CHAPTER XXIX. HOW THERE'S NO CLOUD WITHOUT ITS SILVER LINING.

As soon as Ralph saw all was quiet, he made up his mind he would return to the boat to put on the rest of his armour and get some food.

The moon was shining brightly, and away in the north-east the faint pale light above the horizon told of the coming dawn. It was an exquisite summer night. The sea mist had gone inland to refresh the orchards and meadows of the rich valleys and uplands of fair Normandy and rocky Brittany. The long, quaint shadows of the grim boulders, and weird piles of granite, stretched across the white sand of the vast bay. Their rugged clefts and fantastic fissures, in black distinctness against the gleaming light which bathed their southern slope, lifting their hoary, weather-worn summits to the full brilliancy of the moon, and in turn throwing their twice borrowed light across the beach and prostrate forms of the sleeping men-at-arms. Away on the far edge of the bay the leaping flash of tumbling water told of the sea, whose tranquil depths seemed as far removed from that sleeping shore, and those towering piles of crumbling rock, as the fullness of summer from the barrenness of winter.

The only living thing seemed to be the solitary man-at-arms as he rested on his long spear, his shadow stretching behind him in grotesque distortion--the man a pair of compasses, the lance a scaffolding pole.

The distant crow of a cock, and the faint moan of the ceaseless sea grinding on the rocks far out in the bay were the only sounds that broke on the perfect stillness of that exquisite harmony in silver and grey.

But Ralph gave scarce a thought to the poetry of the scene, he quietly clambered down on the shady side of the rocks, and stealthily creeping over the sand under shelter of the long shadows of the pile he had left, he was able to reach the farther side of the mass of rocks which had proved fatal to their escape, without the sentry seeing him.

Pausing a moment to look round before he climbed up the steep and slippery boulders, on the apex of which the old boat was perched, some thirty feet or more above his head like a miniature Noah's ark on the sunken top of another Ararat. Ralph's attention was attracted by a white patch some ten or twelve yards away to his right. He looked at it attentively, and with a growing sense of dread. Drawn irresistibly towards it by a horrible fascination, Ralph found it was the face of Bowerman, ghastly and contorted, his body being wedged in between two huge rocks, where the sweep of the tide had washed it. Hastily leaving the place, the boy climbed up to the boat, and managed to get out the things he wanted without being observed. Armed with his sword and dagger, and protected by his helmet and body armour, he descended the rocks, edging carefully away from the livid face, which gazed out from the dark mass, and reached his former post of observation without incident.

The day had now begun to break, and objects were becoming visible. There was no stir as yet among the detachment on the beach, who were still sound asleep, their horses tethered and browsing on the scanty growth of herbage which cropped up here and there amid the sand and dry seaweed.

The pile of rocks where Ralph was ensconced was higher than any others near, and from its summit the boy obtained a fine view over the country round.

The sun had not yet risen, and a mist still hung over the land.

Not far off, however, Ralph saw a horse feeding, fully equipped, but without a rider. "It must be one broken away from the rest," he thought, and the idea came into his head that he would catch the animal and make use of him.

He was just going to climb down to carry out his plan when his attention was arrested by some moving object away to his right. He had now turned round, and was looking in the direction of St Malo. He could not mistake the objects. They were spear points, and the little pennants were fluttering in the light morning air.

"'Tis lucky I saw them before I moved. They must be the lances of another body of French men-at-arms."

So thinking, Ralph lay still, not overmuch liking his position, for he was now almost certain to be descried as this new troop came near.

The sun was just rising, and its first rays were glinting on each rock and tree and distant church spire, which stood out above the mist. Ralph watched the approaching spear points. He could not yet see the riders.

He turned round to look at the little encampment There was already a stir. Men were up and grooming their horses; others were stretching themselves; all was noise and life. Ralph could see Magdalen sitting disconsolately by her father, and glancing round from time to time to examine their captors.

The breeze blew straight from the camp to the advancing body of men, and the bustle and stir was carried down the wind.

"They have halted," thought Ralph, seeing the spears did not advance any nearer. "But here comes some one. How warily he comes. Why! No! Yes! Can it be? They must have put on the surcoats of some of our poor fellows. They've got red crosses!"

