THE PRINTER'S WORKSHOP
When they had gone back to the house, and told of what they had seen,
Herman took Margaret home, and then the story of the night's
experiences was related to Byrckmann, whose eyes brightened.
"God is in this. Now I see daylight," he exclaimed, turning to his
daughter with a smile, the first she had seen on his face, which was
genuine, since he had heard that Cochlaeus was in the city. He had
forced himself to look serene and unruffled when his customers came
to the shop, and had spoken to the workmen as though care sat but
lightly on him; but whenever Margaret watched him while he was alone
she knew that he had covered his face with a mask to hide his fear of
approaching disaster.
But things had undergone a change, and Byrckmann went to bed that
night doing something that was unwonted--humming to himself as though
he had no more dread. Her father's cheerfulness and obvious relief
gave Margaret such a sense of safety that she, too, slept soundly.
It was early morning when she got out of bed, and, drawing back the
curtain, she looked into the street to see what sort of day was
promising. What she saw surprised her, for John Gropper was crossing
the road to the shop.
"So early?" she muttered, for by the strokes of the cathedral bell it
wanted two hours before the workmen would come for the day. But she
asked no questions when it was her usual time for going downstairs.
During the day the horses came to the door, and the waggon was laden
with bales; then moved away in the direction of the quay. She
thought nothing of it, because it was such a usual thing. She saw at
times how men came and went, talking with her father at the counter,
or going with him into the workshop; but his care was so sensibly
diminished that she was able to move about without that oppression at
her heart. She laughed light-heartedly when Herman came, and told
her that he had spoken to her father, and that the wedding could take
place next week.
"Ha! You hold me lightly, as if I were goods and chattels to be
disposed of as two men might arrange!" she cried, holding Herman off
at arm's length, her pretty face full of laughter, and her eyes
dancing. "What if I decline?" she asked saucily.
"What if you decline, my pretty maid?" Herman asked. "When the
morning comes I'll come, and what would you do in my strong arms if I
picked you up, and carried you through the streets?"
"And expose me to the ridicule of every passer-by," she exclaimed
archly.
"That way, whatever the passer-by may think, my little maid, rather
than not at all."
The day was ageing when a change came. She was telling her mother of
things that had happened downstairs; the queer requests of some of
the customers; the obstinacy of the new maid in the kitchen; the
gloom on the face of one of the 'prentices because he had mistaken
the day when his time expired, and he had two more weeks to serve; of
an unusually large order that had come in--a dozen things like that;
and the pale face of the suffering woman grew rosier, and the lips
parted in smiles, and the mother chatted eagerly about her daughter's
wedding.
The joy passed suddenly, like a thunder-clap, and the old care
returned, and more fiercely because she had thought it gone entirely.
The twilight was coming as she sat at the window, telling her mother
what was going on in the street, the workmen straggling off in ones
and twos because the day's work was ended. It was not that which
made the rosy cheeks white, and drove the love-light from her eyes,
and made her heart beat with anxiety. Not that commonplace thing.
Some men were moving along the street, and the sound came up to the
open window, like the steady tramp of soldiers. Then she saw the
City Guard.
She had already seen them go by twice that day, but the conditions of
the coming had changed. Two men were walking with the Captain of the
Guard: one of them Cochlaeus; the other the Dean of the Senate, who
never accompanied the Guard unless the business was of the most
serious import.
She hoped they would pass, but the soldiers ranged up in a double
line before the door of her father's house, just as they had done in
front of Herman's home; and then the Captain and the Dean followed
Cochlaeus into the shop.
She was dismayed and confounded, for her thoughts went to the cellar
where the bundles were hidden away. These men had but to go there,
and the mere presence of the press would lend suspicion as to its use
in that unusual place. They had but to strip away one of the strong
wrappers and they would see those printed sheets!
"Mother, there is Mistress Amon passing!" she exclaimed, making that
her excuse for leaving the room so abruptly. She was going down to
face the trouble, for it must be that.
When she passed the doors on her way downstairs the rooms seemed
silent, tragic almost in their suggestion of disaster. A hush had
come over the place which boded ill, but there was the rush of sound
in her ears, and the beating of her heart. A mirror was at the bend
of the stairs, and she was startled to see her face; it looked so
weary, and so drawn with fear.
She went on, wanting to learn the worst. It meant so much for the
home; for her father, of whom she was so fond and proud; for her
darling mother, from whom they kept all the rough winds of life
because she had enough to bear in the way of bodily pain. Yes. And
it meant so much for herself. For how could she think of marriage
when she was known to the world as the daughter of a man who was to
die at the stake, or, as an act of uncommon mercy, to end his days at
the galleys?
At the foot of the dark stairs she stood unseen, either by her
father, or the Dean, or Cochlaeus. The Dean was unusually serious,
and it was easy to see that his errand was an unwelcome one; solely
one of duty; whereas Cochlaeus betrayed his satisfaction at the
prospect of seeing Byrckmann undone, and Tyndale's hope of getting
his Bible printed vanish.
[Illustration: COCHLAEUS AND THE SOLDIERS SEARCHING THE PRINTER'S
WORKSHOP.]
What struck her most was her father's bearing. He was faced, she
knew, with ruin, and she did not see how he could escape discovery.
