I
It was a fortnight later that there came suddenly to Babington House old
Mr. Biddell himself. Up to the present he had been careful not to do so.
He appeared in the great hall an hour before dinner-time, as the tables
were being set, and sent a servant for Mistress Manners.
"Hark you!" he said; "you need not rouse the whole house. It is with
Mistress Manners alone that my business lies."
He broke off, as Mrs. FitzHerbert looked over the gallery.
"Mr. Biddell!" she cried.
He shook his head, but he seemed to speak with some difficulty.
"It is just a rumour," he said, "such as there hath been before. I beg
you--"
"That ... there will be no trial at all?"
"It is just a rumour," he repeated. "I did not even come to trouble you
with it. It is with Mistress Manners that--"
"I am coming down," cried Mrs. Thomas, and vanished from the gallery.
Mr. Biddell acted with decision. He whisked out again into the passage
from the court, and there ran straight into Marjorie, who was coming in
from the little enclosed garden at the back of the house.
"Quick!" he said. "Quick! Mrs. Thomas is coming, and I do not wish--"
She led the way without a word back into the court, along a few steps,
and up again to the house into a little back parlour that the steward
used when the house was full. It was unoccupied now, and looked out into
the garden whence she was just come. She locked the door when he had
entered, and came and sat down out of sight of any that might be
passing.
"Sit here," she said; and then: "Well?" she asked.
He looked at her gravely and sadly, shaking his head once or twice. Then
he drew out a paper or two from a little lawyer's valise that he
carried, and, as he did so, heard a hand try the door outside.
"That is Mrs. Thomas," whispered the girl. "She will not find us."
He waited till the steps moved away again. Then he began. He looked
anxious and dejected.
"I fear it is precisely as you thought," he said. "I have followed up
every rumour in the place. And the first thing that is certain is that
Topcliffe leaves Derby in two days from now. I had it as positive
information that his men have orders to prepare for it. The second thing
is that Topcliffe is greatly elated; and the third is that Mr.
FitzHerbert will be released as soon as Topcliffe is gone."
"You are sure this time, sir?"
He assented by a movement of his head.
"I dared not tell Mrs. Thomas just now. She would give me no peace. I
said it was but a rumour, and so it is; but it is a rumour that hath
truth behind it. He hath been moved, too, these three days back, to
another cell, and hath every comfort."
He shook his head again.
"But he hath made no promise--" began Marjorie breathlessly.
"It is exactly that which I am most afraid of," said the lawyer. "If he
had yielded, and, consented to go to church, it would have been in
every man's mouth by now. But he hath not, and I should fear it less if
he had. That's the very worst part of my news."
"I do not understand--"
Mr. Biddell tapped his papers on the table.
"If he were an open and confessed enemy, I should fear it less," he
repeated. "It is not that. But he must have given some promise to
Topcliffe that pleases the fellow more. And what can that be but that--"
Marjorie turned yet whiter. She sighed once as if to steady herself. She
could not speak, but she nodded.
"Yes, Mistress Manners," said the old man. "I make no doubt at all that
he hath promised to assist him against them all--against Mr. John his
father, it may be, or Mr. Bassett, or God knows whom! And yet still
feigning to be true! And that is not all."
She looked at him. She could not conceive worse than this, if indeed it
were true.
"And do you think," he continued, "that Mr. Topcliffe will do all this
for love, or rather, for mere malice? I have heard more of the fellow
since he hath been in Derby than in all my life before; and, I tell you,
he is for feathering his own nest if he can." He stopped.
"Mistress, did you know that he had been out to Padley three or four
times since he came to Derby?... Well, I tell you now that he has. Mr.
John was away, praise God; but the fellow went all round the place and
greatly admired it."
"He went out to see what he could find?" asked the girl, still
whispering.
The other shook his head.
"No, mistress; he searched nothing. I had it all from one of his
fellows, through one of mine. He searched nothing; he sat a great while
in the garden, and ate some of the fruit; he went through the hall and
the rooms, and admired all that was to be seen there. He went up into
the chapel-room, too, though there was nothing there to tell him what it
was; and he talked a great while to one of the men about the farms, and
the grazing, and such-like, but he meddled with nothing." (The old man's
face suddenly wrinkled into fury.) "The devil went through it all like
that, and admired it; and he came out to it again two or three times and
did the like."
He stopped to examine the notes he had made, and Marjorie sat still,
staring on him.
It was worse than anything she could have conceived possible. That a
FitzHerbert should apostatise was incredible enough; but that one should
sell his family--It was impossible.
"Mr. Biddell," she whispered piteously, "it cannot be. It is some--"
He shook his head suddenly and fiercely.
"Mistress Manners, it is as plain as daylight to me. Do you think I
could believe it without proof? I tell you I have lain awake all last
night, fitting matters one into the other. I did not hear about Padley
till last night, and it gave me all that I needed. I tell you Topcliffe
hath cast his foul eyes on Padley and coveted it; and he hath demanded
it as a price for Mr. Thomas' liberty. I do not know what else he hath
promised, but I will stake my fortune that Padley is part of it. That is
why he is so elated. He hath been here nearly this three months back; he
hath visited Mr. FitzHerbert nigh every day; he hath cajoled him, he
hath threatened him; he hath worn out his spirit by the gaol and the
stinking food and the loneliness; and he hath prevailed, as he hath
prevailed with many another. And the end of it all is that Mr.
FitzHerbert hath yielded--yet not openly. Maybe that is part of the
bargain upon the other side, that he should keep his name before the
world. And on this side he hath promised Padley, if that he may but keep
the rest of the estates, and have his liberty. I tell you that alone
cuts all the knots of this tangle.... Can you cut them in any other
manner?"
* * * * *
There was a long silence. From the direction of the kitchen came the
sound of cheerful voices, and the clatter of lids, and from the walled
garden outside the chatter of birds....
At last the girl spoke.
"I cannot believe it without evidence," she said. "It may be so. God
knows! But I do not.... Mr. Biddell?"
"Well, mistress?"
The lawyer's head was sunk on his breast; he spoke listlessly.
"He will have given some writing to Mr. Topcliffe, will he not? if this
be true. Mr. Topcliffe is not the man--"
The old man lifted his head sharply; then he nodded.
"That is the shrewd truth, mistress. Mr. Topcliffe will not trust to
another's honour; he hath none of his own!"
"Well," said Marjorie, "if all this be true, Mr. Topcliffe will already
have that writing in his possession."
She paused.
"Eh?" said the lawyer.
They looked at one another again in silence. It would have seemed to
another that the two minds talked swiftly and wordlessly together, the
trained thought of the lawyer and the quick wit of the woman; for when
the man spoke again, it was as if they had spoken at length.
"But we must not destroy the paper," he said, "or the fat will be in
the fire. We must not let Mr. FitzHerbert know that he is found out."
"No," said the girl. "But to get a view of it.... And a copy of it, to
send to his family."
Again the two looked each at the other in silence--as if they were
equals--the old man and the girl.
II
It was the last night before the Londoners were to return.
They had lived royally these last three months. The agent of the Council
had had a couple of the best rooms in the inn that looked on to the
market-square, where he entertained his friends, and now and then a
magistrate or two. Even Mr. Audrey, of Matstead, had come to him once
there, with another, but had refused to stay to supper, and had ridden
away again alone.
Downstairs, too, his men had fared very well indeed. They knew how to
make themselves respected, for they carried arms always now, since the
unfortunate affair a day after the arrival, when two of them had been
gravely battered about by two rustic servants, who, they learned, were
members of a Popish household in the town. But all the provincial
fellows were not like this. There was a big man, half clerk and half
man-servant to a poor little lawyer, who lived across the square--a man
of no wit indeed, but, at any rate, one of means and of generosity, too,
as they had lately found out--means and generosity, they understood,
that were made possible by the unknowing assistance of his master. In a
word it was believed among Mr. Topcliffe's men that all the refreshment
which they had lately enjoyed, beyond that provided by their master, was
at old Mr. Biddell's expense, though he did not know it, and that
George Beaton, fool though he was, was a cleverer man than his employer.
Lately, too, they had come to learn, that although George Beaton was
half clerk, half man-servant, to a Papist, he was yet at heart as stout
a Protestant as themselves, though he dared not declare it for fear of
losing his place.
On this last night they made very merry indeed, and once or twice the
landlord pushed his head through the doorway. The baggage was packed,
and all was in readiness for a start soon after dawn.
There came a time when George Beaton said that he was stifling with the
heat; and, indeed, in this low-ceilinged room after supper, with the
little windows looking on to the court, the heat was surprising. The men
sat in their shirts and trunks. So that it was as natural as possible
that George should rise from his place and sit down again close to the
door where the cool air from the passage came in; and from there, once
more, he led the talk, in his character of rustic and open-handed boor;
he even beat the sullen man who was next him genially over the head to
make him give more room, and then he proposed a toast to Mr. Topcliffe.
It was about half an hour later, when George was becoming a little
anxious, that he drew out at last a statement that Mr. Topcliffe had a
great valise upstairs, full of papers that had to do with his law
business. (He had tried for this piece of information last night and the
night before, but had failed to obtain it.) Ten minutes later again,
then, when the talk had moved to affairs of the journey, and the valise
had been forgotten, it was an entirely unsuspicious circumstance that
George and the man that sat next him should slip out to take the air in
the stable-court. The Londoner was so fuddled with drink as to think
that he had gone out at his own deliberate wish; and there, in the
fresh air, the inevitable result followed; his head swam, and he leaned
on big George for support. And here, by the one stroke of luck that
visited poor George this evening, it fell that he was just in time to
see Mr. Topcliffe himself pass the archway in the direction of Friar's
Gate, in company with a magistrate, who had supped with him upstairs.
Up to this point George had moved blindly, step by step. He had had his
instructions from his master, yet all that he had been able to determine
was the general plan to find out where the papers were kept, to remain
in the inn till the last possible moment, and to watch for any chance
that might open to him. Truly, he had no more than that, except, indeed,
a vague idea that it might be necessary to bribe one of the men to rob
his master. Yet there was everything against this, and it was, indeed, a
last resort. It seemed now, however, that another way was open. It was
exceedingly probable that Mr. Topcliffe was off for his last visit to
the prisoner, and, since a magistrate was with him, it was exceedingly
improbable that he would take the paper with him. It was not the kind of
paper--if, indeed, it existed at all--that more persons would be allowed
to see than were parties to the very discreditable affair.
And now George spoke earnestly and convincingly. He desired to see the
baggage of so great a man as Mr. Topcliffe; he had heard so much of him.
His friend was a good fellow who trusted him (here George embraced him
warmly). Surely such a little thing would be allowed as for him, George,
to step in and view Mr. Topcliffe's baggage, while the faithful servant
kept watch in the passage! Perhaps another glass of ale--
III
"Yes, sir," said George an hour later, still a little flushed with the
amount of drink he had been forced to consume. "I had some trouble to
get it. But I think this is what your honour wanted."
He began to search in his deep breast-pocket.
"Tell me," said Mr. Biddell.
"I got the fellow to watch in the passage, sir; him that I had made
drunk, while I was inside. There were great bundles of papers in the
valise.... No, sir, it was strapped up only.... The most of the papers
were docketed very legally, sir; so I did not have to search long. There
were three or four papers in a little packet by themselves; besides a
great packet that was endorsed with Mr. FitzHerbert's name, as well as
Mr. Topcliffe's and my lord Shrewsbury's; and I think I should not have
had time to look that through. But, by God's mercy, it was one of the
three or four by themselves."
He had the paper in his hand by now. The lawyer made a movement to take
it. Then he restrained himself.
"Tell me, first," he said.
"Well, sir," said George, with a pardonable satisfaction in spinning the
matter out, "one was all covered with notes, and was headed 'Padley.' I
read that through, sir. It had to do with the buildings and the acres,
and so forth. The second paper I could make nothing out of; it was in
cypher, I think. The third paper was the same; and the fourth, sir, was
that which I have here."