And Ralph, with renewed interest, watched the movements of the man-at-arms or mounted archer, who was riding out of the mist with great caution, putting every bush and rock between himself and the place whence the sounds came.

"Why, there's another away to the left, and here's another. They are masters in their work, anyway," muttered Ralph, as he watched the picturesque figures, fully accoutred, and well mounted, pushing their small horses over the coarse grass. The boy was so intent on the motions of these men that he did not give sufficient care to cover himself, and he was suddenly startled by the nearest horseman reining in his horse and dropping the reins, while he took deliberate aim at him with the crossbow he held ready at his hip, calling at the same time,--

"Come down, thou French jackanapes thou, or I'll--"

Ralph needed no second bidding.

"They are English; they are English," he almost screamed with delight, as he scrambled over the boulders, and at length stood by the side of the archer.

It took but few words to tell the scout who he was, and what was going on, and in another minute Ralph found himself amid a group of splendid knights and men-at-arms, with a strong force of archers on foot and horseback behind them.

"What!" said a cheery voice. "Whom have we here? As I live, 'tis my young hero of the lists at Carisbrooke. Marry, and I am right glad."

Ralph had turned to the speaker, and was rejoiced to find it was no other than Sir Richard Cornwall. After the greetings were over, he explained briefly how urgent the need was for pressing on at once, and cutting off the retreat of the Frenchmen with their prisoners, and in a few minutes more the young esquire had the delight of being mounted on a stout horse, armed with a lance, and riding in the front rank of the men-at-arms between Sir Richard Cornwall and Lord Broke, who were listening to his account of the battle of St Aubin du Cormier, and all that had happened since, and learnt in his turn of how it came about that the English troops were there.

It seemed that the news of the disaster which had occurred in Brittany was at first disbelieved in the Isle of Wight. The catastrophe was too awful for any one to believe. At last, as more certain news arrived, and there was no longer any room to doubt, the distress was terrible. Depopulated as the island had been previously, and just as it was now recovering its prosperity under the able rule of Sir Edward Woodville, assisted by the favourable treaties of peace with France and the Low Countries, this sudden calamity plunged the whole island into despair. There was scarcely a family, rich or poor, who had not lost some relative; and the total absence of any particulars made it all the more distressing. No one knew whether their relations were dead or not. At first it was reported that every man was killed, but a later account said that it was believed some few were alive, desperately wounded, and like to die, but as no names were mentioned, the anxiety and doubt were only rendered all the more acute.

As soon as Henry VII. heard of the disaster, he despatched at once Robert Lord Broke, Sir John Cheney, Sir Richard Cornwall, and many more "lusty and courageous captaynes," with eight thousand men-at-arms. But, like many other recent English expeditions, the force arrived too late, and although the troops were of the best quality, there was not enough of them.

It was a detachment of these troops that Ralph fell in with. Lord Broke having only arrived two days before at St Malo, and having taken the earliest opportunity of making a reconnaissance in force.

The knowledge of the arrival of these reinforcements had spurred Bowerman on to greater activity, for he knew if he did not discover the whereabouts of the fugitives before the English arrived, he would not be able to do so afterwards.

Acting on the knowledge of the country, and position of the French troops, which Ralph possessed from his survey that morning, Lord Broke kept his men out of sight of the French, and sent a detachment round in order to cut off all retreat.

Ralph having dismounted, had approached cautiously, and looking round a rock, saw the enemy happily engaged in preparing their breakfast. So utterly unconscious were they of any foe near, that many of them had not put on their heavier armour.

"Marry, they are not worth lance thrust," said Sir Richard Cornwall in contempt. "'Twill be but an idle slaughter. 'Tis a pity we cannot give them warning."

The knight and the esquire having made their report, Lord Broke gave orders to advance upon the enemy. The movement was executed with such precision and rapidity, that no resistance was offered by the astonished French men-at-arms. Ralph had galloped straight for Sir George Lisle and Magdalen, and stood by them until all chance of harm was over, and as soon as the prisoners were disarmed, and the column reformed, he led them to Lord Broke.

