said something in a low and tremulous voice. As the fire revealed
her face, Byles started at the strange paleness it exhibited.
"What ails you, Mary?" said he. "Have you not all along urged me to
this? and now, after taking Calverley's gold, and spending it, and
signing the bond, you want me to stand still! No, no, I must go to
the Chase this night, were I sure to be hung to-morrow morning!"
He then pushed her away with some violence, and the servitor
preceding him, he passed over the threshold and closed the door.
They entered the Chase—and the wind, as it came in sudden gusts
through the branches of the tall trees, gave an air of deeper gloom
to the night. Frequently they paused and listened, as if fearful of
being discovered; and then, when convinced that no human being
was near, hastened on to the spot where the deer usually herded at
night. A deep ravine, ten or twelve feet in breadth, intersected the
Chase at a few paces from the inclosure; and, about a stone's throw
to the right of this inclosure, stood the dwelling of the keeper.
"Sam," said Byles, "is not that a light in the cottage?"
"Yes, master, but I think they are in bed, and may be have forgotten
to rake the ashes over the fire."
"It may be so," answered Byles, doubtfully; "keep in the shade of
the trees, and let us stop awhile—I do not much like this light." They
watched the cottage anxiously, and, in about twenty minutes, the
light disappeared.
"Sam," said Byles, "I believe you were right—that last faint flicker, I
doubt not, came from the dying embers. Creep softly to the
inclosure, and gently rustle the brushwood. Don't let them see you.
Softly—there—go on."
Byles drew his shaft from beneath his garment, and fixed it in the
bow as Sam crept into the inclosure and did what he was ordered.
The animals started on their legs, and stretched their heads forward
in various directions, as if to ascertain whence the danger seemed to
threaten.
"Down, Sam, a little to the left," whispered Byles, as a noble buck
bounded forward towards the servitor, who had sheltered himself so
as to avoid being seen by the animal. Sam dropt on the drenched
grass to avoid the shaft that now sped from the bow of the
marksman. The arrow entered the neck of the affrighted creature,
as, for an instant, it stood with upraised head, its lofty antlers
touching the branches. It then bounded forward, but, in its giddy
effort to clear the obstruction of the opposing chasm, fell gasping
among the brushwood that lined the sides of the ravine.
"Confound him, he has escaped us!" exclaimed Byles. "See the
whole herd scudding off, as if the hounds were in full cry at their
heels. But forward, Sam, and creep to the edge, for he may not
have fallen into the stream."
Sam obeyed; but whether owing to his trepidation or the slippery
surface of the earth, he lost his footing and disappeared, uttering a
cry of terror. Byles stood for an instant, irresolute whether to
advance to the succour of his servitor, or leave him behind, for he
apprehended that the cry would arouse the guardians of the Chase.
Recollecting, however, that it would be as dangerous to abandon him
as to attempt his extrication, he rushed forward to the spot where
Sam had disappeared. The man had, in his fall, grasped the root of a
tree from which the late heavy rains had washed the earth, and he
lay suspended midway down. Byles hastily threw him a rope, with
which he had intended to bind the animal on the barrow, and, with
some difficulty, succeeded in dragging him up.
The dying throes of the buck recalled Byles to the object of his
journey; and they were about making an effort to extricate the
animal from the brushwood, when the servitor's eye caught the
gleam of a light in the cottage.
"It's all over," said Byles, in a disappointed tone; "but the arrow may
answer our purpose where it is. Take up the barrow and fly, but keep
in the shade of the trees."
A quick knock aroused Mary from her seat at the fire. She
approached the door on tiptoe, and hesitated a moment ere she
unclosed it; but the rapid breathings of Byles relieved her alarm, and
she opened it hastily. A pale, haggard look met her eyes as her
husband rushed in. "Fasten the door, Mary," said he—"haste, quench
the fire. Here, put these wet clothes in the hiding place"—stripping
himself of his garments—"and when you have done, hasten to bed. I
am afraid they have overtaken poor Sam."
"Oh!" said Mary, dropping the clothes, and staggering to a seat
—"oh! Byles, Byles, we are lost! What will become of us! Sam will
tell all!"
"Hold your tongue, woman," said Byles, jumping out of the bed into
which he had thrown himself, and taking up the clothes, concealed
them in the pit. "Do you want to have me hanged? To bed, I tell
you."
She tremblingly obeyed, and Byles listened with breathless anxiety
for the signal that would assure him of his servant's safety. At length
a footstep and a low tap at the door summoned Byles from his bed.
"Who is there?" said he.
"Hasten, master, open the door," answered the servitor.
"All is well; Sam is returned!" He opened the door, and the servitor
panting with fear and fatigue, threw the barrow on the floor.
"That's right, Sam; there is nothing left to tell we have been in the
Chase to-night. Now hasten to bed as quickly as you can. You shall
have a new suit at Easter for this night's business. But Master
Calverley will not be well pleased that the buck was not lodged in
Holgrave's barn. However, it cannot be helped now."

