AFTER their fine repast at the Crown, Gervase and Anne left Oxford at
once. Soon they were in the pleasant meadows that lay all about that
famous city. It was a really glorious morning of the early summer, with
the sun, which day by day had scorched them, more powerful than ever.
All the forenoon they wandered idly in the fields. Anne shamed her
boy’s apparel by plucking the wild flowers, gathering a great posy.
There seemed hardly need for a care just then. They had money enough
to carry them through the day and even provide a modest lodging at
nightfall. The grass in which they lay for long hours was soft, dry,
delicious.
Every day that passed strengthened the sense of comradeship that
sustained them. They were all to one another now. Yet enraptured as
they were with their love, they were never able to forget that they
were proscribed. This glimpse of happiness could only be a transient
thing. Any day, at any hour, Gervase was likely to fall into the hands
of his enemies. But whenever that dread accident befell them, as sooner
or later it must, they had made their pledge that they would die
together.
Was there no way of ultimate escape? Each day that passed had seemed
to minister to their love of life. As they lay in the grass, gazing
afar into a heaven so gorgeous that it filled them with wonder, this
longing to live took hold of them both with a still greater intensity.
Was there no way by which an entirely innocent man could escape the
scaffold?
If only they had a little money to buy a passage on board ship they
might hope to escape across the seas. Instead of wandering aimlessly
from place to place, void of purpose or design, there was no reason why
they should not make for the coast. Unhappily it was likely to profit
them little when they came there unless they could provide themselves
with some money.
The whole of Gervase’s property had passed into the hands of the wicked
man who had borne false testimony against him. This man was his uncle,
Simon Heriot, who had succeeded to his personal effects and his estate
in the west of England. These had been confiscated by the Crown.
And in that age it was customary to bestow the spoils of successful
prosecution upon the person or persons who had procured the conviction
of the offender!
Gervase knew that he was the victim of a very wicked conspiracy. Simon
Heriot, cunning, covetous, unspeakably vile, had laid his plans only
too well. So deftly woven the plot, so wisely chosen its instruments
and so skilful their use of forged proofs and false evidence that from
the first the unlucky Gervase had had little chance of escape.
He had been caught securely in a trap. The charges had been laid
against him with such diabolical skill that it was almost impossible
to disprove them. It was in vain that he had cast himself upon the
mercy of the Queen. Simon Heriot, ignoble as he was at heart, was a
person of some place, and not without consideration at Court; and he
had always been able to mask his cunning well enough to pass for a
high-minded and honorable man.
It chanced, however, that as thus Anne and Gervase lay together in this
golden afternoon, whiling away the sweet hours that were likely to be
so few, this intense desire for life suddenly found expression in a
desperate resolve. Gervase remembered that the house of Simon Heriot
was but a matter of ten miles or so from the city of Oxford. And no
sooner did this fact occur to him than he was taken with the idea that
it might be possible to go there and force his uncle to disgorge enough
of his ill-gotten gains to enable Anne and himself to fly the country.
This bold scheme began to exert a strange fascination over him. The
more thought he gave to it the stronger grew its hold upon him.
Certainly it must prove very hazardous; it was the wild design of a
desperate man, but it appealed to his mood.
When he came to confide the plan to his comrade she too approved it. To
Anne it opened up a new world of possibility. The spirit of desperation
urging her, she could see no reason why they should not break into the
house of Simon Heriot in the middle of that night and seek the means to
carry them into safety across the seas.
Yes, let that be their project! Both saw, however, that one fatal
drawback confronted them. To put such a design into execution it was
of vital importance that they should go armed. Thus they now regretted
bitterly that the silver-hilted dagger was no longer in their keeping.
It would be sheer folly to present themselves unarmed at the house of
Simon Heriot. A weapon of some kind must be procured if the project was
to have any chance of success. Gervase hoped that, with a little luck,
he might be able to barter his flute for a pistol but, unhappily, by so
doing he was likely to deprive them of their sole means of getting food.
This question of arms was a sore problem. However, they decided to take
a night’s rest before coming to grips with it in earnest. And they may
have been moved to this wise course by the fact that the house of Simon
Heriot lay out upon the Banbury road, and that in order to come to it,
it would be necessary to retrace their steps and pass through the town
of Oxford.
They bought a bowl apiece of bread and milk of a kindly farmer’s wife,
and this made them a delicious supper. And for the sum of twopence they
were allowed to lie snug in the barn during the night. And as they lay
thus, discussing the prospects of the strange hazard upon which they
were determined to embark on the morrow, a new expedient came into the
mind of Gervase.
Ever since their meeting that morning with the man at the Crown, the
thoughts of Gervase strayed continually toward him. He was not a man to
forget. And now as Gervase lay in the straw in the darkness considering
what must be done, his mind reverted to him again.
All his instincts seemed to tell him that this was an honest man;
moreover a man capable of rare kindness and instant sympathy; a man
whom it would seem possible for even a couple of hard-pressed fugitives
to trust implicitly.
Yes, let them return to Oxford to the Crown. Let them seek out this man
Shakespeare and tell him as much of their story as might serve to win
his help. As Gervase lay that night he took a resolve to do this. He
would confide in the man as far as might be necessary. Perchance this
friendly player might approve sufficiently this hazardous excursion to
the house of Simon Heriot to provide him with a weapon to serve the
occasion.
When the morning came, however, this plan seemed to err a good deal on
the side of boldness. In broad daylight it appeared very far from wise
to put such trust in a man, who, after all, was no more than a total
stranger. Might he not prove, when their story was told to him, one of
those zealots whose devotion to the Queen would cause him to betray
these fugitives from justice?
Still, in spite of all misgiving, Gervase finally determined to take
the risk. Even when every argument had been urged on the other side of
the question, he still felt that if only they dared to put their faith
in this man who had already shown them such kindness, they would not
appeal in vain for his friendship.
They were about seven miles from Oxford. Having laid out their
remaining store of pence on a frugal breakfast they trudged forth and
in less than two hours had re-entered the city.