was going on in her own proper domain. She had not dared to seclude the
young girl from all society, but she did not know how well acquainted
she had become with all the sisters, and how she was using them for her
own purposes. The little plotter was trying, as she had told Geoffrey,
to find the weak spot in the citadel, and she believed she had at length
discovered it.
If the one who guards the gate can be won over to the side of the enemy,
there is little hope for the garrison, however strong; and though Lady
Katharine could make no impression on deaf old Ursula, who wielded her
symbols of office with as much authority as the mother superior herself,
yet in the person of the assistant who had been granted her on account
of her infirmity, she found an excellent point of attack.
The convent porteress was not a nun, for it was her business to attend
to all the out-door affairs, and thus keep up that connection between
the recluses and the world they had abandoned which was necessary and
convenient. It was her duty to purchase stores of provisions and
clothing, to attend to the poor who came regularly to the door to
receive their dole of charity, and to see that the tenantry of the
convent lands paid their dues.
The young girl who assisted her in these often arduous tasks, and who
hoped some time to take her place when sister Ursula had exchanged her
seat in the entrance-gate for a more quiet resting-place in the crypt of
the convent church, was the eldest daughter of dame Joan Redwood, a
buxom lass of twenty summers, who had inherited much of her mother's
good nature, but very little of her good sense. She was not a little
superstitious, and very vain. Although the dress she wore was not
entirely conventual, it gave no opportunity for displaying trinkets or
bright colors; yet she loved nothing better than to gather a little
store of bright kerchiefs and ribbons, in which she arrayed herself when
quite alone, and marched up and down her little cell with the greatest
complacency, though she never dared carry it any farther.
This had not escaped Kate's quick eyes, and she laid her plot
accordingly. She surprised her one day when making her finest toilet,
and having first frightened her with the idea that she would immediately
report it to the abbess, she soothed her by the gift of a necklace of
red beads, and made her her devoted follower from that moment.
The next day being a market day, the first face that presented itself at
the wicket of the convent-gate was dame Redwood herself. She was
standing beside a sturdy little pony, half hidden by two enormous
panniers.
Her daughter's face was covered with blushes, caused partly by pleasure,
and partly by the fear of a certain good-natured sort of scolding, which
the dame thought it her duty to bestow whenever she had not seen any of
her children for a time. She therefore put on her most demure look, and
smoothed every fold in her apron before she descended from her post of
observation to open the gate.
"A laggard as usual!" said the dame, shaking the snow from her wooden
shoes, and running her quick little eyes all over her daughter's person
to find the next best point of attack; and before they had gone far they
encountered Lady Katharine's present, which the vain girl had put on
under her kerchief, but had not sufficiently concealed. She pounced
upon it, greatly to poor Phoebe's confusion.
"Ye idle spendthrift!" she said, "ye have been spending the half-noble
your father gave ye for your new kirtle on these follies, have ye? Then
ye shall go barebacked for all he shall ever give ye again!"
"Nay, mother, do not be angry; the half-noble is safe in the green
purse. These are a gift from a noble lady, oh! so beautiful! and she is
shut up here because she is a heretic. I don't know what that is, but
she seems to me as good as the mother herself."
Now, mistress Redwood's errand to the convent, though ostensibly to sell
her eggs, cheese, and milk to the cook, was really to find out what was
going on in the house where the prisoners were confined, how they were
treated, and, if possible, to open communication with them; thus
fulfilling her contract with her husband and Bertrand, who having eaten
and slept, had concluded, very wisely, to leave the first steps of the
undertaking entirely to her. She did not wish to question her daughter
directly, for fear of being overheard, or her remarks repeated; but she
knew Phoebe very well, and was well aware that but little pressing was
necessary to make her tell all she knew on the subject. She was a little
surprised to hear that there was another Lollard prisoner there, and
wished to find out something more about her; so she tossed up her head
with an air of incredulity.
"A pretty young lady, indeed! That is a story for old folks, not me.
And where should a pretty young lady in Our Lady's convent get red bead
necklaces to throw around to whoever will pick them up? Tell me where
you got it, Phoebe, and I'll not be hard on you."
"I said but the truth, mother--I did, indeed," said poor Phoebe, only
bent on proving her innocence, and, forgetting a strict rule which
forbade what was seen or heard indoors being repeated without, she told
her mother--for the latter still appeared incredulous--all she knew of
Lady Katharine Hyde. She also told her, in the hope of distracting
attention from the subject in hand, about the arrival of the two heretic
boys who were said to have done very wicked things, and were shut up
safely in the dungeon under the east tower.
The dame was getting the very information she most wanted, so she
demanded, forgetting her caution: "And have ye seen the lads? And is one
pale and sickly, with light hair?"
"Nay, mother, I cannot tell: Sister Ursula never sends me with their
food. I only saw them the day father brought them here, and then there
were so many in the court-yard, and such a trampling of horses, and I
had to bring so many tankards of beer for the soldiers, that I minded
naught beside."
