CHAPTER III.

De Boteler and his lady, had left Sudley to be present at some festival in London, the day previous to that on which father John was degraded; but, from the firmness he had hitherto shown, the result was anticipated, and Calverley had received orders to arrest the monk on his being dismissed the abbey, and to confine him in the castle, until the baron's return.

The degraded priest proceeded slowly amidst the sympathizing crowd that attended his steps. Several times he stopped, with the intention of requesting the people to return home and leave him to pursue his journey as he might, but he could not collect that firmness of demeanor which had been wont to distinguish him; and ashamed further to betray his weakness, he each time passed on without uttering a word. They had cleared the town, and were crossing the bridge on the left, over the Isborn, when Calverley, and about half a dozen retainers well mounted, darted from the bridge into the high road. Four of the men, springing from their horses, surrounded the monk and were about placing him on the back of one of the steeds, when the faculties, which had been for the moment chained by astonishment and indignation, burst forth with unexpected energy, and, with a form expanded to its full height, and an eye flashing fire, he shook off their rude grasp, and stepping back, demanded by what authority he was thus molested.

"By the authority of the Baron de Boteler," replied Calverley, as the monk fixed his eyes sternly upon him.

"It is false!" he replied, "no human law have I violated, and to no man's capricious tyranny will I submit."

"It becomes the bondman to speak thus of his lord," said Calverley with a sneer.

"I am not a bondman—nor is the Baron de Boteler my lord," said father John, in a deep, collected voice.

"O, I crave your pardon, good father," returned Calverley smiling; "I mistook you for one John Ball, the son of a bondman of this barony."

"My name is John Ball, and I have been the son of a bondman, insulting craven," replied the father, indignantly;—"but I owe the Baron de Boteler no allegiance—you well know that the priest can be servant to none save he who created the bond and the free."

"And this is the habit of some new order, that is to be honored by being adopted by the unpriestly son of a bondman!" said Calverley, pointing, in derision, at the coarse woollen dress of the monk. Something burst from the lips of the latter, but it was lost in Calverley's sudden command to seize him. The men again approached, but the first who caught the monk's arm fell to the ground, stunned and bleeding.

Another succeeded, and met the same fate—then another, and another;—but at length, overpowered by numbers, the gallant priest was bound, and placed before one of the retainers on horseback.

There was now a simultaneous rush made to the bridge by the crowd, who stood watching the horsemen till they entered the castle; when they formed into groups, wondering at what they had just beheld—at what might be the fate of the monk, and at their own supineness in suffering half-a-dozen men, even though armed and mounted, to carry him off without a blow.

That evening, Wat Turner, who had been liberated from the keep, after a short confinement, was leaning on his folded arms, which rested for support on the sill of the aperture in his shed, that served the purpose of a window. The forge-fire had died away; the servitor and the journeyman had been dismissed; but Wat still lingered, as if he could there indulge his reflections more freely than in his own house. His eyes were bent on the ground, and so far was he lost in some waking dream, that, until his name was repeated in rather a loud tone, he was not conscious of any one's approach.

"Ah, Tom Merritt!" said the smith, raising his head and recognizing, in the dusk, a stout, active, young man, a mason, who resided at Winchcombe.

"Have you heard the news, Wat?" asked the mason.

"No—I have enough to think of, without troubling my head about news!"

"Aye, aye, true—but didn't you hear of father John?"

"Yes, I heard they dealt badly enough with him, because he would not betray poor Stephen—and for giving the sacrament to that unfortunate scape-grace. They told me he was to be turned from the abbey to-day, so I sent Dick with a few groats to help him on a little—but I don't know yet, whether the lad is come back, for I have not seen him."

"O, he is among the group that stands looking at the castle walls, I dare say," said Merritt. "Did you not hear he was thrown into prison?"

"What! my Dick," asked the smith, eagerly, starting up from his posture at the window, and his listless countenance suddenly becoming animated.

"No, no, not the boy," replied Merritt, rather impatiently.

"Oh," said the smith, again sinking upon the window frame; and then, as if perfectly comprehending what had been said, he added, as a bitter smile passed across his lips, "in prison did you say? What had he done that he should be caged? Refused to say where Stephen is hid?"

"May be so; but I can only tell you this—that when the poor monk was turned out of the abbey, Calverley seized upon him like a dog, or a thief."

"Calverley, the fiend!" interrupted the smith, fiercely. "If I could only give that beggar's vagabond a sample of what this hand could do, I think I should take a good night's rest—and that's what I have not done since the night they gave me a lodging in the castle dungeon; and you say that Calverley has put him in prison? Now, I tell you what, Tom Merritt," continued Turner, "if there be a drop of man's blood in your body, they shan't keep him there."

"Will you help?" asked the young mason, eagerly.

