The priest of the parish at Oundle had Hugo and Humphrey up and off
betimes the next morning, as he had said. "It must be he liketh not our
company over well," observed Humphrey, as they jogged on after a very
brief and hasty leave-taking.
"Perhaps he taketh thee for a wolf in sheep's clothing," said Hugo,
with a meaning glance at the priest's habit in which the stalwart
Humphrey was engulfed.
"And thee for the cub, dear lad," retorted Humphrey. "But it may be
after all that he looketh but to his own safety, and desireth not to
fall into disgrace with the king by harboring us. But hark! Let us
withdraw ourselves into the wood. Here come travellers this way. And I
cannot feel safe in the priest's garb. The wood, methinks, were a
better protection."
With the celerity of practice the two concealed themselves in the wood
in such a position that they could see the path. And presently there
came into view a small party of knights on their way northward.
"They look not so dangerous," commented Hugo.
"Nay," agreed Humphrey. "I would liefer see them than king's spies. But
bide we here a bit and see if more will come."
It was very still in the wood that morning and a little sound seemed a
great one. So the two, while they waited, talked together in low tones.
"The merry-hearted canon is in most things wise, I do suppose,"
observed Humphrey. "But I feel not like a priest though I wear his
garb. And I fear to do something which will betray me to be but the
Saxon serving-man which I am. Still, I must wear it?" And he looked
inquiringly at Hugo.
"Yea," replied the boy. "The land is so full of priests that few scan
them closely. And, moreover, there be Saxons among them. He was born
but a Saxon serf who was the great pope Adrian IV."
"Sayest thou so?" said Humphrey. "I will e'en take courage and wear the
priest's garb as well as I can. I suppose thou knowest all this from
thine uncle, the prior?"
[Illustration: Humphrey in Priest's Garb]
"Yea," answered Hugo, with a smile.
A while there was silence, while both listened. Then Humphrey said,
"But I like not the canon's plan that we go to St. Albans."
"And wherefore?" asked Hugo.
"That I cannot tell. I do but know that I like it not. It were better
to go straight to London. So think I, and so do I say."
Hugo reflected. He knew that the way was not particularly safe for them
anywhere. "If it should be discovered that we have been at
Peterborough," he said at length.
"Yea, lad," broke in Humphrey. "I had not thought of that. But would
they not straight seek for us at St. Albans, where the merry-hearted
canon hath sent us? And neither did I like the parish priest at Oundle.
He did speed us too gladly. And he knoweth that we go to St. Albans."
"Thou mayest be right, Humphrey," said Hugo. "It will doubtless cost
the monks at St. Albans small grief if they do not see us. We will go
to London as thou sayest."
Humphrey regarded him approvingly. "It is easy to see that thou art far
from being a fool," he said. "Hiding and skulking through wood and fen
are making thee wary."
The two now resumed their journey, and Humphrey asked, "Hast ever been
on this Watling Street?"
"Nay," replied Hugo. "I was bred up, as thou knowest, by mine uncle,
the prior, and all my travels have been by ear. What I did hear him
speak of I know, but not much else."
"And he did never speak of the Watling Street?"
"Yea, he hath oft spoken of it. But it is a long road, and here in
England since the time of the Romans. I know that it goeth to London."
"Then we go to St. Albans after all?"
"Why, St. Albans lieth on the Watling Street. So said the Canon
Thurstan. But we need not stop long there."
"Unless we be stopped," said Humphrey. "I would we need not go nigh the
place." He now halted and looked about him carefully. "Said the priest
at Oundle where we should first come to the Watling Street?" he asked.
"Nay," replied Hugo. "He did say only, 'Go till thou come to it,' even
as the Canon Thurstan said."
"I hope we be on the right way," observed Humphrey. "I would fain find
not only the Watling Street, but a town and an inn also. For the
breakfast of the priest at Oundle was more of a fast than a feast."
They were now traversing an undulating country and going in a southerly
direction.