The lawyer started.
"But I told you--"
"Yes, sir; I should have said that this is the copy--or, at least, an
abstract. I made the abstract by the window, sir, crouching down so that
none should see me. Then I put all back as before, and came out again;
the fellow was fast asleep against the door."
"And Topcliffe--"
"Mr. Topcliffe, sir, returned half an hour afterwards in company again
with Mr. Hamilton. I waited a few minutes to see that all was well, and
then I came to you, sir."
There was silence in the little room for a moment. It was the small back
office of Mr. Biddell, where he did his more intimate business, looking
out on to a paved court. The town was for the most part asleep, and
hardly a sound came through the closed windows.
Then the lawyer turned and put out his hand for the paper without a
word. He nodded to George, who went out, bidding him good-night.
* * * * *
Ten minutes later Mr. Biddell walked quietly through the passengers'
gate by the side of the great doors that led to the court beside
Babington House, closing it behind him. He knew that it would be left
unbarred till eleven o'clock that night. He passed on through the court,
past the house door, to the steward's office, where through heavy
curtains a light glimmered. As he put his hand on the door it opened,
and Marjorie was there. He said nothing, nor did she. Her face was pale
and steady, and there was a question in her eyes. For answer he put the
paper into her hands, and sat down while she read it. The stillness was
as deep here as in the office he had just left.
IV
It was a minute or two before either spoke. The girl read the paper
twice through, holding it close to the little hand-lamp that stood on
the table.
"You see, mistress," he said, "it is as bad as it can be."
She handed back the paper to him; he slid out his spectacles, put them
on, and held the writing to the light.
"Here are the points, you see ..." he went on. "I have annotated them in
the margin. First, that Thomas FitzHerbert be released from Derby gaol
within three days from the leaving of Topcliffe for London, and that he
be no more troubled, neither in fines nor imprisonment; next, that he
have secured to him, so far as the laws shall permit, all his
inheritance from Sir Thomas, from his father, and from any other
bequests whether of his blood-relations or no; thirdly, that Topcliffe
do 'persecute to the death'"--(the lawyer paused, cast a glance at the
downcast face of the girl) "'--do persecute to the death' his uncle Sir
Thomas, his father John, and William Bassett his kinsman; and, in return
for all this, Thomas FitzHerbert shall become her Grace's sworn
servant--that is, Mistress Manners, her Grace's spy, pursuivant,
informer and what-not--and that he shall grant and secure to Richard
Topcliffe, Esquire, and to his heirs for ever, 'the manors of Over
Padley and Nether Padley, on the Derwent, with six messuages, two
cottages, ten gardens, ten orchards, a thousand acres of land, five
hundred acres of meadow-land, six hundred acres of pasture, three
hundred acres of wood, a thousand acres of furze and heath, in Padley,
Grindleford and Lyham, in the parish of Hathersage, in consideration of
eight hundred marks of silver, to be paid to Thomas FitzHerbert,
Esquire, etc.'"
The lawyer put the paper down, and pushed his spectacles on to his
forehead.
"That is a legal instrument?" asked the girl quietly, still with
downcast eyes.
"It is not yet fully completed, but it is signed and witnessed. It can
become a legal instrument by Topcliffe's act; and it would pass
muster--"
"It is signed by Mr. Thomas?"
He nodded.
She was silent again. He began to tell her of how he had obtained it,
and of George's subtlety and good fortune; but she seemed to pay no
attention. She sat perfectly still. When he had ended, she spoke again.
"A sworn servant of her Grace--" she began.
"Topcliffe is a sworn servant of her Grace," he said bitterly; "you may
judge by that what Thomas FitzHerbert hath become."
"We shall have his hand, too, against us all, then?"
"Yes, mistress; and, what is worse, this paper I take it--" (he tapped
it) "this paper is to be a secret for the present. Mr. Thomas will still
feign himself to be a Catholic, with Catholics, until he comes into all
his inheritances. And, meantime, he will supply information to his new
masters."
"Why cannot we expose him?"
"Where is the proof? He will deny it."
She paused.
"We can at least tell his family. You will draw up the informations?"
"I will do so."
"And send them to Sir Thomas and Mr. Bassett?"
"I will do so."
"That may perhaps prevent his inheritance coming to him as quickly as he
thinks."
The lawyer's eyes gleamed.
"And what of Mrs. Thomas, mistress?"
Marjorie lifted her eyes.
"I do not think a great deal of Mrs. Thomas," she said. "She is honest,
I think; but she could not be trusted with a secret. But I will tell
Mistress Babington, and I will warn what priests I can."
"And if it leaks out?"
"It must leak out."
"And yourself? Can you meet Mr. Thomas again just now? He will be out in
three days."
Marjorie drew a long breath.
"No, sir; I cannot meet him. I should betray what I felt. I shall make
excuses to Mrs. Thomas, and go home to-morrow."
PART III
CHAPTER I
I
The "Red Bull" in Cheapside was all alight; a party had arrived there
from the coast not an hour ago, and the rooms that had been bespoken by
courier occupied the greater part of the second floor; the rest of the
house was already filled by another large company, spoken for by Mr.
Babington, although he himself was not one of them. And it seemed to the
shrewd landlord that these two parties were not wholly unknown to one
another, although, as a discreet man, he said nothing.
The latest arrived party was plainly come from the coast. They had
arrived a little after sunset on this stormy August day, splashed to the
shoulders by the summer-mud, and drenched to the skin by the heavy
thunder-showers. Their baggage had a battered and sea-going air about
it, and the landlord thought he would not be far away if he conjectured
Rheims as their starting-point; there were three gentlemen in the party,
and four servants apparently; but he knew better than to ask questions
or to overhear what seemed rather over-familiar conversation between the
men and their masters. There was only one, however, whom he remembered
to have lodged before, over five years ago. The name of this one was Mr.
Alban. But all this was not his business. His duty was to be hearty and
deferential and entirely stupid; and certainly this course of behaviour
brought him a quantity of guests.
* * * * *
Mr. Alban, about half-past nine o'clock, had finished unstrapping his
luggage. It was of the most innocent description, and contained nothing
that all the world might not see. He had made arrangements that articles
of another kind should come over from Rheims under the care of one of
the "servants," whose baggage would be less suspected. The distribution
would take place in a day or two. These articles comprised five sets of
altar vessels, five sets of mass-vestments, made of a stuff woven of all
the liturgical colours together, a dozen books, a box of medals, another
of _Agnus Deis_--little wax medallions stamped with the figure of a Lamb
supporting a banner--a bunch of beads, and a heavy little square package
of very thin altar-stones.
As he laid out the suit of clothes that he proposed to wear next day,
there was a rapping on his door.
"Mr. Babington is come--sir." (The last word was added as an obvious
afterthought, in case of listeners.)
Robin sprang up; the door was opened by his "servant," and Anthony came
in, smiling.
* * * * *
Mr. Anthony Babington had broadened and aged considerably during the
last five years. He was still youthful-looking, but he was plainly a man
and no longer a boy. And he presently said as much for his friend.
"You are a man, Robin," he said.--"Why, it slipped my mind!"
He knelt down promptly on the strip of carpet and kissed the palms of
the hands held out to him, as is the custom to do with newly-ordained
priests, and Robin murmured a blessing.
Then the two sat down again.
"And now for the news," said Robin.
Anthony's face grew grave.
"Yours first," he said.
So Robin told him. He had been ordained priest a month ago, at
Châlons-sur-Marne.... The college was as full as it could hold.... They
had had an unadventurous journey.
Anthony put a question or two, and was answered.
"And now," said Robin, "what of Derbyshire; and of the country; and of
my father? And is it true that Ballard is taken?"
Anthony threw an arm over the back of his chair, and tried to seem at
his ease.
"Well," he said, "Derbyshire is as it ever was. You heard of Thomas
FitzHerbert's defection?"
"Mistress Manners wrote to me of it, more than two years ago."
"Well, he does what he can: he comes and goes with his wife or without
her. But he comes no more to Padley. And he scarcely makes a feint even
before strangers of being a Catholic, though he has not declared
himself, nor gone to church, at any rate in his own county. Here in
London I have seen him more than once in Topcliffe's company. But I
think that every Catholic in the country knows of it by now. That is
Mistress Manners' doing. My sister says there has never been a woman
like her."
Robin's eyes twinkled.
"I always said so," he said. "But none would believe me. She has the wit
and courage of twenty men. What has she been doing?"
"What has she not done?" cried Anthony. "She keeps herself for the most
part in her house; and my sister spends a great deal of time with her;
but her men, who would die for her, I think, go everywhere; and half the
hog-herds and shepherds of the Peak are her sworn men. I have given your
Dick to her; he was mad to do what he could in that cause. So her men go
this way and that bearing her letters or her messages to priests who are
on their way through the county; and she gets news--God knows how!--of
what is a-stirring against us. She has saved Mr. Ludlam twice, and Mr.
Garlick once, as well as Mr. Simpson once, by getting the news to them
of the pursuivants' coming, and having them away into the Peak. And yet
with all this, she has never been laid by the heels."
"Have they been after her, then?" asked Robin eagerly.
"They have had a spy in her house twice to my knowledge, but never
openly; and never a shred of a priest's gown to be seen, though mass had
been said there that day. But they have never searched it by force. And
I think they do not truly suspect her at all."
"Did I not say so?" cried Robin. "And what of my father? He wrote to me
that he was to be made magistrate; and I have never written to him
since."
"He hath been made magistrate," said Anthony drily; "and he sits on the
bench with the rest of them."
"Then he is all of the same mind?"
"I know nothing of his mind. I have never spoken with him this six years
back. I know his acts only. His name was in the 'Bond of Association,'
too!"
"I have heard of that."
"Why, it is two years old now. Half the gentry of England have joined
it," said Anthony bitterly. "It is to persecute to the death any
pretender to the Crown other than our Eliza."
There was a pause. Robin understood the bitterness.
"And what of Mr. Ballard?" asked Robin.
"Yes; he is taken," said Anthony slowly, watching him. "He was taken a
week ago."
"Will they banish him, then?"
"I think they will banish him."
"Why, yes--it is the first time he hath been taken. And there is
nothing great against him?"
"I think there is not," said Anthony, still with that strange
deliberateness.
"Why do you look at me like that?"
Anthony stood up without answering. Then he began to pace about. As he
passed the door he looked to the bolt carefully. Then he turned again to
his friend.
"Robin," he said, "would you sooner know a truth that will make you
unhappy, or be ignorant of it?"
"Does it concern myself or my business?" asked Robin promptly.
"It concerns you and every priest and every Catholic in England. It is
what I have hinted to you before."
"Then I will hear it."
"It is as if I told it in confession?"
Robin paused.
"You may make it so," he said, "if you choose."
Anthony looked at him an instant. "Well," he said, "I will not make a
confession, because there is no use in that now--but--Well, listen!" he
said, and sat down.
II
When he ceased, Robin lifted his head. He was as white as a sheet.
"You have been refused absolution before for this?"
"I was refused absolution by two priests; but I was granted it by a
third."
"Let me see that I have the tale right.
"Yourself, with a number of others, have bound yourselves by an oath to
kill her Grace, and to set Mary on the throne. This has taken shape now
since the beginning of the summer. You yourself are now living in Mr.
Walsingham's house, in Seething Lane, under the patronage of her Grace,
and you show yourself freely at court. You have proceeded so far, under
fear of Mr. Ballard's arrest, as to provide one of your company with
clothes and necessaries that can enable him to go to court; and it was
your intention, as well as his, that he should take opportunity to kill
her Grace. But to-day only you have become persuaded that the old design
was the better; and you wish first to arrange matters with the Queen of
the Scots, so that when all is ready, you may be the more sure of a
rising when that her Grace is killed, and that the Duke of Parma may be
in readiness to bring an army into England. It is still your intention
to kill her Grace?"
"By God! it is!" said Anthony, between clenched teeth.