"Will I help, man! Aye, that I will, with a good stomach—Why, if they shut up a dog that I cared for within those four stone walls, I would help him out!—But that monk is a holy man—and they think to frighten him as they thought to frighten me. Tom," added Turner, leaning through the aperture, and laying his hand upon the young man's shoulder, "I have never held up my head like a man since that night. To be set upon like a fox! To be dragged and hauled, and thrown into a prison—Tom! (grasping the arm of the other with a force that made him shrink) when I think of this in the day when I am at work, I throw down the hammer, for my blood boils, and I could not strike a sure blow for hours after, if a king's ransom was offered me. But, by St. Nicholas! 'tis little work that Wat Turner has done ever since—all has gone wrong—but I shall soon leave the parish altogether—and then, may be, things will go on better. For, here, if a man looks at me, it seems as if he would say, 'Turner, you have been in jail!' Tom Merritt, never boast or brag of anything!"

"Indeed, master Turner, I have as little as any man to brag of; for—if—it hadn't been for the watching and the advice of poor father John, my old mother might have been this day hanging her head with shame, instead of looking up as bold as any of them, and saying, 'my son,' or 'my Tom,' as well as the best."

"That's all very well; but, Tom, as I just said, never boast. I used to brag that there never was a woman dishonest, nor a man a rogue, in my family; and that none of the name of Turner ever had a key turned upon them. And you see what it's come to."

"Aye, aye, master Turner," replied Merritt (impatient of a long speech, yet knowing the smith's irascible temper too well to interrupt him,) "I don't know what will come next! Here were you, who paid scot and lot, and cared for no one—see how you were treated! And now here is the holy father (with whom, though he got into disgrace at the Abbey, one would have thought, for the sake of their own souls, they wouldn't meddle,) dragged off like a common thief; and if we do not go to the rescue, the saints preserve us! who can tell if he will ever come out again? for there is none but poor Stephen akin to him."

"Enough! Tom Merritt, this is no place for an honest man. I was to have gone in a few days, but when this night's job is done, I shall just pack up all I can get together into a cart, and let the black fiend, or his imp, Calverley, take the rest. Aye! with my wife, the boy, and Will, I shall be out of Gloucester before sun-rise—and the sooner the better. But now let us talk of the rescue. How many honest hands can you get among the town's folk?"

"Why," replied Merritt, "every mother's soul who could grasp an axe; but I have seen a dozen lads who have sworn to free father John, or lose their lives. And knowing that you would give a helping hand, I told them so, though without your leave. We have provided paint for our faces. The retainers in the castle are few; and while myself and the men keep guard over them, you, as a smith, know best how to manage the lock of the keep."

"Give me your hand, for a brave fellow," answered Turner, grasping cordially the conceded member. "There are yet a few bold spirits in this manor. I shall seek them, and I'll warrant they will not leave Wat Turner in the lurch for this bout at least. And as for the lock, the foul fiend himself could not scheme or forge a spring that could keep me out for five minutes. Have your friends together in the field at the back of the town. The nights are dark now; and when I hear the clock strike eight, I shall be with you with all the hands I can gather."

Merritt presently departed; and at eight the two confederates again met. Soon a compact and resolute body of more than twenty men slowly and cautiously proceeded to the castle, and, in double file, ensconced themselves close to the walls, and so contiguous to the gate of usual egress as to be ready to rush in at the first opening. They had stood thus, scarcely drawing breath, for about half an hour; and Merritt, who, with the smith, was at the head of the little band, was about to propose that they should attempt to force an entrance, when the gate opened, and John Byles, who had been engaged upon some business with Calverley, unsuspectingly issued forth.

The smith caught him in his iron grasp ere he closed the gate, and, placing his broad hand over his mouth, held him till a bandage could be properly fastened; then flinging him on the ground, secured him hand and foot, bound him to a tree at a few steps distant, and, with the two men who had assisted, rushed after Merritt and the others, who were by this time in the court-yard.

No sound escaped them, and it was only the quick footsteps on the pavement that attracted attention. But ere the alarm was given, the intruders had reached the keep. The smith, with astonishing celerity, picked the huge lock of the lower dungeon, in which, by virtue of former experience, he imagined the father was confined; and beheld, by a torch, which they had now lighted, what fired even the most sluggish soul among them. The monk lay stretched on the ground, nearly divested of covering, with his arms and legs drawn by cords attached to iron rings in the four corners of the cell, and with iron weights pressing upon his chest.

"By St. Nicholas!" said the smith, as he stooped to remove the pressure, while the tears started to his eyes, "this is too bad. 'Tis enough to make a heathen sick to see a christian man served in this manner. Here, father John, (assisting him to rise) take my jerkin, and wrap this about you (snatching a cloak from the shoulders of one of the men). And now, good father, tell me who did this?"

But the exhausting punishment he had endured for above four hours, together with the cold that penetrated his whole frame, from lying so long exposed on the damp earth, so much impeded his speech, that he could not utter an intelligible word.