CHAPTER III.
It was a fair morning in the June succeeding Holgrave's marriage,
that Sudley castle presented a greater degree of splendour than it
had exhibited for some years before. Roland de Boteler had wedded
a noble maiden, and it was expected that the castle would that day
be graced by the presence of its future mistress.
There was a restless anxiety that morning, in every inhabitant of the
castle, from old Luke, the steward, who was fretting and fidgetting
lest the lady should consider him too old for the stewardship, to the
poor varlet who fed the dogs, and the dirty nief who scoured the
platters. This anxiety increased when a messenger arrived to
announce that the noble party were on the road from Oxford, and
might be expected in a few hours: and when at length a cloud of
dust was observed in the distance, old Luke, bare headed, and
followed by the retainers and domestics, went forth to greet with the
accustomed homage, De Boteler and his bride.
The graceful Isabella de Vere was seated on a white palfrey, and
attired in a riding-dress of green velvet, while a richly embroidered
mantle or surcoat of the same material, trimmed with minever, fell
from her shoulders, and in some measure concealed the emblazoned
housing that ornamented the beautiful animal on which she rode. A
pyramidal cap of green satin, with a long veil of transparent tissue
flowing from the point, and falling so as partly to shadow, and partly
reveal the glow of her high-born beauty, was the only head-gear
worn that day by the daughter of the Earl of Oxford, and the new
baroness of Sudley.
On her right hand rode her husband, clad in a tunic of fine cloth, in
colour resembling the habit of his lady, and mounted on a dark, fiery
charger, which with difficulty he could rein in to the slow pace of the
palfrey. On the left of the lady Isabella was her brother, young
Robert de Vere, and though but a boy, one might have read much in
the lines of that countenance, of his future destiny. His smooth,
dimpled chin, was small and round, and his mouth possessed that
habitual smile, that softly beaming expression, which won for him in
after years the regard of the superficial Richard; while there shone a
fire in the full dark eyes, which betokened the ambitious spirit that
was to animate the future lord of Dublin, and sovereign of Ireland.
Sparkling with jewels, and attired in a white satin robe, the Lady De
Boteler took her seat for the first time, at the table of her lord, and
well was she calculated to grace the board. Her person, tall and well
formed, possessed that fullness of proportion which is conveyed by
the term majestic; and her movements were exceedingly graceful.
She had fine auburn hair, and the thick curls that fell beneath the
gemmed fillet encircling her head, seemed alternately a bright gold
or a dark brown according to the waving of the tress. Her hair and
high white forehead which the parted curls revealed, possessed
sufficient beauty to have redeemed even irregular features from the
charge of homeliness; but Isabella De Vere's face was altogether as
generally faultless as falls to the lot of woman.
The guests were numerous, and the evening passed away in
feasting and revelry. The blaze of the lights—the full strains of the
minstrels—the glad faces and graceful motions of the dancers, the
lustre of the ladies' jewels, and the glitter of the gold embroidery on
the dresses of male and female, combined to give to the spacious
hall that night, more the appearance of a fairy scene, which might
dissolve in a moment into air, than a palpable human festivity. The
tenantry had also their feasting and their dancing; but these had to
pay for their amusement: each tenant, according to the custom of
the manor, on the marriage of their lord, being obliged to bring an
offering in proportion to the land which he held.
On the morrow, accordingly, the vassals brought their presents. The
lady Isabella, surrounded by visitors and attended by her
handmaidens, was seated in the spacious apartment intended for
the ceremony, as Edith, supported by Margaret, entered the room.
The baroness raised her head and gazed upon the latter, with that
complacent feeling which beauty seldom fails to inspire. The delicate
hue of Margaret's cheek was, at this moment, deepened by
embarrassment; and, as kneeling down, she raised her bright blue
eyes, the lady thought she had never seen so lovely a creature.
"What is your pleasure with me, maiden?" asked the baroness, in a
condescending tone.
"Lady," replied Margaret modestly; "I am the wife of one of my lord's
vassals; and my mother, and myself, humbly beg you will accept this
present."
"And is this your present?—What is your name?"
"Margaret Holgrave, lady."
"Look, Lady Anne," said Isabella, displaying a pair of white silk
gloves, beautifully wrought with gold. "Do you not think this a fair
present for a vassal to bestow?"
"The gloves are very beautiful," replied the lady.
"Your gift betokens a good feeling, young dame," said Isabella,
turning to Margaret. "But why did you choose so costly a present?"
"Indeed, noble lady," replied Margaret, "the gloves cost but little—
Edith, here, my husband's mother, knitted them, and I have striven
to ornament them."
"What! Is this your embroidery?"
"Yes, my lady."
"This is not the work of a novice, Lady Anne—You are accustomed to
needle-work!"
"Yes, my lady—before I was married I obtained my support by
making the vestments for some of the monks at Hailes Abbey."
