THE PURSUIVANT
The apparitor had taken his departure, and Chiddingly had resumed its
normal condition of rural happiness and peace.
The fields were ripening unto harvest, the rustics went forth to their
daily toil whistling merrily beside their horses, and at eventide the
maidens went to see to the kine with their bright milk-cans in their
hands. The rooks filled the air with their raucous voices, as they
fluttered about the great rookery which begirt Chiddingly Place.
On the Sunday following the departure of the Queen's officer, all the
people of Chiddingly, save a few who were bedridden, flocked into the
parish church as if to testify by their presence the love that they bore
to their pastor.
Chiddingly was a musical village, and here, at least, the Canticles,
which were "to be said or sung," were always sung to the accompaniment
of a flageolet, which the parish clerk played vigorously.
And on this especial Sunday the "Te Deum" was sung so heartily that the
Vicar marvelled, while Mistress Susan's bright eyes glowed with pride
and then glistened with the unbidden tear which strong emotion called
forth.
The service over, the Squire and his fair daughter walked through the
lines of the villagers, who, according to their custom, awaited their
exit to make their salutations to them, cap in hand. There was nothing
servile in this—it was but the public exhibition of the love and
fidelity in which the family of the Jefferays was held by the Chiddingly
people. At the entrance porch of the hall Susan's quick eye noted a
stable lad standing beside a pony from which he had dismounted.
What was it that so suddenly brought a flush into Susan's cheeks as she
marked that the lad wore the livery of the De Fynes of Herstmonceux—a
glow which deepened as the boy doffed his cap and offered her a letter?
"You come from Lewes?" said Susan inquiringly.
"Yes, my lady," replied the lad.
"Wait awhile, and I will let you know if there is any reply; go to the
kitchen after you have stabled your pony—the maids will get you some
dinner," said Susan.
The lad bowed low and took his departure, glad to follow out Susan's
instructions.
Susan turned to her father, who had looked on smilingly.
"Pardon me, dear father," she said, "I will be with you anon."
William Jefferay nodded assent. Susan hastened to her own room and
quickly opened her letter.
Yes, it was from Geoffrey de Fynes; she had half hoped to have seen him
this day, why had he written instead?
So, with a heart surmising evil, she proceeded to read the letter. As
she did so, her cheeks paled and her hands trembled. Then she rang a
small silver bell which stood at her side, and her maid Janet appeared
in answer to the summons.
"Ask my father to come hither to me, Janet," she said, and the maid
hastened away.
Her father presently entered her room, his face still wreathed with
smiles.
But the expression of his face changed suddenly as he looked upon his
daughter, who held out the letter to him.
"What is it, Susan," he said quickly, "what has happened?"
"Read, father!" she replied in a troubled voice.
The writer of the letter was a member of a great Sussex family—a family
whose wrongs moved the pity of all men. The head of the house of
Geoffrey de Fynes had suffered a traitor's death in the year 1545, since
which time the family had been degraded "in blood and honours."
Yet never had Justice so surely missed its mark as when young Lord
Dacres lost his head at Tyburn!
Young Geoffrey de Fynes at the present time held the office of Secretary
to the High Sheriff of the County; just now his duties had called him to
Lewes.
He was a frequent visitor at Chiddingly Place, and between him and Susan
a strong attachment had sprung up, though no betrothal had taken place.
William Jefferay took the letter from his daughter's hand and read it
carefully; it was as follows—
"This from the hand of one who loves thee well, and whose chief object
in life is to do thee service. Hence I write this letter, and I do so
with a clear conscience, though the writing of it might cause the loss
of my post, and make me an inmate of Lewes gaol! Yet I dare not do
otherwise, for thy happiness is dearer to me than aught else in this
life!
"Now to come at once to the point.
"It has come to my knowledge that a warrant has been issued by the Crown
for the apprehension of the Vicar of Chiddingly.
"A Pursuivant, with three men-at-arms, will leave Lewes for Chiddingly
three days hence, soon after daybreak. They will travel on horseback,
and their object is to arrest the Vicar, bring him hither, and
afterwards convey him to London.
"Thou mayest show this letter to thy father, but to none other. Between
you some plan may be devised whereby he shall escape the malice of his
foes. I suggest that he flee to the Continent, but thy father will be
his best counsellor."
