_THE BELL OF ST MARTIN'S._
It was the day of the bi-weekly fair, and the High Street was
considerably crowded as Hugh walked along it on his way back towards his
quarters in the Castle. He had passed by the vendors of hay and straw
gathered near the East Gate with their horses and carts, and was picking
his way through the motley crowd who were chaffering on the one side of
the street with the sellers of poultry, meat, and fish, and on the other
with the sellers of gloves, hosiery, and those other articles of which
mercers were the vendors. The street was encumbered with stalls set up
by country folks for the sale of greengrocery, scullery-wares, and fruit
or cakes. At Carfax itself the sellers of white bread set up their
stalls and called their wares; opposite All Saints' Church stood the
tables of sellers of gloves, earthenware, and ale. Altogether it was a
busy and animated scene, and although Hugh was well accustomed to it, he
could not but look about him with amusement, and pause now and again to
listen to a piece of unwontedly animated bargaining.
Clerks and scholars, and even some of the higher dignitaries of the
place, were abroad in the streets; and as the evening was approaching,
those who still wanted to buy were pressing forward eagerly.
Hugh was detained for a time by meeting with one of the Masters who had
something to say to him, and the pair stood for some little time beneath
the shadow of All Saints' whilst they conversed.
Meantime the aspect of the streets changed considerably: tables and
stalls were broken up and taken away by the country folk, who streamed
off through the various gates; town tradesmen took in their wares, and
began to close their shops; and the purchasers hurried home with their
goods, talking and laughing, and comparing notes upon their bargains.
The shadows were falling in the narrow thoroughfares as at length Hugh
pursued his way eastward. There were plenty of passengers still afoot,
but the crowd had thinned somewhat. As he passed by the bull-ring in
Carfax, he thought he heard the sound of a small tumult from the
direction of the North Gate, where the cordwainers and mercers
congregated on market days; but he paid little heed to it, and continued
his way to the Great Bayly, where the drapers were putting up their
shutters for the night.
Suddenly the great bell of St. Martin's overhead boomed out through the
startled air, and immediately all was hurry and confusion.
The tolling or ringing of the bell of St. Martin's was always the signal
for the citizens to rally against the University, and showed that some
collision between clerks and townsmen had occurred. Hugh quickened his
steps, having no desire to be mixed up in one of those senseless
outbreaks of anger and jealousy which were constantly disturbing the
peace of Oxford.
Just lately these riots had been more frequent than ever, the disturbed
state of public feeling seeming in this place to take the form of
incessant rioting in the streets. Several persons, both citizens and
clerks, had recently been killed, and a number more injured more or less
severely during the past weeks; and Hugh had heard the Constable of the
Castle speak in no measured terms of the need to take stronger measures
against the delinquents.
Within the last few months a new Chancellor had been appointed to the
University, the celebrated Thomas de Cantilupe, who had just arrived at
the University (where he had previously taken the degree of Doctor of
Canon Law), and he had joined issue with the Constable for the
preservation of order. Indeed he had already adventured himself into the
streets to interpose between some riotous spirits of North and South who
had come to blows, and had himself received some injury in seeking to
pacify the insensate youths.
It was said that he was about to make some fresh regulations, in the
hope of putting a stop to this perpetual nuisance; but so far his
decision had not been made public, as he had been obliged to keep to his
rooms till his bruises should be healed.
Hugh, however, had heard and seen enough to feel indignant at any fresh
outbreak, and he quickened his steps in order to avoid any contact with
a gathering crowd. Already citizens were hurrying towards Carfax, eager
to learn what was betiding; several brushed past Hugh as he walked; and
then, before his very eyes, a strange and terrible thing happened.
Suddenly he was aware that in a dark doorway close at hand a cowled
figure was standing. Then the figure moved, and Hugh saw the glancing
blade of a long, murderous stiletto flash out. It was plunged up to the
hilt in the body of a citizen hurrying by towards Carfax, and the
hapless man fell dead at Hugh's feet without so much as a groan.
The young man stood stupified with astonishment and horror; then in a
moment he realized the peril of his own position.
"Seize him! seize him!" yelled a dozen furious voices; "he has slain one
of our townsmen! Seize the murderer! Do to him as he hath done! Take him
red-handed in the act, and we will see that justice is done upon him!"
"My good friends," said Hugh, looking at the angry faces surrounding
him, and striving to keep his head in face of this very real peril, "I
am innocent of the death of this unhappy man. I do not even know who he
is. The murderer was a man disguised in the habit of a monk, loitering
in yon doorway. Search, and you will find him yet, and I can testify to
the blow he struck!"
