THE PRISONER
Herman's hand involuntarily closed over the dagger at his belt, but
he realised his helplessness.
He could do nothing, for here, or within call, moving up or down the
slope, and out on the waters, playing a pirate part, were scores of
men, all armed--men whose business it was to fight, and who, if he
had gone forth to make any remonstrance, would drive their swords
into him, and laugh at his mad venture. They would do it as the
natural act when one had the impudence or imprudence to confront
scores who knew no law but what the lord of the castle cared to make.
He watched the strange scene on the river, and from where he stood,
compelled to be silent, but with a feeling of dread, he saw, in the
full flood of moonlight, that the armed men were in possession of the
ship. On the upper deck a man's body hung over the handrail. The
man was either dead or badly wounded. That was the only token that
there had been resistance to these river pirates, for the sailors,
unarmed, and only a handful against scores of trained fighters, had
realised how futile it was to endeavour to save the ship.
The crew were driven into a corner of the deck, and held there like
penned sheep by a few soldiers whose breastplates glanced in the
moonlight every time they moved. They were ready to cut down any
sailor who was mad enough to attempt to break away.
Herman's teeth chattered, although the night was warm, for the
thought of William Tyndale's extremity sent an icy shiver down his
spine. All the bold effort to get the good man away had come to
naught. There was the deadly fear of what might follow, added to the
bitterness of a frustrated plan and the thought that God's Word was
not to reach the people of England after all.
He resolved to do whatever remained possible. He would wait and see
what was done to Tyndale--where he might be placed by the robber
lord. Then to his alert mind came the thought that he might even yet
be able to get Tyndale away. But how, or what the way might be, only
the good God could tell.
There was no sound of fighting. Instead, the laughter of the
soldiers came over the waters. Their steel helmets bobbed here and
there, and Herman knew that the men were searching the ship for
anything in the way of booty--money or goods.
Presently the first things came in the shape of bales, possibly of
silks, which were dropped over the side into the boats. Other
bundles followed, but only what was of value, for these soldiers were
experienced pillagers who spent their days and nights in this sort of
work. They knew what things were of worth, and what the lord of the
castle would be able to turn into gold. Boat-load after boat-load
came to the bank, the booty was handed out to men on the bank, and
the boats returned for more.
Herman was startled by a sound on his right hand, and, looking round
quickly, he saw half a dozen men emerge from among the trees and
stand out clear in the moonlight. He saw the newcomers' faces, and
he dropped back farther into the shades of the forest, for one of
them was Cochlaeus.
For a while these men gazed on the unexpected scene, and Herman,
watching, saw how the face of the heretic hunter worked with
passion--the fury of a man who thought he had but to overtake the
ship, and ask for Tyndale, and he would have him in his power, but
now discovered that the Englishman was beyond his reach.
They were near enough for Herman to hear what was said.
"Is this Schouts' place?" Cochlaeus asked, pointing towards the
castle, and speaking in hoarse and passionate tones.
"Yes," said the Dean; "so that there is danger for us as well as for
those who are on board the ship."
"Danger for us?" exclaimed Cochlaeus, in amazement. "Danger for me,
an emissary of the Church?"
"Schouts cares no more for the Church than for the meanest man on
board the _Marburg_. He has no fear for God or man."
Cochlaeus gazed at him incredulously, and when the Dean and the
others drew back among the trees, he stood clear out in the moonlight
and waved his clenched fists, in the impotence of his disappointment.
"Come back!" the Dean exclaimed, fearful lest this man might do
something yet more rash, if he had not already betrayed their
presence by his mad gestures. "You do not know this robber lord. He
would flout you or the Lord Cardinal, anything and anybody that
belongs to the Church, as readily as he would beat down one of his
own soldiers who dared to disobey him!"
The Dean stepped forward, and, with a strong grip on the Churchman's
arm, drew him away forcibly among the trees.
"I pray God we were not seen," Herman heard the Dean say.
What Cochlaeus and his companions did after that Herman could not
tell, but as time went on, and he heard no sound to indicate their
presence, and saw no more of them, he concluded that they had gone
back.
Convinced that this was so, he watched for Tyndale, wondering whether
the robber lord would only concern himself with booty and let the men
on board alone.
The boats went to and fro, until the _Marburg's_ hold must have been
emptied of all that was worth carrying away; and now Herman was eager
to know what would follow. The man whose body had been hanging over
the handrail began to revive, and he staggered over to a coil of rope
on which he sat with evident pain. He was apparently waiting for the
worst. The moonlight falling on the face made Herman aware that it
was the captain of the ship.
Someone went to him--a tall man, clothed in the garb of a nobleman,
and giving one the impression of immensity. He must have been
Schouts, the predatory lord of whom the Dean had spoken. The captain
lifted his face as if to answer a question, and it was crumpled and
lined with pain, and ghostly in its paleness; and even while Schouts
was speaking, he fell sideways, and lay on the deck like one who was
dead.
