Figeon's Farm (the true spelling of the name should be Fitz-John's,
but nobody ever thought of calling it so) was a prosperous and
pleasant place enough. It had been in the hands of Devenishes ever
since the Norman conquest--so at least the common belief went--and
there was no tradition of the house or lands having been in other
hands than those of the present family.
When Paul Stukely awoke from the deep sleep of exhaustion into
which he had fallen even while the worthy smith had been talking to
him overnight, his ears were assailed by the peaceful and
comfortable sounds inseparable from farmhouse life and occupation.
He heard the cackling of hens, the grunting of pigs, and the rough
voices of the hinds as they got the horses out of the sheds, and
prepared to commence the labours of the day with harrow or plough.
These sounds were familiar enough to Paul; they seemed to carry him
back to the days of his childhood, and he lay for several minutes
in a state between sleeping and waking, dreamily wondering if the
strange events of the past year were all a dream, and if he should
wake by-and-by to find himself a child once more, in his little bed
in the old home, and receive his mother's kiss as his morning's
greeting.
But soon this sweet illusion faded, and the young man sat up in bed
and looked quickly round him, trying to recollect where he was and
what had brought him here. During the last two years, in which he
had been forced to lead the roving life of an adventurer--common
enough in those days, and by no means entirely distasteful to one
of his temperament and training--he had slept in many strange
places, and had known quarters far ruder than the unceiled,
raftered room of the gabled farm.
In time it all came back to him--the attack upon the helpless girl
in the wood, his own successful defence, and the journey to the
farmhouse in the gathering darkness. Paul gave himself a shake to
see how he felt, and decided that although stiff and bruised, and
crippled in the left arm, he might yet make shift to rise and dress
himself. He saw his clothes all laid out in readiness for him, and
it was plain that some good friend had sat up far into the night
brushing and mending them; for they had been in somewhat sorry
plight after his adventure of yesterday, and now they were fresh
and clean and almost smart looking, as they had not been for many a
long day before.
As Paul was slowly dressing, he was suddenly aware of the sound of
a woman's voice speaking or reading--he fancied from its monotonous
cadence that it must be the latter--in some room that could not be
far away from his own chamber. In those days such an accomplishment
as reading was not at all common to the inhabitants of a farm, and
Paul stood still in surprise to listen.
Yes, there was no mistaking it, there was certainly somebody--some
woman--reading aloud in a chamber hard by. Presently the cadence of
the voice changed, and Paul was certain that the reading had
changed to prayer; but not the pattering Paternosters or Ave Marias
with which he was familiar enough. This style of prayer was quite
different from that; and the young man, after listening for a few
moments with bated breath, exclaimed to himself, in accents of
surprise and some dismay:
"Lollards, in good sooth! By the mass, I must have stumbled into a
nest of heresy;" and he crossed himself devoutly, as if to shield
himself from the evil of contamination.
Paul had been born and bred a Papist, as indeed was the case with
most of his countrymen in those days. The House of Lancaster was
deeply attached to the faith as they found it, and Henry the Sixth
had burned many a heretic at Smithfield; for he was at once a saint
and a fanatic--a very common combination then, hard enough as it
seems now to bracket the two qualities together--and led in all
things by his ghostly advisers.
But the leaven of the new doctrines was silently working throughout
the length and breadth of the land in spite of all repressive
measures, and King Edward the Fourth, either from policy or
indifference, had done little or nothing to check its spread.
London--the place of all others which was ever loyal to him--was a
perfect hotbed of heresy (in the language of the priests), and that
alone was enough to deter the Yorkist monarch from stirring up
strife and bringing down upon his head the enmity of the powerful
city which served him so well. Now that the meek Henry wore the
crown again--if indeed he did wear it--the Lollards might well
tremble for their liberties and lives.
