The pace at which Walter Skinner had left Dunstable for London he kept
up for some two miles, when he slackened his rein at the bidding of his
half-drunken fancy.
"I be for London town," he said to himself with a serious look. "And
other men than I have been there before now. Yea, verily, and have got
them safe home again into the bargain. But not so will I do. For in
London will I bide, either till the king make a duke of me or till I
become the Lord Mayor. For I be resolved to rise in the world. And the
first step toward it is to be resolved; yea, and to be determined; and
to look Dame Fortune full in the face and to say to her, 'Play no
tricks on me.'"
By this time he was come up with a belated carrier who, since his cart
was empty and he upon his return journey, dared to be upon the road at
night. There was no moon, and in the starlight Walter Skinner could see
but imperfectly. "And who art thou?" he demanded loftily, "that thou
shouldest creak and rumble along over the road and block the way of a
rising man? The sun doth rise, and why not I? Only the sun riseth not
in the middle of the night, and neither will I. Nay, verily, but I will
wait to rise till I be come to London town. And so I bid thee, whoever
thou art, make place for me that I may pass thee upon the road."
The carter, wondering much who this drunken madman might be, made no
answer but drove his creaking vehicle forward slowly as before, and in
the middle of the highway. Behind him, and at the tail of the cart,
followed Walter Skinner with equal slowness. For some moments he said
nothing more as, with closed eyes and heavily nodding head, he rode
along. Then he roused himself. "Stop!" he called fiercely. "Stop, I
say. I will go to bed in thy wagon or cart or whatever it may be, which
I cannot see for want of light."
"I carry not passengers for naught," observed the carter, civilly.
"Yea, but thou wilt carry me," retorted Walter Skinner. "I tell thee I
serve the king. Why, the prior of St. Edmund's did give me a horse when
mine own was gone, and wilt thou refuse me a bed? It shall go hard with
thee, varlet that thou art, if thou dost. I be ready to sink from
weariness. Lend me a hand down and into thy cart; lead thou my horse,
and so shall we proceed, I at rest as becometh the king's man, and thou
serving me, thy proper master."
The carter was slow of wit, and, as most men did, he trembled at the
mention of the king. He therefore did as he was requested, and Walter
Skinner was soon bumping along the road, oblivious to all his
surroundings. In the cart he might have remained until he reached St.
Albans, but that, just at dawn, he had a frightful dream. He was again
at Dunstable, and the landlord of the Shorn Lamb was about to deliver
him to the king who stood, in his dream, a hideous monster with horns
upon his head. In a shiver of dread he awoke. The cart was standing
still, and, at the side of the road, reposed the carter overcome by
sleep. By his side lay his drinking-horn. With trembling limbs Walter
Skinner climbed down from the cart. Then, seizing the carter's horn, he
untied his horse, which was fastened to the tail of the cart, and
mounted; took from the horn a long drink, and once more set out at a
furious pace which shortly became once more a slow one. Pausing only
long enough at St. Albans to procure breakfast for himself and a feed
for his horse, he continued on to London which he reached late in the
afternoon. But he did not go in at New Gate, for, making a sharp turn
at St. Andrew's, he went south till he came to Fleet street, when,
turning to the left, he entered the city through Lud Gate. Clad in his
scullion's garb, and with his face flushed from drink he presented a
strange appearance as he permitted his horse to carry him whither he
would through the narrow streets.
"Here be people enough," he said to himself, "and yea, verily, here be
noise enough. But I will stop all that when I be Lord Mayor. What!
shall mine ears ring with vile din? If so be I would speak to my horse
could he hear me? Nay, that he could not. When I be Lord Mayor no smith
shall strike on anvil in my presence. And when I pass by, let the
carpenters cease to drive their nails; let all the armorers cease their
hammering; let the coopers forbear to hoop their casks; and then can I
gather my wits together, which is more than I can now do."
He was right as to the din; for here in these narrow lanes the
craftsmen lived and worked. Each one had his tenement of one room above
and one below. In the one below he worked, or in the street, and in the
room above he dwelt with his family.
As he went uncertainly up one of these narrow lanes and down another,
leading north or south out of Cheapside, as the case might be, the
rabble began to gather about him and to bait him with jeers of various
sorts.
"Why, how now!" he exclaimed, when he had once more come into
Cheapside. And he put on his fiercest air, which sat strangely enough
on one clad as a scullion. "Do ye gibe and jeer at me who am servant to
the king? What know ye of young runaway lords and Saxon serving-men?
