The Black Arrow: A Tale of the Two Roses
Page 12
CHAPTER II
THE TWO OATHS
Sir Daniel was in the hall; there he paced angrily before the fire,awaiting Dick's arrival. None was by except Sir Oliver, and he satdiscreetly backward, thumbing and muttering over his breviary.
"Y' have sent for me, Sir Daniel?" said young Shelton.
"I have sent for you, indeed," replied the knight. "For what cometh tomine ears? Have I been to you so heavy a guardian that ye make haste tocredit ill of me? Or sith that ye see me, for the nonce, some worsted,do ye think to quit my party? By the mass, your father was not so! Thosehe was near, those he stood by, come wind or weather. But you, Dick,y'are a fair-day friend, it seemeth, and now seek to clear yourself ofyour allegiance."
"An't please you, Sir Daniel, not so," returned Dick, firmly. "I amgrateful and faithful, where gratitude and faith are due. And beforemore is said, I thank you, and I thank Sir Oliver; y' have great claimsupon me both--none can have more; I were a hound if I forgot them."
"It is well," said Sir Daniel; and then, rising into anger: "Gratitudeand faith are words, Dick Shelton," he continued; "but I look to deeds.In this hour of my peril, when my name is attainted, when my lands areforfeit, when this wood is full of men that hunger and thirst for mydestruction, what doth gratitude? what doth faith? I have but a littlecompany remaining; is it grateful or faithful to poison me their heartswith your insidious whisperings? Save me from such gratitude! But, come,now, what is it ye wish? Speak; we are here to answer. If ye have aughtagainst me, stand forth and say it."
"Sir," replied Dick, "my father fell when I was yet a child. It hathcome to mine ears that he was foully done by. It hath come to mineears--for I will not dissemble--that ye had a hand in his undoing. Andin all verity, I shall not be at peace in mine own mind, nor very clearto help you, till I have certain resolution of these doubts."
Sir Daniel sat down in a deep settle. He took his chin in his hand andlooked at Dick fixedly.
"And ye think I would be guardian to the man's son that I had murdered?"he asked.
"Nay," said Dick, "pardon me if I answer churlishly; but indeed ye knowright well a wardship is most profitable. All these years have ye notenjoyed my revenues, and led my men? Have ye not still my marriage? Iwot not what it may be worth--it is worth something. Pardon me again;but if ye were base enough to slay a man under trust, here were,perhaps, reasons enough to move you to the lesser baseness."
"When I was a lad of your years," returned Sir Daniel, sternly, "my mindhad not so turned upon suspicions. And Sir Oliver here," he added, "whyshould he, a priest, be guilty of this act?"
"Nay, Sir Daniel," said Dick, "but where the master biddeth there willthe dog go. It is well known this priest is but your instrument. I speakvery freely; the time is not for courtesies. Even as I speak, so would Ibe answered. And answer get I none! Ye but put more questions. I rede yebe ware, Sir Daniel; for in this way ye will but nourish and not satisfymy doubts."
"I will answer you fairly, Master Richard," said the knight. "Were I topretend ye have not stirred my wrath, I were no honest man. But I willbe just even in anger. Come to me with these words when y'are grown andcome to man's estate, and I am no longer your guardian, and so helplessto resent them. Come to me then, and I will answer you as ye merit, witha buffet in the mouth. Till then ye have two courses: either swallow medown these insults, keep a silent tongue, and fight in the meanwhile forthe man that fed and fought for your infancy; or else--the door standethopen, the woods are full of mine enemies--go."
The spirit with which these words were uttered, the looks with whichthey were accompanied, staggered Dick; and yet he could not but observethat he had got no answer.
"I desire nothing more earnestly, Sir Daniel, than to believe you," hereplied. "Assure me ye are free from this."
"Will ye take my word of honour, Dick?" inquired the knight.
"That would I," answered the lad.
"I give it you," returned Sir Daniel. "Upon my word of honour, upon theeternal welfare of my spirit, and as I shall answer for my deedshereafter, I had no hand nor portion in your father's death."