As for Paul, he had seen and heard little of the new religion, as
he called it, and looked upon it as a terrible and deadly sin. At
the same time, he had knocked about the world enough to have won a
larger toleration for all sorts and conditions of men than he would
have done had he remained master of the ancestral estates at home;
and after a momentary thrill of dismay and repulsion, he decided to
take no notice of what he had inadvertently overheard.
These people had been kind and friendly. If they desired him to
remain a short time beneath their roof until his wounds were
healed, he saw no particular reason against doing so. A spell of
rest and quiet would suit him and Sultan very well, and with their
private beliefs he had no concern; the less he knew of them the
better.
So he finished his toilet, whistling a gay tune to drown the sound
of the unauthorized prayer nigh at hand; and when he had finished
he opened his door, and made his way down the narrow, winding
stairs, into the great kitchen he had entered the previous evening.
The big place looked cheerful enough this bright morning: the door
standing wide open to the October sunlight--the huge fire of logs
crackling and blazing on the wide hearth and roaring up the vast
open chimney--the rude metal and wooden utensils as clean as
scrubbing could make them--and the brick floor clean enough to eat
off, as the saying goes. And this cleanliness was not so common in
those days of partial civilization as it is now: there were
farmhouses enough and to spare in the England of that day where men
and animals herded together amid filth that we should hardly
condemn pigs to in this enlightened age. Wherefore Paul was both
pleased and surprised by all he saw, and his dim misgivings fled
away promptly.
In the wide inglenook before the oak settle a small table had been
drawn up, and upon this table stood one wooden platter, and some
homely viands sufficiently tempting to a hungry man, and a huge
joram of home-brewed ale. Paul did not doubt for a moment that this
was his own breakfast thus temptingly spread for him; and he was
fully disposed to do it ample justice, for he had eaten little
during the past four-and-twenty hours, and had ridden far and done
some good hard fighting to boot. But he did not like to sit down
uninvited, and as he stood warming his hands at the pleasant blaze,
there tripped into the room the girl he had last clearly seen, gun
in hand, in the forest, and she greeted him with the prettiest
smile and blush.
"Good morrow, fair sir. I am pleased indeed to see you thus afoot,
and hope you feel little the worse for your brave encounter
yesterday. We know not how to thank you; in truth, I scarce slept
all last night, thinking what my fate must have been but for your
timely rescue. But I pray you be seated, and try this pie of
mother's own making, with a slice of home-cured ham (father is a
great rearer of pigs; and the brothers of Leighs Priory, who know
what good living is, always come to him for his primest bacon and
ham). You look as if you needed a good meal, for your face is but
wan this morning. Mother scarce looked to see you on your feet so
soon."
Paul laughed as he sat himself down to the hospi table board.
"Nay, I scarce feel any ill effects from the knocks I got. A rover
like myself is tough and wiry, or should be. I fear this arm may
not be serviceable for a few weeks to come, but--"
"But if you will do us the pleasure to make this poor house your
home until such time as you can go forth a sound man, you will be
giving us great honour and pleasure; for I think that if harm had
befallen our dear and only daughter, her father's heart would have
broken, and her mother's hairs have gone down with sorrow to the
grave."
It was a fresh voice that spoke these words, and Paul rose
instinctively to his feet as he found himself face to face with his
hostess.
Mistress Devenish, as she was commonly called, was no ordinary
buxom, loud-tongued farmer's wife, but a slight, small woman, of
rather insignificant aspect, unless the expression of the face was
taken into account. Then indeed might be seen a refinement and
intellect seldom found in persons of her class in those rough and
uncultured times. Paul, who was a shrewd observer, detected at once
that this was no ordinary woman before him, and saw from whom Joan
had inherited her graceful, refined bearing and sweet, low-toned
voice. She was a much taller and finer woman than her mother had
ever been, for she had something of her father's strength and
stature; but for all that she owed much of her charm to her mother,
and plainly regarded her with true filial devotion.
"I thank you heartily," answered Paul, as he held out his hand in
greeting. "I should be glad enough to rest, for a few days at
least, in such pleasant quarters; but I must not let myself become
a burden to you because that I have had the honour of rendering a
trifling service to fair Mistress Joan here."