"And thus they could serve the Lord's anointed!" said Turner, compassionately, as he looked on the livid and swollen face and trembling limbs of him, whom he had ever, till now, seen with the beauty of holiness giving dignity to his fine countenance, and with the vigour of manhood exhibited in every motion of his muscular form. "Hark!" added the smith, starting—"there is a scuffle outside! Tom Merritt will have enough of them." For an instant he paused, and then, snatching up one of the cords that had tied the monk, he severed it with his axe from the ring in the wall, and passing one end round the monk's arm, fastened the other round his own waist. "Now you will have no trouble in holding by me—keep close. Here, father, could you not hold this? it might keep off some scurvy knave," drawing a sharp wood-knife from his belt, and placing it in the monk's tremulous hand. Turner then ordering the few who were with him to cover the retreat, to keep compact as they followed, and to strike at all within reach, with a keen-edged battle-axe in his right hand, and a formidable club, pointed with steel and firmly bound with iron, in his left, he hurried from the dungeon.

Turner had not been above five minutes in releasing the monk; but, when he came to the entrance of the keep, Merritt and the remainder of the band were sharply engaged with the domestics and the few tenants who kept guard about the castle. The smith pushed on with the monk; passed Merritt and the others, who closed in his rear; and, with that boldness, which often effects what more prudent courage would fail to accomplish, rushed into the midst of the assailants, brandishing his weapons, and shouting defiance at the top of his stentorian lungs.

"Stand aside, ye graceless carles! Shame to ye, cursed cravens, to serve a christian priest like an infidel! Stand back, or, by St. Nicholas! you will never die on your beds!" dealing sturdy blows as he spoke, and pressing forward to a postern beside the principal gate which was not many paces from the keep.

"'Tis the smith!—'tis Wat Turner," shouted a dozen voices.

"Aye, it is Wat Turner," swinging round his club, and levelling a couple of those who were nearest; "and tell the doomed Calverley, if ever Wat Turner sets eyes upon him, we shall not part so easily as I now do from you!"

The weapons wielded by the powerful arm of the smith were not such as those, who had little interest in the detention of the monk, would care to encounter. The attacks of the castle people relaxed, the energy of the rescuers increased; the smith, with the skill of a practised workman, loosed the fastenings of the postern gate, and the band, rushing through and forcibly closing it after them, father John was again a free man.

"Now, lads, to your homes," cried Turner, as they hurried on, "every man of ye. Go by different roads, and you will not be suspected. There is not a man they can swear to but myself. Now, brave hearts, farewell! We may not meet together again: but all the harm I wish ye is, that Calverley and I may soon meet; and if ever he plagues free man or bond among ye after that, say Wat Turner is a coward—Away! Tom Merritt," said he, drawing the mason aside, "do you think of leaving Winchcombe?—you know there are always busy tongues."

"Thank ye, master Turner, but I think I shall wait and see how matters go."

"As you like Tom—only mind they don't coop you up. To my mind, there is not a man in the parish safe;—but things will not always go on so. Now, good father, we must be gone."

Merritt bent his knee to the monk, who pronounced a tremulous, but fervent benediction, on the brave fellow, who, bidding a friendly farewell to Turner, and being assured that father John should remain under his protection as long as he desired, bounded, with the spring of a deer, in the direction of his home.

On the fifteenth of July, 1377, about six months after father John was liberated by the sturdy smith, the city of London was arrayed with a costliness, and adorned throughout with a radiance in which it was befitting it should appear on the day when the royal diadem was to be placed on the brow of a young and blooming sovereign. Father John was literally borne along in the current that streamed from the adjacent villages to witness the reception of the young king as he passed over the city-bridge from his palace at Sheen.

The day was favourable for the pageant, and the houses seemed to vie with each other in the variety of their silken colours and tinselled ornaments, glowing and glittering in the morning sun. At Cornhill, indeed, the meretricious adornments of art were superseded for a brief space by the simple beauty of nature, and the eye felt a momentary relief in resting on the green grass, and the few shaded trees that covered the open ground. But this green spot was succeeded by a dense mass of dwellings covered with hangings of a richness suitable to the reputed wealth of the city merchants; here the scene was animated in the extreme,—the motions of the crowd became unsteady and irregular, as they were actuated at once by eagerness to hurry on, and a desire to linger among the rainbow diversity of hues around them, and the glowing beauty which, arrayed with costly elegance, and smiling with anticipated enjoyment, graced every open window.

"Alas! alas!" exclaimed a solitary wanderer among the multitude, as he turned away sorrowfully from the gaudy display, "alas, for this great city, which was clothed in fine linen, and purple, and scarlet, and decked with gold and precious stones and pearl—for in one hour will she be made desolate: and, instead of a stomacher, have only a girding of sackcloth, and burning instead of beauty." But he had hardly repeated these words, ere a full stream of music, swelling in the air, overpowered the hum that arose from the multitude, and John Ball—for it was the degraded priest who had spoken—imagining this to be a prelude to the appearance of the young king, mounted upon a door-step, and, from this slight elevation, and favoured by his stature, he obtained a full view of the procession, which almost immediately passed.

