THE COMING OF THE GUARD
The long day passed, and every hour was filled with intolerable
anxiety for Margaret. She went about the household duties in her
home with a heart that was heavy with dread. Every unusual sound had
menace in it, for her. Had anyone noticed her they would have
wondered why, again and again, she glanced around with startled eyes,
while her parted lips went far to betray her distress.
Her mother was ill at the time, and again and again Margaret had to
go into her room to see to her comfort; but when the girl's hand was
on the latch she was careful to throw aside all traces of anxiety,
and she went in with a loving smile and a happy-looking face, not
wishing to add to her mother's care or to set her thinking that
something was wrong. It was a hard task, but her eyes glanced about
the room merrily, and she stood at the bedside and chatted pleasantly
about little things that made for laughter.
But God knew how the poor girl's heart and mind were on the strain,
and how, when she heard some measured footsteps in the street, she
listened with an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, lest it
should be some of the City Guard, coming to the house to search in
her father's printing-shop for what some esteemed tenfold worse than
treachery.
Once, while her mother was asking a question as to some petty
household matter, she heard the sound for which she had been
listening ever since she had got out of bed in the early morning.
She gave an answer which made her mother wonder what she was thinking
of, and then hurried to the window and looked into the street below.
Her hands clasped in dread, and she almost cried out in her terror,
for the thing had come that might well mean ruin. Below were half a
score of soldiers of the City Guard, with their halberds gleaming in
the watery sun, and the soldiers' eyes were carelessly scanning the
houses around them as they stood at ease, or were nodding to some
acquaintance who went by. She had seen the men do this many a time,
and thought nothing of it; but now she gazed into the street with
frightened eyes, and her clasped hands rested on her bosom to still
the beating of her heart.
"Father!" she murmured noiselessly, for she thought of that picture
she had seen in the fire.
The officer of the Guard was carelessly looking at some papers in his
hand, turning one over the other, as if searching for one in
particular. Never had she gazed as she was gazing now, her breath
coming and going in gasps.
"Why are you breathing in that way, my dear?" the sick woman asked,
looking at the girl at the window.
"Was I breathing differently than usual, mother?" Margaret asked,
turning for a moment, careful to hide the look of dread, and with a
forced smile for her mother's sake. "Perhaps I was!" she added
lightly. "Ha! there's Targon, the butcher. I must go down and give
him an order for to-morrow's dinner."
She moved to the bedside, and, bending over to give her mother a
kiss, she hurried down the stairs.
What did it mean? For when the Captain of the Guard had found the
paper he wanted, and had thrust the others back into his belt, he
moved straight to her father's door, as if to enter the shop. As she
descended the steps of the staircase at a dangerous speed her mind
was as quick as her feet. Startling visions of possibilities rose
before her. It was that horrible picture again which she had seen in
the fire. There was more in it now than before. There was the
stake, with its flames fanned by the breeze, and her father chained
in the midst of them all. There was that wheel of torture on which
he was to be broken. There was the dark cell, with its slime, and
horrors, and blackness, all made more intolerable because there would
be no more glimpse of the daylight for him, if they did not decide to
burn him. Or there might be no death, but the galley to which her
father would be chained, with his back bared to the sun and wind,
while the whip of the galley captain would come down on the flesh,
and leave its streaks of blood.
It was there in those few moments.
She stood in the doorway of the parlour, in the shadow, from whence
she could see what was passing in the shop.
The Captain of the Guard was there, and the paper was in his hand.
"Master Byrckmann," she heard the soldier say, with a disconcerting
lack of cordiality, "the Burgomaster bade me bring you this."
Almost rudely he tossed the paper on the counter, among the printed
sheets and other things that lay there.
"See to that without fail," he added curtly.
Without another word he stamped his way to the door, and, with a
rattle of steel as his armour moved on his body, strode into the
street, and left the shop door to slam after him. The noise of the
slamming sounded very much like a death-knell to Margaret.
"What is it, father?" she cried, hurrying to the printer's side
behind the counter when a customer was served, and was gone, and they
were alone together.
She glanced into his face, and, although he had appeared unperturbed
while the soldier and the customer were in the shop, it was white
now, and when her father's fingers were put forward to take up the
paper they trembled so that he could scarcely close them on it.
"Something from the Burgomaster, my dear," Byrckmann answered, trying
to appear at ease, but completely failing.
