Kitabı oku: «The Coming of the King», sayfa 16

CHAPTER XXII
THE CHAPEL OF HERNE

The place into which I was taken was of no great size, nevertheless a large number of people had squeezed themselves in. I judged from this that the affair had been much noised abroad, and that justices from the whole country side had come together, so great was the interest taken. I learnt, however, that the mode of procedure was to be of no ordinary nature, seeing we were no ordinary prisoners. I was told that the justices were to examine us concerning the nature of our guilt, and then if they thought fit, either to pass us on to the assizes or to set us at liberty, just as they felt inclined. But not being versed in the ways of the law, I did not trouble much about such matters. For of this I was sure: the justices would not dare to set Mistress Constance at liberty, seeing a warrant had been out against her for a great length of time, and it was not to be expected that they would have mercy upon me, seeing I had helped the woman to liberty.

Nevertheless I knew that for the sake of their own curiosity they would be sure to ask us many questions, and in this way such matters might come to light as I much longed to know.

I saw, moreover, that we were not treated as prisoners of the period were wont to be treated. Nay more, I saw that many of the rustics gazed on us with a kind of respectful curiosity.

"Who are their worships on the bench?" I asked of a man who had conducted me into the justice room, and he pointed them out to me in a friendly way.

"That is Sir John Napier," he said, pointing to a stout choleric old man, "and that," nodding to a man with a very solemn face, "is Sir William Beecher of Howbury. The one to his left is Mr. Gery of Bushmeade, who fought with King Charles against the Roundheads, while the one on his left hand is Sir St. John Chernocke of Hulcote."

And so on, speaking to me as if I were a visitor instead of a prisoner.

"They are the greatest gentry in Bedfordshire, young master," he said confidentially, "and King Charles himself might be proud to call some of them his friends. Not that they are easy to get over. No, no. They are terrible hard upon them as breaks the law."

I saw that Mistress Constance was not in the room when I entered and I wondered why, seeing I had been brought there just after ten, she had not also been conducted hither at the same time. But I had not to wait long, for scarcely had I taken a careful view of what was taking place when she was led in.

There was a general "hush" as she entered, and even the justices looked curiously towards her, as though she were to be treated with all due courtesy.

For this I have found throughout my whole life. It all depends on the woman herself as to how she is treated; and if she be not regarded with respect it is in nine cases out of ten because of the kind of woman she is. It may be different with men. In truth I know it is; for I have seen men of high standing and blameless character treated with discourtesy, amounting to rudeness if not to cruelty. But few men can speak lightly or rudely to a woman who is of gentle birth, and is in her own heart a gentlewoman. If there is any proof needed of this, it was made manifest that morning. For although Mistress Constance Leslie was the daughter of a man whom the king hated, and although she was accused of attempting to murder the great general by whose offices the king was brought back to the throne, there was not one of the justices who spoke to her in an unbecoming way. Therefore I say this: If a woman receives only scant courtesy, let her look to herself, for she will generally find the reason there. It is wellnigh impossible to respect a shrew, a slattern, or a gossip, although a man should in every case be courteous to womanhood, even if he find it hard to respect the woman.

Mistress Constance was still pale, except for the pink flush on her cheeks, but it detracted not one whit from her beauty. Rather in my eyes it added to it. Moreover, no man, I do not care who he is, could have doubted her modesty or gentleness. Indeed I hated the man who called her wife, and I wondered why God had allowed her to be mated to Sir Charles Denman. But this might be because, even as she stood before the justices, my heart went out to her, if possible more than ever.

She wore the same attire as on the previous night, and I heard a buzz of admiration pass around the room as she stood there bareheaded before the gaping crowd. But she seemed to be unconscious of it, for she took no notice of those who watched her, but instead turned her face to the justices, as if she would read their thoughts.

Her lips were compressed, but not a sign of fear did she shew. Not an eyelid quivered, neither did her hands tremble. Whether she saw me I know not. But she made no sign as if she did, although I thought I once saw her looking at me furtively.