"Then I could not absolve you, even if you came to confession. You may
be absolved from your allegiance, as we all are; but you are not
absolved from charity and justice towards Elizabeth as a woman. I have
consulted theologians on the very point; and--"
Then Anthony sprang up.
"See here, Robin; we must talk this out." He flicked his fingers
sharply. "See--we will talk of it as two friends."
"You had better take back those words," said the priest gravely.
"Why?"
"It would be my duty to lay an information! I understood you spoke to me
as to a priest, though not in confession."
"You would!" blazed the other.
"I should do so in conscience," said the priest. "But you have not yet
told me as a friend, and--"
"You mean--"
"I mean that so long as you choose to speak to me of it, now and here,
it remains that I choose to regard it as _sub sigillo_ in effect. But
you must not come to me to-morrow, as if I knew it all in a plain way. I
do not. I know it as a priest only."
There was silence for a moment. Then Anthony stood up.
"I understand," he said. "But you would refuse me absolution in any
case?"
"I could not give you absolution so long as you intended to kill her
Grace."
Anthony made an impatient gesture.
"See here," he said. "Let me tell you the whole matter from the
beginning. Now listen."
He settled himself again in his chair, and began.
* * * * *
"Robin," he said, "you remember when I spoke to you in the inn on the
way to Matstead; it must be seven or eight years gone now? Well, that
was when the beginning was. There was no design then, such as we have
to-day; but the general purpose was there. I had spoken with man after
man; I had been to France, and seen Mr. Morgan there, Queen Mary's man,
and my lord of Glasgow; and all that I spoke with seemed of one
mind--except my lord of Glasgow, who did not say much to me on the
matter. But all at least were agreed that there would be no peace in
England so long as Elizabeth sat on the throne.
"Well: it was after that that I fell in with Ballard, who was over here
on some other affair; and I found him a man of the same mind as myself;
he was all agog for Mary, and seemed afraid of nothing. Well; nothing
was done for a great while. He wrote to me from France; I wrote back to
him again, telling him the names of some of my friends. I went to see
him in France two or three times; and I saw him here, when you yourself
came over with him. But we did not know whom to trust. Neither had we
any special design. Her Grace of the Scots went hither and thither
under strong guards; and what I had done for her before--"
Robin looked up. He was still quite pale and quite quiet.
"What was that?" he said.
Anthony again made his impatient gesture. He was fiercely excited; but
kept himself under tolerable control.
"Why, I have been her agent for a great while back, getting her letters
through to her, and such like. But last year, when that damned Sir Amyas
Paulet became her gaoler, I could do nothing. Two or three times my
messenger was stopped, and the letters taken from him. Well; after that
time I could do no more. There her Grace was, back again at Tutbury, and
none could get near her. She might no more give alms, even, to the poor;
and all her letters must go through Walsingham's hands. And then God
helped us: she was taken last autumn to Chartley, near by which is the
house of the Giffords; and since that time we have been almost merry. Do
you know Gilbert Gifford?"
"He hath been with the Jesuits, hath he not?"
"That is the man. Well, Mr. Gilbert Gifford hath been God's angel to us.
A quiet, still kind of a man--you have seen him?"
"I have spoken with him at Rheims," said Robin. "I know nothing of him."
"Well; he contrived the plan. He hath devised a beer-barrel that hath
the beer all roundabout, so that when they push their rods in, there
seems all beer within. But in the heart of the beer there is secured a
little iron case; and within the iron case there is space for papers.
Well, this barrel goes to and fro to Chartley and to a brewer that is a
good Catholic; and within the case there are the letters. And in this
way, all has been prepared--"
Robin looked up again. He remained quiet through all the story; and
lifted no more than his eyes. His fingers played continually with a
button on his doublet.
"You mean that Queen Mary hath consented to this?"
"Why, yes!"
"To her sister's death?"
"Why, yes!"
"I do not believe it," said the priest quietly. "On whose word does that
stand?"
"Why, on her own! Whose else's?" snapped Anthony.
"You mean, you have it in her own hand, signed by her name?"
"It is in Gifford's hand! Is not that enough? And there is her seal to
it. It is in cypher, of course. What would you have?"
"Where is she now?" asked Robin, paying no attention to the question.
"She hath just now been moved again to Tixall."
"For what?"
"I do not know. What has that to do with the matter? She will be back
soon again. I tell you all is arranged."
"Tell me the rest of the story," said the priest.
"There is not much more. So it stands at present. I tell you her Grace
hath been tossed to and fro like a ball at play. She was at Chatsworth,
as you know; she has been shut up in Chartley like a criminal; she was
at Babington House even. God! if I had but known it in time!"
"In Babington House! Why, when was that?"
"Last year, early--with Sir Ralph Sadler, who was her gaoler then!"
cried Anthony bitterly; "but for a night only.... I have sold the
house."
"Sold it!"
"I do not keep prisons," snapped Anthony. "I will have none of it!"
"Well?"
"Well," resumed the other man quietly. "I must say that when Ballard was
taken--"
"When was that?"
"Last week only. Well, when he was taken I thought perhaps all was
known. But I find Mr. Walsingham's conversation very comforting, though
little he knows it, poor man! He knows that I am a Catholic; and he was
lamenting to me only three days ago of the zeal of these informers. He
said he could not save Ballard, so hot was the pursuit after him; that
he would lose favour with her Grace if he did."
"What comfort is there in that?"
"Why; it shows plain enough that nothing is known of the true facts. If
they were after him for this design of ours do you think that Walsingham
would speak like that? He would clap us all in ward--long ago."
The young priest was silent. His head still whirled with the tale, and
his heart was sick at the misery of it all. This was scarcely the
home-coming he had looked for! He turned abruptly to the other.
"Anthony, lad," he said, "I beseech you to give it up."
Anthony smiled at him frankly. His excitement was sunk down again.
"You were always a little soft," he said. "I remember you would have
nought to do with us before. Why, we are at war, I tell you; and it is
not we who declared it! They have made war on us now for the last twenty
years and more. What of all the Catholics--priests and others--who have
died on the gibbet, or rotted in prison? If her Grace makes war upon us,
why should we not make war upon her Grace? Tell me that, then!"
"Anthony, I beseech you to give it up. I hate the whole matter, and fear
it, too."
"Fear it? Why, I tell you, we hold them _so_." (He stretched out his
lean, young hand, and clenched the long fingers slowly together.) "We
have them by the throat. You will be glad enough to profit by it, when
Mary reigns. What is there to fear?"
"I do not know; I am uneasy. But that is not to the purpose. I tell you
it is forbidden by God's--"
"Uneasy! Fear it! Why, tell me what there is to fear? What hole can you
find anywhere?"
"I do not know. I hardly know the tale yet. But it seems to me there
might be a hundred."
"Tell me one of them, then."
Anthony threw himself back with an indulgent smile on his face.
"Why, if you will have it," said Robin, roused by the contempt, "there
is one great hole in this. All hangs upon Gifford's word, as it seems to
me. You have not spoken with Mary; you have not even her own hand on
it."
"Bah! Why, her Grace of the Scots cannot write in cypher, do you think?"
"I do not know how that may be. It may be so. But I say that all hangs
upon Gifford."
"And you think Gifford can be a liar and a knave!" sneered Anthony.
"I have not one word against him," said the priest. "But neither had I
against Thomas FitzHerbert; and you know what has befallen--"
Anthony snorted with disdain.
"Put your finger through another hole," he said.
"Well--I like not the comfort that Mr. Secretary Walsingham has given
you. You told me a while ago that Ballard was on the eve of going to
France. Now Walsingham is no fool. I would to God he were! He has laid
enough of our men by the heels already."
"By God!" cried Anthony, roused again. "I would not willingly call you
a fool either, my man! But do you not understand that Walsingham
believes me as loyal as himself? Here have I been at court for the last
year, bowing before her Grace, and never a word said to me on my
religion. And here is Walsingham has bidden me to lodge in his house, in
the midst of all his spider's webs. Do you think he would do that if--"
"I think he might have done so," said Robin slowly.
Anthony sprang to his feet.
"My Robin," he said, "you were right enough when you said you would not
join with us. You were not made for this work. You would see an enemy in
your own father--"
He stopped confounded.
Robin smiled drearily.
"I have seen one in him," he said.
Anthony clapped him on the shoulder, not unkindly.
"Forgive me, my Robin. I did not think what I said. Well; we will leave
it at that. And you would not give me absolution?"
The priest shook his head.
"Then give me your blessing," said Anthony, dropping on his knees. "And
so we will close up the _quasi-sigillum confessionis_."
III
It was a heavy-hearted priest that presently, downstairs, stood with
Anthony in one of the guest-rooms, and was made known to half a dozen
strangers. Every word that he had heard upstairs must be as if it had
never been spoken, from the instant at which Anthony had first sat down
to the instant in which he had kneeled down to receive his blessing. So
much he knew from his studies at Rheims. He must be to each man that he
met, that which he would have been to him an hour ago. Yet, though as a
man he must know nothing, his priest's heart was heavy in his breast. It
was a strange home-coming--to pass from the ordered piety of the
college: to the whirl of politics and plots in which good and evil span
round together--honest and fiery zeal for God's cause, mingled with what
he was persuaded was crime and abomination. He had thought that a
priest's life would be a simple thing, but it seemed otherwise now.
He spoke with those half-dozen men--those who knew him well enough for a
priest; and presently, when some of his own party came, drew aside again
with Anthony, who began to tell him in a low voice of the personages
there.
"These are all my private friends," he said, "and some of them be men of
substance in their own place. There is Mr. Charnoc, of Lancashire, he
with the gilt sword. He is of the Court of her Grace, and comes and goes
as he pleases. He is lodged in Whitehall, and comes here but to see his
friends. And there is Mr. Savage, in the new clothes, with his beard cut
short. He is a very honest fellow, but of a small substance, though of
good family enough."
"Her Grace has some of her ladies, too, that are Catholics, has she
not?" asked Robin.
"There are two or three at least, and no trouble made. They hear mass
when they can at the Embassies. Mendoza is a very good friend of ours."
Mr. Charnoc came up presently to the two. He was a cheerful-looking man,
of northern descent, very particular in his clothes, with large gold
ear-rings; he wore a short, pointed beard above his stiff ruff, and his
eyes were bright and fanatical.
"You are from Rheims, I understand, Mr. Alban."
He sat down with something of an air next to Robin.
"And your county--?" he asked.
"I am from Derbyshire, sir," said Robin.
"From Derbyshire. Then you will have heard of Mistress Marjorie Manners,
no doubt."
"She is an old friend of mine," said Robin, smiling. (The man had a
great personal charm about him.)
"You are very happy in your friends, then," said the other. "I have
never spoken with her myself; but I hear of her continually as assisting
our people--sending them now up into the Peak country, now into the
towns, as the case may be--and never a mistake."
* * * * *
It was delightful to Robin to hear her praised, and he talked of her
keenly and volubly. Exactly that had happened which five years ago he
would have thought impossible; for every trace of his old feeling
towards her was gone, leaving behind, and that only in the very deepest
intimacies of his thought, a sweet and pleasant romance, like the glow
in the sky when the sun is gone down. Little by little that had come
about which, in Marjorie, had transformed her when she first sent him to
Rheims. It was not that reaction had followed; there was no contempt,
either of her or of himself, for what he had once thought of her; but
another great passion had risen above it--a passion of which the human
lover cannot even guess, kindled for one that is greater than man; a
passion fed, trained and pruned by those six years of studious peace at
Rheims, directed by experts in humanity. There he had seen what Love
could do when it could rise higher than its human channels; he had seen
young men, scarcely older than himself, set out for England, as for
their bridals, exultant and on fire; and back to Rheims had come again
the news of their martyrdom: this one died, crying to Jesu as a
home-coming child cries to his mother at the garden-gate; this one had
said nothing upon the scaffold, but his face (they said who brought the
news) had been as the face of Stephen at his stoning; and others had
come back themselves, banished, with pain of death on their returning,
yet back once more these had gone. And, last, more than once, there had
crept back to Rheims, borne on a litter all the way from the coast, the
phantom of a man who a year or two ago had played "cat" and shouted at
the play--now a bent man, grey-haired, with great scars on wrists and
ankles.... _Te Deums_ had been sung in the college chapel when the news
of the deaths had come: there were no _requiems_ for such as these; and
the place of the martyr in the refectory was decked with flowers....