"Nay, sir, it was no trifling service you did her; it was such
service as must ever cause a mother's heart to swell with thankful
joy. What would have become of the maid carried off by that evil
man to his own secret haunts I dare not even think. Had they slain
her before her parents' eyes, it would have been less terrible than
to know her utterly at their mercy."
"Ay, indeed it would," cried the girl, with dilating eyes. "Ah,
fair sir, you know not what monsters these terrible robbers can be.
Oh, I pray you go not forth again until you can go a hale and sound
man; for you have incurred by your act of yesterday the fury of one
who never forgives, and who is as cunning as he is cruel. He may
set his spies upon you; and dog your steps if you leave this place;
and if you were to be overcome by them and carried off to their
cave in the forest, some terrible and cruel death would surely
await you there. For they truly call him Devil's Own--so crafty, so
bloodthirsty, so full of malice and revenge has he ever shown
himself."
The girl's cheek paled as she spoke; but Paul smiled at her fears.
Not that he was altogether foolhardy, or disposed to despise
warnings thus given him; but his life had taught him a certain
hardihood and contempt of danger, and he and his good horse had
proved match enough for formidable antagonists before now.
"I thank you for your kind thought for me, and I will use all
prudence when I stir from the shelter of this hospitable roof. But
my next journey will be to London, and there, methinks, shall I
find more of law and order. It is a sad state of things when not
forty miles from the king's own city bands of robbers abound and
flourish, making honest folks tremble for their lives and
liberties."
"You speak truly; young sir," answered Mistress Devenish, who had
now sat down to her spinning wheel in the inglenook, whilst her
daughter still hovered about restlessly, and waited assiduously
upon their disabled guest. "And had King Edward but kept his
throne, I verily believe he would have put down with a strong hand
these same marauders who devastate the country more than war
itself. Things were beginning to improve after the long and
disastrous civil strife, and we fondly told ourselves that the
worst was over, and that the distracted country would taste
something of the blessings of peace again. But since that haughty
earl men call the King Maker has gone to France to make his peace
with the Lancastrian queen, and has returned to place her husband
(poor man, it is no fault of his that he cannot sway the sceptre,
but can only submit to the dictates of others) on England's throne,
we shall again be plunged, I know it well, in bloody and terrible
strife. The lion-hearted Edward will never resign his rights
without a struggle. He will return and collect an army, and the
cruel bloodshed will recommence. This bloodless victory will not
last. God alone knows how the struggle will end. We know but too
well that misery and desolation will be the fate of the country
until the matter is finally settled one way or the other; and when
will that be?"
Paul listened in grave silence to these words, so foreign to his
own hopes and the confident expressions he had heard from time to
time uttered by hot partisans of the Red Rose. He had hoped to find
the whole country rejoicing in the restoration of the gentle
monarch, whom he loved with the ardour of a generous and impetuous
temperament. But these simple folks, rustic and unlettered though
they were, managed somehow to throw a shadow over his spirit by
their grave and doubting words.
He realized that King Henry would have a hard struggle ere the
whole of England owned his sway. Edward was yet the king in many a
part of the realm. He was more respected and beloved than the
feeble, monk-ridden monarch he had deposed; and if it came to be a
question of abstract right, none could dispute the superiority of
the claim of the House of York. Edward was the descendant of the
elder branch of the family of Edward the Third. It was only the
politic reign of the fourth Henry, and the brilliant reign of the
fifth, which had given to the House of Lancaster its kingly title.
Men would probably never have thought of disputing the sixth
Henry's sway had he held the sceptre firmly and played the part of
king, to any purpose. But his health and temperament were alike
feeble: he inherited the fatal malady of his grandsire of France,
and was subject to fits of mental illness which made him utterly
helpless and supine. His strong-minded queen was detested by the
nobles and unpopular with the mass of the people, whilst the
ambition of the powerful barons and peers had made civil strife an
easy and popular thing.