Angry and excited, the crowd would scarce hear him. No such figure as he
described was to be found. No one had seen a monk in the street, nor
could Hugh declare in what direction he had fled after committing the
crime, so bewildered had he been by the suddenness of the deed, and by
its tragic sequel. His words were received with hisses of scornful
discredit; the angry townsmen, some of whom were neighbours to the
murdered man, clamoured more and more fiercely for the blood of the
destroyer. Overhead the bell of St. Martin's swung in the air,
increasing the excitement with every clang. The street was full of
wrathful burghers; yells, curses, threats, rent the air. Hugh believed
that in another moment the crowd would fall upon him and tear him in
pieces, and had almost given himself over as lost, when a loud voice
dominated the others in the throng, and yelled out lustily,--
"Take him to the Bocardo prison; lock him up there for the night, and
then let the Mayor and the Chancellor deal with him. They will avenge us
of the death of our neighbour. Let us not fall upon him ourselves, or we
shall, perchance, have our liberties again curtailed."
Many grumbled, and showed a disposition to resist this counsel, crying
out that it were better to deal with the miscreant then and there, for
that clerks and bachelors were always let off far too easily by the
authorities. But the older men of the city knew well that the slaying of
a clerk was regarded with severity by those in authority, and had
sometimes been punished by the King himself in the withdrawal of certain
liberties and privileges from the city charter. If a clerk fell in open
fight, that was one thing; but for the citizens deliberately to doom him
to death, and to dispatch him with their own hands without form of
trial, was another; and it was this sort of summary justice which
brought the citizens into trouble.
"To the Bocardo then, to the Bocardo!" cried the wiser of the onlookers;
and despite the mutterings of the malcontents, Hugh was hustled along,
not without receiving many sly blows and kicks by the way, in the
direction of the North Gate, where the Bocardo prison was situated.
It was getting very dark by this time. Breathless, spent, and
bewildered, the clothes half torn from his back, his purse and clasp and
finger-ring filched from him by thieving hands, Hugh was thankful when
the gloomy gateway was reached, and he felt himself thrust up a dim
stairway and flung with scant ceremony into a dark and ill-smelling
room.
A faint ray of light stole in through a grating overhead, and revealed a
small stone chamber with a truss of straw in one corner as its only
plenishing. He was given over to the custody of a surly-looking fellow,
who merely answered his questions with a grunt. Hugh greatly regretted
the loss of his purse, as he felt sure that a gold piece would have
worked wonders upon his custodian. He wanted to send a message to
Leofric, to Edmund, to the Constable himself; but at the very mention of
this wish the man broke into curses, and said he had other things to do
than run errands for prisoners. He could wait till he was brought out
for trial, and then see what was said to his fine tales!
With that the jailer deposited a pitcher of water and a modicum of bread
within the door, and going out banged and locked it behind him, leaving
Hugh to meditate in silence and darkness upon the thing that had
befallen him.
Little sleep was there for him that night, and the tardy daylight
brought small increase of comfort. He listened eagerly for any sounds
from without that should tell of approaching deliverance; but hour after
hour passed, and nobody came near him save the sullen jailer, who put
down the rough fare of his prisoner, and did not deign so much as to
answer a single question.
Such treatment was hard to bear, and Hugh, unaccustomed to it, chafed
not a little against the helplessness of his position. He wondered
whether his friends were in ignorance of what had befallen him. Surely
if they knew they would do something for his release. It seemed
monstrous that he should lie under the imputation of this foul crime.
Surely no man of any standing in the city would believe him capable of
it. And yet how could he prove his innocence, when his foes would make
it appear that he had been caught red-handed in the act?
His was certainly no enviable position, nor did his thoughts tend to
increase his peace of mind. He recalled his previous uneasiness with
regard to a tall grey-cowled monk, and could not but believe that the
figure lurking in the doorway had been that of the same person as he had
seen so often in the streets before or behind him. He remembered what
Leofric had said as to a monk at Eynsham spying upon him there. A thrill
of fear ran through his heart lest Linda should once more be
endangered--and through him. And then, again, had not he seen that
scarred and bearded face amid the rabble crowd that thronged and
maltreated him? Had not that man, so often seen of late, been one of his
foremost foes? He felt in a maze of perplexity and dread. Was he to be
the victim of some new plot, which had for its object to separate him
and his beloved?
He paced his narrow cell hour after hour in mute misery and disquietude.
When would he be brought to trial? When would his friends find him? He
could hear the familiar sounds in the streets below. He could hear the
sentries at the gate relieving one another. Why did nobody come near
him? How long was he to be left thus?
Gradually the hope of seeing any face (save that of the jailer) upon
this day faded from Hugh's mind. The light began to flicker and grow
dim. The prison chamber became dark as night. At last even the outline
of the grating above his head became indistinguishable. Hugh, with a
groan of disappointment and weariness, threw himself upon his sordid
bed, and after a time found oblivion from his woes in sleep.
