"But where are you going then?" I asked.
"To-night I shall lie here. The man of the place is my friend, and will
shelter me, though I have nothing to pay him. To-morrow I shall take
the road."
Here our supper came in: a fine big trout from the river, and a dish
which mine host called mutton, but which I smelt to be venison.
It smote me to the heart to mark the struggle in my comrade's face to
keep down the ravenous joy which for a moment hailed the coming in of
these good things. But the ecstasy lasted only a moment, and when I
bade him fall to, he said indifferently he had no appetite and wanted
nothing.
"But it was a bargain," said I.
So he took a small helping. It plainly cut him to the quick to receive
hospitality from a 'prentice, and he would, I think, as soon have
starved, but for his promise.
I feigned not to notice what he took; yet I could not help marking the
hungry way in which he devoured what was on his platter. Then when it
was done, he rose and went to his seat at the fireplace, while I
finished my supper at the table.
Before I had done, I filled my cup, as was my wont, and drank to Her
Majesty, bidding my guest do the same.
He came gravely to the table at that, and filled a mug of ale to the
brim. "Here's to my Queen," said he.
This struck me as odd, for his tone and manner were as if he were
drinking to another toast than mine. Yet I did not dare to question him
about it, and only hoped so noble a youth was one of Her Majesty's loyal
servants.
Our host had but one small room with a single bed in it to offer us,
which accordingly we shared for the night. Nor was it long before we
were each sound asleep, forgetful of our troubles and quarrels and
weariness.
Before we fell over, however, my comrade said:
"When go you into Oxford?"
"To-morrow, betimes," said I, "for my message is urgent."
"You will have trouble enough," said he. "There is little love between
town and gown there, and unless you like knocks, you had better send
your letter by the hand of one who does."
"I mind no knocks," said I, groaning a little at the memory of some I
had received that very evening; "besides, I am bound to give my letter
by my own hand."
"Then," said he, "take my cap and gown: they are no use to me and may be
a passport to you. Lend me your cloak in exchange. It will serve to
hide me, while it would but betray you as an intruder inside Oxford."
"This cloak," said I, "is the gift of my dear mistress in London. But
perhaps your advice is good. I will go into Oxford in a scholar's garb,
and you meanwhile shall shelter here in my cloak till I return about
noon. Is it a bargain?"
"As you please," said he, and fell asleep.
I was the more pleased with this exchange, as I remembered what Master
Udal had said concerning the fancy Master Penry might take for my brave
cloak. It would be safer here, protecting my comrade, than flaunting in
the eyes of the ravenous youth of Oxford.
When I arose next morning with the sun, my bedfellow still slept
heavily. I could not forbear taking a look at him as he lay there. His
face in sleep, with all the care and unrest out of it, looked like that
of some boyish, resolute Greek divinity. His arm was flung carelessly
behind his head, and the tawny hair which strayed over the pillow served
as a setting for his fine-cut features.
But I had no time for admiring Greek divinities just then; and slipping
on the scholar's robe and cap, which, to my thinking, made me a
monstrous fine fellow, I left my own cloak at his bedside, and, taking
my letter, started on my errand, afoot.
In the clear morning I could plainly see the towers of the city ahead of
me before I had been long on the road. But it is one thing to see and
another to touch. The inn where I had lain was at the river's bank, and
yet no road seemed to lead to it or from it. As for mounting the river
bank, that was impossible, by reason of the thickets which crowded down
to the water's edge. I had to tramp inland, through marsh and quagmire,
in which more than once I thought to end my days, till, after much
searching, I hit upon the road which led to the city. Before I entered
it the bells were clanging from a score of steeples, and many a hurrying
form, clad like myself, crossed my path.
As I gained the east bridge, there was no small tumult in progress. For
a handful of scholars, on their way to morning lecture, had fallen foul
of a handful of yeomen bound for the fields, and were stoutly disputing
the passage. When I appeared, I was claimed at once by the scholars as
one of them, and willy-nilly, had to throw in my lot with them. The
fight was a sharp one, for the yeomen had their sticks and shares and
sickles, and laid stoutly about, whereas the scholars were unarmed, all
except a few. At last, when two of our side had been pitched head first
over the bridge, our leaders seemed inclined to parley; but the
countrymen, puffed up with success, and calling to mind, perhaps, some
old grievance, called, "No quarter! To the river with them, everyone,"
and closed in.