I do not remember any of the formalities which preceded the trial; but when presently the chief justice called her name, she bowed in a stately way, and seemed prepared to answer any questions they might put.

"Constance Denman."

My heart grew bitter as I heard the name, and I thought I saw a look of anger cross her face.

"You are accused of attempting to stab to the heart with a knife his Grace the Duke of Albermarle, but who was at that time General Monk, and in truth did stab his secretary. Because of this a warrant hath been issued against you. Although for a long time you escaped the law, you have at length been brought to justice."

These words I have written down from memory, and although they may not be the exact words spoken, they give the sense of what was said.

She did not speak in answer to this, whereupon some one whispered to the justice who had spoken, who shook his head impatiently.

Then a man who had been writing, lifted his head and said —

"Your name is Constance."

At this she bowed.

"Daughter of Master John Leslie, of Goodlands?"

"Yes."

"Your age?"

"I was born on the 29th of June, 1640."

"You will then be twenty on your next birthday?"

"Yes."

At this there was a suppressed whisper around the justice house. "Just as I thought." "Beautiful, isn't she?" "Fancy a maid, and a lady born doing such a thing at that age;" and so on.

"On the 15th of January you were wedded to Sir Charles Denman?"

At this she did not speak.

"You must answer the question," said the chief justice.

I saw a look of terror pass across her face. Her hands clenched and unclenched themselves, while a crimson flush suffused her whole face.

"What have these questions to do with the crime of which I am accused?" she asked. "It is well known who I am. Moreover, there are certain questions which are painful, and they have nought to do with the deed of which I am believed to be guilty. Therefore be pleased to pass on!"

One might have thought she commanded the court, although she spoke in a low voice, and in a perfectly womanly way. I believe moreover that the principal justice would have saved her these questions, but the clerk insisted upon them.

"These be according to law, Sir William," he said, "and must be answered."

"You hear what the clerk saith?" replied the justice.

"I repeat the question," said the clerk. "You were married, were you not, on the 15th day of January, to Sir Charles Denman?"

She drew herself up as if to speak, but no words escaped her lips.

"How hateful the thought of the marriage is to her," I thought to myself, and my heart was full of joy at the thought of it.

At this moment there was a great confusion in the court, and I saw that all eyes were turned towards the door.

"Master John Leslie!" was whispered all over the place.

A man past his prime made his way towards the bench, and I saw at a glance that he must be related to Mistress Constance. He had the same cast of features, and although there were signs of weakness on his face which did not appear on that of his daughter, he was a man of noble appearance.

"I pray you to forgive my tardiness, Sir William," he said, nodding to the chief justice, "but it was far past midnight when the news was brought to me in London that my daughter was to be brought before you to-day. Since then I have ridden without ceasing so as to be here in time for – for the trial."

I thought then that this man would do his daughter harm rather than good by appearing in this way, for I saw looks of anger and dislike pass across the faces of some of the justices.

"Your presence is of no great importance, Master Leslie," said the justice drily, "and it seems a pity that you have journeyed all the way from London for nought. Besides, you hinder the procedure. The question is just asked whether your daughter married Sir Charles Denman, and I think she can answer it as well as you."

I saw the eyes of father and daughter meet, and as far as I could judge she seemed to wish him to be silent, but of this I was not sure. I thought, however, that he paid no heed to her wishes, for he turned to the bench with a look of resolution in his eyes.

"You have asked whether my daughter is the wife of Sir Charles Denman," he said excitedly. "I will even answer you. She is not."

"Father!"

The cry which came from Mistress Constance was as I thought full of pain.

"Be silent," cried Master Leslie. "Our God is a God of truth, and I will no longer suffer a falsehood to be believed."

"Whose wife is she then?"

"She is no man's wife."

There was a silence like unto the silence of death in the room as he spoke, every one there seeming to be afraid to breathe.

"I speak the truth, Sir William," went on Master Leslie. "As you know I am not a man to utter light words. You have had occasion to say so more than once as we have sat side by side in this Chapel of Herne, the justice hall of Bedford. So you may e'en take that down, Master Cobb" – this to the clerk of the peace – "for what I have told you is the truth."