This nobleman had known Sir George Lisle in former days, and was well acquainted with his history. He would much rather not have fallen in with him, for his safety was probably greater in the French army than as a Yorkist prisoner in the hands of one of Henry the Seventh's captains. But having heard from Ralph how he had tried to save the life of the Captain of the Wight at the imminent risk of his own, Lord Broke hoped he might be able to plead this service with Henry.

He received Sir George Lisle therefore very courteously, but intimated that he must still consider himself a prisoner.

Mistress Lisle was treated with every courtesy, and the rescued English were sent under a guard to St Malo.

As Ralph Lisle was, so far as was known, the only survivor of the luckless expedition under Sir Edward Woodville, he was ordered by Lord Broke to return at once to England; and Sir George Lisle and his daughter were also sent back in the same ship.

Lord Broke forwarded very favourable reports of the young esquire, and also strong recommendations to mercy on behalf of Sir George Lisle, who, seeing how hopeless were the aims of the Yorkist party, and conscious of the treachery that was going on within their ranks,--weary of the world, and sick at heart of his conduct towards his wife, as well as of his unjust suspicions of the Captain of the Wight, determined, if his life were spared, to become a monk, like an ancestor of his who had founded, and himself became the first arch-priest of, the little Oratory of Barton. Lord Broke, knowing this resolve, mentioned it as a further inducement to obtaining the royal pardon. However, on the arrival of the ship at Southampton, Sir George Lisle was taken at once to Winchester Castle, and kept there a close prisoner of state until the royal pleasure was known.

Magdalen Lisle was not allowed to be with her father. Ralph promised he would take her to her grandfather at Briddlesford; and the same day that Sir George Lisle was carried off under a strong guard to Winchester, he and his cousin sailed for Wootton Creek.

The news of the arrival of the only survivors of the expedition caused much stir, and Ralph found himself a greater hero than he had any wish to be.

Fortunately for him it was expected he would come to Newport, and so he was enabled to reach Briddlesford unmolested.

He dreaded the meeting with his relatives, as indeed he would have avoided, had it been possible, coming to the island at all. So many painful memories would be stirred by the sight of the sorrow-stricken people; but he had his duty to perform, and must go through with it.

His meeting with old Sir William was easily got over. The old knight welcomed him heartily, and was evidently prepared to take to his grandchild Magdalen. Ralph was rejoiced to see this, for he had rather feared a stern reception for the poor desolate child, who had seen so much hardship in her young life, and had had so little of the pleasures of youth. However, events had occurred of which Ralph knew nothing. After the greetings were over, and Magdalen felt a little less strange, the old man said,--

"Now, my son, thou must see Yolande; she is awaiting thee in the parlour yonder."

Ralph passed across the hall, and paused at the door of the little room. He tapped timidly. A low voice answered "Come in," and Ralph entered.

He found his cousin sitting in a deep window-seat, the last glow of the setting sun streaming in through the narrow quarries of ill-made glass. The autumn tints were already blending with the still deep green of the thick oak woods. Along the valley the evening mist was rising, and the knell of the Abbey bell came deep sounding over the hills and water between.

"Ralph, my brave cousin, welcome back home," said the low sweet voice of Yolande.

Ralph could not speak for a moment or two. He crossed the room, and taking the hand of his cousin, which she held out to him, he bent down and pressed it to his lips. The action recalled that happiest moment of his life, when in the hall of Carisbrooke he had received the prize of the tourney amid the congratulations of that gay assembly, of which scarce a man was left alive.

The recollection was too much.

They neither of them spoke for some minutes.

When Ralph had mastered his emotion, he began to talk to his cousin, he hardly knew what; but he felt confused, excited. Her very appearance shocked him. So much had Yolande altered since last she bid good-bye to that gallant band who had so joyously gone forth to seek name and fame and fortune in the sunny land of France.

Her lovely complexion was still there. Her eyes were larger and more meltingly blue, but her cheeks were thinner, and her youthful bloom and freshness were gone. Her lips had lost their fullness, and her figure its bewitching softness. Suffering and grief were in her face and in her deep black dress.

As the young moon rose over the russet oaks, and the still landscape made its subtle beauty felt, Yolande, who had hitherto said nothing, but let Ralph babble on, whispered quietly, "Tell me."