He extended his hand, and Dick took it eagerly. Neither of them observedthe priest, who, at the pronunciation of that solemn and false oath, hadhalf arisen from his seat in an agony of horror and remorse.
"Ah," cried Dick, "ye must find it in your great-heartedness to pardonme! I was a churl, indeed, to doubt of you. But ye have my hand upon it;I will doubt no more."
"Nay, Dick," replied Sir Daniel, "y'are forgiven. Ye know not the worldand its calumnious nature."
"I was the more to blame," added Dick, "in that the rogues pointed, notdirectly at yourself, but at Sir Oliver."
As he spoke, he turned towards the priest, and paused in the middle ofthe last word. This tall, ruddy, corpulent, high-stepping man hadfallen, you might say, to pieces; his colour was gone, his limbs wererelaxed, his lips stammered prayers; and now, when Dick's eyes werefixed upon him suddenly, he cried out aloud, like some wild animal, andburied his face in his hands.
Sir Daniel was by him in two strides, and shook him fiercely by theshoulder. At the same moment Dick's suspicions reawakened.
"Nay," he said, "Sir Oliver may swear also. 'Twas him they accused."
"He shall swear," said the knight.
Sir Oliver speechlessly waved his arms.
"Ay, by the mass! but ye shall swear," cried Sir Daniel, beside himselfwith fury. "Here, upon this book, ye shall swear," he continued,picking up the breviary, which had fallen to the ground. "What! Ye makeme doubt you! Swear, I say; swear!"
But the priest was still incapable of speech. His terror of Sir Daniel,his terror of perjury, risen to about an equal height, strangled him.
And just then, through the high, stained-glass window of the hall, ablack arrow crashed, and struck, and stuck quivering, in the midst ofthe long table.
Sir Oliver, with a loud scream, fell fainting on the rushes; while theknight, followed by Dick, dashed into the court and up the nearestcorkscrew stair to the battlements. The sentries were all on the alert.The sun shone quietly on green lawns dotted with trees, and on thewooded hills of the forest which enclosed the view. There was no sign ofa besieger.
"Whence came that shot?" asked the knight.
"From yonder clump, Sir Daniel," returned a sentinel.
The knight stood a little, musing. Then he turned to Dick. "Dick," hesaid, "keep me an eye upon these men; I leave you in charge here. As forthe priest, he shall clear himself, or I will know the reason why. I doalmost begin to share in your suspicions. He shall swear, trust me, orwe shall prove him guilty."
Dick answered somewhat coldly, and the knight, giving him a piercingglance, hurriedly returned to the hall. His first glance was for thearrow. It was the first of these missiles he had seen, and as he turnedit to and fro, the dark hue of it touched him with some fear. Againthere was some writing: one word--"Earthed."
"Ay," he broke out, "they know I am home, then. Earthed! Ay, but thereis not a dog among them fit to dig me out."
Sir Oliver had come to himself, and now scrambled to his feet.
"Alack, Sir Daniel!" he moaned, "y' 'ave sworn a dread oath; y'aredoomed to the end of time."
"Ay," returned the knight, "I have sworn an oath, indeed, thouchucklehead; but thyself shalt swear a greater. It shall be on theblessed cross of Holywood. Look to it; get the words ready. It shall besworn to-night."
"Now, may Heaven lighten you!" replied the priest; "may Heaven inclineyour heart from this iniquity!"
"Look you, my good father," said Sir Daniel, "if y'are for piety, I sayno more; ye begin late, that is all. But if y'are in any sense bentupon wisdom, hear me. This lad beginneth to irk me like a wasp. I have aneed for him, for I would sell his marriage. But I tell you, in allplainness, if that he continue to weary me, he shall go join his father.I give orders now to change him to the chamber above the chapel. If thatye can swear your innocency with a good, solid oath and an assuredcountenance, it is well; the l
ad will be at peace a little, and I willspare him. If that ye stammer or blench, or anyways boggle at theswearing, he will not believe you; and by the mass, he shall die. Thereis for your thinking on."
"The chamber above the chapel!" gasped the priest.
"That same," replied the knight. "So if ye desire to save him, save him;and if ye desire not, prithee, go to, and let me be at peace! For an Ihad been a hasty man, I would already have put my sword through you, foryour intolerable cowardice and folly. Have ye chosen? Say!"