Then the letter of Geoffrey de Fynes drifted off into other matters
which concerned Susan only.
"When you have finished reading that letter I counsel you to destroy it—
for Geoffrey's sake," said William Jefferay to his daughter, as he
handed it back to her.
"Oh, father," said Susan, "what is to be done?"
"I know not," replied her father, "unless we can persuade the Vicar to
flee."
"We have tried that already, and I fear he is immovably resolved to stay
among his people—he is strong in his innocence, and cannot be brought to
realize the danger he is in," said Susan.
"We shall see him to-night after the service; he comes here to sup with
us: we will show him De Fynes's letter if needs be, or at least tell him
its contents. I think this will convince him of the deadly peril in
which he stands," replied Jefferay.
"God grant it!" cried Susan. "I shall know no rest nor peace now till I
know that his safety is assured. Ralph will be here to-morrow; he is
coming to spend my birthday with us. Oh! it is a heaven-sent
interposition, for he can conduct the Vicar to the coast," she
continued.
"Nay, Susan," replied her father, "it is a post of danger, and it will
need discretion as well as valour; I shall see him to Newhaven myself,
if we can persuade him to flee."
For a long time they talked together, maturing their schemes.
"How good and noble it was of Geoffrey de Fynes to send us this
warning!" said Susan; "would that he were here to aid us with his
counsel!"
"There you are wrong, dear girl," replied Jefferay; "he has compromised
himself enough already, and now we must keep him out of our plot
altogether."
"Yes, I see that it must be so," answered Susan, with a sigh.
--------------
The afternoon service took place as usual, the parishioners attending
once more in full force, little thinking of the danger that hung over
the head of their beloved Vicar.
Every word of the simple service seemed to Susan's excited imagination
to be invested with an especial significance, and her sweet voice
trembled with emotion as she sang the words, "Lord, now lettest Thou Thy
servant depart in peace." So also the psalm for the day cheered her with
its ringing words, "Why do the heathen rage?" and she came out of the
church both comforted and refreshed.
In the evening the Vicar came down to the Place in the best of spirits;
the hearty services of the day had filled his heart with joy, and the
evident good-will, respect, and affection of his people for him had
deeply moved his gentle soul.
It was not till supper was over, and the three friends were seated
together in the library, that Jefferay, laying his hand affectionately
upon the Vicar's shoulders, said—
"You are very happy to-night, Vicar; alas! that I should have bad news
for you—news that will mar your happiness, I fear."
Then, as the Vicar looked into his face, without fear or trepidation,
William Jefferay recounted all that had happened, and finally showed him
De Fynes's letter.
"The Lord's will be done!" said the Vicar solemnly.
"It will be done, it always is done, but not always in the manner we
expect," answered Jefferay.
Then Susan intervened.
She drew near to the Vicar's side, took his hand in hers, and said—
"Dear Vicar, we have decided that you must flee before this threatened
storm, for it would break our hearts were you taken from us by cruel
men, and not ours only, but the hearts also of many of your poor people
here."
The Vicar shook his head.
"The hireling fleeth because he is an hireling; the good shepherd giveth
his life for the sheep," he said.
"No, my dear girl," he continued, as he laid his hand affectionately on
her head, "I cannot go—do not urge me!"
Then William Jefferay took another line.
"Listen, my friend," he said, "we want to preserve your life for better
times; and my brother Sir John tells me that all men at Court foresee
that the present state of things cannot last."
Then, dropping his voice to almost a whisper, he continued—
"The Queen's health is failing; the friends of the Princess Elizabeth
are gathering about her, and are taking heart. This may be treason, but,
as God lives, I believe it is true! Save yourself, then, Vicar, for
better times and future labour among the people whose souls God has
committed into your charge!
"Now let me tell you my plans. To-morrow _The Golden Horn_ sets sail
from Newhaven for Ostend. I have interest with the captain, and I can
answer for him that he will accept you as a passenger. We can leave
Chiddingly at break of day, ere people are moving, and I will conduct
you to Newhaven."
"I will give you my answer to-morrow," pleaded the Vicar.
But his two faithful friends would not be thus appeased.
"No, Vicar, that will be too late, for _The Golden Horn_ puts to sea
early in the day, and we should lose our great opportunity."