"Indeed! very well—and you are this young person's mother-in-law?"
said the baroness, for the first time addressing Edith.
"Yes, Baroness De Boteler," replied the old woman.
"Very well," said the lady, and looking alternately at Edith and
Margaret, she added, "I accept your gift—you may now retire."
They accordingly withdrew from the chamber, and, in the court-yard,
were joined by Holgrave. "Did the baroness take the gloves?" he
asked.
"Yes," replied Margaret, in delight, "and she seemed pleased with
the embroidery. O, Stephen, she is so beautiful! She looks like an
angel! Does she not, mother?"
"She has beauty, Margaret," answered Edith, "but it is not the
beauty of an angel—it has too much of pride."
"But all ladies are proud, mother! I warrant she is not prouder than
another."
"May be not, Margaret; but yet that lady who sat at her side, looked
not so high as the baroness. There was more sweetness in her
smile, and gentleness in her voice."
"O yes, she spoke very sweetly, but she is not so handsome as the
baron's lady."
"Margaret," replied Edith; "when you are as old as I, you will not
look upon beauty as you do now;—a gentle heart and a pallid cheek
will seem lovelier then, than brightness and bloom, if there be pride
on the brow. But, Stephen, what said the steward when you gave
him the gold?"
"Oh, he said mine was the best gift that had been brought yet. But
come, mother, it is time we were at home."
The Lady de Boteler, Lady Anne Hammond, and the other ladies,
were admiring the embroidered gloves, when De Boteler and Sir
Robert Knowles entered the apartment.
"See, Roland," said the baroness, holding the gloves towards her
husband; "see, what a pretty gift I have received since you left us!"
"They are indeed pretty," answered De Boteler; "and the fair hands
that wrought them deserve praise. What think you, Sir Robert?"
"O, you must not ask Sir Robert for any fine compliment,"
interrupted the baroness. "They are not a lady's gift—they were
presented to me by the wife of one of your vassals."
"The wife of a vassal would not have taste enough to buy such as
these; and there is but one about Winchcombe who could work so
well. And, by my faith, I now remember that it was part of the
tenure by which I some time since granted land, to present a pair of
gloves.—Was it not a fair-looking damsel, one Stephen Holgrave's
wife, that brought them?"
"I think she said her name was Holgrave," replied the lady in a cold
tone. "But indeed, my lord baron, you seem to be wondrously well
acquainted with the faces and the handywork of your vassals'
wives!"
"Nay, Isabella," said the pale interesting lady of Sir Robert Knowles,
"it is not strange that my Lord de Boteler should know the faces of
those who were born on his land; and this young woman's skill could
not fail to have procured her notice. But the handiness of her fingers
has not made her vain. You know I am fond of reading faces, and I
would answer that she is as modest and good as she is fair."
"O, I dare say she is," replied the baroness, and immediately
changed the conversation.
The next morning Holgrave received a peremptory order to attend at
the castle in the afternoon; and the henchman of the baron, who
was the bearer of the message, refused to give any information why
he had been so summoned. Edith, with her natural penetration, saw,
by the hesitation of the servitor, and by the tone in which the
mandate was conveyed, that something of more than ordinary
moment was about to be transacted, and, with an undefined feeling
of alarm, she resolved to accompany her son.
As they entered the court-yard, the henchman, who had delivered
the message, accosted Holgrave, telling him he must go into the hall
to answer to some matter before the baron.
"What is the matter which my son is to answer, friend?" asked Edith;
but the man evaded the question, and Holgrave, leaving his mother
in the outer court-yard, passed through one of the arched doors into
the other, and, with a firm step, though with some apprehension of
evil, entered the hall.
He had scarcely time to give a nod of recognition to several
neighbours who stood near the entrance, when the steward
approached, and, desiring him to walk further up the hall, placed
him at the first step that elevated the upper end, thus cutting off
every possibility of communicating with his neighbours. Holgrave felt
any thing but composure in his present conspicuous situation:
though strong in the rectitude of his conscience, yet he felt
apprehensions and misgivings; and the strange silence that was
observed respecting the intended charge alarmed him the more. As
the hall was always open on such occasions, he speedily saw a
crowd of vassals pouring in—some anxious to know the event, either
through a feeling of friendship or hatred, and others merely from
curiosity. The eyes of each man as he entered, fell, as if instinctively,
upon the yeoman; and he could perceive, as they formed into
groups, that he was the subject of their conversation. Presently his
mother, supported by an old friend named Hartwell, entered, and he
thought she regarded him with an earnest and sorrowful look. But
his attention was immediately diverted;—the upper door opened,
and De Boteler and the baroness, with Sir Robert and Lady Knowles,
entered the hall.
There was near the steps a small table with writing materials, at
which the steward ought to have been seated, to write down the
proceedings; but old Luke was not so quick of hearing, or perhaps of
comprehension, as Calverley, and the esquire, therefore, took his
place.
"Stephen Holgrave," said the baron, in a stern voice, "are these your
shafts?" as he beckoned to old Luke to hand the yeoman two arrows
which he had hitherto concealed.