Robin had seen these things, and wondered whether his place, too, would
some day be so decked.
For Marjorie, then, he felt nothing but a happy friendliness, and a real
delight when he thought of seeing her again. It was glorious, he
thought, that she had done so much; that her name was in all men's
mouths. And he had thought, when he had first gone to Rheims, that he
would do all and she nothing! He had written to her then, freely and
happily. He had told her that she must give him shelter some day, as she
was doing for so many.
Meanwhile it was pleasant to hear her praises.
"'Eve would be Eve,'" quoted Mr. Charnoc presently, in speaking of pious
women's obstinacy, "'though Adam would say Nay.'"
* * * * *
Then, at last, when Mr. Charnoc said that he must be leaving for his own
lodgings, and stood up; once more upon Robin's heart there fell the
horrible memory of all that he had heard upstairs.
CHAPTER II
I
It was strange to Robin to walk about the City, and to view all that he
saw from his new interior position. The last time that he had been in
his own country on that short visit with "Captain Fortescue," he had
been innocent in the eyes of the law, or, at least, no more guilty than
any one of the hundreds of young men who, in spite of the regulations,
were sent abroad to finish their education amid Catholic surroundings.
Now, however, his very presence was an offence: he had broken every law
framed expressly against such cases as his; he had studied abroad, he
had been "ordained beyond the seas"; he had read his mass in his own
bedchamber; he had, practically, received a confession; and it was his
fixed and firm intention to "reconcile" as many of "her Grace's
subjects" as possible to the "Roman See." And, to tell the truth, he
found pleasure in the sheer adventure of it, as would every young man of
spirit; and he wore his fine clothes, clinked his sword, and cocked his
secular hat with delight.
The burden of what he had heard still was heavy on him. It was true that
in a manner inconceivable to any but a priest it lay apart altogether
from his common consciousness: he had talked freely enough to Mr.
Charnoc and the rest; he could not, even by a momentary lapse, allow
what he knew to colour even the thoughts by which he dealt with men in
ordinary life; for though it was true that no confession had been made,
yet it was in virtue of his priesthood that he had been told so much.
Yet there were moments when he walked alone, with nothing else to
distract him, when the cloud came down again; and there were moments,
too, in spite of himself, when his heart beat with another emotion, when
he pictured what might not be five years hence, if Elizabeth were taken
out of the way and Mary reigned in her stead. He knew from his father
how swiftly and enthusiastically the old Faith had come back with Mary
Tudor after the winter of Edward's reign. And if, as some estimated, a
third of England were still convincedly Catholic, and perhaps not more
than one twentieth convincedly Protestant, might not Mary Stuart, with
her charm, accomplish more even than Mary Tudor with her lack of it?
* * * * *
He saw many fine sights during the three or four days after his coming
to London; for he had to wait there at least that time, until a party
that was expected from the north should arrive with news of where he was
to go. These were the instructions he had had from Rheims. So he walked
freely abroad during these days to see the sights; and even ventured to
pay a visit to Fathers Garnett and Southwell, two Jesuits that arrived a
month ago, and were for the present lodging in my Lord Vaux's house in
Hackney.
He was astonished at Father Southwell's youthfulness.
This priest had landed but a short while before, and, for the present,
was remaining quietly in the edge of London with the older man; for
himself was scarcely twenty-five years old, and looked twenty at the
most. He was very quiet and sedate, with a face of almost feminine
delicacy, and passed a good deal of his leisure, as the old lord told
Robin, in writing verses. He appeared a strangely fine instrument for
such heavy work as was a priest's.
On another day Robin saw the Archbishop land at Westminster Stairs.
It was a brilliant day of sunshine as he came up the river-bank, and a
little crowd of folks at the head of the stairs drew his attention. Then
he heard, out of sight, the throb of oars grow louder; then a cry of
command; and, as he reached the head of the stairs and looked over, the
Archbishop, with a cloak thrown over his rochet, was just stepping out
of the huge gilded barge, whose blue-and-silver liveried oarsmen
steadied the vessel, or stood at the salute. It was a gay and dignified
spectacle as he perceived, in spite of his intense antipathy to the
sight of a man who, to him, was no better than an usurper and a deceiver
of the people. Dr. Whitgift, too, was no friend to Catholics: he had,
for instance, deliberately defended the use of the rack against them and
others, unashamed; and in one particular instance, at least, as Bishop
of Worcester, had directed its exercise in the county of Denbigh. These
things were perfectly known, of course, even beyond the seas, to the
priests who were to go on the English mission, in surprising detail.
Robin knew even that this man was wholly ignorant of Greek; he looked at
him carefully as he came up the stairs, and was surprised at the kindly
face of him, thin-lipped, however, though with pleasant, searching eyes.
His coach was waiting outside Old Palace Yard, and Robin, following with
the rest of the little crowd, saluted him respectfully as he climbed
into it, followed by a couple of chaplains.
As he walked on, he glanced back across the river at Lambeth. There it
lay, then, the home of Warham and Pole and Morton, with the water
lapping its towers. It had once stood for the spiritual State of God in
England, facing its partner--(and sometimes its rival)--Westminster and
Whitehall; now it was a department of the civil State merely. It was
occupied by men such as Dr. Grindal, sequestrated and deprived of even
his spiritual functions by the woman who now grasped all the reins of
the Commonwealth; and now again by the man whom he had just seen, placed
there by the same woman to carry out her will more obediently against
all who denied her supremacy in matters spiritual as well as temporal,
whether Papists or Independents.
* * * * *
The priest was astonished, as he reached the precincts of Whitehall, to
observe the number of guards that were everywhere visible. He had been
warned at Rheims not to bring himself into too much notice, no more than
markedly to avoid it; so he did not attempt to penetrate even the outer
courts or passages. Yet it seemed to him that an air of watchfulness was
everywhere. At the gate towards which he looked at least half a dozen
men were on formal guard, their uniforms and weapons sparkling
brilliantly in the sunshine; and besides these, within the open doors he
caught sight of a couple of officers. As he stood there, a man came out
of one of the houses near the gate, and turned towards it: he was
immediately challenged, and presently passed on within, where one of the
officers came forward to speak to him. Then Robin thought he had stood
looking long enough, and moved away.
* * * * *
He came back to the City across the fields, half a mile away from the
river, and, indeed, it was a glorious sight he had before him. Here,
about him, was open ground on either side of the road on which he
walked; and there, in front, rose up on the slope of the hill the long
line of great old houses, beyond the stream that ran down into the
Thames--old Religious Houses for the most part, now disguised and pulled
about beyond recognition, ranging right and left from the Ludgate
itself: behind these rose again towers and roofs, and high above all the
tall spire of the Cathedral, as if to gather all into one, culminant
aspiration.... The light from the west lay on every surface that looked
to his left, golden and rosy; elsewhere lay blue and dusky shadows.
II
"There is a letter for you, sir," said the landlord, who had an uneasy
look on his face, as the priest came through the entrance of the inn.
Robin took it. Its superscription ran shortly: "To Mr. Alban, at the Red
Bull Inn in Cheapside. Haste. Haste. Haste."
He turned it over; it was sealed plainly on the back without arms or any
device; it was a thick package, and appeared as if it might hold an
enclosure or two.
Robin had learned caution in a good school, and what is yet more vital
in true caution, an appearance of carelessness. He weighed the packet
easily in his hand, as if it were of no value, though he knew it might
contain very questionable stuff from one of his friends, and glanced at
a quantity of baggage that lay heaped beside the wall.
"What is all this?" he said. "Another party arrived?"
"No, sir; the party is leaving. Rather, it is left already; and the
gentlemen bade me have the baggage ready here. They would send for it
later, they told me."
This was unusually voluble from this man. Robin looked at him quickly,
and away again.
"What party?" he said.
"The gentlemen you were with this two nights past, sir," said the
landlord keenly.
Robin was aware of a feeling as if a finger had been laid on his heart;
but not a muscle of his face moved.
"Indeed!" he said. "They told me nothing of it."
Then he moved on easily, feeling the landlord's eyes in every inch of
his back, and went leisurely upstairs.
He reached his room, bolted the door softly behind him, and sat down.
His heart was going now like a hammer. Then he opened the packet; an
enclosure fell out of it, also sealed, but without direction of any
kind. Then he saw that the sheet in which the packet had come was itself
covered with writing, rather large and sprawling, as if written in
haste. He put the packet aside, and then lifted the paper to read it.
* * * * *
When he had finished, he sat quite still. The room looked to him misty
and unreal; the paper crackled in his shaking fingers, and a drop of
sweat ran suddenly into the corner of his dry lips. Then he read the
paper again. It ran as follows:
"It is all found out, we think. I find myself watched at every point,
and I can get no speech with B. I cannot go forth from the house without
a fellow to follow me, and two of my friends have found the same. Mr.
G., too, hath been with Mr. W. this three hours back. By chance I saw
him come in, and he has not yet left again. Mr. Ch. is watching for me
while I write this, and will see that this letter is bestowed on a
trusty man who will bring it to your inn, and, with it, another letter
to bid our party save themselves while they can. I do not know how we
shall fare, but we shall meet at a point that is fixed, and after that
evade or die together. You were right, you see. Mr. G. has acted the
traitor throughout, with Mr. W.'s connivance and assistance. I beg of
you, then, to carry this letter, which I send in this, to Her for whom
we have forfeited our lives, or, at least, our country; or, if you
cannot take it with safety, master the contents of it by rote and
deliver it to her with your own mouth. She has been taken back to C.
again, whither you must go, and all her effects searched."
There was no signature, but there followed a dash of the pen, and then a
scrawled "A.B.," as if an interruption had come, or as if the man who
was with the writer would wait no longer.
* * * * *
A third time Robin read it through. It was terribly easy of
interpretation. "B." was Ballard; "G." was Gifford; "W." was Walsingham;
"Ch." was Charnoc; "Her" was Mary Stuart; "C." was Chartley. It fitted
and made sense like a child's puzzle. And, if the faintest doubt could
remain in the most incredulous mind as to the horrible reality of it
all, there was the piled luggage downstairs, that would never be "sent
for" (and never, indeed, needed again by its owners in this world).
Then he took up the second sealed packet, and held it unbroken, while
his mind flew like a bird, and in less than a minute he decided, and
opened it.
It was a piteous letter, signed again merely "A.B.," and might have been
written by any broken-hearted reverent lover to his beloved. It spoke an
eternal good-bye; the writer said that he would lay down his life gladly
again in such a cause if it were called for, and would lay down a
thousand if he had them; he entreated her to look to herself, for that
no doubt every attempt would now be made to entrap her; and it warned
her to put no longer any confidence in a "detestable knave, G.G."
Finally, he begged that "Jesu would have her in His holy keeping," and
that if matters fell out as he thought they would, she would pray for
his soul, and the souls of all that had been with him in the enterprise.
He read it through three or four times; every line and letter burned
itself into his brain. Then he tore it across and across; then he tore
the letter addressed to himself in the same manner; then he went through
all the fragments, piece by piece, tearing each into smaller fragments,
till there remained in his hands just a bunch of tiny scraps, smaller
than snowflakes, and these he scattered out of the window.
Then he went to his door, unbolted it, and walked downstairs to find the
landlord.