I looked at Mistress Constance's face again as he spoke, and for the first time I saw fear in her eyes. She evidently dreaded something which was of a fearful nature, and I sorely pitied her. Yet was my heart filled with such a joy as I had never known before. In truth it seemed to me that a great burden had rolled from my life, for it was no longer a sin to love her. I no longer hated Sir Charles Denman as I hated him before, even although my mind was filled with a great wonder at the meaning of it all.

I could see that the presiding justice was so astonished that he could not speak, while Master Cobb, the clerk of the peace, seemed busily writing, only to scratch out what he had written.

"I pray you, Master Leslie," went on Sir William Franklin, the presiding magistrate, "to speak plainly on this matter. You say that this woman is not the wife of Sir Charles Denman, and that she is no man's wife. Do you also say that it is not she who hath attempted the life of General Monk?"

"I do say it, Sir William; she hath attempted no man's life, and is as innocent of the whole matter as a babe but last night born."

"Then what meaneth all this turmoil? Why hath the warrant been issued? Why hath she been captured and brought hither?"

I saw that he was much excited, and that because of it he forgot much of the usual formalities of asking questions. I judged too that Master Cobb, seemed to be hesitating between his desire to conduct the affair after the usual order, and his great curiosity concerning what Master Leslie was saying.

"If you, Sir William, will come with me apart for a moment, I will explain all these matters to you," said Master Leslie, whereupon the other justices protested, declaring that such was not the law of our land. So Sir William had to concede that which was evidently against his desire to his brother justices.

"What's said must be said in the open court," he said. Then realizing that he had been conducting the affair in an unusual way he went on —

"Moreover, it is not you who are at present under examination. If you elect to give evidence after the prisoner hath been examined I will allow you to do so."

"Then let me say this," said Master Leslie, "whatever my daughter may deny, or whatever she may refuse to tell, I shall e'en take a straight course and tell everything which appertaineth to this business."

Upon that Master Leslie took a seat as near to his daughter as he was able, while Master Cobb, evidently relieved that events were to take a lawful course again, prepared to ask questions.

Again I looked around this little whitewashed hall, and looked at the eager faces of the crowd. I have been told that many trials of note had taken place in this Chapel of Herne, which was a building associated with the Grammar School, and used as a justice court, but I doubt if ever one caused more eagerness than that in which we were now engaged.

"I have asked you whether you were married to Sir Charles Denman. Will you answer?"

"My father hath told you. There is, therefore, no need for me to reply."

"But it is necessary you should. Please tell the bench."

"No, I have never married him."

"Are you guilty or not guilty of attempting the life of General Monk?"

She looked at her father before replying, and reading in his face the resolution to tell everything, she replied —

"I am not guilty."

"But you were seen in his house, you wounded his secretary."

"That is not true."

"What evidence have you whereby you can prove your innocence?"

"I can prove that I was not in London at all at that time."

"Where were you then?"

"I can answer that when I am brought before a proper tribunal."

"Do you assert that this is not a proper tribunal?"

"Yes. If it were, my accuser should be here to accuse me. You have no right to try me here at all."

At this there was some discussion, and I believe that Master Cobb maintained that in the strict meaning of the law, it was the duty of the justices to detain her until she was formally charged by her accusers, but they were too curious to allow this so they went on with the trial.

"You say you can prove that you were not in London at the time of the attempted murder?"

"I can."

"Where were you at the time?"

"Answer, answer," said Master Leslie eagerly.

"I was in my father's house at Barnet."

"You say you can prove this?"

"I can prove it, Sir William, for I was myself there at the time. Also there be servants who can take oath to it."

This was spoken by Master Leslie eagerly.

"Then how came you to be accused of this crime?"

A great fear came into her eyes again, and she looked towards her father pleadingly.

At this Master Leslie spoke again.

"I have more than one daughter, Sir William, and if this guilt is to be fastened on one of them, it must be fastened upon my daughter Dorcas, who married Sir Charles Denman, and who lived in London. Thus, my daughter here, knew nought of the outrage until after it was committed."