For a long time the earnest discussion continued, and the hour waxed
late before the reluctant consent was given. To the loving heart of
Susan that hard-won victory brought great joy.
"To-morrow, then, at three o'clock we meet here; the horses will be
ready to start the moment you arrive," said William, as the guest took
his departure from the Place.
"I shall be here—God willing," replied the Vicar.
--------------
The next day saw William Jefferay's plan carried out—with the addition
that, on Susan's suggestion, Jefferay should accompany the Vicar to
Holland and see him safely and comfortably settled there.
That same day, Monday, Ralph arrived from London, and it was not long
ere the confiding Susan had revealed to him all that had passed, and
that on Wednesday the Queen's Pursuivant would visit Chiddingly to find
"the bird flown"!
Now Ralph was a fine, strong English youth, endowed by nature with a
very combative disposition and an inordinate love of adventure.
He had thoroughly approved of the action of the Chiddingly rustics when
they dipped the apparitor in the horse-pond, though he had taken no part
in the affair.
The threatened visit of the Pursuivant aroused his indignation to a
white heat, and, unfortunately, at this moment he lacked the restraining
influence of his father's presence at home, nor did he take counsel on
the matter with Susan.
That very day Ralph called about him a few of his young confidants among
the Chiddingly rustics, and at nightfall ten of them met him in
conference in the taproom of the "Six Bells" Inn.
The meeting was "secret and confidential"; none but the ten stalwarts
were admitted to it, and these pledged themselves to secrecy by a solemn
oath which Ralph administered with all due gravity.
Then the meeting having been duly constituted, and Ralph accepted as
their leader by common consent, the "young Squire" (as he was known
among the rustics) set forth in sufficiently guarded language the nature
of the matter which had brought them together, omitting all reference by
name to Geoffrey de Fynes.
Headstrong and thoughtless as Ralph was, he saw the necessity for
secrecy on that point.
It was a remarkable and typical assembly.
These young men were fine young Englishmen, who, though they lacked
great intelligence, possessed the bravery and independence of their
fore-fathers.
They were absolutely loyal to their Queen, and would have shed their
blood for her and for their country against Spain, or France, or any
other foreign foe with complete devotion.
But there was growing up in their hearts a deadly hatred for the Spanish
nation in general, and for King Philip in particular—nor did the Sussex
people ever forget or forgive the religious intolerance which had
kindled the fires at Lewes, Mayfield, and many another place.
So Ralph found ready material at hand when he proposed to take vengeance
on the Pursuivant as they had done upon the apparitor, reckless of the
anger of the "powers that be."
Before the conspirators separated that night it was resolved that the
Pursuivant and his party should be waylaid on Wednesday morning at a
point in the woods well known to them all—about four miles from
Chiddingly.
The warrant should be taken from the Pursuivant and be torn to pieces;
there should be no bloodshed if it were possible to prevent it; the
obnoxious visitors should be unhorsed and left to find their way back to
Lewes on foot.
The horses would be driven into the woods; they were Lewes horses, and
would surely find their way home in due time; and, if not, there was
abundant pasture for them in the glades of the forest.
The rustics, under Ralph's leadership, would leave the village at
daybreak on Wednesday morning; they would thus reach the place appointed
for the attack an hour or so before their foes, and would have time to
make all necessary preparations.
Thus the scheme was elaborated, and every detail arranged by the
resourceful lad, Ralph Jefferay.
To him the whole adventure was a matter of supreme delight—little recked
he of the danger attending it!
On the morrow (Tuesday) he mounted his cob and rode to the spot he had
selected for the attack.
There were no high-roads in Sussex, but between the villages and the
county town well-known beaten tracks existed. These were well-nigh
impassable in winter—at other seasons a fair amount of traffic passed
along them.
Between Chiddingly and Lewes lay dense woods—the relics of the mighty
forest of the Andreadsweald of ancient days. Sometimes the trackway led
through forest glades of much beauty; at other times it was a narrow
pass between giant oaks and elms whose rich foliage would occasionally
meet over the head of the traveller, forming a delicious shade in the
hot months of summer.
It was to a place of this latter kind that Ralph came on that fine July
morning.