III
It was not until ten days later, soon after dawn, that Robin set out on
his melancholy errand. He rode out northward as soon as the gates were
opened, with young "Mr. Arnold," a priest ordained with him in Rheims,
and one of his party, disguised as a servant, following him on a
pack-horse with the luggage. It was a misty morning, white and
cheerless, with the early fog that had drifted up from the river. Last
night the news had come in that Anthony and at least one other had been
taken near Harrow, in disguise, and the streets had been full of riotous
rejoicing over the capture.
He had thought it more prudent to wait till after receiving the news,
which he so much dreaded, lest haste should bring suspicion on himself,
and the message that he carried; since for him, too, to disappear at
once would have meant an almost inevitable association of him with the
party of plotters; but it had been a hard time to pass through. Early in
the morning, after Anthony's flight, he had awakened to hear a rapping
upon the inn door, and, peeping from his window, had seen a couple of
plainly dressed men waiting for admittance; but after that he had seen
no more of them. He had deliberately refrained from speaking with the
landlord, except to remark again upon the luggage of which he caught a
sight, piled no longer in the entrance, but in the little room that the
man himself used. The landlord had said shortly that it had not yet been
sent for. And the greater part of the day--after he had told the
companions that had come with him from Rheims that he had had a letter,
which seemed to show that the party with whom they had made friends had
disappeared, and were probably under suspicion, and had made the
necessary arrangements for his own departure with young Mr. Arnold--he
spent in walking abroad as usual. The days that followed had been bitter
and heavy. He had liked neither to stop within doors nor to go abroad,
since the one course might arouse inquiry and the second lead to his
identification. He had gone to my Lord Vaux's house again and again,
with his friend and without him; he had learned of the details of
Anthony's capture, though he had not dared even to attempt to get speech
with him; and, further, that unless the rest of the men were caught, it
would not be easy to prove anything against him. One thing, therefore,
he prayed for with all his heart--that the rest might yet escape. He
told his party something of the course of events, but not too much. On
the Sunday that intervened he went to hear mass in Fetter Lane, where
numbers of Catholics resorted; and there, piece by piece, learned more
of the plot than even Anthony had told him.
Mr. Arnold was a Lancashire man and a young convert of Oxford--one of
that steady small stream that poured over to the Continent--a
sufficiently well-born and intelligent man to enjoy acting as a servant,
which he did with considerable skill. It was common enough for gentlemen
to ride side by side with their servants when they had left the town;
and by the time that the two were clear of the few scattered houses
outside the City gates, Mr. Arnold urged on his horse; and they rode
together. Robin was in somewhat of a difficulty as to how far he was
justified in speaking of what he knew. It was true that he was not at
liberty to use what Anthony had originally told him; but the letter and
the commission which he had received certainly liberated his conscience
to some degree, since it told him plainly enough that there was a plot
on behalf of Mary, that certain persons, one or two of whom he knew for
himself, were involved in it, that they were under suspicion, and that
they had fled. Ordinary discretion, however, was enough to make him hold
his tongue, beyond saying, as he had said already to the rest of them,
that he was the bearer of a message from Mr. Babington, now in prison,
to Mary Stuart. Mr. Arnold had been advertised that he might take up his
duties in Lancashire as soon as he liked; but, because of his
inexperience and youth, it had been decided that he had better ride with
"Mr. Alban" so far as Chartley at least, and thence, if all were well,
go on to Lancaster itself, where his family was known, and whither he
could return, for the present, without suspicion.
* * * * *
The roads, such as they were, were in a terrible state still with the
heavy rain of a few days ago, and the further showers that had fallen in
the night. They made very poor progress, and by dinner-time were not yet
in sight of Watford. But they pushed on, coming at last about one
o'clock to that little town, all gathered together in the trench of the
low hills. There was a modest inn in the main street, with a little
garden behind it; and while Mr. Arnold took the horses off for watering,
Robin went through to the garden, sat down, and ordered food to be
served for himself and his man together. The day was warmer, and the sun
came out as they sat over their meal. When they had done, Robin sent his
friend off again for the horses. They must not delay longer than was
necessary, if they wished to sleep at Leighton, and give the horses
their proper rest.
* * * * *
When he was left alone, he fell a-thinking once more; and, what with the
morning's ride and the air and the sunshine, and the sense of liberty,
he was inclined to be more cheerful. Surely England was large enough to
hide the rest of the plotters for a time, until they could get out of
it. Anthony was taken, indeed, yet, without the rest, he might very well
escape conviction. Robin had not been challenged in any way; the
gatekeepers had looked at him, indeed, as he came out of the City; but
so they always did, and the landlady here had run her eyes over him; but
that was the way of landladies who wished to know how much should be
charged to travellers. And if he had come out so easily, why should not
his friends? All turned now, to his mind, on whether the rest of the
conspirators could evade the pursuivants or not.
He stood up presently to stretch his legs before mounting again, and as
he stood up he heard running footsteps somewhere beyond the house: they
died away; but then came the sound of another runner, and of another,
and he heard voices calling. Then a window was flung up beyond the
house; steps came rattling down the stairs within and passed out into
the street. It was probably a bull that had escaped, or a mad dog, he
thought, or some rustic excitement of that kind, and he thought he would
go and see it for himself; so he passed out through the house, just in
time to meet Mr. Arnold coming round with the horses.
"What was the noise about?" he asked.
The other looked at him.
"I heard none, sir," he said. "I was in the stable."
Robin looked up and down the street. It seemed as empty as it should be
on a summer's day; two or three women were at the doors of their houses,
and an old dog was asleep in the sun. There was no sign of any
disturbance.
"Where is the woman of the house?" asked Robin.
"I do not know, sir."
They could not go without paying; but Robin marvelled at the simplicity
of these folks, to leave a couple of guests free to ride away; he went
within again and called out, but there was no one to be seen.
"This is laughable," he said, coming out again. "Shall we leave a mark
behind us and be off?"
"Are they all gone, sir?" asked the other, staring at him.
"I heard some running and calling out just now," said Robin. "I suppose
a message must have been brought to the house."
Then, as he stood still, hesitating, a noise of voices arose suddenly
round the corner of the street, and a group of men with pitchforks ran
out from a gateway on the other side, fifty yards away, crossed the
road, and disappeared again. Behind them ran a woman or two, a barking
dog, and a string of children. But Robin thought he had caught a glimpse
of some kind of officer's uniform at the head of the running men, and
his heart stood still.
IV
Neither of the two spoke for a moment.
"Wait here with the horses," said Robin. "I must see what all this is
about."
* * * * *
Mr. Arnold was scarcely more than a boy still, and he had all the desire
of a boy, if he saw an excited crowd, to join himself to it. But he was
being a servant just now, and must do what he was told. So he waited
patiently with the two horses that tossed their jingling heads and
stamped and attempted to kick flies off impossibly remote parts of their
bodies. Certainly, the excitement was growing. After he had seen his
friend walk quickly down the road and turn off where the group of
rustically-armed men had disappeared in the direction where newly-made
haystacks shaded their gables beyond the roofs of the houses, several
other figures appeared through the opposite gateway in hot pursuit. One
was certainly a guard of some kind, a stout, important-looking fellow,
who ran and wheezed as he ran loud enough to be heard at the inn door.
The women standing before the houses, too, presently were after the
rest--all except one old dame, who put her head forth, and peered this
way and that with a vindictive anger at having been left all alone. More
yet showed themselves--children dragging puppies after them, an old man
with a large rusty sword, a couple of lads each with a pike--these
appeared, like figures in a pantomime play, whisking into sight from
between the houses, and all disappearing again immediately.
And then, all on a sudden, a great clamour of voices began, all shouting
together, as if some quarry had been sighted: it grew louder, sharp
cries of command rang above the roar. Then there burst out of the side,
where all had gone in, a ball of children, which exploded into fragments
and faced about, still with a couple of puppies that barked shrilly; and
then, walking very fast and upright, came Mr. Robin Audrey, white-faced
and stern, straight up to where the lad waited with the horses.
Robin jerked his head.
"Quick!" he said. "We must be off, or we shall be here all night." He
gathered up his reins for mounting.
"What is it, sir?" asked the other, unable to be silent.
"They have caught some fellows," he said.
"And the inn-account, sir?"
Robin pulled out a couple of coins from his pouch.
"Put that on the table within," he said. "We can wait no longer. Give me
your reins!"
His manner was so dreadful that the young man dared ask no more. He ran
in, laid the coins down (they were more than double what could have been
asked for their entertainment), came out again, and mounted his own
horse that his friend held. As they rode down the street, he could not
refrain from looking back, as a great roar of voices broke out again;
but he could see no more than a crowd of men, with the pitchforks moving
like spears on the outskirt, as if they guarded prisoners within, come
out between the houses and turn up towards the inn they themselves had
just left.
* * * * *
As they came clear of the village and out again upon the open road,
Robin turned to him, and his face was still pale and stern.
"Mr. Arnold," he said, "those were the last of my friends that I told
you of. Now they have them all, and there is no longer any hope. They
found them behind the haystacks next to the garden where we dined. They
must have been there all night."
CHAPTER III
I
It was in the evening of the fourth day after their start that, riding
up alongside of the Blythe, they struck out to the northwest, away from
the trees, and saw the woods of Chartley not half a mile away. Robin
sighed with relief, though, as a fact, his adventure was scarcely more
than begun, since he had yet to learn how he could get speech with the
Queen; but, at least, he was within sight of her, and of his own country
as well. Far away, eastwards, beyond the hills, not twenty miles off,
lay Derby.
* * * * *
It had been a melancholy ride, in spite of the air of freedom through
which they rode, since news had come to them, in more than one place, of
the fortunes of the Babington party. A courier, riding fast, had passed
them as they sighted Buckingham; and by the time they came in, he was
gone again, on Government business (it was said), and the little town
hummed with rumours, out of which emerged, at any rate, the certainty
that the whole company had been captured. At Coventry, again, the
tidings had travelled faster than themselves; for here it was reported
that Mr. Babington and Mr. Charnoc had been racked; and in Lichfield,
last of all, the tale was complete, and (as they learned later)
tolerably accurate too.
It was from a clerk in the inn there that the story came, who declared
that there was no secrecy about the matter any longer, and that he
himself had seen the tale in writing. It ran as follows:
The entire plot had been known from the beginning, Gilbert Gifford had
been an emissary of Walsingham's throughout; and every letter that
passed to and from the various personages had passed through the
Secretary's hands and been deciphered in his house. There never had been
one instant in which Mr. Walsingham had been at fault, or in the dark:
he had gone so far, it was reported, as to insert in one of the letters
that was to go to Mr. Babington a request for the names of all the
conspirators, and in return there had come from him, not only a list of
the names, but a pictured group of them, with Mr. Babington himself in
the midst. This picture had actually been shown to her Grace in order
that she might guard herself against private assassination, since two or
three of the group were in her own household.
"It is like to go hard with the Scots Queen!" said the clerk bitterly.
"She has gone too far this time."
Robin said nothing to commit himself, for he did not know on which side
the man ranged himself; but he drew him aside after dinner, and asked
whether it might be possible to get a sight of the Queen.
"I am riding to Derby," he said, "with my man. But if to turn aside at
Chartley would give us a chance of seeing her, I would do so. A queen in
captivity is worth seeing. And I can see you are a man of influence."
The clerk looked at him shrewdly; he was a man plainly in love with his
own importance, and the priest's last words were balm to him.
"It might be done," he said. "I do not know."
Robin saw the impression he had made, and that the butter could not be
too thick.
"I am sure you could do it for me," he said, "if any man could. But I
understand that a man of your position may be unwilling--"
The clerk solemnly laid a hand on the priest's arm.
"Well, I will tell you this," he said. "Get speech with Mr. Bourgoign,
her apothecary. He alone has access to her now, besides her own women.
It might be he could put you in some private place to see her go by."
This was not much use, thought Robin; but, at least, it gave him
something to begin at: so he thanked the clerk solemnly and
reverentially, and was rewarded by another discreet pat on the arm.
