_AN ACT OF GRATITUDE._
Sir Thomas Stukely of Chagford, gentleman, was a type of the old
English justice of his day; a hundred pounds a year, equivalent
to a thousand now, represented the condition of the squire of the
parish, and heavy duties had he to perform; to wit, it was his duty
to know everything and everybody; did any parent bring up his child
in idleness, it was his place to interfere and see that the child was
taught an honest trade; did any vagrants go about begging, it was his
duty to see them tied to a cart’s tail and flogged, or even in extreme
cases of persistence to see them hanged out of the way, for the days
were stern days.
It was his to bridle all masterless men, and, if they would not work,
to send them to gaol; and to see that all youths, forsaking idle dicing
and gaming, or the frequenting of taverns, gave themselves to manly
exercises, archery, cudgel playing, and the like; that each might be a
soldier in time of need.
His hour of rising, in summer, was four o’clock, with breakfast at
five, after which his labourers went to work, and he to his business;
in winter, perhaps an hour later was allowed to all. Every unknown
face, met in the country roads, was challenged by the constables,
and if the stranger gave not a good account of his wayfaring, he was
brought before the justice; did the grocer give short weight, or the
cobbler make shoes which let water, it must all come before Sir Thomas,
as he was called in courtesy, for he was only “a squire.”[31]
At twelve he dined in company with his household: good beef, mutton,
ale, and for the upper board wine--Canary, Malmsey, or the like; bread
was plentiful, both white and brown, vegetables, before the advent of
potatoes, scarce;[32] the ladies made the pastry with their own fair
hands.
The doors stood open to all comers at the hours of dinner and supper;
they of gentle degree fared at the squire’s table, of simple at the
lower board with the servants, which formed with the upper one the
letter T.
Free board and free lodging to all honest comers; it might be rough but
it was ready; as the squire and his household fared, so did the guests,
both in bed and board.
Early after his dinner, the squire went hunting, or rode about the
farms and looked after his tenants; saw that the fences were in good
repair, the roads well kept; and returned at sunset to supper.
In his old wainscotted hall, panelled with black oak, its ceiling
decorated with the arms of the Stukelys between the interlacing beams,
a fire of logs in the huge hearth, and two favourite hounds lying
before it, sat Justice Stukely and his wife at supper.
A ring at the bell, and the porter ushered in a stranger.
“My name is Redfyrne, Sir John Redfyrne, travelling upon the King’s
business, and craving your hospitality.”
“It is thine, man,” said the host, “sit down there,” as he pointed to
the vacant seat of honour by his side; “beef and bread are by thee, and
here is good October, or there fair Malmsey, to wash it down.”
Sir John ate heartily; and his host did not ply him with many
questions until he had finished a huge platter of meat, and discussed a
jorum of ale.
“Hast ridden far, Sir John?”
“From Bovey only.”
“Which way, round Moreton or by the Becky?”
“By the Becky, where I narrowly escaped the Gubbings.”
“The Gubbings!” and the squire with difficulty repressed a malediction,
which rose to his lips. “They are like wasps, kill one, a hundred
come to his funeral. Only last month we caught a party of them
red-handed, and hung them up on the spot, for they are not Christians
or Englishmen, and we thought it wasn’t worth while to trouble judge
or jury over them. There we strung them up from the beeches of Holme
Chase, the prettiest beech-nuts honest eyes could rest upon--five men,
two women, and three boys; yet they are not frightened away from these
parts yet.”
“Nor ever will be unless you hunt them from the moor with bloodhounds.”
“It _may_ come to that; they are a plague-spot in the Commonwealth, and
especially upon our fair country of Devon. But what news from court,
Sir John?”
“The King’s Majesty’s health is better, but he hath been sorely tried
by the humour of one Dr. Crome, who preached in a sermon, that no
one could approve of the dissolution of the monasteries, and at the
same time admit the usefulness of prayers for the souls in purgatory;
his majesty thought the speech levelled against himself, and Dr.
Crome being examined before the Council, criminated ex-Bishop Latimer
and many others. Crome and Latimer saved themselves by recantation,
but Anne Askew, a maid of honour about the court; Adlam, a tailor;
Otterden, shame to say, a priest; and Lascelles, a gentleman in
waiting, have all been burnt alive at Smithfield. Shaxton, late Bishop
of Worcester, smelt strongly of the faggot, but he recanted just in
time, and preached the funeral sermon over his late allies as they
smouldered.”