Cochlaeus was reputed to be well versed in all the tricks of heretics
to hide their guilt, and he was not easily baffled. Yet her father
was quite at ease. He was grave enough, but he had not the bearing
of a man who feared the outcome of this search. Margaret saw the
Dean look at him askance.
They went to the workshop, followed by a couple of soldiers, who left
their halberds in the shop as being too cumbersome to carry in the
winding passages.
Margaret stole after them, but was careful to keep out of sight. The
workmen were all gone home, and through the glass door she saw that
the workshop was left as usual. Printed sheets lay about. The
presses were there, empty, waiting for the morning. The written
papers which were copy for the printing were in the usual places, and
tools, and ink, and other things.
Her father contented himself with waving his hand, but she heard him
say:
"This is my workshop. Search as you will."
The searchers moved in all directions, and Cochlaeus, more active
than any, looked around for hidden places, and seemed to be
calculating the thickness of the walls, suggestive of room for
hiding; but there was nothing to bear out his suspicions in that
matter.
Nothing was discovered in the workshop, although with his strong hand
Cochlaeus tore open every package to see that nothing in them was
likely to belong to Tyndale. Even the paper wanted for printing was
dealt with in the same ruthless way, until Byrckmann's patience
reached its limit, and he made a protest to the Dean.
"This priest, who has no official standing in the city, has chosen to
suspect me, yet he is welcome to make his search. But prevent him
from doing such wanton damage to my goods, or I will sue the Senate
for the charges."
Cochlaeus swung round and stared in amazement at the printer, but he
caught the glint in his eyes, and saw that Byrckmann, far from being
afraid, was almost defiant. He went about his work more carefully,
and did no more preventible damage.
Nothing was found; nor in the inner shop, where special work was
done. But what of that? Margaret's mind was on the cellar, where
the real danger lay. She watched anxiously, lest any stray piece of
paper might betray her father, but she wondered whether, with all his
sharpness, Cochlaeus would think of the cellar.
"Master Byrckmann," cried Cochlaeus peremptorily, "remove the bundles
from this side of the room, so that we may see the floor beneath."
"Nay; I do not make the search," came the sturdy answer. "'Tis not
for me to give a hand in what you think will be my undoing."
The tone was decisive. The Dean looked askance at the printer, and
muttered to himself that Byrckmann did not bear himself like a man
who had anything to fear. He turned to the soldiers, and bade them
remove the bales to the other side of the room. They responded
sulkily, for this was not their work. As the last bale was dropped
on top of the others, Cochlaeus stamped over the cleared space.
"Ha! This is hollow!"
Bending low, he scanned every part of the floor, and at last he went
on his knees to feel about for any sign of an opening.
"Byrckmann, come and raise the floor!" he cried.
"Nay, 'tis your business, not mine," was the quiet retort. "'Tis
your search, as I told you just now; not mine. You can lift it as
readily as I."
The Dean looked round again and, ignoring the Captain of the Guard,
who yielded to his superior, he nodded to a soldier. The man came
forward and, looking carefully, thrust in the point of his sword at
the spot where the floor seemed to be moveable, and, lifting it,
threw it back with a noisy clatter and a prodigious dust.
"Now we shall see!" cried Cochlaeus triumphantly, and he hurried down
the steps. The Deacon of the Church of the Blessed Virgin had
discarded his dignity in his eagerness.
Every pulse in Margaret throbbed wildly. She felt like falling in a
fainting heap, but she controlled herself, and watched, to mark the
fatal ending of this quest. Yet she marvelled to mark her father's
ease.
As the last soldier moved down, and his head went out of sight, she
was more amazed than ever to see him rub his hands, and his face
broaden into a smile. She wondered whether he had suddenly gone mad
with the strain of the last few days, and therefore he did not
realise his danger.
Presently a soldier's head appeared, and his face, when it came in
sight, had a whimsical look on it. So it was with the next, and he
stamped his foot as his heavy boot touched the floor. He dropped his
sword noisily into its scabbard, as if there would be no use for it.
The Dean came into view, impassive as before, unless one could
interpret that peculiar look on his lean face as one of satisfaction
because the quest had ended so. There was bewilderment in the
Captain's face when he also emerged from the cellar.
Last of all came Cochlaeus, and his sinister face was red with wrath.
As he stepped away from the ladder he swung round on Byrckmann, and
spoke in a passionate tone.
"Why did you not say there was nothing here to connect you with that
fellow Tyndale?"
"You put no question that I could so answer," was the quiet, but
exasperating response. "You came to my shop, and without asking me
anything, you said, 'We have come to search your premises.' You did
not say for what, and since the Dean was here, a man whom I esteem, I
offered no protest, although you have no authority in this city, and
suffered you to have your way. You have had it."
While the soldiers left the house, Cochlaeus stamped to and fro,
protesting against being made a laughing-stock.
"Nay," said the Dean quietly. "You came to the Senate House and
lodged your information in such confident terms that Master Byrckmann
was printing off this Bible for Tyndale, that we granted you the
opportunity for the search. You cannot blame the printer because his
hands are clean in this matter."
Cochlaeus scowled and walked away, while Margaret, still wondering
how it came about that the cellar was clear, followed him through the
shop, and gazed after him through the window when he stalked along in
anger down the silent street.