How long he slept he knew not, but he was suddenly awakened by the sound
of a stealthy movement outside the door. He started up and held his
breath. Yes, he was certain of it. Somebody was outside, feeling over
the walls and door as if in search of the fastening; and presently he
heard a key softly fitted into the lock.
His heart beat fast as he heard the door open and a soft rustle bespeak
the entrance of some human intruder. Then followed a deep silence,
broken by the sound of a voice--a voice which like new wine sent the
blood coursing through the young man's veins.
"Hugh--my beloved--art thou there?"
"Linda!" he cried, in wild amaze, and the next moment had groped his way
across the intervening space, and had encircled her with his
arm--"Linda, my heart's joy! how comest thou here?"
"Hush, dearest! speak low, lest we be heard. I have come to set thee
free--to fly with thee beyond the reach of pursuit. Dearest, wilt thou
trust thyself with me?"
He pressed her hand to his lips. He thrilled from head to foot. But how
had she come to him in this dread place? He was enwrapped by the sense
of mystery.
"Linda, sweetheart, how hast thou made thy way hither? Art thou a being
angelic, to whom closed doors offer no obstacle? How hast thou
penetrated hither?"
"That will I tell thee anon, dear love. Dost thou not know that love
will ever find out the way?" She spoke in low, whispering tones, and he
followed her example, guessing well the need for caution and secrecy.
"Thou hast friends without these prison walls, and thy friends are
working for thee. Nevertheless thy case is somewhat perilous; and if
thou canst not make good thy flight, there are grave fears for thy life,
since there be many to swear thee guilty of the crime, and both
Constable and Chancellor are greatly resolved to make an example of any
disturber of the peace, be he citizen or clerk."
"What then shall I do?" asked Hugh.
"Listen, beloved," she answered. "How I have got access to this place I
will tell another time, for we may not linger here. But I have brought
to thee the habit of a monk. I am likewise attired in cowl and gown.
Once free of this prison, we can walk the city streets without fear; for
the good friars of St. Francis go about their works of piety and charity
by night as well as by day. Only we must not linger in the city, but
must flee forth ere thine escape is discovered; for there will be hue
and cry after thee, since thou hast at least two vindictive enemies, who
are sworn to thy destruction--and to mine undoing!"
She shivered as she spoke, and Hugh muttered something between his
teeth. He had been about to say that he would take her back at once to
her aunt at Eynsham; but these last words seemed to show that she would
not now be safe there.
"Are they molesting thee, sweetheart?" he asked.
"It is that evil Roger de Horn again," she said, with a slight tremor in
her voice; "he has come back under another name. It is he who is the
disturber of the city's peace. He has found me out, and I am no longer
safe with mine aunt. If thou art in danger, beloved, so am I. Can we not
both seek safety in flight?"
"Yes, if thou wilt marry me, so soon as we can find some holy man to
join our hands in wedlock!" cried Hugh eagerly. "Then will I carry thee
to my father's house, and I will seek to win my spurs in the service of
King or Prince, whilst thou at home dost play a daughter's part to my
sweet mother, who will, I trow, receive thee with open arms, when she
shall know what thou hast done and dared for my sake."
All this had been spoken in rapid whispers, and now Hugh hastily donned
the monkish garment, which was in fact the habit of a Franciscan friar,
and entirely covered his whole person. The cowl was drawn over his head,
and he was completely disguised, although in the pitchy darkness they
could see nothing, and had to trust to the sense of touch.
Then the soft hands guided him down the narrow stairs--he had discarded
his foot gear the better to personate a friar--his companion softly
locked the door behind him, and the pair glided down and unfastened the
outer door which opened upon the street.
Close at hand, in a tiny chamber, sat the guard of the gate, sunk in
sodden sleep, an empty wine-flask lying at his side. The slender cowled
figure stole toward him, and replaced the keys at his girdle, whence
they had plainly been detached; and then, gliding forth again, she took
Hugh by the hand, and they made their way along the shadow of the wall
till the Castle loomed up before them.
"Sweetheart," said Hugh suddenly, "why should we go farther? Within
these walls we shall find shelter and safety, and here we may be wed ere
we fare forth into the world together. I know my friends will not desert
me at this perilous moment, and Alys will be as a friend and sister to
thee till I can make thee mine own. The sentry at the gate will know me
and let me pass; or these habits will suffice to win us our way. Come,
beloved; I would not have thee wander longer through the darkness of the
night. Trust thy dear self to me, and all will be well."
"Ah no, no!" cried his companion urgently; "thou wilt only run thyself
into greater peril. I have planned all. Come only with me. I will lead
thee where thou shalt be safe. Only do not delay!"
At the sound of those words Hugh's heart suddenly stood still, and a
qualm of fear and mistrust shook him from head to foot.