And the perils of a long way, and the keeper of the Shorn Lamb? I could
open your eyes for ye, if I thought it worth my while. But ye be all
base-born knaves--"
The last words were but out of his mouth when a strong hand jerked him
to the ground. And, not seeing what he did, as he struck fiercely out,
his clenched fist landed on the chest of the warden who was passing,
and Walter Skinner was promptly seized and about to be haled off to
punishment.
Cheapside was the principal market-place of London. It was broad, and
bordered on each side by booths or sheds for the sale of merchandise. A
sudden disturbance attracted the attention of the bailiff who held
Walter Skinner. And, even as he turned his head to look, the very man
that had dragged Walter Skinner from his horse detached the little man
from the grasp of the careless officer, and bade him flee. "Flee away,
thou half-drunken scullion," said his liberator. "Thou dost lack thy
wits, and so I would not have thee also lack thy liberty."
Now Walter Skinner was in that condition when, although he could not
walk straight, he could run. And away he went, his first impetus
carrying him well down into Bow Lane, which opened from Cheapside to
the south, where he speedily brought up against a curb post and fell
into the gutter. His appearance was not improved when he rose, but he
started again, and took this time, not the curb post, but a stout
farmer. The farmer instinctively bracing himself to meet the shock of
Walter Skinner's fall against him, no harm was done; but he whirled
round, grasped the little terrified rascal by the shoulder, and hurried
him into the adjacent inn yard. "Had I been an old woman or a young
child I might have been sprawling in the gutter," he began severely,
"and all because of thee. What account givest thou of thyself?"
"Thou art but a yeoman," returned Walter Skinner, disdainfully. "And
dost thou ask me to account to thee? Account thou to me, sirrah. What
didst thou in the street standing there like a gutter post to obstruct
the way of passengers in haste? But for thee I had been well sped on my
way."
The farmer heard him in amazement. Then he said: "I do perceive that
thou art a fool; and with fools I never meddle." And seizing him once
more by the shoulder, he thrust him into the street. "Speed on thy way,
little braggart," he said, "even till thou comest to thy master, who
must be the Evil One himself."
Walter Skinner sped away, by degrees slacking his pace till, after much
wandering, he came to a low public house on Thames Street, where he
slipped in, hid himself in a corner, and went fast asleep. It was noon
of the next day before he was discovered and routed out by a tapster.
"This be no place for a scullion," said the tapster. "Get to thy
duties."
"I be no scullion," retorted Walter Skinner, indignantly. "Till now I
was the king's man with good hope to be a duke or the mayor of London."
"I go to tell master of thee," returned the tapster. "And he will set
thee to scour knives in a trice."
The tapster was as good as his word, and Walter Skinner, much against
his will, was soon at work. "Here be another degradation," he muttered
over his knife blades, "and I stand it not. I be not so mean-spirited
as to labor, nor to do the bidding of other men who should do mine." So
saying, he stole from the kitchen and the house into the streets, where
he became a vagabond, and so remained, along with thousands of others
like unto him.
Meanwhile Hugo and Humphrey and old Bartlemy were having troubles of
their own. The places in London suitable for them to stop at which old
Bartlemy knew proved to be known to him by report only. And, lacking
the present help of him whom Humphrey was pleased to call Bartlemy's
"friend to his counsel," the whole party soon knew not where to go; for
the old man had lost the energy with which he had escorted them to
London, and seemed to have sunk back into the semi-helpless mixture of
shrewdness and credulity which he appeared when Hugo and Humphrey had
first met him. One thing, and one only, seemed to engross most of his
attention, and that was Humphrey's mole. And he was ever prating of the
fortune it was sure to bring him.
"Lad," said Humphrey at last, when they had been two days in the town,
"if we are to come safely off we must be rid of him. The gumming up of
the horses' manes and the braiding of their tails have already made the
innkeeper look strangely at us. Had he not set it down as the trick of
some malicious groom, it had been worse for us. And I do fear the old
man's babbling tongue. I will sound him to see how much will content
him, and perchance from thy pouch and mine the sum may be made up."
Old Bartlemy was growing weary of his woman's dress, and weary of
hovering around Hugo in the assumed capacity of his nurse. He was not
in his apartment when Humphrey went to seek him, and further search
revealed the fact that he was not in the house. So, somewhat disturbed,
Humphrey went forth to find him, taking with him in his bosom Hugo's
pouch as well as his own. The inn where they were now stopping was the
White Horse in Lombard Street, and as Humphrey issued forth into the
street he knew not which way to turn. "The old nurse did go south
toward the waterside," volunteered a groom, who observed Humphrey's
hesitation. "She seemeth like one that lacketh wit, and so I did keep a
watch upon her till she went beyond my sight."