"We may not ask our way," said Humphrey, decidedly. "It is as much as I
can do to wear the priest's garb and speak when I be spoken to. Were I
to speak of myself, it would speedily be known that I was no priest,
for I have not the mind of a priest."
Hugo smiled. He had already learned that, although one might turn the
mind of Humphrey for a little from its accustomed track, yet it
speedily turned back. He had taken a little courage at the mention of
the Saxon pope, Adrian IV, but now he was as fearful as ever.
"I wear this garb only till we be through London," resumed Humphrey.
"The Canon Thurstan bid me wear it only so far. He said naught of what
should be done later. And once we leave London I will be again Humphrey
the serving-man, and no make-believe priest. I like not make-believes."
Hugo smiled again. "How likest thou my being a make-believe Josceline,
and no Hugo?" he asked.
"That be a different matter," was the decided answer. "Thou hast saved
our young lord's life, and thou art a brave lad. But I would rather
skulk and hide in the fen than in the priest's garb. How likest thou to
be a novice?"
"Why, very well," replied Hugo, "so that it serve my turn and help me
on my way in safety. I should have been a true novice had I heeded my
uncle. But, as thou knowest, I will be a knight."
"Ay, and a bold one thou wilt be," was the response; "as bold as our
lord who is in France."
All day they held slowly on their way, and, though they frequently met
other travellers, they attracted no more attention than an occasional
curious glance. And toward sundown they came to the town of Dunstable.
"Now," cried Humphrey, joyfully, "here be a town. Let us make haste to
enter before the curfew and find an inn. We have had a long fast."
"Shall we not rather go to the priory?" asked Hugo.
"Nay, verily," answered Humphrey. "I go to no priory to-night. I will
go to an inn, and I will have there a mighty supper, and a good bed,
and no priestly duties to perform. I know not how to perform them if I
would. And I proclaim to no man that we be counterfeits. And moreover,
the priests here may be even as the parish priest of Oundle. Mayhap he
will not set the pursuers on our track, but I trust him not. I trust no
man who sendeth forth travellers with such a breakfast." So saying, he
rode boldly down the main street which he had entered till he came to
where it intersected another main street at right angles. There he
stopped. "Here be inns in plenty," he said. "It must be this town is on
the Watling Street." And he questioned the groom who came to take their
tired horses.
"Yea," answered the groom. "This be the town of Dunstable. And here it
is that the Watling Street crosseth the Icknield Street."
"_Pax vobiscum_," said Humphrey. "I will in to the fire and my supper.
Do thou care well for the beasts." And, followed by Hugo, he strode off
with a gait which was not often seen on a priest.
The inn which Humphrey had chosen displayed the sign of the Shorn Lamb,
and was one of the smallest in the neighborhood; it made its patrons at
home in its large kitchen while they waited for the meal to be served.
There was but one other guest in the room when Hugo and Humphrey
entered, and the moment the faithful serving-man saw him he was
grateful for his priest's garb; for the fierce little man who was
giving orders in a peremptory manner was none other than Walter
Skinner.
In great fear he had fled from Newark at the instance of the courtier,
but his courage, after three days of wandering, had returned to him;
for his hope of one day being a duke died hard. "Though I be the king's
spy no longer," he had said to himself, "I have been the king's spy.
Therefore I have had a certain measure of preferment and may hope for
more." And in this humor he had come into Dunstable by way of the
Icknield Street, and by chance had chosen the very inn Humphrey had
selected. That he had fled from Newark and was no longer in pursuit of
them Humphrey did not know; and he, accordingly, withdrew deeper into
the concealment of his hood, while Hugo did the same.
As for Walter Skinner, he looked at them with contempt. "Here cometh a
beggarly priest and a novice," he thought, "to keep company at the
table with me. I will none of it." And he said haughtily to the
innkeeper: "Worthy host, I have no liking to priests. Seat them not at
the table with me. Give me thy company, if it please thee, but serve
the priest and his novice elsewhere."