Was that indeed Linda's voice? Was it like his gentle, timid Linda to
refuse such safe shelter for the perils of the road and the
uncertainties which must lie before them? When the voice had spoken only
in whispers, he had never for a moment doubted; but now--now--his brain
felt on fire. He was bewildered--dismayed--apprehensive. If not Linda,
who could it be? Who save her twin sister could personate her thus? And
was it possible that any good purpose could be designed by those who
were practising this fraud upon him? Would not Linda have been the first
to snatch at the thought of seeking safety with the gentle Alys, of whom
they often spoke together? She might have braved much to get her lover
out of prison; but once free from those walls, and maiden modesty, as
well as her natural timidity, would have urged her to accept this
suggestion with gladness. Hugh knew the nature of his sweetheart too
well to be deceived.
But the companion of his flight seized him by the hand and cried
eagerly,--
"Come with me! come with me! all is ready--all is planned. There is no
need for protection for me. I am safe with thee; and the priest already
awaits to unite us in wedlock. Come; I will guide thee to the place."
"Nay, now I know well that thou art not Linda!" suddenly cried Hugh,
throwing back his cowl and gazing intently at his companion by the light
of a dying moon. "Who and what art thou, who hast come and succoured me
under her name? Thou canst be none other than Lotta, for thou hast her
voice and her form. What is the meaning of the masquerade?"
With a fierce gesture Lotta flung back her cowl, and stood before him
with flashing eyes.
"So thou hast discovered me? I said that thou wouldest; that I could
never play the part of puling love-lorn maiden such as Linda was ever
wont to be! But I hold thee to thy plighted word. This very night shalt
thou marry me. I have saved thy life, and thou art now my prey."
"Nay, Lotta," answered Hugh, with manly dignity of bearing, "I am
grateful for thy help. I will not forget my debt, and I will be a true
brother to thee to my life's end. But not even if I stood at the point
of death would I forswear myself, and vow to love and cherish one I
cannot thus love. I am the betrothed of thy sister. To thee I can be
nothing but a brother; but I will remember always what thou hast done
for me, albeit I will sooner return to my prison walls than be false to
mine own true love."
"Fool!" hissed Lotta between her shut teeth, "dost think thou wilt ever
wed her? I tell thee she has already been lured from Eynsham by means of
thy signet-ring, stolen from off thy finger by Roger de Horn. The same
priest who will wed thee and me will wed Linda and Roger ere the day be
done. I have loved thee always, Hugh. Even now when thou goest far to
make me hate thee, I love thee with a fierce and passionate love which
brooks no bounds. From my window I have watched thee go to and fro in
the city these many years. Though thou hast forgotten me, I have never
forgotten thee; and now when thy life was threatened by evil men, I have
offered to save thee at this price. Marry me, and they will cease to
fear and hate thee, and will receive thee as kinsman and friend. Refuse,
and thy life will pay the forfeit! And make haste in thy choice, for
already we are waited for; and if thou dost longer delay, thou wilt be
set upon in these dark streets, and not even my voice will avail to save
thee."
There were urgency and passion in Lotta's voice, and a part of her words
had filled the heart of Hugh with a great fear. Was it indeed true that
Linda had been lured away? It might well be, since she would know the
signet ring of her lover, and might take it to be a token from him. His
heart seemed to stand still within him; his brain felt benumbed by
horror. He attempted no reply to Lotta's rapid speech; and noting his
silence, she suddenly grasped his arm and shook it in her impatience and
urgency.
"Come!" she cried, "come! Better a bridegroom than a dead corpse; and I
am as fair as Linda, and as meet a bride for thee. Come, I say, come!"
She paused for a moment, and then in more urgent accents cried, "If thou
dost not consent, thou art undone. Here come Tito and Roger to look for
us."
And indeed at that moment Hugh plainly saw two figures creeping along
towards them--the grey-cowled monk and the bearded man with the scarred
face.
That was enough for him. His only reason for standing thus long in talk
was his chivalrous dread of leaving a maiden alone in the streets of the
city. Now that her brother and his comrade were close at hand, he did
not hesitate a moment.
They were just beneath the Castle walls. The Gate was half-way between
him and his foes. They might chance to reach it as soon as he, did they
guess his intentions. But he knew the place well, and knew of a small
postern close to the end of Bedford Lane (New Inn Hall Street now).
Making therefore a quick dash in the opposite direction, he fled like a
hunted hare, and a few loud knocks obtained him entrance from the
soldier on guard.
"I am pursued! Shut it after me!" he cried; and the man instantly
obeyed, for he thought he was succouring a holy friar from the attacks
of some wanton roisterers, too drunk to reverence the habit of their
quarry.
And thus it was that Hugh le Barbier escaped from prison and found his
way within the Castle walls.