First came the band of musicians, mounted on gaily caparisoned horses, and clad in jacks of crimson-damasked satin, laced round with gold; the arms of the city richly emblazoned on the back and front, and the white velvet sleeves of their jerkins so closely laced and interlaced with gold, as almost to conceal the material on which it was wrought. Then two heralds in white-damasked velvet tabards, worked with gold in a variety of fanciful patterns, and with the city arms also emblazoned on the back. Then the sword-bearer of the chief magistrate, in a suit of polished scale armour, and on a steed accoutred in all the panoply of war. Then the Lord Mayor himself, in a flowing mantle of rich crimson velvet trimmed with ermine, and with a collar of fine gold adorned with gems, and mounted on a stately horse, whose velvet housing, fringed with gold, almost touched the ground. Two pages suitably attired walked on either side. Next appeared the two sheriffs in their scarlet mantles and gold chains. Then rode the four-and-twenty aldermen, two abreast, in loose gowns or robes of damasked-velvet or brocaded silk; and, finally, the members of the common-council closed the train.

"And is this the apparel and the bravery of merchants?" said the wandering monk within himself, as the splendid cavalcade passed by; "surely the pomp of royalty cannot surpass this." And John Ball did not draw a wrong conclusion—for when, in about half an hour, the citizens repassed, escorting their youthful sovereign, although there certainly was more cost and elegance, there was less of gorgeous display in the royal than in the civic train.

Richard, then a well-grown boy of eleven, with a countenance the early bloom of which was brightened by an eye of singular intelligence, sat with the ease of a practised rider on a beautiful white palfrey. A cap of purple velvet, trimmed with vair, shaded his fair, open forehead and thick bright curls, and a purple mantle, lined and edged with the same costly fur, and confined at the throat with a jewelled clasp, fell back from his shoulders over the housings of the animal. His tunic was of damasked satin, of a bright pink colour, and round the waist was a purple belt, on which a variety of fanciful devices were wrought with pearls. The housings of the palfrey were of velvet, as soft and rich as the royal mantle, and of a similar hue, but enlivened with a profusion of goldsmiths' work, and bordered round with a heavy gold fringe.

Richard looked upon the pomp and circumstance around him with all the pleasure and vanity of a boy, turning every moment with some laughing sally addressed to his uncle, the Duke of Gloucester, who rode by his side, or, more frequently, to the young Earl of Arundel, the newly-installed marshal of England. These were followed by Percy, Earl of Northumberland, who had so recently resigned the office of lord marshal, Sir John Burleigh, lord chamberlain, the Earls of Oxford, Kent, Buckingham, &c.

The procession moved on, and the monk followed amidst the mass; but if he looked wistfully at the pageant, it was only in the hope that some opportunity might offer of publicly addressing the young king, or, rather, his uncle, and appealing for justice; but no opportunity did offer. Indeed, at such a moment, when the good citizens were displaying their taste and munificence, it seemed little less than folly to expect it.

Next to the considerate hospitality (if it may be so termed) of allowing the water-conduit in Cheapside spout wine, nothing elicited more unqualified approbation from the lower classes than a temporary building erected at the extremity of the before-mentioned place. This building, coloured so as to give an idea of firmly-cemented stone, presented the appearance of a castle, with four circular towers and a spacious gateway midway between. The arch stretched across nearly the whole extent of the horse-road, so that the towers terminating the four angles of the gateway stood parallel with the verge of the footpath. In each of the towers, at about five feet from the ground, was an arched doorway, in which stood a young maiden about sixteen, attired in a white flowing robe, with a chaplet of white roses encircling her hair, and holding a gold cup in her right hand, and a crystal vase in her left. On the castellated summit of the arch, which was about four feet in depth, and just in the centre between the towers, was placed a figure of equal height with the maidens, apparently of gold, representing an angel holding a beautifully wrought crown in its right hand, which, as the procession approached, the angel bent down, and presented to the young king. At the same instant, the two maidens, in the two towers at the east side, filled their cups with wine from a crystal fountain at their right hand, and each, with a graceful smile, proffered the draught to Richard. They then took, from the vase on their left, a handful of golden leaves, which they wafted towards the young king, and concluded by showering a number of counterfeit gold florences on his head.

Richard, after tasting of the cups, presented the first to his uncle, and the other to Arundel; and then each noble, as he passed, took the replenished cup from the hands of the Hebes, and drank health and prosperity to the youthful sovereign.

The monk mingled with the multitude, and saw the merry citizens escort their sovereign to Temple-bar; and then the royal train proceeded, with somewhat less applause than had as yet attended their route. Indeed, after passing the few houses in the suburbs, the solitary dwellings of the nobles stood along the Strand, few and far between—those on the left with their spacious gardens sloping to the river, and the three or four on the right occupying a space as extended as the wall which enclosed the capacious garden attached to the convent of the abbot of Westminster would permit. So large, indeed, was this garden, as to cover the whole space between the gardens of the Strand houses and the site of what is now Long-acre, and eastward and westward the space between Saint Martin's and Drury-lane. When they had passed the pretty village of Charing, with its cross, the procession turned to the left, leaving behind an ample extent of open country, intersected by the Oxford and Reading roads on the west, and bounded on the north by the bold and picturesque range of the Hampstead and Highgate hills.

