The first words of the letter left me in no doubt as to who the writer
might be.
"To a certain Hollander, once my servant, and honoured still to live in
my memory. Know, my son of Neptune, fledgeling of the Nymphs, and half-
brother to the Tritons, that he whom thou knewest once in Parnassus'
grove (whither he himself led thy halting feet), respireth still in
sighs for beauty and exhalations of sweet verse. Know, too, that he
hath of late composed a notable and admirable epic in praise of the Sun,
which, if it please Heaven to bring him, ere the year fall, to London,
thou mayest have the high honour of setting in print, thereby assisting
at the birth of an immortal.
"Know further, that after many bufferings from the jade Fortune, and
tossing, such as ships ne'er endured on thy brawling element, my
Hollander, I am here in Chester, beloved of the Muse, yet ill-beholden
to the men of the place, who, as the Mantuans their Maro, clapped me in
ward because forsooth I stirred the rabble with my moving measures. The
moon hath not kissed the golden locks of Galatea four times since I was
let out. Now is no zephyr freer than I--or emptier. Yet hath heaven
need of her needy sons, and the meanest of Olympus, denizens hath his
part to play amidst the earthlings. Know, then, that on the second day
after I had ceased to eat my bread at her Majesty's cost, I met, in
eager haste, a certain Irish Achilles who knoweth more of war than
verse, and whose arm is more terrible with the sword than is my hand
with the pen. This Sir Ludar--such is gratitude and reverence!--_O
tempora! O mores_!--would have given me the go-by, had I not stood
boldly in his way, that he might at least see how great an honour he
avoided. When he saw me, to be brief, my Hollander, he honoured himself
by seeing in me the god Mercury, who beareth messages to the dim regions
of the earth. He bade me tell thee, by a means the receipt hereof will
apprise thee, that the cause goeth perilously. What cause, I know not;
but, be it what it may, it taketh him hence, on what, perchance, may be
his last journey. He biddeth you remember your oath, and would have me
advertise you that one Merriman hath been heard of in these parts,
travelling for London, with a party, of whom one is the lady of the
castle on the river, with her ward. He is a dark mysterious man, this
Irish wolf-hound of thine, my Hollander, and, did I not suspect him to
have a secret tooth for the olives of Parnassus, I had not thus
condescended to act as go between you. When I enquired of him
concerning her, that incomparable swan, that bright and shining star,
that white snowflake, that Cupid's elder sister, my lady-love--to serve
whom I counted as nought the perils of a certain fell voyage you wot
of--when I enquired him of her, he asked me back, Did I desire to
flounder in the castle moat? By which talk it appeared to me much care
hath weakened his mind, and I misdoubt me his present journey bodes no
good. My Hollander, I beg not any man's bread, yet am I hard put to it
to show the world that heaven doth not desert her favourites. If the
pity of a 'prentice can reach from you to Chester, lend it me, I pray
you, as I sit here gazing into the empyrean for my next meal. If I may,
I shall shorten the space betwixt us. Meanwhile, count for thyself a
lodging in at least one poetic breast, which is that of thy patron and
friend, Thomas Graves.
"_Post Scriptum_: I have overtook my messenger--a poor country carrier--
to tell thee strange news. This Ludar hath returned suddenly from his
journey in the custody of a troop. I saw him marched through the
streets but just now, amid cries of 'Treason!' 'Away with him!' 'Hang
him!' sad to hear. The talk runneth that he is party in some great
conspiracy against her glorious Majesty, whose foes may Heaven confound!
If it be true, then is our Achilles wounded in the heel, and is like
enough to journey from here to Tyburn free of charges. Farewell, from
thy well-wisher."
This letter cast me into terrible woe; for it was plain by it that Ludar
was in mortal peril, and without a friend to help him. I could do
naught, for I knew not where he was taken, or if I did, what could I,
outside a stone wall, do for him within? Besides, the message about the
maiden put a service on me I was bound to fulfil. Yet what could I do?
Jeannette saw my trouble and shared it; and, being a shrewd lass,
advised me to go to Will Peake and hear what was this news of a new-
discovered treason, and who were in it?
