Chapter V: The Incident of the Cutting of Saffron Velvet

The walls of the room adjoining that in which Sir Richard was now sleeping framed a scene that provided a singular and pleasing contrast to the bleak and uninviting rooms within the tavern with which the reader is already somewhat familiar. So beautifully, and in such exquisite taste were its rich trappings disposed, that a princess might have found comfort and contentment within its cosy precincts. Indeed, not anything seemed to be missing that could have been demanded in the surroundings of the most refined and fastidious of royal personages.

Upon one of the pillowed couches two young maidens were reclining gracefully at their ease. One was lying at full length and resting upon her elbows, with her chin pressed against her interlocked fingers; the other was engaged with needles and some bright colored silk in weaving a design upon a piece of linen cloth. Without risking hyperbole it may be said of them that the jewels they wore were scarce an adornment to their distinguished setting, for it would have offered a difficult task to have set out to discover two lovelier types of young womanhood. It was unusual in that between them there existed no conflict of beauty; rather did the bewitching charms of the one serve the complimentary purpose of enhancing the pure and almost ethereal comeliness of the other.

"It would surely be a famous prank, Rocelia," said the one who was lounging upon her elbows. "I cannot understand why you should oppose me. Are we not come to an age, my over-discreet cousin, where a champion should be ours by right?"

"By right of what, pray, madcap Isabel?" queried Rocelia, laying aside her needlework upon a table that stood near the couch.

"Why--by right of conquest, little dunce," returned Isabel with a gay laugh. "Here does my stern guardian--and by the same token your implacable father--see fit to keep us mewed within this dismal, fly-by-night prison, deprived of every pleasure and innocent pastime that other maids, similarly stationed, are permitted to enjoy. I tell you, sweet Rocelia, 'tis nothing less than downright cruel."

"Say not so, ungracious maid," observed Rocelia in mild disapproval. "Are we not surrounded with everything, my dear, that heart of maid could wish?"

"Everything, say you? Why--far, far from everything," demurred Isabel, tossing back a strand of raven black hair that persisted in straying over her shoulder. "A champion! Give to me a champion!" she cried with a mock seriousness, raising on high her right arm, from which her loose robe fell, displaying a dazzling array of captivating curves and dimples.

Rocelia smiled in a gentle toleration of the other's extravagance of manner.

"Your wondrous beauty, my dear cousin," she said, "will win for you a champion all in good time."

"Time?" retorted Isabel, gathering her lips in a pretty pout and arching her brows. "Time, say you? And what, I pray you, have _we_ to do with time? Does not time fade and wither that beauty by which, but a moment ago, you have recommended to me a champion? Is not time our mortal and deadly foe?"

"Too much of it, mayhap, would be," admitted Rocelia; "but a little of it should serve well in rounding out our minds, and in providing us with that sane discretion which, as you remember, Lord Bishop Kennedy, our kind tutor, has taught us is the most precious of earthly perquisites."

"Bah! a murrain upon Bishop Kennedy and his dry pedantries. An I had that old prate-apace inside an oven, right well would I warm his icy blood for him. Look not upon me, sweet coz, with such wideopen eyes of ravished virtue! I declare to you, Rocelia, I'll have me a champion--and before this very night is over. You could never divine, I'm sure, why I begged you awhile ago to sing without yon open window. Of a truth, you knew not, or your voice would never have left your throat. It was vicariously to beguile my brave champion's ears that you were singing so sweetly, dear. He was then outside with your father and Zenas burying the hound. Ah! you should have seen him fell the savage brute, Rocelia. A single mighty blow of his mailed fist and 'twas all over."

"Were you not afraid? 'Twould have fared ill with you, an Father had seen you standing at the tap-room door."