John Ball pressed on with the multitude; but the immediate proximity of the palace, where all was splendour and motion, was not to the liking of one who till that day had never even dreamed of such things as had now met his sight. His nerves were weak, and he felt irritated at the insolence with which the royal guards, and the pages of the nobles, drove back the populace. His body, too, was weak, and he felt exhausted with his long and fatiguing walk: slowly and sadly he at length retraced his steps to his humble dwelling in the Minories.

The next morning he repaired again to Westminster. The hall of the palace was open for all who chose to enter, and in the midst, elevated on three circular marble steps, was a hollow marble pillar, surmounted by a large gilt eagle, from beneath whose talons flowed wine into four marble basins, of which all who entered were permitted to drink at pleasure. But the monk was no wine-drinker; and with the feelings of one unaccustomed to behold extravagance, he turned away from the pillar with an inward reproach to the donor, for not applying the money to a better purpose. He left the hall, and seeing that a path was found from the gate of the palace to the north-west entrance of the abbey, by a slightly elevated platform, covered with fine crimson cloth of tapestry, he naturally concluded that the king would pass that way to hear mass, and accordingly took his stand as near as possible to the platform. Inexperienced as the monk was in the etiquette of courts, he augured ill for his suit when he saw the royal retainers, with all the insolence of office, range themselves along the platform, and the nobles and their pages, and the officers of the royal household in their splendid dresses issue from the palace. But when he beheld the young king himself, with Simon Sudbury, Archbishop of Canterbury, on his right hand, and the Bishop of London on his left, he started back with an exclamation of surprise (for wrapped up in himself, and heedless of the passing gossip of the day, he had not heard of Sudbury's elevation); and forcing a passage through the assembled crowd, hopeless and despondent, he pursued his journey eastward.

On the sixth morning from the coronation, Richard, satisfied with shows and revelry, left Westminster, and retired with his mother, the fair Joan of Kent, to Kensington, to rest, as it were, his young head upon the maternal bosom. But even here the officious loyalty of his good subjects intruded; for a gorgeous mummery was to be played that night by a hundred and thirty of the wealthiest citizens of London.

A little after nightfall, the beautiful widow of the Black Prince sat in the oriel window of the hall, alternately looking with a mother's eyes upon her son, who was sporting with some of the young nobles, and then again turning to the window to listen for the approach of the citizens. She wore a small conical cap of gold tissue, terminated by a narrow band of purple velvet, closely studded with diamonds, beneath which her hair, soft and glossy as in her girlhood, was parted on the forehead, and fell back on her shoulders in rather a waving mass, than distinct curls. Her dress was composed of a petticoat and boddice of saffron-coloured damasked satin, with long hanging sleeves. The boddice sat close to the bust, and was confined up the front by twelve gold studs. A girdle of purple and gold, fastened by a buckle radiant with gems, encircled her waist; and the full long-trained petticoat, beneath which the sharp points of the poleyn, or gold-embroidered shoe, was just visible, was clasped in the front at equal distances by two rose-jewels. A mantle of purple velvet, confined on each shoulder by a diamond brooch, fell in rich folds at her back.

While she was listening and wondering at the lateness of the hour, the hall door was suddenly thrown open, and a blaze of light, and a strain of melody, burst simultaneously upon her senses. A dozen minstrels gaily attired with timbrels, cornets, sackbuts, and other instruments, preceded by as many youths, carrying large wax tapers or torch-lights, formed into a double rank in the hall; in the middle of which passed the city pageant. The lord mayor was at its head, habited as an emperor, in a tunic of cloth of gold, tastefully embroidered with black eagles, and the sleeves, which hung full, confined at the wrist and just below the elbow, by bands of black velvet, on which eagles were represented by small pearls. A mantle of black velvet lined with minever, or powdered ermine, floated from his shoulder. On his right hand was a citizen attired as the pope. Then followed the twenty-four aldermen in the dress of cardinals; then forty-eight in the gowns of say and red cloaks of esquires;—others in the purple robe, lined with fur, peculiar to the knight: while some, still more ambitious, wore the emblazoned surcoat of a baron.

The lord mayor approached the table at which Richard had seated himself, and presenting a box of dice, challenged the young monarch to play. At the same instant, one esquire placed on the table a bowl of gold, another a box containing jewels, and a third a golden cup, as pledges for the civic gambler. Richard accepted the challenge, and of course was permitted to win; and father John, who stood among the group looking on, seized the favourable moment of royal exultation to prefer his suit. He stepped forward, and kneeling before the young king, to the surprise of all, and to the particular annoyance of the ostentatious citizens, exclaimed—

"Thou art set over the people, and to the Lord's anointed I come to seek for justice."

"Who are you, bold man?" inquired the Duke of Lancaster, impatiently, "who thus break in upon his Grace's sport?"

"I am one," replied the monk, rising, and turning calmly to Lancaster, "whom injustice has thus forced——"

"Hah!" interrupted Sudbury, advancing, and who had hitherto sat apart looking on at the mummery; "is it thou who presumest to approach the presence? Please your Grace, and you, noble duke," looking first at Richard and then addressing Lancaster, "he is a monk of our late abbey at Winchcombe, whom, for certain acts of rebellion to our authority, we expelled."