* * * * *
The sight of the Chartley woods, tall and splendid in the light of the
setting sun, and already tinged here and there with the first marks of
autumn, brought his indecision to a point; and he realized that he had
no plan. He had heard that Mary occasionally rode abroad, and he hoped
perhaps to get speech with her that way; but what he had heard from the
clerk and others showed him that this small degree of liberty was now
denied to the Queen. In some way or another he must get news of Mr.
Bourgoign. Beyond that he knew nothing.
* * * * *
The great gates of Chartley were closed as the two came up to them.
There was a lodge beside them, and a sentry stood there. A bell was
ringing from the great house within the woods, no doubt for supper-time,
but there was no other human being besides the sentry to be seen. So
Robin did not even check his weary horse; but turned only, with a
deliberately curious air, as he went past and rode straight on. Then, as
he rounded a corner he saw smoke going up from houses, it seemed,
outside the park.
"What is that?" asked Arnold suddenly. "Do you hear--?"
A sound of a galloping horse grew louder behind them, and a moment
afterwards the sound of another. The two priests were still in view of
the sentry; and knowing that Chartley was guarded now as if it had all
the treasures of the earth within, Robin reflected that to show too
little interest might arouse as sharp suspicion as too much. So he
wheeled his horse round and stopped to look.
They heard the challenge of the sentry within, and then the unbarring of
the gates. An instant later a courier dashed out and wheeled to the
right, while at the same time the second galloper came to view--another
courier on a jaded horse; and the two passed--the one plainly riding to
London, the second arriving from it. The gates were yet open; but the
second was challenged once more before he was allowed to pass and his
hoofs sounded on the road that led to the house. Then the gates clashed
together again.
Robin turned his horse's head once more towards the houses, conscious
more than ever how near he was to the nerves of England's life, and what
tragic ties they were between the two royal cousins, that demanded such
a furious and frequent exchange of messages.
"We must do our best here," he said, nodding towards the little hamlet.
II
It was plainly a newly-grown little group of houses that bordered the
side of the road away from the enclosed park--sprung up as a kind of
overflow lodging for the dependants necessary to such a suddenly
increased household; for the houses were no more than wooden dwellings,
ill-roofed and ill-built, with the sap scarcely yet finished oozing from
the ends of the beams and the planks. Smoke was issuing, in most cases,
from rough holes cut in the roofs, and in the last rays of sunshine two
or three men were sitting on stools set out before the houses.
Robin checked his horse before a man whose face seemed kindly, and who
saluted courteously the fine gentleman who looked about with such an
air.
"My horse is dead-spent," he said curtly. "Is there an inn here where my
man and I can find lodging?"
The man shook his head, looking at the horse compassionately. He had the
air of a groom about him.
"I fear not, sir, not within five miles; at least, not with a room to
spare."
"This is Chartley, is it not?" asked the priest, noticing that the next
man, too, was listening.
"Aye, sir."
"Can you tell me if my friend Mr. Bourgoign lodges in the house, or
without the gates?"
"Mr. Bourgoign, sir? A friend of yours?"
"I hope so," said Robin, smiling, and keeping at least within the letter
of truth.
The man mused a moment.
"It is possible he might help you, sir. He lodges in the house; but he
comes sometimes to see a woman that is sick here."
Robin demanded where she lived.
"At the last house, sir--a little beyond the rest. She is one of her
Grace's kitchen-women. They moved her out here, thinking it might be the
fever she had."
This was plainly a communicative fellow; but the priest thought it wiser
not to take too much interest. He tossed the man a coin and rode on.
* * * * *
The last house was a little better built than the others, and stood
further back from the road. Robin dismounted here, and, with a nod to
Mr. Arnold, who was keeping his countenance admirably, walked up to the
door and knocked on it. It was opened instantly, as if he were expected,
but the woman's face fell when she saw him.
"Is Mr. Bourgoign within?" asked the priest.
The woman glanced over him before answering, and then out to where the
horses waited.
"No, sir," she said at last. "We were looking for him just now...."
(She broke off.) "He is coming now," she said.
Robin turned, and there, walking down the road, was an old man, leaning
on a stick, richly and soberly dressed in black, wearing a black beaver
hat on his head. A man-servant followed him at a little distance.
The priest saw that here was an opportunity ready-made; but there was
one more point on which he must satisfy himself first, and what seemed
to him an inspiration came to his mind.
"He looks like a minister," he said carelessly.
A curious veiled look came over the woman's face. Robin made a bold
venture. He smiled full in her face.
"You need not fear," he said. "I quarrel with no man's religion;" and,
at the look in her face at this, he added: "You are a Catholic, I
suppose? Well, I am one too. And so, I suppose, is Mr. Bourgoign."
The woman smiled tremulously, and the fear left her eyes.
"Yes, sir," she said. "All the friends of her Grace are Catholics, I
think."
He nodded to her again genially. Then, turning, he went to meet the
apothecary, who was now not thirty yards away.
* * * * *
It was a pathetic old figure that was hobbling towards him. He seemed a
man of near seventy years old, with a close-cropped beard and spectacles
on his nose, and he carried himself heavily and ploddingly. Robin argued
to himself that it must be a kindly man who would come out at this
hour--perhaps the one hour he had to himself--to visit a poor dependant.
Yet all this was sheer conjecture; and, as the old man came near, he saw
there was something besides kindliness in the eyes that met his own.
He saluted boldly and deferentially.
"Mr. Bourgoign," he said in a low voice, "I must speak five minutes with
you. And I ask you to make as if you were my friend."
The old man stiffened like a watch-dog. It was plain that he was on his
guard.
"I do not know you, sir."
"I entreat you to do as I ask. I am a priest, sir. I entreat you to take
my hand as if we were friends."
A look of surprise went over the physician's face.
"You can send me packing in ten minutes," went on Robin rapidly, at the
same time holding out his hand. "And we will talk here in the road, if
you will."
There was still a moment's hesitation. Then he took the priest's hand.
"I am come straight from London," went on Robin, still speaking clearly,
yet with his lips scarcely moving. "A fortnight ago I talked with Mr.
Babington."
The old man drew his arm close within his own.
"You have said enough, or too much, at present, sir. You shall walk with
me a hundred yards up this road, and justify what you have said."
"We have had a weary ride of it, Mr. Bourgoign.... I am on the road to
Derby," went on Robin, talking loudly enough now to be overheard, as he
hoped, by any listeners. "And my horse is spent.... I will tell you my
business," he added in a lower tone, "as soon as you bid me."
Fifty yards up the road the old man pressed his arm again.
"You can tell me now, sir," he said. "But we will walk, if you please,
while you do so."
* * * * *
"First," said Robin, after a moment's consideration as to his best
beginning, "I will tell you the name I go by. It is Mr. Alban. I am a
newly-made priest, as I told you just now; I came from Rheims scarcely a
fortnight ago. I am from Derbyshire; and I will tell you my proper name
at the end, if you wish it."
"Repeat the blessing of the deacon by the priest at mass," murmured Mr.
Bourgoign to the amazement of the other, without the change of an
inflection in his voice or a movement of his hand.
"_Dominus sit in corde tuo et in labiis_--" began the priest.
"That is enough, sir, for the present. Well?"
"Next," said Robin, hardly yet recovered from the extraordinary
promptness of the challenge--"Next, I was speaking with Mr. Babington a
fortnight ago."
"In what place?"
"In the inn called the 'Red Bull,' in Cheapside."
"Good. I have lodged there myself," said the other. "And you are one--"
"No, sir," said Robin, "I do not deny that I spoke with them all--with
Mr. Charnoc and--"
"That is enough of those names, sir," said the other, with a small and
fearful lift of his white eyebrows, as if he dreaded the very trees that
nearly met overhead in this place. "And what is your business?"
"I have satisfied you, then--" began Robin.
"Not at all, sir. You have answered sufficiently so far; that is all. I
wish to know your business."
"The night following the day on which the men fled, of whom I have just
spoken, I had a letter from--from their leader. He told me that all was
lost, and he gave me a letter to her Grace here--"
He felt the thin old sinews under his hand contract suddenly, and
paused.
"Go on, sir," whispered the old voice.
"A letter to her Grace, sir. I was to use my discretion whether I
carried it with me, or learned it by rote. I have other interests at
stake besides this, and I used my discretion, and destroyed the letter."
"But you have some writing, no doubt--"
"I have none," said Robin. "I have my word only."
There was a pause.
"Was the message private?"
"Private only to her Grace's enemies. I will tell you the substance of
it now, if you will."
The old man, without answering, steered his companion nearer to the
wall; then he relinquished the supporting arm, and leaned himself
against the stones, fixing his eyes full upon the priest, and searching,
as it seemed, every feature of his face and every detail of his dress.
"Was the message important, sir?"
"Important only to those who value love and fidelity."
"I could deliver it myself, then?"
"Certainly, sir. If you will give me your word to deliver it to her
Grace, as I deliver it to you, and to none else, I will ride on and
trouble you no more."
"That is enough," said the physician decidedly. "I am completely
satisfied, Mr. Alban. All that remains is to consider how I can get you
to her Grace."
"But if you yourself will deliver--" began Robin.
An extraordinary spasm passed over the other's face, that might denote
any fierce emotion, either of anger or grief.
"Do you think it is that?" he hissed. "Why, man, where is your
priesthood? Do you think the poor dame within would not give her soul
for a priest?... Why, I have prayed God night and day to send us a
priest. She is half mad with sorrow; and who knows whether ever again in
this world--"
He broke off, his face all distorted with pain; and Robin felt a strange
thrill of glory at the thought that he bore with him, in virtue of his
priesthood only, so much consolation. He faced for the first time that
tremendous call of which he had heard so much in Rheims--that desolate
cry of souls that longed and longed in vain for those gifts which a
priest of Christ could alone bestow....
"... The question is," the old man was saying more quietly, "how to get
you in to her Grace. Why, Sir Amyas opens her letters even, and reseals
them again! He thinks me a fool, and that I do not know what he does....
Do you know aught of medicine?" he asked abruptly.
"I know only what country folks know of herbs."
"And their names--their Latin names, man?" pursued the other, leaning
forward.
Robin half smiled.
"Now you speak of it," he said, "I have learned a good many, as a
pastime, when I was a boy. I was something of a herbalist, even. But I
have forgotten--"
"Bah! that would be enough for Sir Amyas--"
He turned and spat venomously at the name.
"Sir Amyas knows nothing save his own vile trade. He is a lout--no more.
He is as grim as a goose, always. And you have a town air about you," he
went on, running his eyes critically over the young man's dress. "Those
are French clothes?"
"They were bought in France."
The two stood silent. Robin's excitement beat in all his veins, in spite
of his weariness. He had come to bear a human message only to a
bereaved Queen; and it seemed as if his work were to be rather the
bearing of a Divine message to a lonely soul. He watched the old man's
face eagerly. It was sunk in thought.... Then Mr. Bourgoign took him
abruptly by the arm.
"Give me your arm again," he said. "I am an old man. We must be going
back again. It seems as if God heard our prayers after all. I will see
you disposed for to-night--you and your man and the horses, and I will
send for you myself in the morning. Could you say mass, think you? if I
found you a secure place--and bring Our Lord's Body with you in the
morning?"
He checked the young man, to hear his answer.
"Why, yes," said Robin. "I have all things that are needed."
"Then you shall say mass in any case ... and reserve our Lord's Body in
a pyx.... Now listen to me. If my plan falls as I hope, you must be a
physician to-morrow, and have practised your trade in Paris. You have
been in Paris?"
"No, sir."
"Bah!... Well, no more has Sir Amyas!... You have practised your trade
in Paris, and God has given you great skill in the matter of herbs. And,
upon hearing that I was in Chartley, you inquired for your old friend,
whose acquaintance you had made in Paris, five years ago. And I, upon
hearing you were come, secured your willingness to see my patient, if
you would but consent. Your reputation has reached me even here; you
have attended His Majesty in Paris on three occasions; you restored
Mademoiselle Élise, of the family of Guise, from the very point of
death. You are but a young man still; yet--Bah! It is arranged. You
understand? Now come with me."