So I went and found the Bridge (Sunday as it was), in a flutter. Will
Peake I could not see, but from another gossip I heard that news was
come of a terrible plot to murder her sacred Majesty and place on her
throne, with the help of Spanish rogues, the upstart Mary of Scotland.
Many wild stories were afloat concerning the business. One, that not a
few of her Majesty's trusted advisers were mixed in it; others, that the
Scotchwoman herself was prime mover; another, that it was the work of
the Spanish king, whose armies were on the coast waiting the signal to
land.
But as we stood, there came a mighty shouting from the Tower Hill, and,
running thither, we saw a man in a cart being conducted by twenty
horsemen to the prison. He was clad as a papist priest--yet, when I
looked at him, I seemed to know his face.
"Who goes there?" I asked of one who stood near.
"The head and front of it all," said he; "a renegade priest, Ballard by
name."
"Who hath travelled," said another, "on this accursed business in the
garb of a soldier by the name of Captain Fortescue."
"Fortescue!" cried I. "Why, to be sure, it was he! I knew I had seen
him."
"You saw him, where? what know you of this?" asked several persons
round, suspiciously. "If you be a friend of his, get you up on the cart
beside him."
I had a mind to make a rush that way, if haply I might get a single word
with the traitor as to where Ludar was. But I might as soon have tried
to get within hail of the Scotch Queen herself, so closely was he fenced
in.
"He is no friend," growled I, "but a vile enemy and traitor, whom I
would to God I had run through the body when I had the chance at
Carlisle, months since."
Then to avoid more questions and get away from the rabble, I hastened
back and told all to Jeannette. She was very grave. "What think you
now?" she asked.
"I can think nothing," said I, "save that, whatever has befallen Ludar,
he could not knowingly be guilty of plotting against the life of a
woman, even if she be the Queen herself. Jeannette," said I, "I could
no more believe that than I would believe you to be unkind or untrue."
She smiled at that and said she, too, could not think so ill of this
Ludar of mine.
As the days passed, news came in thick and fast. The plot, we heard,
was a devilish one to murder the Queen and her ministers, and give
England up to the heretic Spaniard. Men stood aghast as they heard of
it. Presently came word that the worst of the traitors were in hiding
in London, being mostly young gentlemen of the Court, who had fed at the
table of the very Lady they plotted to slay. Try all I would, I could
hear nothing of Ludar. Nor durst I name him to my comrades, for fear I
should bring him mischief thereby.
One day in the middle of August it was, a man came into our shop in hot
haste to tell Master Walgrave that the company had been taken, hidden in
a barn in Harrow. Never shall I forget the joy of the City as the news
spread like wildfire through the wards. No work did we 'prentices do
that day. We marched shouting through the streets, calling for
vengeance on the Queen's enemies, and waiting till they should be
brought in, on their way to the Tower.
As for me, my joy was mingled with strange trouble; for, if Ludar should
be among them--
"The leader of them is one Babington," said Will Peake, "and besides him
are half-a-dozen dogs as foul--English, all of them."
"Save one," said another, "who I hear is Irish."
"Irish!" cried I, as white as paper. "What is his name?"
"Not Dexter," said the fellow, looking at me in amaze. "Why, man, what
ails you?"
"Tell me his name, as you love me," said I.
"How should I know the name of every cowardly hound that walks the
streets? Go and ask them that can tell you."
I walked away miserable, and waited at the Aldersgate to see the
prisoners come by.
When at last the cry was raised, I scarcely durst look up, for fear that
among them should tower the form of Ludar. But when I lifted my eyes
and saw only six hang-dog men, who held their hands to their ears to
keep out the yelling of the mob, and shrunk closer to their guards to
save them from a worse fate than the hangman's, the beating of my heart
eased. For he was not amongst them. So joyful was I that I could even
lend my voice for a while to the general cry, and, when night fell,
bring my torch to the flaming barrels that blazed on Finsbury Fields.