"But General Monk's secretary heard her say she was called Constance Denman."

"I will explain that, although, as my daughter saith, this is not the proper tribunal for her to be judged, but I will tell the truth so that you may see that you do wrong by detaining her as a prisoner. My daughter Dorcas is the wife of Sir Charles Denman, as I have said. God hath not been pleased to give her the faculties of mind which He hath been pleased to give to my daughter here, and she became the slave of the man she married. It was her husband who commanded her to assume the garb of this my daughter here, it was her husband who commanded her to make it known that she was called Constance. Then," and here Master Leslie's voice became tremulous, "after she had escaped, my daughter Constance, who hath been unjustly imprisoned, in order to save her sister, so great is her love for her, assisted her to keep in safe hiding, and even appeared with Sir Charles Denman as his wife, in order to attract all suspicion upon herself, and save her sister."

There was a silence which could almost be felt as he said this, and I saw that the face of Mistress Constance was pale, as I thought with fear and shame.

"Thus my daughter here is guilty of nought save of a great and overmastering love for her sister," went on Master Leslie. "To save her she hath allowed herself to be hunted like a fox, to save her she hath travelled alone with her sister's husband."

The place had ceased to be a court of justice, and there was scarcely a man there but who forgot that nought was being conducted as the law provided.

"By this means she hath succeeded up to now in diverting attention from her sister, neither would she even now have told what I have told."

"This is a strange story, Master Leslie," said the presiding justice.

"It is strange," said the other, "but I could not stand by and see my innocent child suffer for her sister, and that is why I rode hither through the night, so that she might be set at liberty forthwith."

"And where is your guilty daughter?"

"I do not say she is guilty. Nay, I am sure she was but the tool of the man she married. But where she is now I know not, for never have I seen her since the night when the thing was attempted. All I have known is that my daughter here hath even made it known that she hath been in various places, so that she might keep any from suspecting the hiding-place of her sister. Of one thing I am sure, she is far away from here, else had not my daughter Constance given herself up here in Bedford. Therefore I pray you, Sir William, to let her return to my house at Goodlands, until I can prove to his Majesty's judges that she was not in London on the night when General Monk was in danger of his life."

At this there was again a consultation among the justices, and I verily believe that had not Master Leslie taken part in the king's father's death, they would have done even as he had asked, but several of them were strong Royalists, and hated Master Leslie and all his ways, while the others who had sympathy with him were afraid that when the matter came to the king's ears, he would be displeased at such a course of action.

So it was presently decided that, although the case had taken an unusual course, nought had yet been proved, and that seeing the king had taken especial interest in the matter, he must be informed as to what had taken place, and that meanwhile Mistress Constance must be confined in Bedford Gaol until the will of those in high places had been made known.

When the matter of my own imprisonment was brought forward it was decided that as I was evidently in league with Mistress Constance, and that as I had been guilty of a grave breach of the law, I must also be kept in prison until their worships had heard from London as to what should be done with me.

A little after noon, therefore, I was back in my prison again, and if the truth must be known, glad to be alone that I might think over what I had heard. For surely I had enough wherewith to puzzle my head. It is true the revelations which had been made had made clear many things which I had been unable to understand, yet many more remained in darkness, and in spite of many hours of thought I could see but little light.

Nevertheless, there was no happier man in Bedford than I, for although I knew that Mistress Constance cared nought for me, the way she had looked at me in the court proved that, I could think of her and love her without sin. And this I did until my heart ached with very loving.

For four days I neither saw nor heard aught of her, for the gaolers would speak no word, neither did Master Sturgeon come near me, but at the end of the fourth day I was told it was the king's will that we should proceed to London town without delay.