CHAPTER IV
I
In spite of his plans and his hopes and his dreams, it was with an
amazement beyond all telling, that Mr. Robert Alban found himself, at
nine o'clock next morning, conducted by two men through the hall at
Chartley to the little parlour where he was to await Sir Amyas Paulet
and the Queen's apothecary.
* * * * *
Matters had been arranged last night with that promptness which alone
could make the tale possible. He had walked back with the old man in
full view of the little hamlet, to all appearances, the best of old
friends; and after providing for a room in the sick woman's house for
Robin himself, another in another house for Mr. Arnold, and stabling for
the horses in a shed where occasionally the spent horses of the couriers
were housed when Chartley stables were overflowing--after all this had
been arranged by Mr. Bourgoign in person, the two walked on to the great
gates of the park, where they took an affectionate farewell within
hearing of the sentry, the apothecary promising to see Sir Amyas that
night and to communicate with his friend in the morning. Robin had
learned previously how strict was the watch set about the Queen's
person, particularly since the news of the Babington plot had first
reached the authorities, and of the extraordinary difficulty to the
approach of any stranger to her presence. Nau and Curle, her two
secretaries, had been arrested and perhaps racked a week or ten days
before; all the Queen's papers had been taken from her, and even her
jewellery and pictures sent off to Elizabeth; and the only persons
ordinarily allowed to speak with her, besides her gaoler, were two of
her women, and Mr. Bourgoign himself.
That morning then, before six o'clock, Robin had said mass in the sick
woman's room and given her communion, with her companion, who answered
his mass, as it was thought more prudent that the other priest should
not even be present; and, at the close of the mass he had reserved in a
little pyx, hidden beneath his clothes, a consecrated particle. Mr.
Bourgoign had said that he would see to it that the Queen should be
fasting up to ten o'clock that day.
And now the last miracle had been accomplished. A servant had come down
late the night before, with a discreet letter from the apothecary,
saying that Sir Amyas had consented to receive and examine for himself
the travelling physician from Paris; and here now went Robin, striving
to remember the old Latin names he had learned as a boy, and to carry a
medical air with him.
* * * * *
The parlour in which he found himself was furnished severely and even
rather sparely, owing, perhaps, he thought, to the temporary nature of
the household. It was the custom in great houses to carry with the
family, from house to house, all luxuries such as extra hangings or
painted pictures or carpets, as well as even such things as cooking
utensils; and in the Queen's sudden removal back again from Tixall, many
matters must have been neglected. The oak wainscoting was completely
bare; and over the upper parts of the walls in many places the stones
showed through between the ill-fitting tapestries. A sheaf of pikes
stood in one corner; an oil portrait of an unknown worthy in the dress
of fifty years ago hung over one of the doors; a large round oak table,
with ink-horn and pounce-box, stood in the centre of the room with
stools beside it: there was no hearth or chimney visible; and there was
no tapestry upon the floor: a skin only lay between the windows. The
priest sat down and waited.
He had enough to occupy his mind; for not only had he the thought of the
character he was to sustain presently under the scrutiny of a suspicious
man; but he had the prospect, as he hoped, of coming into the presence
of the most-talked-of woman in Europe, and of ministering to her as a
priest alone could do, in her sorest need. His hand went to his breast
as he considered it, and remembered What he bore ... and he felt the
tiny flat circular case press upon his heart....
For his imagination was all aflame at the thought of Mary. Not only had
he been kindled again and again in the old days by poor Anthony's talk,
until the woman seemed to him half-deified already; but man after man
had repeated the same tale, that she was, in truth, that which her lean
cousin of England desired to be thought--a very paragon of women,
innocent, holy, undefiled, yet of charm to drive men to their knees
before her presence. It was said that she was as one of those strange
moths which, confined behind glass, will draw their mates out of the
darkness to beat themselves to death against her prison; she was
exquisite, they said, in her pale beauty, and yet more exquisite in her
pain; she exuded a faint and intoxicating perfume of womanliness, like a
crushed herb. Yet she was to be worshipped, rather than loved--a
sacrament to be approached kneeling, an incarnate breath of heaven, the
more lovely from the vileness into which her life had been cast and the
slanders that were about her name.... More marvellous than all was that
those who knew her best and longest loved her most; her servants wept or
groaned themselves into fevers if they were excluded from her too long;
of her as of the Wisdom of old might it be said that, "They who ate her
hungered yet, and they who drank her thirsted yet."... It was to this
miracle of humanity, then, that this priest was to come....
* * * * *
He sat up suddenly, once more pressing his hand to his breast, where his
Treasure lay hidden, as he heard steps crossing the paved hall outside.
Then he rose to his feet and bowed as a tall man came swiftly in,
followed by the apothecary.
II
It was a lean, harsh-faced man that he saw, long-moustached and
melancholy-eyed--"grim as a goose," as the physician had said--wearing,
even in this guarded household, a half-breast and cap of steel. A long
sword jingled beside him on the stone floor and clashed with his spurred
boots. He appeared the last man in the world to be the companion of a
sorrowing Queen; and it was precisely for this reason that he had been
chosen to replace the courtly lord Shrewsbury and the gentle Sir Ralph
Sadler. (Her Grace of England said that she had had enough of nurses for
gaolers.) His voice, too, resembled the bitter clash of a key in a lock.
"Well, sir," he said abruptly, "Mr. Bourgoign tells me you are a friend
of his."
"I have that honour, sir."
"You met in Paris, eh?... And you profess a knowledge of herbs beyond
the ordinary?"
"Mr. Bourgoign is good enough to say so."
"And you are after her Grace of Scotland, as they call her, like all the
rest of them, eh?"
"I shall be happy to put what art I possess at her Grace of Scotland's
service."
"Traitors say as much as that, sir."
"In the cause of treachery, no doubt, sir."
Sir Amyas barked a kind of laugh.
"_Vous avez raisong_," he said with a deplorable accent. "As her Grace
would say. And you come purely by chance to Chartley, no doubt!"
The sneer was unmistakable. Robin met it full.
"Not for one moment, sir. I was on my way to Derby. I could have saved a
few miles if I had struck north long ago. But Chartley is interesting in
these days."
(He saw Mr. Bourgoign's eyes gleam with satisfaction.)
"That is honest at least, sir. And why is Chartley interesting?"
"Because her Grace is here," answered Robin with sublime simplicity.
Sir Amyas barked again. It seemed he liked this way of talk. For a
moment or two his eyes searched Robin--hard, narrow eyes like a dog's;
he looked him up and down.
"Where are your drugs, sir?"
Robin smiled.
"A herbalist does not need to carry drugs," he said. "They grow in every
hedgerow if a man has eyes to see what God has given him."
"That is true enough. I would we had more talk about God His Majesty in
this household, and less of Popish trinkets and fiddle-faddle.... Well,
sir; do you think you can cure her ladyship?"
"I have no opinion on the point at all, sir. I do not know what is the
matter with her--beyond what Mr. Bourgoign has told me," he added
hastily, remembering the supposed situation.
The soldier paid no attention. Like all slow-witted men, he was
following up an irrelevant train of thought from his own last sentence
but one.
"Fiddle-faddle!" he said again. "I am sick of her megrims and her
vapours and her humours. Has she not blood and bones like the rest of
us? And yet she cannot take her food nor her drink, nor sleep like an
honest woman. And I do not wonder at it; for that is what she is not.
They will say she is poisoned, I dare say.... Well, sir; I suppose you
had best see her; but in my presence, remember, sir; in my presence."
Robin's spirits sank like a stone.... Moreover, he would be instantly
detected as a knave (though that honestly seemed a lesser matter to
him), if he attempted to talk medically in Sir Amyas' presence; unless
that warrior was truly as great a clod as he seemed. He determined to
risk it. He bowed.
"I can at least try my poor skill, sir," he said.
Sir Amyas instantly turned, with a jerk of his head to beckon them, and
clanked out again into the hall. There was not a moment's opportunity
for the two conspirators to exchange even a word; for there, in the
hall, stood the two men who had brought Robin in, to keep guard; and as
the party passed through to the foot of the great staircase, he saw on
each landing that was in sight another sentry, and, at a door at the end
of the overhead gallery, against which hung a heavy velvet curtain,
stood the last, a stern figure to keep guard on the rooms of a Queen,
with his body-armour complete, a steel hat on his head and a pike in his
hand.
It was to this door that Sir Amyas went, acknowledging with a lift of
the finger the salute of his men. (It was plain that this place was
under strict military discipline.) With the two, the real and the false
physician following him, he pulled aside the curtain and rapped
imperiously on the door. It was opened after a moment's delay by a
frightened-faced woman.
"Her Grace?" demanded the officer sharply. "Is she still abed?"
"Her Grace is risen, sir," said the woman tremulously; "she is in the
inner room."
Sir Amyas strode straight on, pulled aside a second curtain hanging over
the further door, rapped upon that, too, and without even waiting for an
answer this time, beyond the shrill barking of dogs within, opened it
and passed in. Mr. Bourgoign followed; and Robin came last. The door
closed softly behind him.
III
The room was furnished with more decency than any he had seen in this
harsh house; for, although at the time he thought that he had no eyes
for anything but one figure which it contained, he found himself
afterwards able to give a very tolerable account of its general
appearance. The walls were hung throughout with a dark-blue velvet
hanging, stamped with silver fleur-de-lys. There were tapestries on the
floor, between which gleamed the polished oak boards, perfectly kept, by
the labours (no doubt) of her Grace's two women (since such things would
be mere "fiddle-faddle" to the honest soldier); a graceful French table
ran down the centre of the room, very delicately carved, and beneath it
two baskets from which looked out the indignant heads of a couple of
little spaniels; upon it, at the nearer end, were three or four cages of
turtle-doves, melancholy-looking in this half-lit room; old,
sun-bleached curtains of the same material as that which hung on the
walls, shrouded the two windows on the right, letting but a half light
into the room: there was a further door, also curtained, diagonally
opposite that by which the party had entered; and in the centre of the
same wall a tall blue canopy, fringed with silver, rose to the ceiling.
Beneath it, on a daïs of a single step, stood a velvet chair, with
gilded arms, and worked with the royal shield in the embroidery of the
back--with a crowned lion _sejant, guardant_, for the crest above the
crown. Half a dozen more chairs were ranged about the table; and, on a
couch, with her feet swathed in draperies, with a woman standing over
her behind, as if she had just risen up from speaking in her ear, lay
the Queen of the Scots. A tall silver and ebony crucifix, with a couple
of velvet-bound, silver-clasped little books, stood on the table within
reach of her hand, and a folded handkerchief beside them.
Mary was past her prime long ago; she was worn with sorrow and slanders
and miseries; yet she appeared to the priest's eyes, even then, like a
figure of a dream. It was partly, no doubt, the faintness of the light
that came in through the half-shrouded windows that obliterated the
lines and fallen patches that her face was beginning to bear; and she
lay, too, with her back even to such light as there was. Yet for all
that, and even if he had not known who she was, Robin could not have
taken his eyes from her face. She lay there like a fallen flower, pale
as a lily, beaten down at last by the waves and storms that had gone
over her; and she was more beautiful in her downfall and disgrace, a
thousand times, than when she had come first to Holyrood, or danced in
the Courts of France.
Now it is not in the features one by one that beauty lies but rather in
the coincidence of them all. Her face was almost waxen now, blue
shadowed beneath the two waves of pale hair; she had a small mouth, a
delicate nose, and large, searching hazel eyes. Her head-dress was of
white, with silver pins in it; a light white shawl was clasped
cross-wise over her shoulders; and she wore a loose brocaded
dressing-gown beneath it. Her hands, clasped as if in prayer, emerged
out of deep lace-fringed sleeves, and were covered with rings. But it
was the air of almost superhuman delicacy that breathed from her most
forcibly; and, when she spoke, a ring of assured decision revealed her
quiet consciousness of royalty. It was an extraordinary mingling of
fragility and power, of which this feminine and royal room was the
proper frame.