The innkeeper happened to be in a surly humor. Certain affairs had gone
contrary and vexed him. Therefore he made answer: "I keep but one table.
There may ye all feed or ye may look elsewhere. There be other inns."
And he added slowly and impressively, "They--be--all--full--also."
"Why, here be a circumstance!" cried Walter Skinner. "The inns of this
town be full, sayest thou? Why, all the inns in London be not full, I
warrant thee. And why should they be full here in this bit of a town,
with one street running this way, and one another way, like a cross? I
would have thee to know that I have been servant to the king, and am
used to be served accordingly."
"And what service hast thou done the king?" demanded the surly
innkeeper, unbelievingly.
"I did watch from the top of the high tree the De Aldithely castle,"
was the boastingly given answer. "I did see the young lord and his
serving-man flee through the postern and enter the wood." He was about
to rehearse all the particulars of his pursuit of the runaways when the
innkeeper interrupted him.
"Thou must, then," said he, "be the spy for whom the king is looking,
and I will give thee to him."
"Nay, nay," said Walter Skinner, his fierceness all gone as he suddenly
remembered the warning given him in Newark by the courtier who had set
him free. "That thou mayest not do. I do journey toward the south. Thou
mayest not delay me."
"I could if I would," returned the innkeeper, his surly mood vanishing
as he saw before him the opportunity of enjoying himself by tormenting
somebody. "But thou art such a sprat of a man that my compassion
forbids me. The king looketh for thee to hear thee tell what thou
knowest of the whereabouts of the young lord and his companion. If thou
canst not tell, he will have thy head; so hath he sworn. For he is in
an evil rage, and heads are as nothing to him when he rageth, as thou
knowest. He searcheth also for the bailiff who had thee in charge and
let thee escape. I warrant thee the bailiff hath a wit too sound to go
proclaiming how he was some great man, even a bailiff in the town of
Newark."
All this was lost on Walter Skinner, however, who grasped but one
thought, that he was in danger, and had but one anxiety, how to escape
it. He turned now with some degree of humility to Humphrey.
"What!" said the innkeeper. "Dost thou turn to the beggarly priest whom
thou erstwhile didst despise? But it shall not avail thee. It is with
me that thou must deal. Knowest thou that I might lose my head for
harboring thee, if I give thee not up? But I will hide thee, my little
sprat, so that the king himself would not know thee. Come with me."
The little spy, his importance all gone, did as the burly innkeeper
bade him, and Hugo and Humphrey were left alone in the kitchen with the
servants.
"What do we?" asked Humphrey, in a low tone. "Flee?"
"Nay," replied Hugo. "That were to invite pursuit."
"This innkeeper is a knave," said Humphrey.
"The more reason for caution," answered Hugo.
"I have heard that some priests be great sleepers and great eaters,"
said Humphrey a few moments later.
"Some priests be," agreed Hugo.
"Then I be one of them. I do now drowse in my chair, and naught but the
call to supper shall awake me. And then will I play so busily with my
food that no words can escape me save _pax vobiscum_. This rascal
innkeeper learns naught of me."
Presently back came the innkeeper with Walter Skinner in his turn
playing scullion. "Here, sir priest," cried the innkeeper. "Here is he
who shall serve thee at thy meal."
But there was no response. The priest's head was sunk on his breast,
and he seemed asleep. His novice also appeared to sleep.
The innkeeper, emboldened, now gazed openly and curiously at the two.
"They have not come far," he said to himself. "Their garments be not
travel-stained enough for that. They be some dullards of small wit on
their first journey, for the groom did say they knew not that this was
Dunstable."
His observations were here cut short by the appearance of three other
travellers; but their entrance failed to arouse the priest and his
novice, who remained, as before, apparently asleep.
"Yea, verily," thought the innkeeper, as he slowly advanced to meet the
newcomers, "they be but two dullards. There is neither game nor gain to
be made of them as there is of this Walter Skinner, from whom I will
take his horse before I let him go. I will e'en bid priest and novice
pack to make room for these newcomers, from whom I may win something,
and to save room for others who may come."