The other swung round on his heel after gazing at the prostrate man
for a few moments, and, tramping along the deck, moved down the
ladder into the waist of the _Marburg_. Before many minutes had
passed a man's loud voice rang out, and the soldiers on board began
to search in obscure places for something.
Were they looking for Tyndale?
The unspoken question was answered quickly. Two men came along the
lower deck, and between them walked a bearded man.
It was William Tyndale.
He did not walk cravenly, although he moved slowly and with bowed
head. The soldiers, with their swords drawn, took him to Schouts,
whose weapon-point rested on the deck. Something was said, although
Herman heard no sound of voices, and the robber lord, turning his
back on his prisoner, walked to the ship's side, the prisoner
following. One by one the men came down the rope-ladder into a boat,
Schouts first, then Tyndale, and after him the two soldiers. As soon
as they were seated, the boat was pulled to the landing-place.
Herman hurried to the spot where he had stood for his first glimpse
of the grass slope. It was in his mind that he might see Tyndale
more closely, and who could tell whether, in God's mercy, something
might happen whereby he might effect his escape? It was a wild hope,
but he did not set it aside.
He passed the hollow where the horse stood quietly and tiredly, and
reached the place just as Tyndale made his way among the heaps of
pirated merchandise. There were half a score of armed retainers
about him now, and the hope of rescue passed.
Looking out on the river, while Tyndale was kept standing to wait for
further commands, Herman saw the sailors moving away from the spot
where they had been penned in by the soldiers. He heard the sound of
the winch, as they slowly raised the anchor which had been dropped on
Schouts' demand, and before long the sails were bellying in the wind,
and the ship moved up the stream.
A call came on the night air, and the company, of which Tyndale was
the centre, began to move. He came slowly, as though he were ill,
but the soldiers, apparently realising this, suited their pace to
his. Schouts moved up the slope without waiting, but halted close to
where Herman stood, to call back to the men to begin to carry the
spoil to the castle.
Tyndale drew level with Herman's standing spot, and, scarce knowing
why, the young man went in and out among the trees and bushes,
anxious to watch the prisoner. It was a perilous venture, for a
false step might cause him to make some sound, and the captain of
Tyndale's guard, expecting an attack, might send some of his men into
the forest to search. It could scarcely mean less than death if they
found him, and what excuse could he make but this, that, having
occasion to pass on through the forest, he had found his way barred
by the soldiers? They would laugh his explanation to scorn, perhaps,
and run him through with a sword or carry him to one of the dungeons
in the castle.
The castle gate was reached at last. The drawbridge was already
down, but the portcullis had to be raised before any of the party
could pass in. Herman so stood that as the moonlight fell on the
face of the prisoner he saw how he cast a wistful look around him, as
though this might be the last he would ever have beneath God's open
heavens. Hopelessness, too, so Herman thought, was on the tired
man's face, and the traces of bitter disappointment because the work
on which he had been engaged might never be completed.
When Tyndale stood at the drawbridge, waiting for it to be raised,
Herman heard sounds behind him, like the stealthy movements of men,
and felt alarmed for his own safety. But another idea came. Was it
possible that some were approaching with the intention of attempting
Tyndale's rescue? But who would be so mad when, at the clangour of
the castle bell, a hundred armed men would be on the spot?
Knowing that he could not be seen, he waited to discover the meaning
of these movements, and what he saw surprised him. One man took his
place behind a tree not more than half a dozen yards away. Another
drew away from a bush and stood beside the first comer. Others crept
up from the dark shadows, but not so near, within call, but standing
well out of sight.
"That is Tyndale," Herman heard one say, and the voice belonged to
Cochlaeus.
The voice of the other who answered was the Dean's.
"Then if he crosses the drawbridge, and the portcullis falls, Tyndale
goes out of your power. But let him go! Now that Schouts has him in
his robber den he is as good as dead. God alone knows what he may do
to silence him, for I count Schouts equal to anything. You have but
to think of the man to know that he is barbarity personified."
Cochlaeus spoke back in low tones which vibrated with exasperation.
"What care I for that? We want this fellow, Tyndale, in our own
hands. We can only feel safe to know that he is in our care, and
that, when the torture he deserves is over, we shall effectually
silence him. For ever!" Cochlaeus added, almost aloud, in his
virulent hate of the Englishman.
He dropped into silence when the Dean spoke sharply at his rashness
in speaking for a hundred ears might catch any sound in the still
night.
The portcullis rose when the drawbridge dropped, and the gate was
already open. A moment's pause followed, before a word came from the
captain of the guard, and the soldiers, springing from inertness into
full attention, moved across the bridge with their prisoner. Before
many moments had passed Tyndale had gone out of sight.
There was a hollow sound of tramping on stone inside, another
command, and before the footsteps died away the gate was closed with
a heavy clang, and the portcullis dropped.
Tyndale was shut up in the castle. But to what? Was it to death?