Holgrave looked at them an instant—
"Yes, my lord," said he, without hesitation, but yet with a
consciousness that the answer was to injure him.
"What, they are yours then?" said De Boteler in a still harsher tone.
Holgrave bowed his head.
"Come forward, keeper," continued the baron, "and state how these
arrows came into your hands!"
The keeper made the deposition which the reader will have
anticipated; and his men were then examined, who corroborated the
statement of their master.
"Now, Stephen Holgrave," asked the baron, "what have you to say to
this?"
"My lord," replied Holgrave, still undaunted, "the shafts are mine;
but I am as innocent of the deed as the babe at its mother's breast.
Whoever shot the buck must have stolen my arrows, in order to
bring me into this scrape."
"By my faith, Holgrave, you seem to think lightly of this matter. Do
you call it a scrape to commit a felony in your lord's chase? Have you
any thing further to urge in your defence?"
There was a momentary pause after the baron had ceased. Holgrave
hesitated to reply;—he had denied the charge, and he knew not
what else to say. But when every eye except Calverley's, from
Roland de Boteler's to that of the lowest freeman present, was fixed
on the accused, expecting his answer, a slight movement was
observed among the people, and Edith Holgrave, supported by
Hartwell, pressed forward, and stood on the step by the side of her
son. The gaze was now in an instant turned from the son to the
mother, and Edith, after pausing a moment to collect her faculties,
said, in a loud voice—
"My Lord de Boteler, and you noble sir, and fair dames—it may seem
strange that an old woman like me should speak for a man of my
son's years; but, in truth, he is better able to defend himself with his
arm than his tongue."
"Woman!" interrupted De Boteler impatiently, "your son has
answered for himself—retire."
"Nay, my lord," replied Edith, with a bright eye and a flushing cheek,
and drawing herself up to a height that she had not exhibited for
many years—"nay, my lord, my son is able to defend himself against
the weapon of an open foe, but not against the doings of a covert
enemy!"
"What mean you, woman?" quickly returned De Boteler; "do you
accuse the keeper of my chase as having plotted against your son,
or whom do you suspect?"
"Baron de Boteler," replied Edith, with a look and a tone that seemed
to gain fresh energy from the kind of menace with which the
interrogatories were put, "I do not accuse your keeper. He had an
honest father, and he has himself ever been a man of good repute.
But I do say," she added in a wild and high tone, and elevating her
right hand and rivetting her flashing eyes on Calverley—"I do say,
the charge as regards my son is a base and traitorous plot."
"Hold your tongue, woman," interrupted De Boteler, who had
listened to her with evident reluctance. "Why do you look so fiercely
on my 'squire. Have you aught against him?"
"My lord baron," replied Edith, "I have nothing to say that can bring
home guilt to the guilty, or do right to the wronged: but I will say,
my lord, that what a man is to-day he will be to-morrow, unless he
has some end to answer by changing. The esquire will scarcely give
the word of courtesy to the most reputable vassal, and yet did he
talk secretly and familiarly with John Byles—and here is one who will
swear that he heard him repeat the name of my son, and then
something about an arrow."
Old Hartwell now stept forward, and averred that he had seen
Calverley and Byles talking together in the chase, and that he had
overheard the name of Stephen Holgrave repeated in conjunction
with an allusion to arrows. The circumstance, however, had been
quite forgotten until the charge this morning brought it to his
memory. This eaves-dropping testimony amounted to nothing, even
before Calverley denied every particular of the fact, which he did
with the utmost composure—
"What motive have I to plot against Holgrave?" asked Calverley.
"You have a motive," said Edith, "both in envy and in love. You well
know that if this charge could be proved, Stephen Holgrave must
die."
Calverley was about to speak, when he was interrupted by De
Boteler, who expressed himself dissatisfied with the explanations on
both sides:
"The proof is doubtful," said he, suddenly. "Give the fellow back his
arrows, and dissolve the court.—Away!"
When the arrows were handed to their owner, he instantly snapt
them asunder.
"What means this, Stephen Holgrave?" asked the baron impatiently.
"My lord, those arrows were used in a foul purpose; and Stephen
Holgrave will never disgrace his hand by using them again. The time
may come, my lord, when the malicious coward who stole them shall
rue this day!"
"Bravely said and done, my stout yeoman!" said Sir Robert Knowles,
who broke silence for the first time during the investigation: "and my
Lord de Boteler," he continued, addressing the baron, "the arm that
acquitted itself so well in your defence, you may be assured, could
never have disgraced itself by midnight plunder."
"The blessing of the most high God be with you for that, noble sir,"
said Edith, as she knelt down and fervently thanked Sir Robert; and
then, leaning on the arm of her son, she left the hall.
"By my faith, Sir Robert," said De Boteler, "Stephen Holgrave wants
no counsel while that old dame so ably takes his part. But a truce
with this mummery. Come along—our time is more precious than
wasting it in hearing such varlets."