There was no great issue at stake in these disastrous wars; no
burning question was settled by the victory of either side; no
great principle or national interest was involved. It was little
more in reality than the struggle for supremacy and place amongst
the overbearing and ambitious nobles; hence the ease and readiness
with which they changed sides on every imaginable pretext, and the
hopeless character of the struggle, which ruined and exhausted the
country without vindicating one moral or national principle.
But Paul Stukely, at twenty years of age, was not likely to take
this dispassionate view of the case. His whole heart was in the
cause of the Red Rose, and he could scarce listen to these quiet
but telling words without breaking out into ardent defence of the
cause he had at heart.
"But listen, good mistress," he exclaimed eagerly, when she had
ceased to speak: "there are better days dawning for the land than
they have seen either beneath the rule of the gentle Henry or the
bold but licentious Edward. His blessed majesty has no love for the
office of king, and his long captivity has further weakened his
health and increased his love for retirement. You speak truly when
you doubt if he will ever rule this turbulent nation, so long torn
with strife and divided into faction. But think--he need not sway
the sceptre which has proved too heavy for his hands. He has a
son--a fair and gallant prince--worthy of the royal name of Edward
which he bears. Men say that it will not be the feeble father who
will restore order to the country and bring peace again to its
shores, but that the task will be intrusted to the youthful Edward,
who in his person combines the graces of his stately mother and the
warlike prowess of his great ancestor whose cognizance he bears.
Trust me, good people, if you love not Henry you will love Henry's
son; and will it not be better to be ruled by him than by that
other Edward of York, the usurper, who, though I verily believe he
can be a lion in battle, yet spends his days, when not in arms, in
lolling in idleness and luxury amid his fine court beauties, and
beseems himself rather as a woman than a man? I would fain serve a
spotless prince, such as our noble Prince of Wales is known to be,
than one whose life is stained by the debaucheries of a luxurious
court, and gluttony such as it is a marvel even to hear of."
Joan's eyes lighted, as the youth spoke with all the ardour of a
young and vivid imagination and a generous and undoubting love.
Even the grave-faced woman at the spinning wheel smiled to herself,
and though she heaved a little sigh, she answered gently enough:
"Ay, young sir, if that could be! If we could be ruled by one who
was brave, and stainless, and wise, and just, then England might
count itself a happy land indeed; but I have lived through
troublous times, and I have lost hope in such a speedy and happy
conclusion to the matter. But we shall see--we shall see."
"We have all favoured King Edward's cause here, as I told you
yesterday," said Joan; "for we seemed better off under his rule
than in the days before, when we were distracted by the war. But
tell us of this prince--the Prince of Wales, as you call him. Would
he be able to rule us wisely and well? Has he a strong arm and a
kind heart? And does he think for himself? or do the monks or the
queen direct him in all matters? Have you ever seen him? Do you
know what he is like?"
"I have not seen him since he was a child and I a child, too,"
answered Paul, his face lighting at the recollection of the little
prince of his dreams, which had never faded or grown dim. "In
sooth, he was the noblest, kingliest child the sun ever shone on.
And men say he has grown up to fulfil all the promise of his youth.
He is solemnly betrothed, so they say, to the Lady Anne, the
daughter of the proud Earl of Warwick, and it is into his hands
that the real government of the country will be intrusted.
"Oh, you would love him if you could see him--I am sure of that. I
would he could come himself now, for the hearts of the nation would
surely go out to him. Shall I tell you a story of him when he was a
child--when we were children together? You will see how sweet and
lovable he was even then, and I warrant that he has not changed
now."
Joan answered eagerly in the affirmative, and Paul told of his
adventure with the little prince in the forest hard by Lichfield;
and mother and daughter as they heard the tale exchanged glances,
as if it was not the first time they had heard something of the
kind. He had hardly finished the narrative before Joan broke
eagerly in:
"O sir, was it in truth you that balked the robbers of their prey?