"Why, monk," asked Richard quickly, "why dost thou appeal to us?"

"Pardon me, my liege," interposed Sudbury, "but it becomes not your grace to parley with a degraded monk—a bondman's son! one who would fain excite a spirit of insubordination among the class from which he sprung: who would sow the seeds of disobedience and disorder, and inculcate the absurd doctrine that all should be free!"

"Does he indeed hold such opinions, my Lord of Canterbury?" asked Lancaster.

"He does, my Lord, and that was one of the causes of his suspension."

"Indeed!" said Lancaster; "next then, I suppose, we shall have the villeins of the soil dictating to their lords, when they hear that a base-born priest has had the audacity to enter the royal presence! Ho! attendants! Away with this serf-sprung shaveling! who holds that all should be free!"

"Triumph not, John of Lancaster, for I say unto you, all SHALL be free! You, and it may be that the proudest of you all, may yet quail before the base-born!" and the monk fixed a glance first upon the duke, and then upon Sudbury. The archbishop turned away, while Lancaster, laughing scornfully at the threat, commanded the royal attendants instantly to eject him: and, amidst the jeers of the nobles and citizens, the monk was, without further parley, hurried away from the hall.

It was something more than a year from the flight of Holgrave, when business called Calverley to Gloucester; and, on passing along Silver girdle-street, his eye encountered Black Jack, whom he had not before seen since Edith's trial. The foreman accosted him after his usual manner, and whispered that he had something of moment to communicate, if he would accompany him to the Mitre. After some hesitation Calverley, consented, more especially as Black Jack hinted something about news of Holgrave; and, when seated in the room, in which their former interview had taken place, Oakley inquired if the Lord de Boteler, some twelve months ago, did not offer a reward for the apprehension of a certain bondman named—

"Stephen Holgrave!" eagerly interrupted Calverley. "Have you heard or seen any thing of him?"

"By the green wax! steward, one would think the man was your property, you seem so anxious—but now tell me has any thing been ever heard of him?"

"No, not a syllable;" replied Calverley in almost a fever of excitement, "but be quick, and say what you know?"

"Not so fast, Master Calverley. Did you ever send in the direction of Dean Forest?"

"Yes, yes, many times," answered the impatient steward; "and we offered a large reward to any one who would give information of his retreat?"

"A very pretty method, truly! You know not the miners and forgers of Dean Forest!—why I would stake a noble to a silver-penny, that if you had discovered he was hidden there, and legally demanded him, he would be popped down in a bucket, to the bottom of some mine, where, even the art of Master Calverley could not have dragged him to the light of day until the Forest was clear of the pack:—but, however, to speak to the point," perceiving that the steward's patience was well nigh exhausted—"I saw Stephen Holgrave yesterday, in the Forest."

"And did you not arrest him?"

"No, no, steward—Black Jack is not so sick of his life as to throw himself into a furnace. There were not less than one hundred smiths and miners about him; and woe be to the man who should stir their ire."

"I shall back to Sudley," cried the steward, hastily, "and my lord will reclaim him."

"But, steward, surely it is more than a year and a day since I heard the shouting of the hue and cry; and you know the Forest of Dean is privileged. I'll warrant he knows too much of the bondage of Sudley to venture beyond its precincts."

Calverley did not reply to the interrogatory or allusion, but persisted in saying that the baron would claim the bondman, and that the ranger of the Forest durst not dispute the demand: and, besides, should it be necessary, a royal mandate could be procured.

Black Jack was for an instant vexed, that Calverley did not require his assistance; but, shrewdly guessing that the steward wished to have as little to do with him as possible, and also conscious how small chance there was of succeeding by the direct mode, he laughed within himself at the probability that, after failing to accomplish the object he seemed so much to desire, Calverley would, ultimately, be compelled to apply to him. Indeed, had not the steward's mind been so entirely engrossed by the thoughts of Holgrave, he could not have failed to remark how quickly the foreman, from offering the strongest objections to the plan he proposed adopting, agreed with him that it was the wisest and best.

"But, Master Calverley," said Black Jack, as the former abruptly rose to depart, "is my intelligence worth nothing, setting aside the actual loss I have sustained by sitting for four hours spending my money in this room, when I ought to have been fishing about for jobs?"

"O yes, I had forgotten," (drawing out his purse, and presenting a mark to the foreman);—"I could not expect you could have troubled yourself in this affair without payment;—are you satisfied?"

"Yes, yes," he replied, grumblingly, as he pocketed the coin, "Black Jack is easily satisfied."

"And so is the cormorant," muttered Calverley, as he closed the door after him, and hastened to remount his horse.

