AN UNFORTUNATE DENOUEMENT.
But
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o' mice and men
Gang aft a-gley.
BURNS.
As Edmund drew nearer to Sir Thomas Stanley his heart began to fail
him, and when at last he was sufficiently near the knight to have
carried out his design, his courage oozed out at his finger ends and
he felt powerless to strike.
Finally he relinquished the attempt altogether, and a new idea
flashing upon him, he tossed the knife into the furthest corner of the
room, and rising to his feet, he tapped the still unconscious nobleman
upon the shoulder, trusting that his careful disguise would preserve
him from being recognised by Sir Thomas at least, for circumstances
at Haddon had brought them into connection with each other but a few
times at most.
"Come at last, eh! and time, too," exclaimed the young knight, as
he listlessly held out his hand for his potion of sack. "What, not
brought it yet?" he added, as he saw the other's empty hands; "I have
been kept waiting for it more than a quarter of an hour."
"Will you have it cool or spiced, my lord?" meekly asked Edmund,
following up the idea thus thrown out. "I have but just received the
order for it."
"Spiced, indeed!" replied the knight contemptuously; "not I, let me
have it fresh from the cellar, and that quickly. No, here, stay," he
added by the way of afterthought, "where is Sir George?"
"Sir George! Is that the oldish gentleman with the master?"
"That is Sir George Vernon, yes."
"He is lying down in the parlour," was the ready reply.
"Humph, that's queer, poring over that confounded document again, I'll
warrant me. I will go back with you," returned Sir Thomas.
"I will bring it to you in half a minute," gasped Edmund.
"Nay," returned the other, "I will accompany thee. Ha! here he is,
coming up again. He's crossing the yard now, and Sir Nicholas Bacon is
with him, I perceive."
Edmund had played his last card, and the game was lost. Fortune had
forsaken him at every turn; not one of his efforts had met with any
success, and after all his endeavours he found himself as securely
caught as the rat which was even then writhing within a few inches of
his feet, in its last vain endeavour to free itself from the trap in
which it was held.
For a moment or two he stood irresolute, but then, quickly gaining
a mastery over the feeling of despair which had at first stolen over
him, he made for the ladder, only to find, as he put his foot on the
topmost step, that Sir George had set his foot upon the one at the
bottom.
There was no help for it. He could neither advance nor retreat, so he
stood at the top, carefully selecting the darker side, to await the
course of events which could bring him no good fortune, but only evil
in a greater or lesser degree. The completeness of his disguise, which
had so completely deceived Sir Thomas, encouraged him to hope, for
the moment, that he might also pass unrecognised even before the eagle
eyes of the King of the Peak, and he solaced himself by trusting that
if he were discovered the landlord might dismiss him in as summary a
manner as he had done the ostler before him.
As Sir George passed him by, deep in conversation with Sir Nicholas
Bacon, Edmund's hopes were considerably augmented, but the same
ill-luck which had followed him heretofore did not desert him now.
His hopes were dashed as soon as they had arisen, for the eye of the
worthy Boniface was fixed upon him ere that person had fully entered
the room.
Had he been attired in a manner more befitting his station, Edmund
would undoubtedly have received a more befitting reception; but
clothed as he was in shabby knee-breeches, loosely tied at the knees,
a coat which was out at the elbows, a hat minus a portion of its brim,
and with a dilapidated ruffle round his neck, which had been in its
prime years ago, he presented a striking similarity in appearance
to the ordinary marauding beggar of the period, such as were then so
exceedingly common, and for one of whom, indeed, the landlord took him
to be.
As soon as this worthy had ascended, Edmund coolly made for the
ladder, but he was motioned back by a sweep of the arm, as the
landlord loosely fastened down the door.
"Who might you be, pray?" he asked, turning to the terror-stricken
captive; "and what are you doing here, eh?"
At this sally Sir Thomas Stanley, who had just been exchanging
compliments with the Lord Keeper, turned round.
"Who might he be," he laughed, repeating the words he had just
overheard; "well, by my troth, Sir George, he does not remember his
own servant, even the one he sent about my sack. You have been priming
him with his own ale and this is the result.
"Not a drop," interrupted the baron.
"What do you say?" gasped out the astonished innkeeper. "This rascally
knave a servant of mine! Pooh, does he look like it, I ask you? You
impudent jackanapes," he pursued, as he clutched the unfortunate
Edmund by the collar. "What are you here for, eh? What are you here
for? Speak."
