The Herd Boy and His HermitYonge, Charlotte M. (Charlotte Mary)
General
The Herd Boy and His Hermit
Yonge, Charlotte M. (Charlotte Mary)
Clifford, Henry de Clifford, 14th lord, 1455?-1523 -- Fiction; Henry VI, King of England, 1421-1471 -- Fiction
‘Alack, noble dame! we poor pilgrims must ever be moving on, however
much it irks foot and limb, over these northern stones,’ he answered,
and his accent and tone were such that a thrill seemed to pass over the
lady’s whole person, but she controlled it, and only said, ‘Tarry till
these have received their alms, then will I see to thee and thy maimed
foot. Give him a stool, Alice, while he waits.’
The various patients who claimed the lady’s assistance were attended
to, those who needed food were relieved, and in due time the hall was
cleared, excepting of the lady, an old female servant, and Hob, who
had sat all the time with his foot on a stool, and his back against
the wall, more than half asleep after the toils and long journey of the
night.
Then the Lady Threlkeld came to him, and making him a sign not to rise,
said aloud, ‘Good Gaffer, let me see what ails thy leg.’ Then kneeling
down and busying herself with the bandages, she looked up piteously in
his face, with the partly breathed inquiry, ‘My son?’
‘Well, my lady, and grown into a stalwart lad,’ was Hob’s answer, with
an eye on the door, and in a voice as low as his gruff tones would
permit.
‘And wherefore? What is it?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Be they on the track
of my poor boy?’
‘They may be,’ answered Hob, ‘wherefore I deemed it well to shift our
quarters. As hap would have it, the lad fell upon a little wench lost in
the mosses, and there was nothing for it but to bring her home for the
night. I would have had her away as soon as day dawned, and no questions
asked, but the witches, or the foul fiend himself, must needs bring up a
snow-storm, and there was nothing for it but to let her bide in the cot
all day, giving tongue as none but womenfolk can do; and behold she is
the child of the Lord St. John of Bletso.’
‘Nay, what should bring her north?’
‘She wonnes at Greystone with the wild Prioress Selby, who lost her out
hawking. Her father is a black Yorkist. I saw him up to his stirrups in
blood at St. Albans!’
‘But sure my boy did not make himself known to her?’ exclaimed the lady.
‘I trow not. He has been well warned, and is a lad of his word; but the
two bairns, left to themselves, could scarce help finding out that each
was of gentle blood and breeding, and how much more my goodwife cannot
tell. I took the maid back so soon as it was safe yester morn, and sent
back my young lord, much against his will, half-way to Greystone. And
well was it I did so, for he was scarce over the ridge when a plump of
spears came in sight on the search for him, and led by the young squire
of Selby.’
‘Ah! and if the damsel does but talk, even if she knows nought, the foe
will draw their conclusions!’ said the lady, clasping her hands. ‘Oh,
would that I had sent him abroad with his little brothers!’
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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