"Nay--I was not afraid. Your father was in another room with the men. Zenas had gone outside. I heard him go muttering through the door as I crept softly down the steps. I peeped through the split panel--my champion was there ... sleeping. But, already have I told you the story. Ah! how brave was he. Not once did he flinch the battle, or look about him, or call for help. And he is handsome; marry, sweet coz, but he is handsome! All girded up in shining, inlaid armor. His brown-gold hair flowing almost to his shoulders. His health-bronzed cheeks smooth and shapely. And his mouth! Um-m-m! Well----"

"Why, cousin! some wicked witch has cast a spell above you, I fear."

"Nay--'tis not witchery, sweetest Rocelia," said Isabel, seating herself beside her fair-haired cousin and lovingly entwining her arms about her slender form. "I am but filled to overflowing with the joy of living. A something of excitement is both sup and drink to me. Now listen. Bear with your madcap cousin whilst she discourses with you in deepest earnest. A champion I must and will have. But he need not know me, or even look upon my face."

"I cannot understand. You are speaking in riddles, Isabel."

"Nay, give ear till I've finished and you shall see it plain enough. My knight of the brown-gold curls, an I mistake me not, is even at this moment slumbering within the next chamber. With a bodkin a cleft in the wall can be used as a slight avenue of secret communication. Then a missive, and a bit of cloth clipped from my--no yours, 'tis of a more enticing color--your saffron gown, I'll say, dear cousin; and thus I have my champion and no soul but you and I the wiser. Do not say me nay, good, generous Rocelia. It will be a right merry and harmless frolic, think you not?"

"'Twould be a sorry one for you, I fear, an my father found you out," replied Rocelia, half in jest, half earnestly.

"Enough. Let the hazard be mine, sweet. And now to business. Whilst I am at work with the bodkin, do you shear me a strip from off your saffron velvet kirtle."

* * * * *

Sir Richard, sleeping soundly, was all unconscious of the widely varying activities of which he was now become the center. Beneath the room in which Isabel, now singing, now laughing, was engaged upon the wall, Friar Diomed had finished brewing and mixing the herbs and chemicals of his narcotic.

"My oath on 't, Friar Diomed," Tyrrell was saying from his seat beside the fire, "your cloth shall not save your shaven pate, an this potion bring one jot of harm to the young noble."

"An it be administered with your usual skill and caution, Sir James," returned the monk, elevating a phial filled with the liquid between his squinting eyes and the light of the fire, "'twill bring no more harm than so much _aqua pura_. But, by my church! 'tis beside my understanding why you must observe all of these dark ceremonies. Let the young knight but read the King's warrant in his slop pouch, an he were a long-eared ass not to embrace our cause."

"Have I not already said, my stupid friend, that he would at once charge us with substitution and false writing? Think you not that the young noble hath heard a many an evil tale of this tavern along the way? Marry, an he had not, all our trouble and precaution to shield the young prince from discovery and harm would have been but of slight avail. But only once again, good friar, need this phantom inn disappear, and then 'twill serve as a blazing torch to light the start of our movement southward."

"Pity 'tis that the young prince died," observed the monk, giving the phial into Tyrrell's hand and standing with his broad back to the blaze. "And just at the point, too, when you had gathered a sufficient power to hurl effectively against Henry. So fire shall consume our refuge, you say? Well, Sir James, _ab igne ignem_, say I."

"Yea, and I. But regarding the young prince, regret not that which is beyond mending. In truth, Friar Diomed, I like this young Earl of Warwick mightily. He's a right goodly youth to look upon, and brave--aye, as fearless as a lion cub. Nay--let us not regret, but rather return thanks to a generous God for having thus dropped down upon us a proper and legal substitute."

"An you'll be good enough to bid Zenas to bring out the flagons, Sir James, I'll e'en now down a measure or twain to the health of the new. Which is more to my liking, by my Faith, than the uplifting of mere dry thanks. _Ad majorem Dei gloriam!_ 'Twill be a good hour ere de Claverlok and his band return, and I am grievously athirst and, ah-ha-ha, ho-e-e, sleepy."