He broke the city seal, smoothing out the paper on the counter. They
read it with their heads close together, their cheeks almost
touching. It was written in the ill-formed characters which were so
noticeable in everything which came from the Chief Magistrate's hand.
It told its own story. Word had reached him that a notable and
troublesome heretic had come from England, whose name was William
Tyndale. How it had happened no one knew, but this fellow, so it was
said, had contrived to get into the city. Possibly he had come in
disguise, a man with a godless heart, and a mind bent on spreading
his scandalous heresy. He was hiding somewhere, but no one knew
where, and was supposed to be translating the Scriptures into
English. It was suspected, as well, that, if he had not already done
so, he would be trying to induce one of the printers to run his
wicked sheets through the printing-press.
"I charge you, Master Byrckmann, as I am charging all the printers
within my jurisdiction," the paper ran, "to abstain from having
anything to do with this scandalous fellow who, like Doctor Martin
Luther, is working out the devil's wicked will, and seeking to wean
away the people from His Holiness the Pope and Mother Church.
"For bethink you, Master Byrckmann, what can happen more calamitous
to the credit of our famous city than that this man, Tyndale, should
be sheltering in a house inside our walls, and daring, in his
insolence, to interpret Divine Law, the statutes of our Fathers, and
those decrees which have received the consent of so many ages, in a
manner totally at variance with the opinion of the learned priests of
the Church! Yet this fellow has dared to do this thing! He has done
what Luther dared! and now, like him, he is tampering so wickedly
with the Word of God.
"I demand of you, Master Byrckmann, that if you come across him you
shall take his work with a subtle readiness. Pretend to applaud his
endeavours. Make him all sorts of promises. Make him believe that
it is a joy to you to be of service in his cause; but when he is
gone, send me instant word as soon as you have traced him to the
house wherein he is lodging."
"Father," said Margaret, whose arm stole about his neck while they
still bent over the counter.
He looked at her and saw the colour coming back to her face, and her
lips were now relaxed to their usual softness after this intolerable
strain.
"What is it, my dear?" Byrckmann asked.
"The Captain of the Guard had other papers in his belt, so he must be
going the round of the printers. Do you not think so?"
"That must be it, my child. I thank God," he murmured, clasping his
hands like one in prayer as they rested on the counter. "None knows
but God, and Master Tyndale and you and I----"
"And Herman, father, and his mother," said Margaret softly. "They
know."
"Ah yes! I had forgotten. Now may God send the good man safe
deliverance."
He unclasped his hands and stood upright, and gazed out of the window
with eyes that gleamed with tears which blurred the forms of those
who walked along the street. None of the passers-by suspected what
nearness to tragedy there had been in the printer's shop.
"Kiss me, father," said Margaret, and the printer, turning, put his
arms about her, and kissed her almost passionately. He had always
loved his daughter, but here was an even closer bond; something that
was linking them to other things; things that were sacred, and beyond
the matters that came in the common round of daily life.
Margaret went back to her mother, singing softly as she went from
place to place in the bedroom, putting things right, and making the
chamber look more cosy. When she moved it was with a tender grace.
When she spoke it was with a gladness and a smile that were restful
to the sick mother on the bed.
Who could wonder? That string of visions was passed at all events
for the present. Her father, so far, was safe. But at odd times,
when she moved about the house, she stopped to say a prayer, pleading
that the dear Lord would keep the secret from that ignoble Cochlaeus,
and all others who were scenting heresy, and striving to find Master
Tyndale and all who had dealings with him. Their success meant so
much. Ruin for her father! Ah!--and she went pale at the
thought--ruin for Herman!
As the day went on the relief gave place to anxiety.
Her heart grew more and more heavy, for after the first revulsion
from that deadly fear her memory served her with a cruelty that was
hard to bear. It brought back all that happened the night before.
That coming of the man on the stairs of Cropper's home; the enforced
but unintentioned eavesdropping outside the door on the landing, and
hearing what Cochlaeus knew; and, later still, the watchers in the
street just opposite her father's house. It was terrible to
contemplate the possibilities, for who could tell whether that paper
from the Burgomaster was a blind--something to throw her father off
his guard? She shivered at the thought; then she went so hot that
she drew her dainty kerchief from her bosom to wipe the dampness from
her face.