Yet I came home that night ill at ease. Fresh news had arrived already
that other men had been taken in the country--amongst them, certain who
had been in attendance on the Scotch Queen. Yet, ask all I would, never
once could I hear of Ludar by name, or of any man resembling him.
A month later we 'prentices had another holiday, this time to witness
the end of that terrible business on Tyburn Hill. 'Twas a horrible
sight--I would I could forget it--to see those traitors die, foul as
their crime had been. Yet what sickened me the most was to think that
Ludar perchance might presently follow to the same fate, if indeed he
had not already shared it.
But no news came. The weeks slipped by. Men ceased to talk of
Babington, and spoke rather of the coming trial of the Scotch Queen for
her life. And presently a time came when they even ceased to speak of
that. And all the while, never a whisper came to me of Ludar.
Now you are not to think that all this time I had forgot the message
contained in the poet's letter concerning Captain Merriman and the
maiden. Far from it. I haunted Whitehall after work hours in the hope
of seeing or hearing something of them. But all in vain. It would have
been easier to hear of Ludar, I think, than to get any news of an Irish
maiden and her step-dame at Court, or of a swaggering captain.
"What is that to thee?" said most whom I asked; and others pricked me
out of their company with their swords.
But late in the year, chance put in my way what all my pains had failed
to procure.
I remember, it was that same day that the news came to town that Mary
Queen of Scots was condemned to die. London went mad with joy at the
news. For our pity of the woman was swallowed up in joy that the evil
destiny of our country was mastered, and that our gracious Queen was to
be freed at one stroke from all her enemies. Be that as it may, we
burned bonfires that night in Moorfields, and I had my mistress' leave
to take Jeannette with me to see the sport. For by this time the sweet
maid's lameness was nearly cured, and, like a prisoner newly uncaged,
she loved to spread her wings a bit and go abroad.
Had the arm she leaned on been that of Peter Stoupe instead of mine, I
wondered if she would have mended as fast as she did? I was a vain
coxcomb those days, and thought, no. Yet, for anything she said to me
or I to her, we were still 'prentice and young mistress. Only, the duty
I owed her was my great joy; and the service she had a right to claim of
me, she sometimes prettily asked as a gift.
'Twas a wild, weird scene--those hundreds of citizens lit up by the
fierce glare of the bonfires, whose roar mingled with the shoutings, and
whose heat was less than the loyal fires which blazed in our bosoms. I
could feel Jeannette's hand tighten on my arm as the rabble surged
closer round; and presently, seeing her tired and frightened, I made a
way for her through the crowd.
As we reached the skirts there reeled against us a drunken man who, had
I not caught him in my arm, would have fallen against my young mistress
and done her some hurt. He was not so drunk but that, when I set him on
his feet and gave him a kick or two, he was able to stand upright and
talk. And at the first word he uttered, I recognised the voice of my
old acquaintance, Tom Price, the Captain's man; whom I had seen last
with his master the day Alexander McDonnell fell outside Dunluce.
So dark was it away from the fire, that but for his voice I might not
have known him. Certainly he, as he then was, could hardly know me.
"Patience," whispered I to Jeannette, "here is a man can give us some
news. He shall not hurt you; only I must speak with him. Hold close to
me."
And to guard her better, I put an arm around her, while I parleyed with
the sergeant.
"Come, comrade," said I, concealing my voice as best I could, "'tis time
you were in quarters. The Captain will be calling for thee."
"Captain me no captains. Stand thee still, steady--when came he--ugh?"
"He'll be here to look for thee I warrant, an thou go not home."
"Got back? what for? when came-- Harkee, comrade--keep it snug--he'll
not find her--he, he! he'll not find her."
"Not he," said I, making a guess. "We know where she is, though. Eh,
Tom?"
"He, he! do we! So doth that other varlet. But, keep it mum, comrade--
the wall is none too high, but my Captain may climb it."
"Ay," said I, "but he must needs find it first. Eh? That will trouble
him, eh? honest Tom."
"Honest! thou art right, comrade. Ere he learn where she be I'll--
I'll--harkee, friend I like not that other varlet. What needs she with
two of us? Am not I man enough? eh? thou and I, without him? By my
soul, comrade, I will slay him."
