ROYE AND THE INQUISITORS
After that hearty greeting, Tyndale and Roye walked to and fro on the
river-bank, so absorbed in the pleasure of their meeting that they
forgot the danger of moving about in the clear moonlight. Herman,
growing anxious, called to them that they were running needless risks.
"I forgot!" exclaimed Tyndale. "It was such a joy to see William
Roye that everything went."
"'Twas a dangerous absent-mindedness," said Herman, almost sharply,
looking round while he spoke, to make sure that none were near enough
to observe them. While he did so, Tyndale hurried to the bush,
followed by his companion, and they hid themselves in the shadows,
with the others.
"Now, my dear Roye, explain yourself," said Tyndale, almost
peremptorily, sitting on the grass in a place so dark that one could
scarcely see the other. "Why did you stay away so long? I have been
working feverishly and unceasingly all these weeks, and the Lord's
work has tarried because I have but this one poor pair of hands to do
the work of two."
"Hush, master," the response came quietly. "In some degree I am to
blame, but not so much as it would appear."
Tyndale answered half reproachfully, for now that the pleasure of
meeting had given place to reflection, he felt that the man for whom
he had sent so urgently had failed him, and hindered his task. So
many weeks had gone.
"I cannot but blame you, whatever your excuse!" he exclaimed.
"Oh, master, do not say that. Let me explain. Your letter found me,
and I read it by the light of a street lamp. Perhaps it was the act
of a madman, but a lad gave it to me by night when I was out walking.
He dogged my steps until we were in a quiet street, and he caught up
to me and whispered:
"'Are you William Roye?'
"'Yes, but why?' I asked, rather startled, for I thought I was an
unknown man among strangers.
"'Then I have to give you this,' and he thrust your letter into my
hand, and seemed to vanish in the darkness. I knew at once that it
came from you, for I know your handwriting so well. I broke the seal
and began to read, but by the time I got to the end and saw your name
I was startled. I chanced to look up, and saw two black-robed
figures coming towards me."
Roye stopped, and clasped his hands convulsively, as if the memory of
it, even, was overwhelming.
"Were they Familiars?" asked Tyndale eagerly.
"Yes, master. Hear you me, Master Tyndale?" he exclaimed hoarsely,
his voice little more than a whisper. "They were Familiars. You
know what need I have to dread them, yes, and to curse them," he went
on, wringing his hands, his breath catching with a sob. "Did they
not, or the City Guard for them, which was all the same--did they not
come to my home and take my darling Gertrude from me to that dark
dungeon of theirs?
"But these men came on me unexpectedly in the street; and they came
with that horrible, weird tread, almost soundless, and so the more
fearful. I stood where I was, beneath the street lamp, transfixed,
holding the letter in my hand, and staring at them, open-mouthed.
"They must have seen that I was desperately frightened. Oh, fool
that I was! I was betraying myself to those black-souled,
black-robed night-hawks, and there was the letter trembling in my
hand!
"They drew level with me, and I watched, praying that they might pass
on; but they did not. One spoke to the other, though I do not know
what he said, and in a moment he thrust out his hand to clutch at the
letter.
"In an instant I was alert. Had he got hold of it the consequences
would have been terrible. They would have known where you were
hiding. The address was on the letter, and that black-hearted
villain, Cochlaeus, would have been on your track."
Roye stopped, and there was silence, Those who listened were
spellbound, for they realised the possibilities. Those Familiars
would have come straight to the door of Herman's house!
Margaret's brain reeled at the thought of what might have come to her
lover and his mother. She caught at Herman's great hand
convulsively, and he, travelling on the same road of thought, bent
down and kissed her fingers softly.
"Go on," cried Tyndale, almost querulously, for the suspense was hard
to bear. "Go on, Roye! Why do you pause and tantalise us? Who
knows but that the man, Cochlaeus, may even now be at Herman Bengel's
door!"
While he spoke, Tyndale drew off his cap, and wiped his face, which
had gone damp with fear.
"I crave your pardon, Master Tyndale," Roye answered quickly. "I was
somewhat overcome with the thoughts that are rushing through my soul.
But I will tell you all.
"I stepped back when I saw the Familiar's hand come out, and I held
the letter behind me. But the man followed me, saying sternly, 'Give
me that paper.'
"'Tis mine!' I cried, and now I remember how my voice rang out on the
night.