Ralph knew well what she meant. He told her all, even the words he heard the Captain of the Wight say as he lay dying on the battlefield.

Yolande listened. She made no sound. When he had finished, she simply said, "Where there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage, but we are as the angels of God in heaven. Yea, I knew it could never be. How nobly he died--" and then she remained silent for a while.

Ralph said nothing. Presently he said in a low, half-timid tone,--

"Yolande, thou art not vexed with me? I tried to do my duty. I would willingly have died so he could have lived."

"My noble boy, I know it. Art not thou the hero, the knight? I know thou foughtest as none could fight better. 'Twas God's doing. But he hath been faithful unto death--" and then she mused again.

After a long pause, Ralph said,--

"Cousin Yolande," but no answer came. Ralph looked round. His cousin was kneeling in the darkling room. The pale light of the young moon fell upon her crown of golden hair, which curled and waved about her face and over her shoulders. Her hands were clasped, and her eyes were shut, and behind was the dark room, and above the pale calm moon.

Ralph spoke no more. He gazed upon her in wondering admiration. How very beautiful she was. How very unearthly she looked. He knew his boyish dream was over. He knew her heart was buried in the little churchyard of St Aubin beside the unknown grave of the good knight, Sir Edward Woodville, sometime Lord and Captain of the Isle of Wight.

As the moon rose higher, its light fell on a polished shield behind Yolande's face, and the startling brilliancy of her ethereal head against the shining metal, while all the rest of her figure was in darkness, made her look like some saint with a glowing halo round her.

Presently she rose from her knees, kissed Ralph with a sisterly kiss, and said in a calm, soft voice,--

"Cousin mine, I have vowed myself to God. Henceforth I belong not to this world."

Ralph bowed his head over her long thin hand, and pressed it to his lips. He could say nothing.

In another few minutes a step was heard outside, and old Sir William Lisle entered the room, attended by Magdalen carrying a lighted sconce. Yolande at once resumed her tranquil every-day manner, and placed her father's chair beside Ralph. The old man sat down heavily, with a little sigh.

"So, Ralph, thou art getting on right well, I hear. That's well. But thou must not think of parting yet. The good folks up to Thruxton can spare thee a while longer. There's Magdalen here will want thee to ride over the country side, and 'tis thou must see to her, since she's seen so well to thee. Turn and turn about, say I."

And so they talked of other things, but Ralph could only think of his cousin, and wished he was lying in far St Aubin churchyard.

But what Sir William Lisle had said was very true. Magdalen Lisle had seen very well to Ralph, and it was to her sharp wits and ready hands he owed his life.

Hitherto they had been like brother and sister; but as Ralph grew stronger, Magdalen's manner slightly changed. She became shyer, more reserved.

Yolande had taken at once to the child, and they spent much of their time at the little nunnery of Appuldurcombe, where sister Agnes was allowed to see her daughter.

Ralph had been to Newport, and after seeing the relatives of nearly all who had fallen, and gone over the events of the battle until he was utterly wearied, he thought he would set off for Thruxton. While he was thinking of this, sitting listlessly at the hall door, and idling with a pretty goshawk, a figure rode up the rough road across the meadow in front of the manor. Ralph looked up. Not many strangers passed this way. The figure came nearer. Who could it be? It looked like a well-known face--and could it be? Surely that was the voice of one he ought to know?

"Well, Ralph, I'm parlous sorry to claim my bird, but I didn't think I should want it again, and it was only given with an 'if,' you know."

Ralph sprang to his feet.

"What! Dicky!" he cried in amaze.

"Marry, yes, that's my name, if you are very familiar, otherwise I am called Richard Cheke, Esquire, or Master Richard Cheke; but don't let us be too formal."

"Why, Dicky, however did you come to life again?" cried Ralph, utterly astounded. "You're not a ghost, are you?"--for Dicky did look very ill and thin.

"Don't call a fellow names, Ralph Lisle; you did not use to do so. I fear you have learnt bad manners since I have been away. It's well for you I've come back. But there's no time to be lost. Let me have something to eat, for I am parlous hungry."