"So, he is there, too, where she is?"
"Ho, he! Jack Gedge in a convent? ho, he! Ne'er such luck for him, or
thee, or me; eh? ho, ho! Jack in a convent? No, but, comrade," here he
took my arm and whispered, "he ne'er quitteth the city, and no man can
get at her but he knows it. 'Tis a very bulldog. Hang him, comrade,
hang him, I say."
"Ay, I am with you there," said I. "What right hath he to stand betwixt
her and honest folk like you and me?"
"Harkee, friend. This varlet, they say, was appointed to the service by
one--hang the name of him--an Irish knave that made eyes at her. You
know him--"
"Ay, ay," said I. "Lubin, or Ludar, or some such name."
"Thou hast it. Ludar. Well, as I told thee, this varlet is appointed
to the charge by this Lu-- Say it again, comrade."
"Ludar," said I.
"Ay, Ludar. Well, this varlet, as I--"
"And where is the villain now?"
"Why, as I told thee, dullard, he lurks in Canterbury city hard by the
convent--and though 'twas I helped her there--I or thou, I forget if
thou didst assist--I say, though 'twas I--or I or thou--or I and thou--
helped her there, this dog now keepeth guard like a very bulldog."
"Well," said I, trembling to have so much news, "may be he doeth no
harm. The lady oweth more to thee than him."
"Ay--'twas a deft trick, spiriting her thither--and the Captain little
knows 'twas honest Tom Price baulked him. Not but--harkee,"--here he
whispered again--"not but the lady did not make it worth the while, eh?
I have a noble of it left still, comrade. As I told thee, the Captain
knoweth naught. He! he! he hath followed her hither and thither. But,
mercy on us, he'd as soon look in the Fleet Ditch as in Canterbury.
Harkee, comrade, that other varlet is a knave. Hang him, I say. 'Twas
thou and I helped her there--he knew naught till--how a plague found he
us out? Honest friend, I pray thee slay me this dog."
"Where in Canterbury shall I find him?" said I.
"Thou knowest a certain tavern, or inn, or hostel by the sign of the
Oriflame, neighbour. Well, 'tis but a stone's-throw from the convent;
and I warrant the sot will be not far away. Fetch me his head, comrade;
and I vow thou shalt share my noble. Get thee gone."
That moment Jeannette gripped my arm and pointed to a figure which
slouched away from us towards the fire. I got but one glimpse of him.
He may have been anyone; for the crowd was spreading fast. Yet
Jeannette and I both fancied the form was like that of Peter Stoupe,
whom we had already seen once in the crowd that evening.
"Poor Peter," said I, "no doubt he envies me my charge of you,
Jeannette."
She disengaged herself from my arm, and put her hand on my sleeve.
"Let us begone," said she, uneasily. "I am sorry I came here."
So I left Tom Price sitting on the grass, singing to himself; and full
of my great news, yet troubled at Jeannette's speech I walked with her
silently homewards.
As we neared Temple Bar, I could not refrain from questioning her.
"You are silent, Jeannette?" said I.
"The better company for you," said she.
"Are you tired?"
"Yes."
"And vexed?"
"Yes."
"Because Peter--if it was Peter--saw me with my arm around thee?"
"He would not know that it was only because I feared the drunken man,"
said she.
"He would suspect me, instead, of being thy sweetheart?" asked I.
"Ay," said she, "Peter hath a long tongue."
"What if he suspect me aright, Jeannette?"
I felt the hand on my arm give a little start, as she dropped her eyes,
and quickened her flagging steps.
She said nothing. But you might have heard the beating of my heart, as
I looked down at her, and laid my hand on hers.
"If Peter guessed aright," repeated I, "what then, Jeannette?"
This time her hand lay very quiet, and her footsteps grew slower, till
at last they stood still.
Then she lifted her head and looked me in the face.
"Then, Humphrey, I should not mind what anybody said."
So all was peace betwixt us two; and we were sorry when our walk was
ended.