Supper was served up in the hall ere Calverley had returned to the castle, and he paused a few moments to consider whether he should immediately impart what he had heard, or defer the communication until the banquet were ended; but this hesitation did not arise from any delicacy he felt in disturbing the social enjoyment of the hour, but guests had arrived that morning, and Calverley, ever since the loss of his ear, had been very reluctant to appear before strangers. But the recollection of his mutilation, thus forced upon his mind, instantly decided him. The delay of a single hour might enable Holgrave to leave the forest; for who could say that it was his intention to make the place a permanent residence? He, therefore, instantly changed his riding dress for one more adapted for the occasion, and placing a black velvet cap on his head (for we have before observed it was his peculiar privilege to remain always covered), without a moment's delay he proceeded to the hall, and entering it through the upper door, stood at a little distance behind De Boteler's chair, awaiting until the baron's eye should fall upon him. De Boteler presently turning to give some order to a page, Calverley took the opportunity to approach, and, bowing, said softly, "My lord, I have heard tidings of Stephen Holgrave."

De Boteler's colour deepened as he made some hasty exclamation in reply, but the duties of hospitality were paramount at that moment, and shortly saying he would attend to him another time, Calverley retired.

Isabella's quick eye had observed the action of Calverley and the momentary embarrassment of De Boteler; and as the idea of her lost child was connected with every thing strange or doubtful that she saw, her mind was instantly filled with a thousand surmises.—Had any trace of Holgrave been discovered? Had the obstinate monk made any disclosure that Calverley, by some fortunate chance might have become acquainted with? These, and a variety of other conjectures, possessing less colour of reason, so much engrossed her thoughts, that she could scarcely command her feelings sufficiently to pay that graceful and courteous attention to her guests, for which she was in general so much distinguished. No opportunity, however, offered of satisfying her curiosity until the guests had retired for the night; and then, upon entering the ante-room of her chamber, De Boteler was sitting listening to the steward's statement.

"Isabella," said the baron, as she entered, "Calverley has ascertained the retreat of Stephen Holgrave." She had anticipated something of the kind; but the effect it produced was singular. An electrical thrill seemed to vibrate through her frame, and a sudden coldness chilled her brow; but ere it could have been said that her cheek was pale, the whole countenance was suffused with a deepened glow, and rallying her energies, she asked, with assumed composure, "where he was hidden?"

"In the Forest of Dean," replied De Boteler; "and Calverley has every reason to suppose he has been concealed there since he left Sudley."

"Did not the hue and cry pass through the forest?"

"Yes, Isabella; but, by my faith, it seems they are such sturdy knaves in that forest, that even the promise of reward has no effect upon them."

"Then they must be compelled to surrender the bondman.—Calverley," continued the lady, turning to the steward; "can you rely on your information?"

Calverley replied in the affirmative: and then, on a motion from Isabella, withdrew.

"My lord, you will give proper instructions," resumed Isabella, in a tone that seemed to imply she expected the most rigorous measures to be adopted.

"I am afraid, Isabella," replied De Boteler, "that the knave has escaped us. Dean Forest is a royal demesne, and a bondman, remaining unclaimed, in such a place, for a year and a day, can claim the privilege of a king's villein."

"Roland de Boteler, do you intend to submit?—but you have not a mother's feelings!"

"There can be no reasons for the suspicions you still entertain," replied the baron, with more seriousness than he had spoken before. "The knave has been punished enough. There was no great matter of crime after all in burning the house—it was his own—aye, as much as this castle is mine. And do you think that any chance would ever make me consider that another had a better right to this building than I?—If I could have got hold of him at the time I would—but now, let it pass—an obstinate spirit like his, is better away. You see what we obtained by imprisoning the monk—the whole barony up in arms in a rescue! and the bravest retainer in my castle killed by the club of the audacious smith! But that shall not pass so easily—for, by my faith, if I light upon that meddling varlet ten years hence, he shall hang as high as gibbet can raise him. I repeat," continued he, in a determined tone, "that I will not interfere" and, rising hastily; as if he meant to escape from the argument, he left the room.

There might be one reason found for the more merciful feelings De Boteler evinced on this occasion, when it is said that he was on the eve of departing for London to join the Duke of Gloucester, who was preparing to make an incursion into France. The idea, no doubt, of again treading the French soil, recalled to his mind the service which the fugitive Holgrave, had performed. The baroness, however, did not appear to heed the decisive tone of her lord; for, with the wilfulness of her sex, she determined that his departure should be the signal for commencing operations.

Immediately upon De Boteler's departure, which occurred in a few days, measures were taken to procure a royal grant of the villein to his late lord; and upon the instant of its being obtained, Calverley, attended by about a score of retainers, left the castle, without the slightest apprehension for his personal safety, or the most distant fear that his application would fail.

On arrival, his errand was made known to Neville, the deputy constable of St. Briavel's, who readily attended him with his men. As they rode towards the foundry, which had been indicated as the place of Holgrave's employment, a suppressed murmur from the trees by the road side attracted the constable's attention, and it was said by those nearest, that he gave a significant smile as he passed. The party dismounted at the foundry, and on entering, Holgrave was observed standing close to the forge, surrounded by about a dozen smiths. Neville smiled as he addressed Holgrave.