Accordingly he set to work, but it was with great difficulty that he
roused the two. "_Pax vobiscum_," murmured Humphrey, sleepily. "Is the
supper ready?"
"Yea, but at some other inn," returned the innkeeper. "Here be three
worthy people just come in. There is not room for them and ye. The
groom bringeth your horses, and ye must go." Without a word of
objection Hugo and Humphrey rose to do the innkeeper's bidding and
depart. But they walked like men half awake, and followed the innkeeper
stumblingly; and mounted their horses clumsily, to the great merriment
of the groom. It was now dark, and they knew not which way to turn. "I
choose not another inn," said Humphrey, "though we bide supperless in
the streets."
"Then choose I," returned Hugo. And he rode off down the street with
Humphrey close beside him.
"Lad, lad!" cried the serving-man, "thou must not lead. It will betray
us."
At once Hugo fell behind, and the two rode on until, at a little inn
called the Blue Bell, the boy bade the serving-man stop. The two
alighted, gave their horses to the groom, went in, were promptly served
a good supper, and, in due time, were shown to their beds.
"There be dangers on the Watling Street as well as in the fen," said
Humphrey.
In the meanwhile the keeper of the Shorn Lamb was having his enjoyment
at the expense of Walter Skinner. He bade him serve the three strangers
and fear nothing, as no one would recognize him in the guise of a
scullion.
"Why, here didst thou come strutting it finely," said the innkeeper, in
a mocking tone. "And dost thou strut now? Nay, verily; but thou art as
meek as any whipped cock. And since it was by thy strut that men did
recognize thee, how shall they make thee out when thy fine strut is
gone? Wherefore serve the strangers, and be not afraid."
In spite of this exhortation the manner of Walter Skinner still
betrayed doubt, and even timidity. And at last he made the innkeeper
understand that it was he whom he feared and not the strangers.
The innkeeper laughed. "Dost fear me?" he said. "Why, thou needst
not--that is, thou needst not if thou observest my conditions. Thou
hast a horse that thou needest not, since thou hast legs of thine own.
Somewhat short they be, and somewhat stiff in the joints, being more
made to strut with than for the common gait of mankind. Still I doubt
not they will carry thee whither thou wouldst go after I have dismissed
thee. Serve the strangers, therefore, and afterward thou shalt sup."
In great meekness Walter Skinner obeyed, and the innkeeper, observing
him, sat down later with satisfaction to his own meal.
Now it chanced that the strangers had ordered liquor, and Walter
Skinner paused in the bringing of it long enough to take a drink of it
and fill up the measure again with water. And in a few moments his
fears were gone. He surreptitiously drank again, and yet again, for the
strangers were convivial. And, by the time they were served and his
task done, he had forgotten his danger and remembered only the
injustice of the innkeeper.
"What!" he said to himself. "Here be a degradation! Here be a putting
of fine metal to base uses! I who have been servant to the king am made
a scullion to traveling strangers who be drunken, moreover, and fit
only to be served by this rascal innkeeper who hath made a scullion of
me. And shall he have my horse also? Nay, he shall not. I will away to
the stables this moment and set out and gain my liberty."
Nobody noticed him as he went out the kitchen door, and nobody saw him
as he entered the stable and prepared his horse for the journey. And,
still unnoticed, he mounted, after many a crazy lurch, and set off down
the street. In due time he came to the gate, and the watchman
challenged him.
"Dost stop me, sirrah!" demanded the half-drunken Walter Skinner. "I be
the servant of the king; and, moreover, I be but just come from the inn
of the Shorn Lamb. Pass me outside the walls."
The watchman, at the mention of the Shorn Lamb, made haste to lead the
horse through the narrow side gate, for he and the innkeeper were
confederates in villany; and away went Walter Skinner at a great pace
toward London.