"I marvel at my boldness, but in those moments I thought, not of my
own peril, but of the consequences to my master if I gave up the
letter. I thought how your safety would be imperilled, your life,
indeed, and God's work brought to a standstill."
"Go on, dear Roye," came Tyndale's urgent words, and the others
seemed in their imagination almost to hear the footfall of the City
Guard, and the loud knock on Herman's door, and then his mother
answering it to find herself faced by Cochlaeus and the soldiers.
"'Give me that paper!' the man reiterated, and suddenly, when he came
forward with a swift step, he snatched at it. But, thank God! I
hindered him. The consequences, if he got it into his possession,
awoke in me a boldness at which I have trembled a score of times
since then. Had there been time for cold thought I might have given
it to him meekly, obsessed with that unconquerable force that is
behind the minions of the Inquisition. But the impulse came, and I
acted on it. The menacing hand--thin and claw-like--went very near
the letter. It had almost clutched it; but I lifted my own. See,
Master Tyndale! Mark what my fist is like."
Roye held it out for the others to see, and as it was so stretched
forth the moonlight fell on it. It was tightly clenched, and
Margaret gazed at it, wondering who could stand up against a blow
from it.
[Illustration: "THE FAMILIAR FELL LIKE A LOG ON THE STONES AT MY
FEET"]
"I lifted my fist, Master Tyndale, and brought it down on that black
mask. My whole strength went into the blow, and I heard the man
gasp. His hands went up in self-protection, for I struck him again.
The first blow awoke me. The second came because I thought of my
darling Gertrude. I struck a third time, and he fell like a log on
the stones at my feet, and lay still--dead, perhaps. I do not know.
"The second Familiar came forward with a cry of rage. He shouted to
me that by daring to strike his companion I had outraged the Church,
and, screaming out his words, he flung himself upon me. I still had
my child in my mind, and as I stepped aside I struck at him. He
staggered sideways, but recovered himself, but when he came at me
again, he fell back with my blow, and lay across his fellow."
Margaret and her companions breathed more freely, for it seemed to
them that the Familiars had failed to get possession of the letter;
but she longed to know what happened.
"What followed then?" she asked, laying her hand on Roye's arm.
"What followed! I hurried away lest I might be seen; but as I went
down the street with the letter in my hand, two other Familiars met
me. The light of a street lantern fell on the white paper, and I
realised that the same thing might happen here as with those other
two. What should I do? If I tore it up those men might gather up
the pieces, and with patience they could put them together again, and
read it all. Then they would see Master Tyndale's name, and the
place where he lodged.
"The Familiars were some distance away, standing beneath a swinging
lamp to read the names, perhaps, on the sheet they held--the names of
some poor creatures doomed to the torture chamber. I tore off my
master's name, and, thrusting the piece of paper in my mouth, I
ground it between my teeth and swallowed it. Then I tore out the
address, and swallowed that as well. Even then I was afraid of the
consequences. God alone could tell what they might have got from
what was left who found it, so I turned down an alley, and in the
darkness swallowed it all."
Roye stopped. Margaret laughed low in sheer relief, for now no
Familiars could be at Herman's street door. Herman chuckled, while
Tyndale rubbed his hands with satisfaction.
"Still I do not understand your long absence, William," he said
presently. "How does it account for the weeks that have gone by
without your coming to my lodgings?"
"Why, master, of course," said Roye, who seemed to have forgotten the
purpose for which he was telling the story of his adventures. "I ate
the letter, but in my haste I had taken no note of the address. I
wanted to know what you were writing to me. I only knew the name of
the city, not the name of the street."
He heard the subdued laughter of the girl at his side, but was not
much disconcerted.
"A natural thing, William," said Tyndale.
"It was, master. The great thing, first of all, was to prevent
discovery. Then I was confronted with a real difficulty--the task of
finding you. I came at once to the city, and all through the weary
days since then I have gone through and through the streets, not
daring to ask for you, but hoping as well as praying that I might
find you."
"I saw you!" exclaimed Margaret.
"You saw me?" the man retorted incredulously.
"Yes. Do you remember the night when the rain poured down, and you
sheltered in an archway? I came while you were standing there. Had
I but known!" Margaret added earnestly.
"Was it you?" asked Roye, in surprise.
"Yes, and I was even then going to the house where Master Tyndale
lodged."