Then the scholars had to fight for their lives; and I, forgetting I was
not really one of them, girt my gown about me, and, shouting to them to
follow me, charged the varlets. They were sorry then they had not ended
the matter sooner. Two or three of them went over the bridge to look
for our comrades beneath, others were soundly cudgelled with their own
sticks, while our fists slowly did the rest. All of a sudden up rode
two or three horsemen, at whose coming our men showed signs of panic,
while the townsmen cheered loudly and made a fresh stand. This vexed me
sorely, for I had supposed the battle at an end. Wherefore, I made for
the chief horseman, and, putting out all my strength, pulled him off his
horse. Scarcely had I done so when my comrades behind raised a shout of
"'Tis the Mayor!--'tis the Mayor! Fly!--fly!" and off they made,
dragging me with them. To think that I, a loyal London apprentice,
should have lived to assault a mayor! But there was no time for excuses
or reproaches. The citizens were at our heels shouting and threatening,
and as they followed, the whole town turned out in hue and cry. One by
one the gownsmen dodged like rabbits into their holes, leaving me, who
knew nothing of the city, almost alone. At last the enemy were almost
up to me, and I was expecting every moment to be taken and perhaps
hanged, when, as good luck would have it, just as I turned a corner,
there faced me a wall not so high but that a good leaper might get over
it. Over I scrambled just as the pack in full cry rushed round the
corner.
Then I laughed as I heard their yapping, and grumbling, and questioning
what had become of me. But I gave them no time to find out, for,
crossing the garden into which I had fallen, I quickly slipped out at
the gate into a fair cloistered square where, adjusting my battle-
stained gown, I marched boldly up to the house at the gate and knocked.
A porter came at my summons and demanded, surlily enough, what I wanted.
"I am a fresh man here," said I, "and have lost my way. I pray you
direct me to Saint Alban Hall."
"Saint Alban Hall?" said he. "Art thou a scholar of Saint Alban Hall?"
"No," said I, "but I bear a message to one there, Master Penry by name."
"How comes it," demanded the porter, who, by the tone of him, might have
been the chancellor himself, "that you wear that gown, sirrah?"
"That is my business," said I, seeing it was no profit to talk civilly
to him, "and if you want not to see your neck wrung, give over
questions, and tell me where is Saint Alban Hall."
He grew red in the face as I gripped his arm, which he could by no means
get free till I let him.
"This is Saint Alban Hall," said he, "and Master Penry lives over my
lodging."
Then I thought it better to be civil to the fellow, as he guessed I had
no business there in a college gown. So I gave him a groat, and bad him
take me up forthwith.
Master Penry was a lean, wrathful-visaged Welshman, with deep grey eyes,
and a large forehead, and a mass of straight black hair down his neck.
As I entered his room, which was disordered and dirty, he was pacing to
and fro, talking or praying aloud in his native tongue. He let me stand
there a minute or two, amazed at his jargon, and scarcely knowing
whether I had lit upon a sane man or not. Then he stopped suddenly in
front of me and scanned me.
"Well?" said he, in good English.
"Are you Master Penry?" I asked.
"I am. You have a message for me?"
"I have; from Master Walgrave. Here it is," said I, putting the letter
into his hand.
He tore it open and read it eagerly, and, as he did so, his face relaxed
into a grim smile.
"That is well, so far," said he. Then, looking hard at me, he added,
"Have you ridden from London in that disguise?"
"No," said I, "this gown was lent me by a friend to protect me against
annoyance from the wild men of the town."
His face suddenly turned pale and passionate.
"Then where is the cloak your master speaks of in this letter?"
"The cloak!" I knew from the very first there would be trouble about
that, and I was glad now I had left it behind in the safe keeping of my
comrade at the inn.
"What is my cloak to you?" said I, not relishing the tone of his voice,
"I have given it away to my friend."
"Fool and jackass!" said he, gnashing his teeth, "do you know you have
ruined me and your master by this?"
"No, I do not," said I, "and as for the foul names you call me, take
them back on the instant, or I swear I will ram them down your mouth!"