He felt perfectly certain that the Pursuivant would take this route on
the following day; any other would involve a _détour_ of several miles
in making the journey from Lewes to Chiddingly.
Ralph inspected narrowly the trees which grew on both sides of the
track; eventually he seemed to find what he needed, namely, two stout
young saplings facing each other with about twenty feet intervening
between them.
Then he rode slowly home, and in the evening his rustic friends
assembled again, at his summons, in the taproom of the inn, where he
gave them his final instructions.
To Susan he said nothing of the scheme on foot; he would not involve her
or any member of his family in the dangers of the enterprise.
One great regret filled his heart—the absence of his brother William.
The twins were rarely apart from each other, and this visit to
Chiddingly lacked but this one thing for Ralph's perfect happiness; his
brother had been compelled to remain in London, where his uncle, Sir
John, required his services and personal attendance.
A dim grey light filled the eastern horizon on the Wednesday morning as
Ralph made his way to the stables, where he saddled his stout cob.
He bore no weapon—not even the customary rapier without which he rarely
went abroad—for this enterprise was to be carried through without
bloodshed; upon that point he was determined.
His followers would all carry single-sticks, a formidable weapon enough
in the hands of a Sussex rustic! Round his waist he had begirt himself
with a long and strong cord—destined for a special purpose.
Presently he mounted his horse and proceeded at a gentle pace towards
the woods; his men, he knew, were gone on ahead.
A bright red light suffused the eastern sky, the sun was about to rise,
and the twittering of countless birds from every copse filled the air
with sweet music.
A summer mist lay on the meadowland, and big drops of dew bedecked the
leaves of the hazel bushes, gleaming under the rosy light like rubies.
Suddenly the sun rose above the horizon into a cloudless sky, and the
day had begun.
It was a lovely morning, not a cloud flecked the bright azure of the
sky.
On his left hand ran the long line of the Sussex downs in graceful
outline—rising at Firle Beacon to a lofty height of some seven hundred
feet.
Before him lay the dense forest, the deep embowered shades of Chiddingly
woods.
Ralph was in high spirits, and as his stout cob gaily cantered along the
trackway he broke into song, as if in emulation of the sweet-toned larks
rising into the deep-blue sky on quivering wing.
He was now nearing the point of the rendezvous, and he checked his song
as he caught sight of one of his stalwarts trudging along in front of
him.
"You are in good time, Roger," he cried to the man as he overtook him.
"Yes, Mr. William, and the others are all in front of me. I am the rear-
guard."
"Good," cried Ralph, "but tell me, Roger, why do you call me Mr.
William?—alas, he is not here."
"I beg your pardon, sir," replied the man with a laugh. "I thought for
the moment that Mr. William had joined us—it was your grey cap which
misled me."
Ralph pulled the cap from his head and looked at it with an air of
astonishment.
"It is true," he said, "I have put on my brother's cap; it was dark when
I left home, and I did not mark the colour of it."
Then he rode rapidly ahead, and in a few minutes he arrived at the
rendezvous.
The spot was admirably chosen for the object in view. Here the track
narrowed to a breadth of sixteen or seventeen feet, and the branches of
a giant oak spread right over it.
On each side of the track grew a stout young sapling, as if nature was
conspiring on behalf of the stalwarts. Ralph drew a whistle from his
doublet and blew a shrill note.
In a minute a rustling noise arose in the dense wood, and there emerged
from it nine of his men.
Ralph dismounted, and putting his bridle rein into the hands of one of
the men, said—
"Take him to the hut and tie him up carefully; see that you shut the
door after you."
"Aye, aye, sir," said the man.
Then Ralph began to unwind from his body the stout cord he had brought
with him, with the assistance of his men. One end of it was securely
fastened to the sapling on the right of the road, at a height of one
foot from the grassy soil.
The other end was made sure at the foot of a tree on the left-hand side,
and the rope was drawn taut. The rough grass which grew luxuriantly on
the trackway obscured it sufficiently from view.
Every man of the band carried a short cord round his waist, and Ralph
carefully inspected these cords to see that they were ready for
immediate use.
"Now listen, all of you, to my final instructions," said Ralph, as the
men gathered round him.
"You, Tom and Jim, will mount the oak-tree, climb along that limb which
crosses the track, and be ready to drop on the Pursuivant at the moment
he passes beneath you. Bring him to the ground and bind his arms and
legs with your cords.