So far was Edmund from complying with this command that he remained
absolutely silent. He dare not open his mouth for fear that Sir George
would recognise his voice.
"Prowling about for as much as he can lay hold of, I'll warrant me,"
continued his captor, addressing Sir Thomas Stanley, who had advanced
towards them. "How long has he been here, my lord?"
"Nay, I know not," said Sir Thomas. "I saw him but just before you
came up."
"Then you may satisfy yourself that he had watched us out," replied
the other sharply, "and was surprised enough to find anyone left up
here."
"Like enough," assented the baron.
"He was pretty smart with his tricks, then," said Sir Thomas. "How was
he to know I wanted any sack, I should like to know?"
The question was unanswerable, and no one attempted to reply.
"How did you know that, eh?" asked the proprietor, emphasising the
question by a series of hearty shakings.
Still there was no answer; Edmund would not speak.
"Did you see him enter?" asked Sir Nicholas.
"I did not know he was in the room until he tapped me on the shoulder.
I was watching the play."
"These rogues are wonderfully sharp," muttered Sir George.
"Then probably he was in the room all the time," suggested the Lord
Keeper.
"What did the rascal say to you, my lord?" went on the tavern keeper.
"He asked me whether I would have my sack spiced or no."
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Sir George; "that was cool enough, at any rate.
I think we ought to let the knave free this time for his wit."
"And let him prey on somebody else?" added Sir Nicholas.
"Bad policy, Sir George, bad policy. He might try his hand on you next
time."
"I wonder how much property of mine he has taken already?" continued
the host. "I will have him thoroughly searched. I know the rascal well
enough, he's been here before now many a time. There's a whole lot of
them prowling around the neighbourhood; a regular gang. I'll make an
example of this one, I will. You might as well give me what you have
taken," he added, turning to his captive, "and save me the labour of
taking it from you."
"I have nothing of yours," replied Edmund, in a strangely foreign
voice.
"Not been through the house yet, maybe, eh!"
"No."
"Humph, I don't believe you. Here, Hugh," he cried, hearing the ostler
moving about below, "come up here."
Edmund's quondam friend and fellow conspirator came up in answer
to the summons in no very enviable frame of mind, anticipating very
correctly what was about to take place, and debating within himself
what course of action to pursue. He quickly decided, however, that
inasmuch as he had not yet possessed himself of the money due to
him from the captive, that he would screen him as far as he was
able--compatibly with his own safety.
"What's this fellow doing here?" demanded his master, as soon as Hugh
stepped into the room.
"Can't say, sir," replied Hugh, gazing at Edmund with well-simulated
surprise, "maybe he's in drink."
"A likely story, that. Do drunken folk climb up ladders, eh?"
"Not always, sir."
"How long has he been up here, now?"
"Never seen him afore, sir," returned the unabashed ostler, with an
air of perfect candour.
"You will be getting into serious trouble some day if you don't be
careful to speak the truth," exclaimed his master, "so I warn you,
sir. Now, out with it; he was here when you went down."
"I had not seen him then, by the blessed Virgin I had not. I have
never clap't eyes on the knave before!"
"Now, mind, I warn you, so be careful."
"I had only just got up, master; upon my word I had. I had not
sufficient time to see anybody before you came and sent me down,"
and at the remembrance of that event he stepped back a pace or two in
order that his previous experience might not be repeated.
"You good-for-nothing rascal you!" broke out the landlord. "I stood
and watched you myself, you were looking at the play. Get you gone,
you idle vagabond," he added, in high dudgeon, "get you gone, and
bring me up some stout cord."
Glad to escape, Hugh quickly made his exit, having come off far more
easily than at one time he feared. He reappeared in a short time, but
with empty hands.
"Well, where's the cord?" angrily enquired his master.
"An it please you, sir," he replied, with a sly wink at Edmund, "I
cannot find one strong enough to bear him."
"You can't hang him yet; let him have a proper trial. There has been
naught proved against him as yet," eagerly interrupted the baron, upon
whom the lesson of his own trouble had not been lost.
"He shall have a proper trial, my lord," exclaimed the landlord, "and
to-morrow we shall have him in the pillory. The proprietor of the Cock
Tavern is no hangman; I only wanted to bind him. Fetch me a piece of
cord, you knave, and be quick, or I'll lay it about your back when it
does come. Nay, you don't do that," he added, turning to Edmund, who
was struggling to free himself; "not yet, my fine fellow. I have not
done with thee yet," and by Sir Nicholas' timely help the prisoner was
laid upon his back and then firmly secured with the cords which the
ostler brought up a minute later.