He took no notice whatever of my wrath, but went on, breaking in on his
speech every now and then with Welsh words which I took to be curses.
"You must get it back at any price," said he. "Lose not a moment!
Where is this friend? Who is he? If he resist you, you must slay him,
so as you get it back. If it fall into the hands of an enemy, you and
I, ay and your master, and all that belongs to you will perish. Ah, the
folly of the man to trust such a missive to this thick-headed blunderer!
What time lost, what labour wasted, what peril run, what ruin on our
holy cause!"
I was well out of temper by this time, and, but that he looked so
miserable and ill-fed, I would have rattled his bones a bit. At last:
"That cloak," said he, coming up to me, "contained papers sent by your
master to me; which, if they be found on any one's person, mean Tyburn.
Do you understand that?"
"Yes," said I, beginning to see the drift of his coil, "and if you had
told me so at first, I had been half-way back to get it by this time.
Heaven is my witness, you are welcome to the cloak if that is what it
contains; and I doubt not my friend will give it up to do you a
pleasure."
"Hasten!" cried he, with tears of vexation in his eyes, "there is not a
moment to be lost--nay, I will go with you. Where did you leave it?
Come!"
"Nay," said I, remembering it for the first time, "I am not very sure
where it was. 'Twas at a river-side inn, about four miles from here."
"And who is your friend? Is he a true man?"
"I know not that either," said I. "He is a valiant man, and hath a dirk
at his girdle; and I pity the man who tries to take the cloak from him
by force."
Master Penry made another speech to himself in Welsh.
"Fool!" exclaimed he, half blubbering. "This precious missive you leave
at an inn you know not where; with a man you know not whom; and yet your
master speaks of you as a trusty lad. Bah! Lead on!"
I swallowed my wrath and obeyed him. He stalked impatiently at my side,
saying nothing, but urging me forward so that I could scarcely keep pace
with him. I was in luck, in one way, to have his escort; for as I came
near the East Bridge, there lurked not a few of the townsmen who had
been in the fight when I assaulted the Mayor. Seeing me with Master
Penry, who, I suppose, was a man of some standing, they did not look
twice at me; else I might have been caught, and put to rest my limbs in
the cage. When we had crossed the bridge, and were in the country, my
companion suddenly stopped.
"This friend of yours," said he, "with the dirk in his girdle. Was he a
scholar?"
"He lent me this gown," said I.
"An Irishman?"
"I know not. He spoke good English, with a foreign trip of the tongue."
"A great big boy, with wild fair hair, and hands that never are still?"
"The very man. You know him?"
"Do I know him? For two months I have endured the pains of the lost
through him. A wild, untameable savage, subject to no laws, a heathen,
a butcher, a scoffer at things holy, an idler, a highwayman, a traitor,
a rebel, an Irish Papist wolf-hound! Do I know my own pupil? And--oh
my God!--is it he who has the coat? Oh, we are doubly lost! Knaves,
fools, all conspire to ruin us!"
I let him run on, for he was like one demented. But you may suppose I
opened my eyes as I heard this brave character of my new friend.
"Your pupil, is he?" said I at last; "then I counsel you to stay where
you are; for he will assuredly eat you alive if he gets you."
The Welshman paid no head to this warning, but rushed on, jabbering in
Welsh to himself, and groaning, ay, and even sobbing now and then in his
excitement.
At last, after an hour's hard work, we came to where I had found the
road that morning. Then, for another hour, I dragged him through the
swamps and marshes. His strength had begun to fail him long ere we
reached the river's bank; and he was fain, when at last we felt solid
earth under our feet, to cry a halt.
"I must rest for one moment," said he, puffing and panting and clutching
at his side in a way that made me sorry for him. Then he fell on his
knees and prayed in his own tongue, and before he was done, sunk half-
fainting on a tree-trunk.
"Master Penry," said I, helping him from the ground, "you are not fit to
go on. I pray you, let me go alone. This pupil of yours is my friend,
and will give me the cloak. Stay here, unless you would spoil all; for
assuredly if he see you, he will turn at bay and yield nothing. The inn
is but a mile from here. In less than an hour I will be back with the
cloak, that I vow."
He had no strength in him to protest. So I left him there and ran on
towards the inn.