A change came over her father which greatly puzzled her. She could
not understand how he could move among the workmen, and be so
cheerful, and smile so comfortably at the customers who bought things
over the counter of the shop. Not one among them would have
suspected that he had been faced with death, and even now might see
the Captain of the Guard enter, and take him away.
She did what under other circumstances she would have despised
herself for, but she could not help it now. She felt she must do it,
or she would die of anxiety. She stood where she could hear what was
said when all the workmen had gone save Gropper, who closed the
street door, so that no one should enter the shop, and break in on
their conversation without it being known.
"What say you, Gropper, now that you know as much as I do?" her
father asked, when the foreman stood before him at the counter.
"Get Master Tyndale and everything belonging to him out of the way,"
came the answer, in decisive tones.
"Out of the way?" the printer interrupted. "What do you mean by
that?"
"I mean, get him out of the city; but where, I cannot say for the
moment. We'll think about it, Master Byrckmann. We'll pray over it,
and God will show us which way the path lies," the man said quietly.
He was going to say more, but a customer came in noisily, and the
foreman stood back, and waited until the man was served and went away.
As if she came out of the house casually, Margaret crossed the shop,
and, going to the door, called to the customer, who was their
butcher, and gave him an order for the next morning. Her face was
aflame with having played that mean part of listener, but so much was
at stake. It was a matter of life or death. And Herman was
involved; for if Cochlaeus or the Burgomaster found him harbouring
that arch-heretic there was no other end but death.
In her confusion she gave Targon an order which made the butcher
stare at her in surprise.
"Haven't you made a mistake, Mistress Margaret?" the man asked,
wondering at her paleness; for now her face had changed.
"What did I say?" she asked, and when he repeated the order her face
crimsoned. "It must be this thunder in the air," she answered, by
way of exculpation, and with an effort she told Targon what she
really required.
She wanted to get away, to see Herman and tell him all she knew. If
she could talk the matter over with him he might suggest something,
and she could tell her father of the plan. But she was hindered.
Her father went back to the workshop with Gropper, and left her to
look after the customers, who came in one after another, some for the
merest trifles, and some on matters of importance.
Two or three stopped to talk of what was being said in the city.
First and foremost Cochlaeus was there, and that suggested heresy.
Then a special body of the Guard had been out most of the day,
halting at every printer's shop to leave a letter which, of course,
was from the Burgomaster. But what was of more importance still was
this--that it was declared that William Tyndale was somewhere in the
city, and that to-morrow a great reward was to be offered as the
price upon his head, and a price, also, on the head of any who
harboured him.
Margaret thought she would choke when they talked on in that strain,
little knowing what she knew, and what it meant to her beloved if the
reward were to be claimed. Her Herman! the man who was all the world
to her! Once again, while the customers were standing at the
counter, talking on in that strain, she did not see them, for she was
gazing afresh at that picture in the fire, and she shuddered because
it seemed so real that her father and Herman alike were being broken
on the wheel.
One by one the customers dropped off, and then none came at all, and
the shop was empty when her father came in with a sealed letter in
his hand, which trembled as he held it out to her.
"Take this to Master Tyndale," he whispered. "Put it into your bosom
so that none may see it, and wait to hear what he says concerning it.
Go warily. But there! None will suspect, because Herman and you are
shortly to be wedded."
She went to her room for her cloak and hood, and standing at the
window she gazed into the street, which was shadowing into dark
twilight, earlier than usual because it was raining, and black clouds
were sweeping up from the river and spreading over the city.
Preparing for bad weather, she went out into the street, after first
showing her father where she had hidden the letter.
The rain was coming down steadily, but presently it came pelting, and
the wind rushing along between the houses of the narrow streets blew
into her face. But she scarcely noticed it. She was absorbed with
the thought that she was going to see Herman, to whom she would tell
all she knew. Perhaps he would propose that William Tyndale should
get away at once, lest to-morrow should be too late.
The rain came down so heavily that the streets were almost empty,
although it was not late. It was one of those storms which no one
would face if it could be avoided.
At the corner of the street in which Herman lived she paused, not for
the wind, although it was sweeping along with the force of a tempest
now, but because of what was happening. Out of a narrow passage,
where some wayfarers sheltered, there swung out, two by two, some of
the City Guard, and at their head the Captain who had left the
Burgomaster's letter with her father.
If they had turned her way she would have been relieved, and the fear
would have passed which shook her terribly; but they went the other
way. Was it possible that they were going to Herman's home?