"I have chosen," said the priest. "Heaven pardon me, I will do evil forgood. I will swear for the lad's sake."
"So is it best!" said Sir Daniel. "Send for him, then, speedily. Yeshall see him alone. Yet I shall have an eye on you. I shall be here inthe panel room."
The knight raised the arras and let it fall again behind him. There wasthe sound of a spring opening; then followed the creaking of trodstairs.
Sir Oliver, left alone, cast a timorous glance upward at thearras-covered wall, and crossed himself with every appearance of terrorand contrition.
"Nay, if he is in the chapel room," the priest murmured, "were it at mysoul's cost, I must save him."
Three minutes later, Dick, who had been summoned by another messenger,found Sir Oliver standing by the hall table, resolute and pale.
"Richard Shelton," he said, "ye have required an oath from me. I mightcomplain, I might deny you; but my heart is moved towards you for thepast, and I will even content you as ye choose. By the true cross ofHolywood, I did not slay your father."
"Sir Oliver," returned Dick, "when first we read John Amend-All's paper,I was convinced of so much. But suffer me to put two questions. Ye didnot slay him; granted. But had ye no hand in it?"
"None," said Sir Oliver. And at the same time he began to contort hisface, and signal with his mouth and eyebrows, like one who desired toconvey a warning, yet dared not utter a sound.
Dick regarded him in wonder; then he turned and looked all about him atthe empty hall.
"What make ye?" he inquired.
"Why, naught," returned the priest, hastily smoothing his countenance."I make naught; I do but suffer; I am sick. I--I--prithee, Dick, I mustbegone. On the true cross of Holywood, I am clean innocent alike ofviolence or treachery. Content ye, good lad. Farewell!"
And he made his escape from the apartment with unusual alacrity.
Dick remained rooted to the spot, his eyes wandering about the room, hisface a changing picture of various emotions, wonder, doubt, suspicion,and amusement. Gradually, as his mind grew clearer, suspicion took theupper hand, and was succeeded by certainty of the worst. He raised hishead, and, as he did so, violently started. High upon the wall there wasthe figure of a savage hunter woven in the tapestry. With one hand heheld a horn to his mouth; in the other he brandished a stout spear. Hisface was dark, for he was meant to represent an African.
Now, here was what had startled Richard Shelton. The sun had moved awayfrom the hall windows, and at the same time the fire had blazed up highon the wide hearth, and shed a changeful glow upon the roof andhangings. In this light the figure of the black hunter had winked at himwith a white eyelid.
He continued staring at the eye. The light shone upon it like a gem; itwas liquid, it was alive. Again the white eyelid closed upon it for afraction of a second, and the next moment it was gone.
There could be no mistake. The live eye that had been watching himthrough a hole in the tapestry was gone. The firelight no longer shoneon a reflecting surface.
And instantly Dick awoke to the terrors of his position. Hatch'swarning, the mute signals of the priest, this eye that had observed himfrom the wall, ran together in his mind. He saw he had been put upon histrial, that he had once more betrayed his suspicions, and that, short ofsome miracle, he was lost.
"If I cannot get me forth out of this house," he thought, "I am deadman! And this poor Matcham, too--to what a cockatrice's nest have I notled him!"
He was still so thinking, when there came one in haste, to bid him helpin changing his arms, his clothing, and his two or three books, to a newchamber.
"A new chamber?" he repeated. "Wherefore so? What chamber?"
"'Tis one above the chapel," answered the messenger.
"It hath stood long empty," said Dick, musing. "What manner of room isit?"
"Nay, a brave room," returned the man. "But yet"--lowering hisvoice--"they call it haunted."
"Haunted?" repeated Dick, with a chill. "I have not heard of it. Nay,then, and by whom?"
The messenger looked about him; and then, in a low whisper, "By thesacrist of St. John's," he said. "They had him there to sleep one night,and in the morning--whew!--he was gone. The devil had taken him, theysaid; the more betoken, he had drunk late the night before."
Dick followed the man with black forebodings.