Sir Amyas knelt perfunctorily, as if impatient of it; and rose up again
at once without waiting for the signal. Mary lifted her fingers a little
as a sign to the other two.
"I have brought the French doctor, madam," said the soldier abruptly.
"But he must see your Grace in my presence."
"Then you might as well have spared him, and yourself, the pains, sir,"
came the quiet, dignified voice. "I do not choose to be examined in your
presence."
Robin lifted his eyes to her face; but although he thought he caught an
under air of intense desire towards him and That which he bore, there
was no faltering in the tone of her voice. It was, as some man said, as
"soft as running water heard by night."
"This is absurd, madam. I am responsible for your Grace's security and
good health. But there are lengths--"
"You have spoken the very word," said the Queen. "There are lengths to
which none of us should go, even to preserve our health."
"I tell you, madam--"
"There is no more to be said, sir," said the Queen, closing her eyes
again.
"But what do I know of this fellow? How can I tell he is what he
professes to be?" barked Sir Amyas.
"Then you should never have admitted him at all," said the Queen,
opening her eyes again. "And I will do the best that I can--"
"But, madam, your health is my care; and Mr. Bourgoign here tells me--"
"The subject does not interest me," murmured the Queen, apparently half
asleep.
"But I will retire to the corner and turn my back, if that is
necessary," growled the soldier.
There was no answer. She lay with closed eyes, and her woman began again
to fan her gently.
* * * * *
Robin began to understand the situation a little better. It was plain
that Sir Amyas was a great deal more anxious for the Queen's health than
he pretended to be, or he would never have tolerated such objections.
The Queen, too, must know of this, or she would not have ventured, with
so much at stake, to treat him with such maddening rebuffs. There had
been rumours (verified later) that Elizabeth had actually caused it to
be suggested to Sir Amyas that he should poison his prisoner decently
and privately, and thereby save a great deal of trouble and scandal; and
that Sir Amyas had refused with indignation. Perhaps, if all this were
true, thought Robin, the officer was especially careful on this very
account that the Queen's health should be above suspicion. He remembered
that Sir Amyas had referred just now to a suspicion of poison.... He
determined on the bold line.
"Her Grace has spoken, sir," he said modestly. "And I think I should
have a word to say. It is plain to me, by looking at her Grace, that her
health is very far from what it should be--" (he paused
significantly)--"I should have to make a thorough examination, if I
prescribed at all; and, even should her Grace consent to this being done
publicly, for my part I would not consent. I should be happy to have her
women here, but--"
Sir Amyas turned on him wrathfully.
"Why, sir, you said downstairs--"
"I had not then seen her Grace. But there is no more to be said--" He
kneeled again as if to take his leave, stood up, and began to retire to
the door. Mr. Bourgoign stood helpless.
Then Sir Amyas yielded.
"You shall have fifteen minutes, sir. No more," he cried harshly. "And I
shall remain in the next room."
He made a perfunctory salute and strode out.
The Queen opened her eyes, waited for one tense instant till the door
closed; then she slipped swiftly off the couch.
"The door!" she whispered.
The woman was across the room in an instant, on tip-toe, and drew the
single slender bolt. The Queen made a sharp gesture; the woman fled back
again on one side, and out through the further door, and the old man
hobbled after her. It was as if every detail had been rehearsed. The
door closed noiselessly.
Then the Queen rose up, as Robin, understanding, began to fumble with
his breast. And, as he drew out the pyx, and placed it on the
handkerchief (in reality a corporal), apparently so carelessly laid by
the crucifix, Mary sank down in adoration of her Lord.
"Now, _mon père_," she whispered, still kneeling, but lifting her
star-bright eyes. And the priest went across to the couch where the
Queen had lain, and sat down on it.
"_In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti_--" began Mary.
IV
When the confession was finished, Robin went across, at the Queen's
order, and tapped with his finger-nail upon the door, while she herself
remained on her knees. The door opened instantly, and the two came in,
the woman first, bearing two lighted tapers. She set these down one on
either side of the crucifix, and herself knelt with the old physician.
... Then Robin gave holy communion to the Queen of the Scots....
V
She was back again on her couch now, once more as drowsy-looking as
ever. The candlesticks were gone again; the handkerchief still in its
place, and the woman back again behind the couch. The two men kneeled
close beside her, near enough to hear every whisper.
"Listen, gentlemen," she said softly, "I cannot tell you what you have
done for my soul to-day--both of you, since I could never have had the
priest without my friend.... I cannot reward you, but our Lord will do
so abundantly.... Listen, I know that I am going to my death, and I
thank God that I have made my peace with Him. I do not know if they will
allow me to see a priest again. But I wish to say this to both of
you--as I said just now in my confession, to you, _mon père_--that I am
wholly and utterly guiltless of the plot laid to my charge; that I had
neither part nor wish nor consent in it. I desired only to escape from
my captivity.... I would have made war, if I could, yes, but as for
accomplishing or assisting in her Grace's death, the thought was never
near me. Those whom I thought my friends have entrapped me, and have
given colour to the tale. I pray our Saviour to forgive them as I do;
and with that Saviour now in my breast I tell you--and you may tell all
the world if you will--that I am guiltless of what they impute to me. I
shall die for my Religion, and nothing but that. And I thank you again,
_mon père, et vous, mon ami, que vous avez_...."
Her voice died away in inaudible French, and her eyes closed.
* * * * *
Robin's eyes were raining tears, but he leaned forward and kissed her
hand as it lay on the edge of the couch. He felt himself touched on the
shoulder, and he stood up. The old man's eyes, too, were brimming with
tears.
"I must let Sir Amyas in," he whispered. "You must be ready."
"What shall I say?"
"Say that you will prescribe privately, to me: and that her Grace's
health is indeed delicate, but not gravely impaired.... You understand?"
Robin nodded, passing his sleeve over his eyes. The woman touched the
Queen's shoulder to rouse her, and Mr. Bourgoign opened the door.
VI
"And now, sir," said Mr. Bourgoign, as the two passed out from the house
half an hour later, "I have one more word to say to you. Listen
carefully, if you please, for there is not much time."
He glanced behind him, but the tall figure was gone from the door; there
remained only the two pikemen that kept ward over the great house on the
steps.
"Come this way," said the physician, and led the priest through into the
little walled garden on the south. "He will think we are finishing our
consultation."
* * * * *
"I cannot tell you," he said presently, "all that I think of your
courage and your wit. You made a bold stroke when you told him you would
begone again, unless you could see her Grace alone, and again when you
said you had come to Chartley because she was here. And you may go
again now, knowing you have comforted a woman in her greatest need. They
sent her chaplain from her when she left here for Tixall in July, and
she has not had him again yet. She is watched at every point. They have
taken all her papers from her, and have seduced M. Nau, I fear. Did you
hear anything of him in town?"
"No," said the priest. "I know nothing of him."
"He is a Frenchman, and hath been with her Grace more than ten years. He
hath written her letters for her, and been privy to all her counsels.
And I fear he hath been seduced from her at last. It was said that Mr.
Walsingham was to take him into his house.... Well, but we have not time
for this. What I have to ask you is whether you could come again to us?"
He peered at the priest almost timorously. Robin was startled.
"Come again?" he said. "Why--"
"You see you have already won to her presence, and Sir Amyas is
committed to it that you are a safe man. I shall tell her Grace, too,
that she must eat and drink well, and get better, if she would see you
again, for that will establish you in Sir Amyas' eyes."
"But will she not have a priest?"
"I know nothing, Mr. Alban. They even shut me up here when they took her
to Tixall; and even now none but myself and her two women have access to
her. I do not know even if her Grace will be left here. There has been
talk among the men of going to Fotheringay. I know nothing, from day to
day. It is a ... a _cauchemar_. But they will certainly do what they can
to shake her. It grows more rigorous every day. And I thought, that if
you would tell me whether a message could reach you, and if her chaplain
is not allowed to see her again, you might be able to come again. I
would tell Sir Amyas how much good you had done to her last time, with
your herbs; and, it might be, you could see her again in a month or two
perhaps--or later."
Robin was silent.
The greatness of the affair terrified him; yet its melancholy drew him.
He had seen her on whom all England bent its thoughts at this time, who
was a crowned Queen, with broad lands and wealth, who called Elizabeth
"sister"; yet who was more of a prisoner than any in the Fleet or
Westminster Gatehouse, since those at least could have their friends to
come to them. Her hidden fires, too, had warmed him--that passion for
God that had burst from her when her gaoler left her, and she had flung
herself on her knees before her hidden Saviour. It may be he had doubted
her before (he did not know); but there was no more doubt in him after
her protestation of her innocence. He began to see now that she stood
for more than her kingdom or her son or the plots attributed to her,
that she was more than a mere great woman, for whose sake men could both
live and die; he began to see in her that which poor Anthony had seen--a
champion for the Faith of them all, an incarnate suffering symbol, in
flesh and blood, of that Religion for which he, too, was in peril--that
Religion, which, in spite of all clamour to the contrary, was the real
storm-centre of England's life.
He turned then to the old man with a suddenly flushed face.
"A message will always reach me at Mistress Manners' house, at Booth's
Edge, near Hathersage, in Derbyshire. And I will come from there, or
from the world's end, to serve her Grace."
CHAPTER V
I
"First give me your blessing, Mr. Alban," said Marjorie, kneeling down
before him in the hall in front of them all. She was as pale as a ghost,
but her eyes shone like stars.
* * * * *
It was a couple of months after his leaving Chartley before he came at
last to Booth's Edge. First he had had to bestow Mr. Arnold in
Lancashire, for suspicion was abroad; and it was a letter from Marjorie
herself, reaching him in Derby, at Mr. Biddell's house, that had told
him of it, and bidden him go on with his friend. The town had never been
the same since Topcliffe's visit; and now that Babington House was no
longer in safe Catholic hands, a great protection was gone. He had
better go on, she said, as if he were what he professed to be--a
gentleman travelling with his servant. A rumour had come to her ears
that the talk in the town was of the expected arrival of a new priest to
take Mr. Garlick's place for the present, and every stranger was
scrutinised. So he had taken her advice; he had left Derby again
immediately, and had slowly travelled north; then, coming round about
from the north, after leaving his friend, saying mass here and there
where he could, crossing into Yorkshire even as far west as Wakefield,
he had come at last, through this wet November day, along the Derwent
valley and up to Booth's Edge, where he arrived after sunset, to find
the hall filled with folks to greet him.
He was smiling himself, though his eyes were full of tears, by the time
that he had done giving his blessings. Mr. John FitzHerbert was come up
from Padley, where he lived now for short times together, greyer than
ever, but with the same resolute face. Mistress Alice Babington was
there, still serene looking, but with a new sorrow in her eyes; and,
clinging to her, a thin, pale girl all in black, who only two months
before had lost both daughter and husband; for the child had died
scarcely a week or two before her father, Anthony Babington, had died
miserably on the gallows near St. Giles' Fields, where he had so often
met his friends after dark. It was a ghastly tale, told in fragments to
Robin here and there during his journeyings by men in taverns, before
whom he must keep a brave face. And a few farmers were there, old Mr.
Merton among them, come in to welcome the son of the Squire of Matstead,
returned under a feigned name, unknown even to his father, and there,
too, was honest Dick Sampson, come up from Dethick to see his old
master. So here, in the hall he knew so well, himself splashed with red
marl from ankle to shoulder, still cloaked and spurred, one by one these
knelt before him, beginning with Marjorie herself, and ending with the
youngest farm-boy, who breathed heavily as he knelt down and got up
round-eyed and staring.
"And his Reverence will hear confessions," proclaimed Marjorie to the
multitude, "at eight o'clock to-night; and he will say mass and give
holy communion at six o'clock to-morrow morning."
II