CHAPTER XXIII
THE JOURNEY TO WINDSOR

A great crowd gathered around the gaol at Bedford to see Mistress Constance Leslie and myself start for London. This was but little wonder, for the revelation made in the Chapel of Herne had spread like wildfire, and people had come from the whole country side to see us depart. I noticed too that we were not regarded with anger, nor treated with contumely. Rather I judged that Mistress Constance was looked upon with great favour, and I verily believe that had they been encouraged, the people would have cheered her with great gusto, for they looked upon her, not as one who had done aught to be ashamed of, but as one who had bravely suffered much for another's sake. As for myself they knew nought of me except my name, for this I had made known in the Court House, and that I had succeeded in helping Mistress Constance out of prison. Neither was this regarded as a great sin. Indeed it was believed that I knew of the truth of what Master Leslie had told, and therefore it was natural for me to render what help I was able. Concerning our former meeting I had of course been silent, and although I had been questioned closely I had given no answer which made any one the wiser.

One thing pleased me beyond measure, and this was the fact that Black Ben was returned to me, and that I was allowed to ride him to London. This I suspect was owing to the kindness of Sir William Franklin, who had known my father and had fought by his side during the first civil war.

We were, however, carefully guarded, so carefully that quite a company of armed men rode out of Bedford, making as I thought a good show that bright summer morning.

We must have travelled at least six miles before I had a chance of speaking to Mistress Constance, for although we rode side by side in the midst of those who guarded us, we had no chance of speaking a word to each other. For that matter I do not think she desired speech, for either she looked straight forward, or else looked away to the right, which was in the opposite direction from where I was.

When we had travelled a few miles, however, we were less closely watched. The constables talked with each other, now and then passing a jest, and again telling of the fine times they hoped to have when they reached London. Indeed I saw that while they took care there was no chance of escape, they paid us less and less heed.

Therefore as I had opportunity, I drew my horse so close to hers that my right foot almost touched her riding habit.

"I trust I have done nought to offend you," I said, looking into her face.

But she did not reply for several moments, but rather turned away her head from me.

"When you speak to me look straight on," she said.

I saw the wisdom of her words, for although the guard was more lax than when we left Bedford, I knew that watchful eyes were constantly upon us. I therefore obeyed her, and waited for her answer.

"How can I be offended, when you have tried to be my friend?" she asked; "but did you not tell me that you spoke the French tongue?"

"Yes," I replied in that language. "I do not speak freely, but perhaps enough to make you understand."

"Then speak to me in that tongue. You can understand now why I could tell you nothing when we first met."

"Yes," I replied, "I understand. It has made me very happy."

She gave me a searching glance. It was only for a moment that she looked, but I felt the beat of my heart quicken.

"There is much that you do not know – cannot know."

"I know enough to make me very happy," I repeated. "Almost ever since I saw you first I have felt a great burden upon my heart. Now it is gone."

"You believed I was guilty of – of – " here she stammered, and seemed at a loss how to finish her sentence, but I noticed the bitterness of her voice.

"No," I interrupted eagerly. "Never for one moment."

I thought her eyes grew softer, for I could not help looking at her as I spoke.

"Why then have you been made happy?"

"Because I know you are not the wife of that man."

The blood mounted to her cheeks, and the moment I saw this I turned away my head.

"You have been very good to try and help me," she said, "but it does not avail, it will not avail."

"I have done nothing," I replied, "nothing to what I would do if I could."

"Yes, you have done much. You have helped me to save my sister."

"Unconsciously," I replied. "I know nothing of her. If I had known I should not have cared. It was only you I wanted to help."

"It does not matter about me. She must be saved whatever may happen. I will see to that."

"Then you do not fear what the king may do?"

"No, I do not fear. But do not speak again, the men are beginning to watch us."

I pretended to be examining Black Ben's saddle, and to attend to one of the buckles which kept up the left stirrup.

"What's the matter Master Rashcliffe," said one of the guards.

"Hath some one been meddling with my stirrups?" I asked. "They seem too short."

"They can be seen to when we stop at mid-day for food," he replied.

After that we rode on for another mile without speaking.

"I think I shall have some favour with the king," I said presently. "If so, you will soon be free."

"Perchance you will be free, but not I," she replied.

"If I am free you shall be free," I made answer.

"No."

"Why?"

"Because the king's prisons will be guarded too closely. London gaols are not like Bedford Gaol."

"But why should you be put in a London gaol? You have done nothing."

"No; but then I shall tell nothing."