The baron and his guests then withdrew.

At the distance of nearly a mile from Sudley Castle, and at about a

quarter of a mile from the high road that led to Oxford, was a
singular kind of quarry or cliff. Its elevation was considerable, and
the portion of the hill visible from the road was covered with the
heathy verdure which usually springs from such scanty soil; but on
passing round to the other side, all the barren unsightly appearance
of a half worked quarry presented itself. Huge masses of stone stood
firmly as nature had formed them, while others, of a magnitude
sufficient to awaken in the hardiest, a sense of danger, hung
apparently by so slight a tenure, that a passing gust of wind,
seemed only required to release their fragile hold. But the hill had
stood thus unaltered during the remembrance of the oldest
inhabitant of Winchcombe. Strange stories were whispered
respecting this cliff, but as the honour of the house of Sudley, and
that of another family equally noble, were concerned in the tale,
little more than obscure hints were suffered to escape.
One evening, as the rumour went, a female figure, enveloped in a
mantle of some dark colour, and holding an infant in her arms, was
observed, seated on one of the stones of the quarry, with her feet
resting on a fragment beneath. Her face was turned towards Sudley,
and as the atmosphere was clear, and her position elevated, the
castle could well be distinguished. Wild shrieks were heard by some
during that night, and the morning sun revealed blood on fragments
of the stone, and on the earth beneath; and at a little distance it
was perceived that the grass had been recently dug up, and trodden
down with a heavy foot. The peasants crossed themselves at the
sight, but no enquiries were made, and from that day the cliff was
sacred to superstition, for no inhabitant of the district would have
touched a stone of the quarry, or have dared to pass it after nightfall
for the world.
It was beneath the shadow of those impending stones, and over the
spot, where it was whispered that the murdered had been buried,
that Calverley, on the night of the day that Holgrave left scatheless
the hall of Sudley castle, was pacing to and fro, awaiting the
appearance of Byles. "He lingers," said Calverley, as the rising moon
told him it was getting late, "I suppose the fool fears to come near
this place." But after some minutes of feverish impatience, Byles at
length came.
"What detained you, sirrah?" asked the other sharply.
The yeoman muttered an excuse; but his speech betrayed him.
"You have been drinking," said Calverley, with anger. "Could you not
have kept sober till you had seen me?"
"Why, Master Calverley, to tell you the truth, that old mother
Holgrave frightened me so that—"
"Your childish cowardice had like to have betrayed us. Byles, you
have not dealt honestly by me in this affair—but you are not in a
state to be spoken to now."
"There you are mistaken, squire. I am just as sober as I ought to be
to come to this place: but I can't see why we couldn't have talked as
well any where else as here!"
"Yes, and have some old gossiping fool break in. No, no—here we
are safe. But come nearer, and stand, as I do, in the shadow of the
cliff."
"Not a foot nearer, Master Calverley, for all the gold in England. Why,
you are standing just where the poor lady and her babe were
buried!"
"Suppose I am—think you they will sleep the worse because I stand
on their grave? Oh! it is a fine thing," he continued, as if following
up some reflection in his mind, "to bury those we hate—deep, deep
—so that they may never blast our sight again!—Byles, you perjured
yourself in that affair of the buck. You swore to aid me. You had gold
for the service, and yet it would have been better that the beast
were still alive, than to have left it behind in the chase: it has only
brought suspicion on me, and given Holgrave a fresh triumph!"
"No fault of mine, squire," answered Byles, in a sullen tone; "there
was no such thing as getting the creature out; and if Sam or I had
been caught, it would have been worse still. But bad as Stephen is,
he wouldn't have thought of accusing us, if it hadn't have been for
that old she-fox, his mother."
"Aye," said Calverley, with a smile—if the curve of a bloodless lip
could be so designated—"aye, you name her rightly, Byles: she is a
fox, and like a fox shall she die,—hunted—driven—tortured. Byles,
have you never heard it said that this woman was a witch?"
"Why—yes—I have, Master Calverley; but in truth I don't like to have
any thing to do with her. If she set a spell upon me, I could never do
good again. Did not she tell Roger Follett, that if he didn't take care,
sooner or later, the gable end of his house would fall? and so, sure
enough it did."
"And yet, knowing this woman a witch, you would not assist in
ridding the parish of such a pest?"
Byles made no reply.
"Well," resumed Calverley, taking some nobles from a small bag he
had in his hand, "these must be for him who will aid me. You have
been well paid, John Byles, for the work you did not do, and now,—
see if your industry and your profitable farm will befriend you as
much as I should have done."
This speech acted as Calverley had anticipated. The yeoman's
scruples fled; and alarmed at the prospect of losing those comforts
he had enjoyed since entering into the nefarious league, he said
more earnestly than he had yet spoken—
"Master Calverly, you will find no man to act more faithfully by you
than John Byles. You have been a good friend to me, and I would do
any thing to serve you, but——you see a man can't stifle conscience
all at once."