“That reminds me of the old song,” said the Justice, “which they sang
in France when I made my first essay in arms there, the King was young
then.
“‘Apotre de Luthere,
Si l’on brule ta chair,
C’est seulement que tu saches d’avance
Les tourments d’enfer.’”[33]
“Well, for the witch and for the heretic a faggot is the best cure.
What else is going on?”
“They say that an ingenious mechanist has invented a machine to move
the King upstairs and down in his chair without difficulty; he is so
corpulent that little trace is left of the princely gallant of the
Cloth of Gold.”
“Queen Catharine has a hard time of it?”
“She is a good nurse, but she is careful not to cross the royal temper.”
“There are five good examples set before her in her predecessors.”
And so the talk went on, over the recent peace concluded with France
in the previous summer; over the disputes in court between the party
of Cranmer and the Seymours on the one hand, and that of the Duke of
Norfolk, and Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester, on the other. But we will
not weary the reader with any more of the chit-chat of the latter days
of Henry VIII., now drawing near his end, furious as a wild beast at
the slightest contradiction, worshipped by his courtiers on bended
knee, and putting to the death Catholic and Protestant alike, if they
varied from the doctrines stated in the “King’s Boke.”
The supper over and the servants dismissed, the real purpose of Sir
John’s visit came out, and the Justice learned with deep surprise
mingled with disgust, that he sought a warrant for the arrest of Sir
Walter Trevannion and his reputed son Cuthbert, and men to execute the
same.
“Sir Walter Trevannion! why, what has he done?”
“Nought as Sir Walter, but much as Father Ambrose of Furness Abbey.”
“Pooh! pooh! if the old man has been a monk it was lawful to be so
once; and if they still play at monkery, why the King has their money,
let them play.”
“It is, I fear, a more serious business than you imagine, Sir Thomas;
this Father Ambrose was art and part in the northern insurrection,
which they call the ‘Pilgrimage of Grace,’ and moreover, attainted for
that very crime.”
“But how dost thou identify him with Sir Walter, who seems a harmless
country gentleman?”
“I have been on his track for many years; it was I who detected
that traitor, the some-time Abbot of Glastonbury, in correspondence
with him, and I am well assured that buried somewhere beneath the
foundations of the ruined pile of that Abbey lies a secret chamber
containing papers and documents, which would reveal the names and
machinations of many traitors to his royal highness; but there is
only one who knows the secret of its whereabouts, and that one is the
adopted son of Sir Walter.”
“The _adopted_ son, young Cuthbert, is he not the real son?”
“No, Sir Walter was a monk till the dissolution; this young Cuthbert
was a foundling, brought up at Glastonbury, who disappeared when we
were on the point of seizing him, and has never been heard of since,
till, being on the trail of Father Ambrose, I unearthed him as Sir
Walter Trevannion, and at the same time, killing two birds with one
stone, found my master Cuthbert. It is a glorious stroke of luck, and
will make my fortune at court.”
“And the poor Trevannions,--for there is no doubt Sir Walter _is_ Sir
Walter?”
“None at all, his father denounced him for becoming a monk against the
paternal will.”
“Well, the poor Trevannions, what of them? what will be their fate?”
“If, Sir Thomas, you are a friend to King Harry, as holding his
commission you must be, you will accompany me with the dawn of day to
the manor house, with a guard of constables in case of resistance, and
so enable me to seize the couple of traitors, and lodge them safely in
Exeter gaol.”
“It must be done, since you yourself, who are the accredited agent of
the King, answer for it, and since you say your evidence is sure; but I
would sooner you had some other errand than to put me on this job. It
is hard upon a man to seize his own neighbours and equals in this way.
Can you prove the identity? there is the question.”
“A monk, an apostate if you care to call him one, is at my beck and
call, who was at Furness with Prior Ambrose, and knows every hair on
his head.”
“And the lad?”
“An old schoolfellow at the Abbey is with me, who saw him, himself
unseen, at Bovey yesterday, and can swear to him.”
“Then we had better go to bed, for we must rise betimes.”
“Only write out the warrants to-night. You can lodge me?”
“As I would the devil if he came on the King’s service. Nay, be not
offended, I love not this butchering work, chopping up men into
quarters; but still the King is the King, and justice must be done. I
have had my bark and will not fail you when the time comes to bite.”
* * * * *
When Cuthbert reached home that night, he lost no time in telling
Father Ambrose, or Sir Walter, by whichever name the reader likes to
call him, the story of his meeting with Sir John Redfyrne.