And so Dicky Cheke really had returned. He gave an amusing account of his escape. It appeared that during the night some of the ghouls, who live by stripping the dead, took off his armour. The next morning he recovered consciousness, and when they were searching the field to bury the chief knights and lords, Dicky, thanks to his bad French, pretended to be a Breton. He was taken to a neighbouring cottage, and was carefully nursed by a kind peasant, who, believing him to be a young Breton of a noble family--for Dicky had quickness enough to pass himself off as a kinsman of poor young De Rohan--took great care of him, and he was eventually able to get to Rennes, which still held out for the Duke of Brittany, and from there his return was an easy matter. He fell in with Lord Broke, who rewarded the peasant, and sent Dicky over to the island as soon as possible.

Great were the rejoicings over Dicky, and the natural self-complacency of that young gentleman was considerably increased. He became a great hero in Newport, and was a very popular character throughout the island.

It was said that he paid considerable attentions to Mistress Magdalen Lisle, now not only the greatest heiress, but declared by those who admired brunettes the loveliest girl in the island.

He still resented that young lady having called him a "tom-tit," but was willing to forgive her if she would consent to share his nest. But report said that Mistress Lisle was waiting for someone else.

Ralph went back to Thruxton, and lived for some years with his father and mother, when the former died full of years and honour. Jasper came into the property. Ralph, now Sir Ralph Lisle, had previously been invited over to Briddlesford, and before old Sir William Lisle died, he had the satisfaction to know that the Knight, for whom his daughter waited, had arrived at last.

When Yolande heard of it--for Ralph rode over to Appuldurcombe to tell her--she said,--

"Ah, I told you true! Do you mind my saying--'When you reach the years of manhood, and are of an age to marry, the lady of your choice will be one who is now a girl of just that little one's age?' That little one was my niece, albeit I knew it not, and now you are of an age to marry, and she is to be your wife. So you see I was a true prophet, and you will marry the niece instead of the aunt. But why do I recall so much of the world? Go, my sweet nephew, make her as true a husband as thou hast been true knight. No more happy fate could he have wished thee than that a brave and noble man should possess the fairest lands and the fairest maid of all the fairest isle the blue seas of England gird."

And now, as old Dan Chaucer hath it, "Ther is ne moe to saie."

The Battle of St Aubin du Cormier was one of the most bloody, as well as hardest fought, as far as the vanguard of the Breton army was concerned, that ever took place on French soil. The French lost the brave James Galliot and twelve hundred men-at-arms, while the Breton army lost six thousand men, including Lord Woodville, and all those who wore red crosses; and among them the Breton nobles,--the Comtes de Leon, De Montfort, and Pont l'Abbé; while the poor young Seigneur De Rohan, who was only fifteen years old, was slain with the English pages and esquires.

The Duke of Orleans and the Prince of Orange were taken prisoners.

The latter only saved his life by throwing himself down among the Swiss infantry and pretending to be dead. He was discovered by a French archer, and sent prisoner to Lusignan. The Duke of Orleans would have been beheaded had it not been for the prayers of his deserted wife, the "good Lady Jane," daughter of Louis XI. He was imprisoned for some time, but eventually lived to marry, not only the lady who was the cause of all this strife, but also, as his second wife, the lovely young Tudor Princess, Mary, great-niece of the last Lord of the Wight, who had fought and died so valiantly by his side at St Aubin du Cormier.

The wily old Marechal de Rieux retired to Dinan, and held out there until the general pacification, which ensued soon after; while the Lord d'Albret also saved himself by flight.

The disastrous consequences of the ill-fated expedition of Sir Edward Woodville were indicated by a Statute, which was passed with a view to increasing the population. No individual was to hold a farm, or land, or tithe of more than ten marks annual value.

Sir Reginald Bray, a very distinguished soldier, and old follower of Henry VII., was sent to govern the island, but no nobleman was henceforth invested with the independent power and authority of Lord of the Wight, the future governors being styled Captains and Governors. Sir Reginald Bray was succeeded by Sir Nicholas Wadham, after whom the first of the Isle of Wight branch of the Worsley family came into the island as Captain of the Wight.

But the last Lord and Captain of the Wight died valorously in harness among his knights and esquires, in the sunny land of France, as became a valiant gentleman of England, and no man after him was ever invested with such name and state.

The End