I pray you never speak of this to any in these parts, for truly it
might cost you your life. You have heard us speak of the Black
Notley robbers, whose lawless band our neighbour joined--the one
who tried yesterday to get me into his clutches? Well, this same
story that you have told to us he has heard a dozen times from his
chief--the chief of all the band--Fire Eater, as he is called in
their fierce language. It was he and his followers who hung upon
the royal party all those long years ago, and he who carried you
off in mistake for the Prince of Wales. He has often been heard to
swear terribly over that great disappointment, and regret that he
did not run his sword through the body of the daring boy who had
outwitted him. If he were to hear of your being here, he would move
heaven and earth to obtain your capture or death.
"O sir, be advised, you are in more peril than you know. Go not
forth from the shelter of these doors till you can do so a sound
man, and then make hasty and swift flight for London, where
perchance you may be safe. These terrible robbers are not to be
smiled at; they are cunning and cruel and crafty beyond belief. I
shiver even for myself whenever I think of that terrible Simon
Dowsett, whom they call Devil's Own."
Paul was not a little surprised to hear that his childish exploit
had been heard of here, and that the robber chief he had outwitted
was the real leader of the band some members of which he had slain
the previous day. He could not disguise from himself that he might
on this account be placed in a position of some danger. The man
whose villainous scheme he had frustrated would undoubtedly be his
deadly enemy, and it was possible that if his name became known in
the place, it would draw upon him the vengeance of the whole band.
True, the robber chieftain might have forgotten the name of the
child who had been carried off by him in mistake for the Prince of
Wales; but Paul remembered how he had called it out when appealing
to his friend the farmer for help, and it was possible that it
might be remembered against him. Certainly, in his present crippled
state, it seemed advisable to remain in hiding at the farm, as he
was so hospitably pressed to do; and after a short debate with
himself upon his position, he gratefully consented to do so.
"That is right, that is right," cried the farmer, when he came in
at midday for the dinner that family and servants all shared
together; and presently, when the meal was over, and the women had
retired to wash up the platters in an adjoining room, whilst the
labourers had started forth for their labours, the master drew his
guest into the warm inglenook again, and said to him in a low
voice:
"I'll be right glad to have a good Lancastrian abiding beneath my
roof for awhile. The good brothers of Leighs are our best
customers, and one or another of them is always coming across on
some errand, and 'twill do us no harm in their eyes to find a
follower of King Henry under our roof. I know not how it is, but of
late they have been somewhat changed toward us;" and the farmer
looked uneasily round, as if hardly knowing who might be listening.
"We go to mass as regular as any; and my little girl there has
worked a robe for the reverend prior himself as cost me a pretty
penny in materials, and half blinded her pretty eyes, she sat at it
so close. They have no need to look askance at us; but there,
there, I suppose they have had a deal of trouble with the heretic
books and such like as have been getting about the country of late.
They say they found a Wycliffe's Bible hidden under the hearth
stone of a poor woman's cottage in Little Waltham, nigh at hand
here; and if King Henry had been on the throne, she might have been
sent up to Smithfield to be burned, as an example and warning to
others. But King Edward was on the throne then, and he cares not to
burn his subjects for heresy--God bless him for that! But if King
Henry is coming back to reign, it behoves all good persons to be
careful and walk warily. So, young sir, if you can speak a good
word for us to the holy brothers, I will thank you with all my
heart. It's a bad thing when they get the notion that a house is
corrupted by heresy."
The palpable uneasiness of the farmer betrayed to Paul full well
that he was very much afraid of the orthodoxy of his wife, and it
was not impossible that he himself might not be secretly favouring
the new religion whilst conforming outwardly in all things. Such
cases were by no means rare, and this village appeared Yorkist
enough in its sentiments to suggest suspicions as to its orthodoxy.