Humphrey flung the groom a penny and went south himself at a good gait.
"If he be not at some public house I shall find him at a cock-fighting,
no doubt," said Humphrey to himself. It was now the second day of July
and clear and warm. The streets were full of hucksters having for sale,
besides their usual wares, summer fruits and vegetables. But to all
their cries Humphrey turned a deaf ear as he pushed impatiently on,
keeping a sharp lookout for old Bartlemy. And what was his amazement to
come upon him at last at the river side clad, not as the nurse, but in
his own proper character.
"How now!" exclaimed Humphrey, with a frown. "Where is thy woman's
garb? And what meanest thou to cast it aside in this manner?"
The old man peered up at him with a sly look on his face. "Ay, thou
mayest storm," he said; "but if I be tired of woman's garb, what is
that to thee?"
"Why, this," returned Humphrey. "Thou dost endanger our heads by this
change."
The old man shook his head and smiled a silly smile. "Nay," he made
answer. "I would not endanger thy head, for that would endanger the
mole upon thy nose, and so my fortune. Thou doest me wrong."
Humphrey looked at him attentively and saw that a temporary weakness of
mind due to his age had overtaken him. So he said in a soothing tone:
"Where didst thou leave thy nurse's garb? I pray thee put it on again."
Again there came the sly look over the old man's withered face. "I do
know where I did leave it," he said; "but I put it not on again. The
friend I have to my counsel did bid me put it on, and I did obey him,
for he is a magician. But I like it not, and I will wear it no more.
Why, look thou," he continued earnestly. "When I wear it I must remain
with the young lord, and be not free to consort with other men, and see
and hear all that goeth on. Wherefore I will wear it no more."
Humphrey looked at him in despair. Then he said with assumed
cheerfulness: "I will now make thy fortune for thee. So mayest thou
return to the wood while we journey on."
Old Bartlemy, as he listened, smiled with the delight of a child. "Said
not the fortune-teller truly?" he cried. "And how much is my fortune
that thou wilt make?"
"Why, that I hardly can tell," returned Humphrey. "What callest thou a
fortune?"
Old Bartlemy looked at him craftily. "The friend to my counsel did say
one hundred and fifty gold pieces, and that will pay for the
disguises."
"No less?" asked Humphrey.
"Nay," returned old Bartlemy. "If thou dost leave me, I may never see
the mole upon thy nose again. Therefore pay to me the one hundred and
fifty gold pieces before I ask thee more. For the friend to my counsel
did say, 'Take no less, and as much more as thou canst get.'"
"Thou art hard to content," said Humphrey. "But come thou to the
nearest reputable inn, where we may be unwatched, and I will pay to
thee the one hundred and fifty gold pieces which thou dost require.
Should they of the street see thee receive it, thou wouldst not keep it
long."
The old man, with a crafty shake of the head, followed along in
Humphrey's wake. "I have the wit to keep my fortune," he said. "No man
may wrest it from me."
Without further words Humphrey led the way, his mind full of anxious
thoughts as to how he was to get himself, Hugo, and the horses away
from the White Horse in Lombard Street without rousing suspicion when
the mule of old Bartlemy was left behind and the old man himself in his
character of nurse was missing. He was still busily thinking when they
came to a respectable little inn called the Hart. Turning to old
Bartlemy, who was following close behind, he said, "Here do we stop
till I pay thee what thou hast asked."
Old Bartlemy said nothing, but he rubbed his hands together in delight,
and kept so close to Humphrey that he almost trod on his heels.
"Now," said Humphrey, when they were alone and the old man had been
paid, "I ask thee this grace, Bartlemy. Wilt thou not once more put on
the nurse's garb and come back with me to the White Horse till I can
pay the reckoning and get away? After that thou mayest cast it aside
and wear it no more."
"Nay," replied old Bartlemy, jingling the gold pieces and looking at
them with gloating eyes. "Nay, I will put on woman's dress no more."
"Not if I pay thee to do so?"
"Nay. I have here my fortune. What have I need of more?" And he sat
down obstinately and became at once absorbed in counting over his gold
pieces.
Humphrey, seeing that nothing was to be gained, and anxious for Hugo's
welfare, at once left the room and the house and set out for the White
Horse.