CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

THE DAY AFTER AGINCOURT.

"Urbs Coelestis! Urbs Beata!

Super petram collocata, Urbs in portu satis tuto, De lonquinquo te saluto; Te saluto, te suspiro, Te affecto, te requiro."

Fourteen years had pa.s.sed away since the burning of the Lady Marnell. A new king had risen up, who was not a whit less harshly inclined towards the Lollards than his predecessor had been. This monarch, Henry the Fifth, of chivalrous memory, was riding over the field of Agincourt, the day after the battle, surrounded by about twenty of his n.o.bles. Behind the n.o.bles rode their squires, and all around them on the field lay the dead and dying.

"Saw you yonder knight, Master Wentworth," inquired one of the squires of his next neighbour, "that we marked a-riding down by the woody knoll to the left, shortly afore the fight? I marvel if he meant to fight."

"He had it, if he meant it not," answered the other; "the knight, you would say, who bore three silver arrows?"

"Ay, the same. What befell him?"

"A party of French skirmishers came down upon him and his squire, and they were both forced to draw sword. The knight defended himself like a gallant knight, but--our Lady aid us!--they were twelve to two, or thereabouts: it was small marvel that he fell."

"He did fall? And the squire?"

"The squire fought so bravely, that he earned well his gilded spurs.

[Gilded spurs were the mark of a knight.] He stood over his master where he fell, and I trow the French got not his body so long as the squire was alive; but I saw not the end of it, for my master bade me thence."

"I pray you," interposed a third squire, "wit you who is yon youth that rideth by the King's left hand?"

"The tall, pale, fair-haired youth on the white horse."

"He."

"That is the Lord Marnell--a new favourite."

"The Lord Marnell! Is he a kinsman of the Lady Marnell, who--"

"Hush! Yes, her son."

"His father is dead, also, then?"

"His father was beheaded about twelve years gone, on account of having taken part in a rebellion, got up by the friends of King Richard; but it was said at the time privily, that an' he had not been suspected of Lollardism, his part in the rebellion might have been forgiven."

"Where, then, dwelt this youth, his son?"

"In the North, I ween, somewhere, with his grandmother, who hath died not long since. Then the young Lord came down to seek his fortune in London and the King's Grace saw him, and fancied him."

The squires' conversation, and themselves as well, came to a sudden stop, for the King and his suite had halted in front of them.

Almost in their way, on the ground lay a wounded man. His visor was raised, and his face visible; but his surcoat was slashed and covered with mire and blood, so that the eye could no longer discern the device embroidered on it. A scallop-sh.e.l.l fastened to his helmet, intimated that he had at some past time been a pilgrim to the shrine of Saint James of Compostella; while the red cross upon his shoulder was an indisputable indication that he "came from the East Countrie." His age would have been difficult to guess. It did not seem to be years which had blanched the hair and beard, and had given to the face a wearied, travel-worn look--a look which so changed the countenance from what it might otherwise have been, that even

"--The mother that him bare, If she had been in presence there, She had not known her child." Marmion.

Close to the dying man lay, apparently, his squire--dead; and beside him was a shield, turned with its face to the ground.

"The very same knight whom we saw a-riding down the knoll!" said one of the squires, with an oath. A man was thought very pious in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries if he did not swear pretty freely.

"At least I ween it be the same--I should wit well the shield an' I could see it."

King Henry and his n.o.bles were attentively contemplating the wounded knight.

"Light down, my Lord Marnell," said the King, "and see what is the device upon yon shield. We would know which of our faithful servants we have unhappily lost."

As the King spoke, the eyes of the dying man suddenly turned to Geoffrey Marnell, who sprang lightly from his horse to fulfil the royal order.

He knelt down by the shield, and lifted it up to examine the arms; and as he turned it, the well-known cognisance of Pynson of Pynsonlee--the three silver arrows--met his eye. An exclamation of mingled sorrow and surprise burst from Geoffrey's lips.

"Who is he?" said Henry, eagerly.

"Sir Richard Pynson of Pynsonlee, an't please your Grace."

"Ha! the Lollard knight!" cried the King. "Better he than another! I had bruit of him, and, truly, I looked to have him to the stake when he should return from his Eastern travel. It is well."

The King and his suite rode on; but Geoffrey was not one of them. He had thrown down the shield, and had turned to the dear friend of his youth, who lay dying before him.

"Richard! dear, dear Richard!" he said, in trembling accents. "How came you here? Have you only come home to die? O Richard, die not just now!

But perchance it were better so," he added, in a low tone, recalling the cruel words of the King. "Is it thus that thy G.o.d hath granted thee that which thou requestedst, and hath not let thee pa.s.s through the fiery trial?"

As Geoffrey thus bemoaned the fate of his old friend, he fancied that he saw Richard's lips move, and he bent his head low to catch his last words. Faintly, but audibly, those two last words, so full of meaning, reached his ear. And the first of the two was "Margery!" and the last "Jesus!"

The tears fell from Geoffrey's eyes, as he softly kissed the pale brow of the dead; and then, remounting his horse, he galloped after the King.

There was no need of his remaining longer; for he could do nothing more for Richard Pynson, when he had clasped hands with Margery Lovell at the gates of the _Urbs Beata_.

THE END.