"Four of you will hide in the wood on the right-hand side of the track,
and four on the left-hand. The horses will probably be caught by our
rope and will come to ground, their riders being thrown headlong. That
is your moment of attack; spring upon them and rope them securely.
"Should a horse escape the stretched rope, his rider must be brought to
ground by your cudgels. Beware that no man escapes, or our plan will
fail. Above all, remember there must be no bloodshed unless self-defence
require it. Leave the rest to me; now, do you all understand?"
"Aye, aye, sir," answered the rustics in a joyful shout.
"Then get to your posts, all of you; our foes may be here at any
moment," said Ralph.
For a time absolute silence brooded upon the sylvan scene, save for the
humming of insects and the twittering of birds.
Ten minutes, a quarter of an hour, twenty minutes had passed, and yet
there was no sign of approaching horsemen. Ralph's heart began to beat
tumultuously.
"Perhaps," thought he, "the Pursuivant has taken the long route over the
downs, and all our well-laid schemes will come to naught," and he
groaned within himself.
He stepped forth from the wood into the track, and looked anxiously in
the direction of Lewes.
No sound struck his ear, but at that moment a flash of light caught his
eye!
The sun was shining upon bright steel halberds, and flashed yet brighter
on the cuirasses of two musketeers. They were mounted on stout horses in
war panoply, and behind them rose a tall officer in sombre uniform—it
was the Pursuivant!
Instantly Ralph dived unperceived into the wood, and a low whistle told
his men that the moment for action was nigh. The horsemen were
approaching at a brisk trot; their arquebuses were attached to their
saddles; in their left hands they bore long halberds; they rode as men
all unconscious of danger.
Another moment and they were at hand!
Crash! crash! both horses had struck the fatal rope, and their riders
were thrown violently upon the track. The Pursuivant, who was riding
about three yards in the rear of his men, threw his horse upon its
haunches in blank amazement.
Alas for him! he was at that moment exactly under the great oak limb
which stretched across the track, and ere he could utter a sound two men
dropped upon him, and he was caught in a strong embrace, while Ralph
Jefferay stood at his horse's head, his hand on the bridle. Meanwhile
the eight rustics had sprung from the wood, and ere the halberdiers
could recover from their fall, they were imprisoned by vigorous arms,
and stout ropes were being wound round their bodies.
As the fallen horses struggled to their feet, two rustics sprang to
their heads and held them fast.
"What means this outrage?" shouted the Pursuivant; then, addressing
Ralph, whom he recognized as the leader of the band, he added—
"Do you know, sir, that I am a Queen's officer, and that you stop me at
the peril of your life!"
At a signal from Ralph, his two captors dismounted him from his saddle,
and he came helplessly to the ground.
"Search him," said Ralph, disdaining to make any reply to the luckless
officer.
His orders were instantly obeyed, and in a few moments the Pursuivant
was relieved of a big official-looking document, which Ralph forthwith
proceeded to open.
"Listen, my men," he said; "this is a warrant for the apprehension of
the Vicar of Chiddingly. What shall we do with it?"
"Tear it in pieces and scatter it to the winds!" shouted the angry
rustics.
"At the peril of your lives!" shouted again the enraged officer.
Ralph laughed scornfully in reply, and in another moment he had torn the
formidable document to shreds, tossing them in the air as his followers
had suggested.
"You will suffer for this, sir," growled the astonished officer.
"You are a bold man, Mr. Pursuivant," said Ralph. "You came hither on a
message of death, and now your plans are frustrated and your life is in
our hands! Have you thought of that, sir?"
"You would not dare!" replied the officer.
Ralph laughed aloud, and replied—
"You little know the daring of the people of Sussex when they know that
God is on their side; yet your experience to-day might give you an
inkling of the extent of their hardihood.
"But have no fear," he continued, "your life is safe, and you and your
men can go back to Lewes to tell them how you have been outwitted by
Sussex rustics.
"Yet it does not suit our purposes that your return should be too
quickly made, so we shall tie you to these trees by the roadside and
relieve you of your horses. Before nightfall there will, doubtless, be
passers-by who will release you from your bondage, and then you may
trudge homeward."