But Paul was young and impressionable and generous; he liked these
good folks, and knew nothing whatever to their discredit. He was
sure that, whatever they might privately believe, they were good
and trustworthy folks, and he gave his word to do all that he
could, if chance offered, with an emphasis that won him the hearty
thanks of the farmer.
Nor was the chance very long in coming: for only on the afternoon
of the next day a portly monk jogged up to the farm on his sleek
palfrey; and Paul, who was seated near to the door, rose and bent
his knee, asking the customary blessing; after which the monk
dismounted, and made his way into the kitchen to give some order to
the good mistress of the house.
The monks of those days were regular gossips, and loved a chat, as
they sat in the chimney corner enjoying a cup of the best wine the
house afforded, or a substantial meal of the choicest products of
the larder. Brother Lawrence was no exception to this rule; and the
farmer's wife bestirred herself to get him everything he could
fancy, whilst he sat and questioned Paul as to his history and the
adventure which had brought him to this homestead. Very much did he
enjoy hearing of the discomfiture of the robbers, and laughed quite
merrily to think how they had been overcome by the handsome
stripling before him.
Presently, when Mistress Devenish had gone away to make some
inquiries respecting the flitches of bacon required for the Priory,
Brother Lawrence beckoned Paul somewhat nearer, and said, in a low
voice, in his ear:
"Be in no haste to depart from hence, my son. It may be that there
is work for you here for the Holy Church. It is whispered by one
and another that yon good woman, as I would fain believe her to be,
is somewhat tainted with the damnable heresy they call Lollardism,
and that she has in her possession one of those Bibles which that
arch-heretic Wycliffe translated into the vulgar tongue for the
undoing of the unlearned, who think that they can thus judge for
themselves on matters too high for them. You, my son, as a true son
of the Church, may do us great service by keeping open both ears
and eyes, and telling if you see or hear ought amiss. I would fain
learn that no such evil is done among these good folks; but if it
be that the leaven is working, it will be your duty to tell us
thereof, and we will see if the evil may not be stamped out ere it
has spread to others, or much corrupted even them that are tainted.
We trust that the days are dawning now when Holy Church will have
her ancient powers restored, and will be able to deal with heretics
even as they merit. But however that may be, be it your work to
watch and listen with all the powers you have. I trust that there
will be nought you will hear save what is to the credit of these
worthy folks."
Paul secretly in his heart vowed that no syllable which should hurt
his hosts should ever pass his lips; but he bent his head with due
reverence before the monk, who smiled and nodded cheerily to him
before he went his way. It seemed strange that so jovial and kindly
a man should so lightly speak of burning to death fellow creatures
whom he had regarded for years with kindly goodwill. But there were
strange anomalies in those days, even as there are in our own, and
Paul saw nothing strange in this, nor in his own conduct, which
made him appear submissive to the dictates of the Holy Church, as
he ever called her in his thoughts, whilst all the time he was
resolved neither to hear nor to see any of the things which would,
if made known, injure his hosts in the eyes of the spiritual
authorities. The very teaching of those spiritual pastors
inculcated a certain amount of deceit and double dealing. What
wonder if the weapon so freely used by themselves sometimes turned
its double edge against them in its turn?
Paul accompanied the monk to the gate which led to the so-called
road by which Figeon's was approached. It was nothing but a rude
cart track; and although well-tilled fields lay on one side of this
track, the forest lay upon the other, stretching away black and dim
into immeasurable distance.
Paul lingered a little while beside the gate, watching the friar
descend the sloping path; and he might have remained longer than he
knew, for he was aroused from his day dream by the growl of one of
the farm dogs, who stood at his side. Looking quickly round him, he
fancied he detected amid the shadows of the trees across the road a
dark figure almost concealed behind a solid trunk, the face alone
visible--a dark, saturnine face, with a pair of eyes that gleamed
like those of some wild beast.
The moment those eyes met Paul's the head was withdrawn, and the
youth stood asking himself if it were not all a dream; but if it
had been one, it was remarkably clear and vivid, and he walked to
the house with a look of deep thought upon his face.