"Conscience!" repeated Calverley, with a smile of irony. "Do you
know, Byles, I think that conscience of yours will neither serve you in
this world, nor in the next! You have too little to make you an honest
man, and too much to make you a reckless knave. But a truce with
conscience. I have here," said he, holding up the bag of coin, "that
which would buy the conscience of twenty such as you; and now,
Byles, if you choose to earn this gold, which will be given to another,
if you hesitate, swear on these gospels," presenting to the yeoman a
Testament, "that you will be a faithful and a willing confederate in
my future plans respecting the Holgraves. Will you swear?"
"Yes," replied Byles; but as he spoke, he looked wistfully round, in
evident trepidation.
"Are you afraid of good or bad spirits? Nonsense!—do as you have
promised, and take the gold."
Byles made the required asseveration, and took the price.
"What are you gazing at, Byles," asked Calverley.
"See, see!" said Byles, pointing to the north-west.
Calverley stept from the shadow of the cliff, and beheld a meteor in
the sky, brightening and expanding, as the clouds opened, until it
assumed the appearance of a brilliant star, of astonishing magnitude,
encircled by dazzling rays, which, in a singular manner, were all
inclined in one direction, and pointing to that part of the horizon
where lay the rival of England—France.
Even in Calverley's breast, the bad passions were for a moment
hushed, as he gazed upon the radiant phenomenon; but upon the
more gross, and more timorous mind of Byles, the effect produced
was much more striking. He seemed to imagine, that from that
brilliant star, some celestial being was about to descend, and blast
him with the wrath of heaven: and when a lambent flame, darting
across the firmament, played for an instant around the quarry, he
concluded that heaven's vengeance had, indeed, overtaken him.
Rushing from the haunted spot, he stopped not in his headlong
course, until he stood in the midst of a group of half-dressed
neighbours near his own door, who had been aroused from their
slumbers to gaze upon the comet.
Calverley, although possessed of more moral courage than Byles,
and viewing the meteor with altogether different feelings, was yet
not so entirely imbued with the philosophy of later times, as to
behold it without apprehension. When Byles had fled, he turned, and
walked on towards the castle with a more rapid pace than usual.
Nothing of moment occurred at Sudley Castle for many months, if
we except the birth of an heir; the appointment of Mary Byles,
through Calverley's influence, to be the nurse; and the accession of
Calverley himself to the coveted stewardship. The baroness's infant
grew a fine, healthy child; but, as is sometimes the case with stout
children, it had occasionally convulsive fits in teething. This,
however, was carefully concealed from the mother, and Mary
continued to receive great praise for her nursing. But it unfortunately
happened, that one morning, when the boy had been laughing and
playing in the highest spirits, Mary saw its countenance suddenly
change. This was the more unfortunate, as De Boteler and his lady
were momentarily expected to return, after a fortnight's absence,
and Mary had dressed the infant in its gayest apparel to meet its
parents, and had been congratulating herself upon the sprightliness
and health of the boy. No excuses of sleep would satisfy the mother
now: if the child was not taken to her, the nurse was assured she
would come to look at him, and kiss him as he slept.
At this moment of perplexity, some medicine, that she had obtained
from Edith, occurred to her, and, with a feeling of confidence, and
almost of extacy, she took a phial from a shelf in a cupboard where
she had placed it, and, pouring out the contents in a large spoon,
hesitated an instant ere she administered it. "Let me see," said she;
"surely it was a large spoonful Edith told me to give—yet all that was
in the phial doesn't fill the spoon. Surely I can't be wrong: no—I
remember she said a large spoonful, and we didn't talk of any thing
else—so I must be right." But Mary still hesitated, till, hearing a
sudden noise in the court-yard, which, she conjectured, was her
mistress returned, and as the child was getting worse every
moment, she leaned back its head, and, forcing open its mouth,
compelled the patient, though with difficulty, to swallow its death.
The draught was taken; the rigid muscles relaxed, and for a minute
the child lay motionless in her lap; but in an instant after, Mary could
scarcely suppress a shriek at the horrid sight that met her gaze. The
eyes opened, and glared, and seemed as if starting from the head—
the fair face and the red lips, were blue, deepening and deepening,
till settling in blackness—the limbs contracted—the mouth opened,
and displayed a tongue discoloured and swollen—then came a
writhing and heaving of the body, and a low, agonized moan: and,
as Mary looked almost frantic at this dreadful sight, Edith's words,
when she had given her the phial, "that there was enough there to
kill," suddenly occurred to her—and then, too, came, with a dreadful
distinctness, the remembrance of the true directions which Edith had
given.
"Oh, I have murdered the child!" exclaimed Mary, in the dreadful
excitement of the moment. "What will become of me? what shall I
do? I shall surely be hung. Oh! oh!" she continued, covering her face
with her hands, to shut out the sight of the gasping infant. At this
instant, the door opened; Mary looked up fearfully—it was her
husband. "Oh, Byles! Byles! look at this child! What will become of
me?"