Then, ere the enraged Pursuivant could find words for a reply, Ralph
turned to his men and said—
"Quick, men, with the ropes; tie our prisoners securely to the trees by
the roadside, beginning with the officer."
In a few minutes his orders were carried out. Then Ralph bowed with mock
ceremony to the Pursuivant.
"Good-day, sir," he said; "I wish you a speedy release and a pleasant
walk to Lewes!"
And at a signal from their leader the whole gang dived into the forest,
driving the horses in front of them.
Ralph made his way to the hut where his horse had been stabled, and was
soon trotting quietly homewards, his stalwarts following his example on
foot by the well-known bypath of the forest.
No sooner had the gang disappeared than the bound men began to struggle
desperately in a vain endeavour to escape from their bonds, soon to find
all their efforts useless.
Then the Pursuivant spoke.
"You Lewes men ought to be able to recognize some of these ruffians—do
you know their leader?"
"Yes, I know him," replied one of his men; "I have often seen him in
Lewes—'tis Mr. William Jefferay."
"Are you sure?" said the Pursuivant, rejoiced at the news.
"Yes," replied the man, "I know him by his grey cap!"
"Good," said the officer; "you shall hang for this, Mr. William
Jefferay, as surely as there is a sun in the heavens."
The day was wearing on, the sun rose high in the sky, and the bound men
began to feel the pangs of thirst—yet no man passed that way to bring
them release.
They had many times shouted loudly for help—but there was none to make
reply.
Evening had come, and the wretched men began to fear that a night in the
woods would be their fate—perhaps death itself from hunger and thirst!
But Providence willed it otherwise.
To their joy a woodman, returning from his daily toil, came slowly down
the track.
He started in amazement as he heard the cries of the prisoners, and came
to the spot where they were bound.
"What now, my masters!" cried the woodman. "What means all this?"
"Don't waste time in talk, man," answered the luckless Pursuivant;
"bring hither thy axe and cut these accursed ropes."
The man hesitated, and his weather-beaten features assumed a shrewd
expression.
"You must first tell me who you be, and how you came to this pass; I may
get myself into trouble."
"Fool!" cried the Pursuivant, now getting angry, "I am a Queen's
officer, and these are my men—thy axe, I say, thy axe, and that quick!"
But the man was evidently the master of the situation, and he was not to
be hurried.
Moreover, his sense of cupidity began to be awakened—there was,
doubtless, something to be earned in this matter.
"Well, I doant know but what I med do you this little job," he said
cautiously; "but what is it worth?"
The Pursuivant ground his teeth with rage.
"It will be worse for thee, fool, if thou hesitate any longer; come,
bring thy axe and cut these ropes, I command you."
"Oh, that is it, is it?" said the man; "then I leaves you to yourself
and bid you good e'en!"
And forthwith he began to walk away.
At this the bound men set up a loud howl of entreaty—their worst fears
seemed about to be realized.
The woodman relented, and returned once more to the prisoners.
This time he came straight to the point.
"What will you give me if I cut your cords?" said he, and his eyes
sparkled greedily.
The Pursuivant hesitated ere he replied; his first thought was tinged
with bitter rage: he would make this fellow smart for his greedy
impudence.
But reflection brought another thought: it did not matter what he gave
this man; they were three to one—when once they were freed they could
make him disgorge his ill-gotten gains!
So he replied, "Come hither, man; put thy hand in my doublet pocket and
take my purse, with all that it contains."
The woodman obeyed, and soon found the purse; it was well lined, and his
greed was satisfied.
But he was no simpleton, and the same thought which had inspired the
Pursuivant's generosity had occurred to him also; he determined,
therefore, on his line of action.
Approaching the tree to which one of the men-at-arms was bound, he
raised his axe, and, with one blow, severed the rope.
"Now loose thy fellows," he cried, as he bounded into the forest.
The liberated man was long ere he freed his companions; by that time the
woodman with the purse in his pocket was deep in the recesses of the
forest.
The night was falling, yet a long march lay before the three men ere the
lights of Lewes would gladden their eyes.
Yet, hungry, thirsty, and weary, they reached the county town that
night, nor did the Pursuivant seek rest till the first step in his
revenge was taken, and he had lodged his report with the authorities in
the castle.
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