"Then why not call your drink night-cup and betake yourself to your couch? 'Tis not necessary that you should remain abroad to await their coming. Zenas, the flagon of wine," Tyrrell then called. "Drink, and to your rest, my good friar. Yea--the blessed pair of you."

Whereupon, with a loud smacking of his lips, the rotund friar introduced his red and bulbous nose within his tipped cup and made for his couch. Zenas followed him, leaving Tyrrell to keep solitary vigil by the side of the crackling fire, and all unaware of the little comedy which, at that very moment, was being enacted above his head.

* * * * *

For the second time that night Sir Richard awakened with a violent start. Upon doing so he raised his head from off his pillow. Hearing no sound, however, he attributed this second awakening to a fanciful dream of a ponderous battle-ax striking upon his helm, and had just composed himself for the purpose of resuming his interrupted rest when he became aware of a distinct rapping upon the headboard of his bed. As he threw aside the covering and sat erect the strange tapping ceased. With every sense upon the alert he listened for a repetition of the sound. It came soon again, distinct, deliberate, unmistakable. He passed his hand carefully over the smooth headboard, but went altogether unrewarded for his pains. Concluding, therefore, that the sounds emanated from between the wall and the bed, he sprang to the floor and pulled aside the heavy piece of furniture.

The inexplicable rapping was then followed by a dry, scraping noise, which seemed almost impossible to locate. The room being cast in utter darkness, his sense of touch was required to answer for his useless sense of sight. In the passing of his hand along the wall it met with a slight protuberance. This he instantly grasped, and a part of it came away within his clutched fingers. He discovered it to be a wisp of paper, neatly rolled, and surmised it to be a written message. By the side of the basin upon the floor he found tinder, flint, and steel. Contriving speedily to have a light, he thereupon read the following message:

"Whoever or whatever thou art, an semblance of heart of man beats
within thy brave bosom, rescue a maiden from a living death."

This was the message from Isabel. She had been careful to sign no name, and Sir Richard had no means of knowing by whom it had been inscribed. But, even so, he was entirely equal to the occasion, and felt his heart leaping in deepest sympathy with the unknown maiden in distress. So, then and there, upon the cross of his sword, he made a sacred vow to adventure her rescue, repeating in a solemn manner the usual form of oath: "So may God and St. George prosper me at my need, as I will do my devoir as thy champion, fair maid, knightly, truly, and manfully."

This ceremony concluded, he hurried again to the wall. Protruding from a narrow aperture in the mortar he noted a thin piece of steel, such as he fancied was used by women in the shaping of their apparel. Upon withdrawing it, he discovered it to be of about a length with his forearm.

Then, placing his lips to the opening thus disclosed, "Courage, fair maiden," he whispered. "An wilt thou grant the boon of sending a most willing champion thy colors?"

"Yea, gladly," came back the answer, sweet and low; "and a kiss, too, my brave knight."

"Ye gods of Love!" exclaimed Sir Richard beneath his breath. "The very yearnings of Tantalus are at this moment put to the blush! Was ever a champion avowed under like romantic circumstances? Was ever a maiden wooed through a two-foot, key-cold wall?"

He then sent the pliant steel back through the wall, which he erroneously supposed to be constructed out of solid stone. In another moment there came to his impatiently waiting hand a very small cutting of saffron velvet, the which he touched reverently to his lips, as was becoming in a loyal champion, and then placed devoutly next his heart.

He whispered again, and again he whispered, but no answer came. Observing the precaution of scraping away a bit of mortar from another wall, he carefully concealed the opening. Upon which he replaced the bed in its former position, secured the note within the fillet of his helmet and once more sought his pillow, where he fell asleep presently in the midst of meditating as to the means through which he might, in safety to her, effect the deliverance of the fair unknown.

Yet not half so fair, nor yet half so lovely, was the vision that he materialized from the scrap of saffron velvet as was its beautiful owner, whom an unkind Fate decreed he should not set eyes upon till many days crowded with many misadventures had passed away.