"The saints preserve us!" ejaculated Byles, as he looked at the babe:
"Mary, how is this?"
"Oh! don't ask me; but go for Master Calverley. For God's sake, do
not stand as if you were bewitched: see! see! he is dying. The poor
child! What will become of me? Run, Byles, run, for mercy's sake,
and tell Master Calverley."
Byles stood looking, with a countenance expressive of stupified
horror, and yet, as if doubting that the livid, distorted, suffering
creature could be the fine blooming boy he had so lately seen. At
length, aroused by the increasing energy of Mary, he turned silently
round and left the room; as he closed the door, the agonized spirit of
the little Roland passed away.
In an instant Byles returned with Calverley, and even he started and
uttered an exclamation, as his eyes fell on the ghastly face of the
dead child.
"Mary Byles, how did this happen?" asked Calverley, eagerly.
"Master Calverley, I will tell you truly," answered Mary, in a voice
scarcely audible from its tremor. "You have been our best friend, and
you would not see me hung? It was all a mistake—I am sure I
wouldn't hurt a hair of the dear creature's head." And here the
feelings of woman so far prevailed, that she shed some disinterested
tears.
"You could have no motive to destroy the child—but tell me quickly
what you have to say." Calverley spoke with a harshness that
instantly recalled all Mary's fears and selfishness.
"Edith Holgrave," said she, "gave me some medicine to—"
"Edith Holgrave!" interrupted Calverley, with a quickness of voice
and eagerness of look that told how greatly the name interested
him.
"Yes, Edith Holgrave told me to give ten drops out of that little
bottle," (pointing to the empty phial,) "and I—gave—but, oh! Master
Calverley, I forgot—"
"You gave it all?" said Calverley, impatiently.
"Yes."
"And you will swear it was a draught that Edith Holgrave gave you
that has killed the child?" said Calverley, with a brightening
countenance.
"Oh, yes," replied Mary; "but, indeed—"
"Nonsense!" interrupted Calverley. "Hear me, or you will be hanged!
If you hope to save your life, Mary Byles, you must swear that you
gave it according to Edith's directions—breathe not a syllable of the
drops!"
Mary looked with a fearful wildness at Calverley, as she
comprehended his meaning; but Byles said quickly,
"What! do you mean her to hang old Edith?"
"Certainly," returned Calverley, coolly, "unless you prefer a gallows
for your wife. But I dare say you would rather see Mary hanged than
that old witch! I will leave you to manage the matter between
yourselves."
"Oh, don't leave us!—don't leave us!" said Byles, in an agony. "Oh,
save me! save me!" sobbed Mary.
"Was any one present when you gave it?" inquired Calverley, as he
turned round and addressed Mary.
"Yes; Winifred handed me the bottle, but the child began to cry, so I
sent her out."
"It was well she was here," returned he: "and now, remember—not
a word of the drops! swear, simply, that the draught destroyed the
infant." And, without awaiting her reply, he seized the pale and
trembling Byles by the arm, and dragged him from the room into the
passage. He then unlocked a door that had never been observed by
either Byles or his wife, and, closing it after them, led the yeoman
down a flight of dark steps, and, pausing a moment at the bottom to
listen, he unlocked another door, and Byles found himself in a dark
passage that branched from one of the entrances to the court-yard
to some of the culinary offices. "Go you that way, and I will go this,"
said Calverley, "and, remember, you know nothing of the child's
death." As he spoke, he darted from Byles, and gained the court-
yard without further observation. He walked carelessly about, till a
female domestic passing, he called to her, desiring her to go and ask
Mary Byles if the young Lord Roland was ready to meet his parents,
as they were momentarily expected. The woman departed, and he
walked over to the gate between the front towers as if looking for
the return of his lord.

CHAPTER IV.
"What ails you, Stephen," asked Margaret, alarmed at the strange
paleness of the yeoman's countenance, and the agitation of his
manner as he entered the cottage on the afternoon the child died.
But Holgrave, without replying to her interrogatory, hastily closed
and bolted the door. He then drew the large oak table from the side
of the wall, and placed it as a barricade before it. "Stephen, what
means this bolting and barring?" inquired Edith, as she saw with
surprise his defensive preparations. "What fear you, my son?"
"Fear! mother," replied Holgrave, taking a lance and battle-axe from
their place over the chimney, and firmly grasping the former as he
stood against the table; "I do not fear now, mother, nor need you—
for, by the blessed St. Paul, they shall pass over my mangled body
before they reach you!"
"Stephen Holgrave, are you mad?" returned Edith alarmed: "tell me
the meaning of this!—Speak, I command thee!"
"Oh, mother, I cannot tell you," answered Holgrave, turning away his
face from her searching glance; "Oh, no, I cannot tell you!"
"Stephen, you were not used to answer me thus. I charge you, by
the authority and love of thy mother, and in the name of the blessed
saints, to tell me what has happened."