"Ah," I said, catching at her meaning. "Then you know where your sister is?"

I spoke the French tongue and in a low voice, but she looked around nervously, and although she gave no answer I knew I had surmised the truth.

"Do not expect the worst," I said, "God lives."

"Yes, God lives, and I do not fear. Let the king do his worst."

"He may not suspect."

"But he will. When it is told him that I have – have done these things for my sister's sake, he will ask me if I know where she is."

"And you will not tell?"

"I shall not tell where she is. Then he will make me bear her punishment."

"No, I will save you."

Again she looked at me searchingly, and I thought I saw a glad light leap into her eyes. After that she gave a quick glance round as if to be sure that no one listened.

"No, you cannot save me. I am my father's daughter. Even now I am told that the king is planning a terrible vengeance on those who took part in his father's death."

"I will save you," I said quietly, and confidently. "Do not fear. Whatever happens do not fear. It may be that I shall not be able to do this in a day, or in a year – although I think I shall, but I will do it!"

"Why should you do it?"

"Because I love you."

I saw her start in her saddle, while her hands clutched her bridle rein nervously.

"That was why I was made so happy when I knew you had not married that man. I loved you even while I thought you were his wife. I fought against it because I thought it was a sin. But I could not help it. It never came to me until the other night when I saw them taking you to prison. I loved you before then although I did not know it. But I knew it then. I was glad when they left me alone in prison, because I could think of you. I did not sleep all the night. My heart was aching with love, all the more because I thought it was sinful, but I could not help loving you. Whatever happens now, I shall love you till I die."

"No! No!"

"Yes. I know you do not care for me; but I have my joy, the joy of loving."

"But you must not – it is wrong."

"Why is it wrong?"

"Because it is foolishness. I have taken another's burden – I may speak of it now. I have taken it willingly – gladly, but the burden means a curse to the one who bears it."

"Then I will try and bear some of the curse. Nay, do not deny me this. I must whether I will or not. Nothing you may say or do will alter me. I shall love you until I die. Besides, I am going to save you."

She did not say a word to this, but looked straight on. We were passing through rich loamy lands. All around the trees were in the glory of their summer garb, while the birds sang lustily from tree branch, and from hazel twig, but I do not think she either saw or heard.

I had eased my heart in speaking, and so I said no more for the time. Never perhaps had a man a more doubtful future than I, and yet I could have shouted for very joy. She heard not the song of the skylark as it mounted to the heavens, nor the notes of the thrushes as they poured forth their music to God. But I did, and it seemed to me as though they were God's messengers telling me not to be afraid to love, for it was His will. That she could ever love me never came into my heart. How could she? What was I that a maid so peerless in her beauty, so glorious in her life of sacrifice for another, should ever think of me save as one who delighted to do her will? But I had the joy of loving, and although my love were full of pain, and unsatisfied yearnings, I still loved, and rejoiced in it.

"Why? Why?" I heard her whisper presently.

"Because God would have it so," I made answer. "He brought us together that I might love you, and serve you. And this I will do as long as I have life and thought!"

"But if I am thrown into prison?"

"I shall still love you. Prison is nothing. Love has broken the bolts from many a prison door before this, aye, and will again."

"But what is the use of loving me?"

"To serve you."

"But if you cannot serve me?"

"Then I shall still have the joy of loving you. This let me say: what will happen I know not, but you must not be afraid. I shall be always thinking about you – always."

"But the king may keep me in prison for years."

"He will not; but if he does, what then? He cannot live for ever. Suppose we never meet again until we are old, I shall still love you."

Again there was a long silence between us, so long that I thought she had forgotten all I had said, so long that my mind had begun to wander. I had begun to paint pictures of the future years when we, both grown old, had met again, and I had renewed my vows to her.

"But if I were to love another, and wed him, what then?" She said this suddenly, as though the thought had just occurred to her.

"I don't know," I said, and my heart grew cold as I spoke. "Of course you can never love me, but I shall pray God that you may never love another."

"Love is not for me," she said presently; and I knew she was thinking of what might happen to her.