Sir Walter looked very serious as he heard it; he did not like the look
of the affair.
“It might have been well for _thee_, poor lad, hadst thou let the
Gubbings finish their work.”
“But would it have been right, father?”
“No, that it would not, and as thou hast done thy duty, so I doubt not
thou may’st look for divine protection and the guardianship of saints
and angels; but one thing is certain, we must anticipate danger by
doing at once what we should have deferred for a week--to-morrow we
ride for Glastonbury.”
“To-morrow; and must I leave this place, perhaps for ever, so soon, no
good-bye said?”
“Thou may’st never leave it at all otherwise, save as a captive; yes,
to-morrow, as soon after dawn as arrangements can be made for my
absence.”
The sun had just risen on the following morning when two powerful
horses, saddled and bridled, furnished with saddle-bags, and a third
with a servant already mounted, were in the court-yard. The aged monks
clustered about the door, their Lauds said, to bid their benefactor a
short farewell; his favourite servants awaited his parting commands,
when all at once a man came hurriedly forward to say that Sir Thomas
Stukely, with a strange gentleman and a band of constables, was coming
up the avenue.
“Cuthbert, mount,” cried Sir Walter, and the two cutting short their
good-byes, jumped upon their steeds, surprised out of their calmer
senses, by this sudden and unlooked for announcement. “This way, my
son,” cried the old knight, and led the way across a paddock behind the
house; disappearing in a copse beyond, just as the pursuers reached the
court-yard, and found the old men and servants trying to look as if
nothing had happened.
“My life upon it, they are but just gone,” cried Sir John Redfyrne, as
he gazed around.
The two fugitives rode through the copse by a narrow path, and then
emerged on the road just at the brink of the pass described before;
here the way descended to the level of the Becky by several zig-zags:
and they were forced to ride very cautiously.
Not so cautiously, however, but a trivial accident happened, involving
most tragical consequences.
Sir Walter’s horse trod on a mole hill, just thrown up, and his foot
sank in the loose earth; causing him to stumble and throw his master to
the ground; Cuthbert was down in a moment, and at his foster father’s
side, and, to his joy, he saw his benefactor arise and sit up as if
unhurt, but when he tried to get on his legs, he groaned and said--
“My son, I fear my poor leg is broken, the stirrup held and twisted
it.”
“Nay, nay, my father, let me help you.”
Sir Walter almost swooned with pain as he made a desperate effort to
arise; then said, “Cuthbert, ride on, it is _you_ they seek, remember
all that depends on you, ride on to Glastonbury, and wait for news of
me; if I come not, you know what to do, ride on: ah! here they come,
gallop forward ere you be too late.”
“Do you think I can leave you now, father?” said the poor youth. “Oh,
try once more. Nay, it is useless, here they are.”
“Put the best face you can on the matter; do not let them see we were
flying from them.”
“Help, help, Sir Walter Trevannion has fallen from his horse, and
broken his leg.”
“What,” cried Sir Thomas Stukely as he rode up; “how is this, Sir
Walter, not much hurt I hope; we must help you home,--come, men, bear a
hand.”
“No more of this trifling,” cried Sir John Redfyrne, sternly; “while it
goes on, that lad may escape, and he is worth his weight in gold; do
your duty, constables, and you, Sir Thomas.”
“By zounds, I want no man to teach me my duty, least of all a cockney
knight: look here, Trevannion, tell me the truth and I will act no
knave’s part to spite an old friend whose father was my crony, and so
serve some one else’s grudge; art thou, or art thou not, the man they
seek as Father Ambrose, Prior of Furness? say _no_, and we will help
thee home, and leave thee in peace; now man, why dost thou not speak?”
Sir Walter looked upon his friend, such a sad look, in which gratitude
struggled with pain.
“Stukely,” he said, “do thy duty, thou art ever a true man.”
Stukely groaned aloud, but he offered no further opposition, and the
party, escorted by the constables, took the road for Bovey, _en route_
for Exeter gaol.
FOOTNOTES
[31] The title “Sir” did not in these days _necessarily_ imply
knighthood; it was commonly given to Justices of the Peace, scions of
noble family, and even to Parish Priests, although we have not used it
in that connexion for fear of creating confusion in the mind of the
modern reader.
[32] Until late in this reign no edible roots were grown as food in
England.
[33] These cruel lines are authentic; the martyrdoms related really
occurred on July the sixteenth, 1546, but perhaps the news had not
reached Devon, and was not “stale news” there.