"Alas! my mother, you will know it soon enough. It is said you have
—have—bewitched—or poisoned—the baron's son!"
"Oh, mother!" shrieked Margaret. "Fly!—to the abbey, and take
sanctuary!"
"Margaret!" replied Edith, "I stir not hence. The guilty may take
refuge from the anger of the laws; but it is not for the innocent to
fear and fly like the felon!"
Margaret then threw herself at the feet of Edith, and besought her,
in the most earnest and pathetic manner, to take refuge at Hailes
Abbey, in which she was seconded by Holgrave. The old woman
remained silent; but there was a brightness—a glistening in her eyes
as if a tear had started;—but if a tear did start, it did not fall. At
length, recovering her composure, she rose firmly from her seat—
"My son," said she, "lay down your arms, I command. Should my life
be offered up to the vengeful spirit of Thomas Calverley, who alone
can be the foul author of this charge, it will be only taking from me a
few short years—perhaps days—of suffering. But thou hast years of
health and life before thee, and thou hast this gentle weeping
creature to sustain."
"What!" interrupted Margaret warmly; "Oh, no—the mother of
Stephen Holgrave to be torn from us without a blow! Did he not
fight for his lord? and shall he not risk his life for his mother?"
"And is this thy counsel, foolish woman?" replied Edith, in a tone of
rebuke.
"She speaks my purpose," said Holgrave, as he grasped still firmer
the poised weapon.
Edith stepped quickly up to her son and knelt before him—
"Oh Stephen, my son, my first-born—thy mother kneels to thee. Lay
aside that lance and hearken to the words of her who bore thee, and
nourished thee. Oh, bring not sorrow and ruin on thyself and her!
What would be the bitterness of my dying moments if my son lived
not to lay me beside his father?—if thy Margaret was left to mourn
in lowly widowhood—and, perhaps, to fall beneath the base arts of
Calverley! Oh, my son, my son, by the soul of thy dead father, and
by the blessing of thy mother, resist not!—Hark! they come—they
come! Haste, Stephen—Give me the weapon."
Holgrave, shocked and agitated, could only think of raising his
mother from her knees. He suffered her, without resistance, to take
the lance from his hand, and then attempt, with her weak fingers, to
remove the barricade, while advancing footsteps were heard
without.
The hostile party reached the cottage, and the latch was quickly
raised; but, finding it resist their attempts, the voice of Calverley, in
an authoritative tone, pronounced—
"In the name of the Lord Roland de Boteler, I demand the body of
Edith Holgrave, who is accused of the foul crimes of witchcraft and
murder.—Open the door, Stephen Holgrave, if you are within!"
"Fiend of hell! it is he!" muttered Holgrave, gnashing his teeth, but
without moving.
The party without seemed to have expected resistance; for the next
moment a blow was struck upon the door which made the whole
house shake; and the besieged perceived that they were forcing an
entrance with the trunk of a young tree, or some such machine, in
imitation of the ram, not yet disused in warfare. Speedily the timber
yielded and cracked; and Holgrave, starting from the stupor in which
he was plunged, caught up the axe, and posted himself in an
attitude of striking near the door.
"Pollute not thy hand with the blood of the base," said Edith,
grasping her son's arm—"Judgment is mine, saith the Lord!"
"Thomas Calverley," continued she, in a loud calm voice, "produce
your warrant!"
"The word of the Lord de Boteler," replied Calverley, "is warrant
enough for the capture of the murderess of his child. Surrender,
Stephen Holgrave, I command!"
At this moment a noise was heard, as if an entrance had been
effected through the roof; and ere Holgrave could release his arm
from his mother's hold, a shriek from Margaret struck upon his ear.
He turned his head and beheld her covering him with outstretched
arms from the drawn bows of two retainers, who appeared at the
door of the room, or loft, above.
"Archers, do your duty!" shouted Calverley; but at the moment some
voices without exclaimed suddenly, "My lord comes! My lord comes!"
and the bowmen drew back, and Holgrave instinctively dropped his
axe.
De Boteler, either through anxiety for Edith's arrest, or from an
apprehension that Holgrave might oppose it, did indeed approach,
and as he advanced, with hasty and agitated steps, and beheld the
evidence of resistance in the rent roof and shattered door, his rage
was extreme.
"Tear down the cottage!" cried he, his voice choked with passion,
"and take this foul sorceress dead or alive!" The command was
about to be fulfilled when the door was unbarred and opened by
Holgrave.
"Stop;" said the baron, "the knave surrenders. Base-born churl, how
dare you oppose my commands?"
"My lord," said the intrepid yeoman, "I had a right to defend my
dwelling against unlawful assault."
"Unlawful! Do you call the orders of your lord unlawful?"
"My Lord De Boteler," said Edith, stepping forward, and looking full
at the baron. "It is unlawful to send armed men, in the open day,
without warrant, save your own will, to attack the house of a faithful
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