"If I had but known!" the man exclaimed, repeating Margaret's words.
"Then, master, I had proved my loyalty to you and your great work,
and my honest wish to serve you."
Tyndale did not answer, for something came looming out of the
darkness, when a heavy cloud had cast dark shadows on the river--the
form of a slowly moving ship. She slid out into the moonlight, and
as she took clear shape, Herman knew her by the peculiar figurehead
at her bows.
"'Tis the _Marburg_!" he exclaimed.
Hurrying to the bank, and taking great risk while doing so, he sent a
plaintive and monotonous owl note travelling through the air. He did
it again and again until a man in the ship's bows held up his hand by
way of answer to the call, and disappeared.
Before long a boat came noiselessly, the oars being muffled, and
presently she struck her nose against the bank.
"Is Master Tyndale ready?"
The question came cautiously from a man in the boat's stern. Happily
the clouds had again gathered, and none, had any been watching, could
have seen Tyndale step from among the bushes and make his way to the
bank.
"I am here. Are you not very late?"
"A bit," was the sturdy, but whispered answer. "It couldn't be
helped. That fellow, Cochlaeus, has been prowling about the harbour
for the last three hours, and, not content with asking who was on
board any of the ships that meant to leave to-night, he went aboard
every one of them, and rummaged about in the cabins and down the
holds, tapping everywhere where there was a possible place for a man
to hide in. The _Marburg_ came in for special attention."
Tyndale stood on the bank and listened, and the moonlight, playing on
his face, revealed the intensity of his anxiety.
"Did he find anything? Was he suspicious about those precious
bundles?" he asked.
"No, master; his whole aim was to lay those long lean fingers of his
on flesh and blood. And something laughable happened, although some
of us sweated with anxiety at first. Cochlaeus got down into the
hold, where there were some casks, and these he tapped with his
staff, as he tapped every mortal thing there was. Some of them
sounded hollow, and he turned them over, but when he came to one and
turned that on its side, a man sprawled out."
Cochlaeus caught at him.
"'Ha! Master Tyndale, I have you at last!' he cried jubilantly, but
a moment later he screamed aloud. It was Heinrich, the simple lad in
the city, who, for some freak, had stolen on board to have a free
ride up the river, and hid himself thus, that none should know.
"He was frightened when he saw that it was Cochlaeus who had gripped
him, and in his frenzy of fear he snapped at the hand of the heretic
hunter, closing his teeth upon the long bony fingers, making him
scream with pain. But Heinrich would not let go. Not he! He seemed
to take a delight in making the Deacon of the Church of the Blessed
Virgin dance about, and he bit the harder. Ah! how he bit! and some
of the sailors laughed till the tears came, hoping that the simple
lad would bite the harder, to part repay the brute for the sorrow and
pain he had caused to so many who had come into his power.
"When the Captain came, wondering what the laughter and the screams
meant, he persuaded the boy to loosen his teeth; but not until he had
clenched his teeth for a final bite.
"'I'll bite harder if ever he lays hands on me again!' Heinrich
cried, looking at the Churchman, and there was a mad light in his
eyes."
The sailor dropped his laughter, and became serious.
"Poor lad," he muttered. "And yet I am glad he showed his teeth to
that fierce tormentor, and made him think, perhaps, of the poor
girls, and the mothers, and the men he has tormented in those ghastly
cellars of the Holy Houses. But come, Master Tyndale. The ship is
moving down the stream, and will not wait for us."
Tyndale stepped into the boat, dropping his wallet at his feet before
he sank on the seat.
"Come, William," he said to Roye, whose foot was on the gunwale.
"Nay, William, if that is what they call you," said the sailor,
holding up a refusing hand. "I only take Master Tyndale."
"But you must take him, friend!" exclaimed Tyndale, bending forward
eagerly. "'Tis William Roye, my amanuensis, and if he does not come
with me my work will be greatly hindered."
"Then in Christ's name, good man, come and be welcome. All who have
a hand in spreading God's truth may have a place on board the
_Marburg_, and I know the Captain will approve."
A few moments more and the boat shot away from the bank into the
stream, and was lost in the darkness, which was providential when so
many eyes might be prying into the doings of the night. For the
clear shining moon had gone behind some dense clouds and shrouded the
river and the meadows and the city near by in blackness.