"I am commanded," said he, "by King Edward, to deliver you to the Lord de Boteler's steward. Here is the royal mandate;" and he drew from his pocket a parchment bearing the privy signature.

"And here," said Calverley, unfolding the royal grant, "is the deed that transfers the king's villein to his late and rightful lord."

"Master Neville," said Holgrave, "can the king's grant make a freeman a slave? or can the king's order give you authority to molest a man who has committed no crime? I owe no fealty to King Edward, except as a freeman, and as you yourself are bound to do. I stand here as free as any man of you, and no one shall compel me to become a slave.—But it is to you, foul murderer!" glancing fiercely on Calverley, who shrank from his gaze—"it is to you I owe this! Were my poor mother's death, my own ruin, and the loss of my farm and my home, not enough, that you continue to hunt me down like a wild beast?"

"Honest man," said Neville, mildly, "you are described in the king's writ as a bondman of his grace; and two men have this day deposed that you acknowledged yourself as Lord de Boteler's villein, and swore fealty to him in his own court."

"They lie, Master Neville! Bring them here, and I will maintain, in combat against them both, that they have sworn falsely."

"It was not to parley you came here, Sir Constable," said Calverley, "but to fulfil the king's command. This bondman, you must have been aware before-hand, would attempt to deny his bondage, like any other of his class who break their bonds."

"The king's order shall be obeyed to the letter, sir," replied Neville, as he looked somewhat contemptuously at Calverley, from whom he did not expect so abrupt an address; and then, gently taking the unresisting hand of Holgrave, placed it in that of the steward. A shout of pain from Calverley declared the cordiality of the gripe with which he was favoured by his enemy, and he withdrew his crushed fingers, amidst the cheers and shouts of the spectators.

"Now, steward," resumed the constable, "Mark Neville has performed the king's commands as a loyal subject, and it remains with you to do the rest."

"And do you not intend to give me safe conduct through the forest, Master Neville?" asked Calverley, with some alarm—"this is a part of your duty. You are bound to convey this bondman to the verge of the forest, and you are also bound to prevent any inhabitant of it from abetting his cause."

"Read this warrant," replied Neville: "is there a syllable there of safe conduct? I am ordered to deliver up the man—I have done so; and now I wish you good even, and a pleasant ride back."

A loud laugh from the smiths followed this speech; and Calverley, now overcome by personal apprehensions, caught the constable's arm as he was passing through the doorway, and inquired, if he really imagined he was complying with the royal mandate by such a mockery.

"It is no mockery, steward—I have done my duty; and if you cannot do yours, is it my fault?" And then, shaking off Calverley's grasp, he mounted his horse, and with his attendants, amidst deafening cheers, took the road to the castle.

Calverley's eyes turned in the direction of the shout, and a mass of living beings, variously armed, were seen swarming from the adjacent wood, and rushing on to the foundry. He remembered that he had not more than twenty to oppose to this multitude; and his heart died within him as he saw the glowing cheek and derisive smile of Holgrave, and thought that now was the moment for his revenge. In an instant, not only was the foundry filled with the men, but the window and doorway were darkened with their black heads without.

Calverley was now forced to assume a courage which he did not feel; and looking sternly around, he asked, in as firm a voice as he could command, why he was thus surrounded? or whether they intended to make him a prisoner?

"No, steward," said the spokesman of the smiths, "you are no prisoner—you are at liberty to go as soon as you like; and I would advise you, as a friend, to go quickly, for we men of the forest are not like your Sudley folk." Calverley, in some measure, re-assured by the unexpected mildness of this reply, quickly said,

"I have no wish to remain longer—give me free passage with this bondman, and I shall instantly depart."

"Bondman!" exclaimed Holgrave, raising his clenched hand, but he did not strike—"lying craven!"

"I tell you, steward," said the smith who had before spoken, and stepping so near Calverley that he involuntarily drew back, "if you prize your life, you will call no man here a bondman. I am free—that man is free—" pointing to Holgrave, "and we are all free—all sworn brothers; and no one shall dare," raising his voice, "to brand, with such a name, a mother's son among us! You have received fair warning, and leave to go: retire now—instantly, if you are wise! Clear a passage there for my Lord de Boteler's steward! There is now room for you to pass—your retainers are waiting without—and now take the man you call a bondman, and away with you all. What! you will not lay hold of him? Take him, I say!" elevating his voice—"seize the villein, and drag him back to his bondage! What! not a finger, after all the trouble you have taken?—then, away with you alone!—away!" And Calverley, from the mere instinct of obedience to a superior power, moved towards the door. "And if ever," continued the smith, "you are found hunting in this forest again for bondmen, as you call them, we may chance to give you a lodging where you will have little reason to complain that the sun shines too brightly!"

Calverley made no reply; but, without looking either at Holgrave, or the man who had so fiercely and tauntingly addressed him, took the advantage offered—passed through the door of the foundry, and through the yielding ranks of sneerers and jibers outside; and mounting his horse, galloped rapidly away from the scene of his defeat, with the shout of a hue and cry following his track as far as the foresters considered their legitimate domain.