Leaving Edmund to bemoan his fate to himself, the party drew nigh
to the window to witness the play afresh. They were just in time to
witness the advent of another "silent scene."
"Let me explain it to you," proffered the once more equable Boniface.
"I know all about these things, they oft-times visit us here. I know
every bit of this play as well as I know my creed."
"Happen you may not be very familiar with the creed, though," laughed
Sir Thomas.
"Don't I know it, though?" he replied. "Sir Nicholas, if I might be
pardoned for mentioning it, knows full well that every citizen of
London knows the creed by heart."
"Yes," assented the Lord Keeper, "everyone is compelled to attend some
church at least once a Sabbath."
"Or else they are smartly fined for staying away, as I was," ruefully
added the landlord. "Yes, my lords, I know my creed full well."
"Well, what's that fellow drinking now?" asked Sir George.
"He's fainting, poor fellow," replied Sir Thomas.
"Fainting," laughed the host, "fainting! not a bit of it. He is
drinking some of my best Malmesey wine, that's what he is doing; only
you must think he is taking poison. He is Gorboduc, the king."
"Well?"
"Oh, I forgot, you know naught of him as yet. Well, he, a king of
Britain years ago, has just told everybody that the kingdom is to
be divided between his two sons, Ferrex and Porrex. Some of his
councillors advised 'Yes,' and some said 'No,' but the old king was
decided upon having his own way, and the land had just been divided
between them."
"Get on," said the baron impatiently, as the other paused and finally
came to a dead stop. "They are beginning to act again."
"And one of the old councillors strongly advised the king to keep his
realm entire," continued the man, "I remember his very words. He told
the king how bad any division would be, not only for himself, but also
for his sons. He says:--
But worst of all for this our native land.
Within one land one single rule is best,
Divided reigns do make divided hearts,
But peace preserves the country and the prince."
"As correct as the creed itself," whispered Sir Nicholas.
"It may be so," exclaimed the young knight, "but we will let the
poetry go. For my part I can't understand that new-fashioned poetry,
and I don't want to either. I only like it when it rhymes, like
Chaucer."
"That all means," resumed the landlord, "that Queen Mary of Scotland
had far better leave our gracious Queen Elizabeth (God bless her)
to herself. We don't want Roman Catholic princesses here again, Sir
Nicholas."
"No, indeed not. Mary was enough."
Sir George Vernon frowned heavily. He was too sincere a Papist himself
to relish such remarks, but he dared not show his displeasure in the
face of the Queen's minister.
"And I don't care for poetry anyhow," he gruffly said, "so finish
without any more of it if you can."
"I will then. You saw those two mugs offered to the king?"
"Both made of common horn, yes."
"They both came from my bar. One was full of wine, but the other held
water."
"Then when my sack comes I would prefer it without the water," Sir
Thomas replied, amid a chorus of laughter.
"You exercise your wit upon me, my lord," replied the landlord with
some asperity, "but I have not the means wherewith to retort. I am a
man of business, not a Court fool." Here he paused, astonished at his
own trepidity, and also in fear lest his aristocratic customers should
be offended. As he stopped his virtuous indignation passed away, and
when he resumed again it was in a tone at once apologetic and placid.
"The water," he continued, "was offered by the good councillors, but
Gorboduc took the poison, and now he has drunk it off, so----"
"Look at your prisoner," interrupted Sir Nicholas, "or very soon you
will not have one to look after."
Edmund had, in fact, been thrown down just over his knife, and
very soon finding this out he had, by dint of considerable trouble,
succeeded in cutting the cord which bound his wrists, and was busily
engaged in freeing his legs by a similar process when he unfortunately
attracted the attention of the Queen's Councillor.
No time was lost in securing him afresh. In spite of his strenuous
efforts he was quickly overpowered, and after all his labour he only
found himself more hopelessly a prisoner than he had been before.
"Why, the fellow must be bewitched," exclaimed Sir George, "I never
saw his like before. Take him away before he does us any injury. Take
him away, we don't want him here."
"He is safe enough now, my lord."
"Take him away, I say," repeated the baron. "We want him here no
longer. Do you hear me, sirrah! Take him away I say, and lock him
up in safety," and amid the oft-continued reiteration of the baron's
order, Edmund Wynne was carried below and consigned to the care of
the ostler until such time as the gaol officials could be conveniently
communicated with.