At this moment there was another summons at the gate, and when Phoebe
had opened it a poor woman entered, bearing in her arms a sick baby, and
leading by the hand a miserable-looking child just able to walk. They
had come for medical assistance from the nuns, who were famous as
leeches in those days. A few moments after one of the nuns appeared
with Lady Katharine, who was herself well skilled in the art for one of
her age, as it was then every lady's duty to be able to order, as well
as prepare, the simple medicines then in use, for her family and
peasantry; and this was a part of the education which a convent was
expected to bestow on those brought up within its walls.
While the two were standing behind the grated window where they received
all such applications, Lady Katharine's eyes were wandering round the
busy scene in the court-yard, whose occupants had been increased by the
arrival of other peasants--some beggars, more sick. This little glimpse
of the world was a rare favor for her, and a great treat, so she
resolved to make the most of it. Sister Agnes was deaf herself, and was
talking to a deaf old woman, so she felt wonderfully at liberty. She
noticed dame Redwood, and with her natural quick perception of character
determined that she was a person she could trust. In a moment she had
devised a plan of operations. She called to her a little child who was
standing near.
"Dost thou see yonder stout woman, little one, standing by the gray
pony?"
"Ay, lady," said the child; "she is talking to my mother."
"Then run and tell her I have somewhat for the pain in her back."
When her astonished patient came at the summons, she drew her to the
farthest corner of the window.
"Good woman, are you a mother?"
The woman looked down at the bright face, now pale with excitement,
which was lifted up so beseechingly to her, and a tear glistened in her
black eyes, for she easily recognized her from her daughter's story.
"Ay, lady, that am I. Two knaves and two lassies at home, beside a
well-grown wench that serves here under Sister Ursula."
"Are you Phoebe's mother? Oh! then think how you would long to see her
or the others, if they were shut up in a dreary castle far away from you
and all that love them! Would not your heart be very sad for them, and
would not you pray to God that some one in that distant place might be
kind to them, help them in their troubles, and nurse them when they were
sick?"
"That would I, indeed!" said the dame, her motherly heart quite
overflowing at this appeal; "and none the less gladly would I help them,
lady," she continued, lowering her voice, "if they are of the new faith,
for by our Lady, I think not so much of the old as I did a few weeks
ago."
"Say you so?" said the young girl joyfully. "Then I have found the very
friend I want; but it is not so much for myself that I need your aid as
for two poor lads who are shut up here. One is sick, and cannot eat the
food they give them, though even that is little enough, and I fear he
will die here all alone. He has no mother, but only a father, who knows
not what has become of his children."
"Can you see them and talk with them, lady?"
"Not so often as I used; they watch me more closely. It is through
great danger that, when I walk in the garden, I can speak to them at a
window." She went on to tell her in as few words as possible, how they
had become acquainted, for she feared interruption, and she received in
reply the welcome news that Bertrand was actually at her cottage
plotting their release.
"I will bring the best I have for the poor child to-morrow," said the
dame; "but how shall I get leave to see you, lady, when I come?"
"Might not the pain in your back be rather worse to-morrow morn?"
replied Lady Katharine mischievously, "and who but Kate Hyde can fit a
plaster for it? See also that you bring a bottle for the medicine."
"Hear her now!" laughed the merry dame, delighted at this little bit of
diplomacy. "Thou'lt never die for want of wit to know the way to live.
The saints preserve me, but the pain shall be bad enough, and the bottle
big enough, and the holy Mother Beatrice none the wiser for the
business. And be sure, pretty lady, that naught would cure a pain in my
back, if I had one in earnest, so soon as carrying you on it out of this
dismal place."
The plotters were now obliged to separate, but each retired well pleased
with her interview.
As for Lady Katharine, she could hardly conceal her triumph as she took
her tapestry frame and sat down as demurely as possible at the Mother
Superior's side in the convent parlor. "There!" she said to herself as
she stitched away diligently at the eyes of a St. George whom she was
trying to make look fiercely at a flaming dragon which lay, as yet, only
in outline, at his feet. "There now! I have found out not only a weak
point in the garrison, but a standpoint beyond; and what with friends
within and friends without, and a messenger to go between the two, out
upon you for a silly thing, Kate Hyde, if with all this you cannot balk
Mother Beatrice in all her well-laid plans!"
*CHAPTER XVI.*
_*The Convent Ghost.*_
Dame Redwood hastened home with light panniers and a lighter heart; and
so eager was she to tell her tale, that she made poor pony trot at a
rate to which his old legs were quite unaccustomed. When she entered
the cottage door and presented herself to her husband and his guest, her
cheeks were several shades rosier than usual with exercise and
excitement. Nevertheless, she would not vouchsafe them a word till she
had scolded the children all round, brushed up the hearth, and put the
dinner on the fire; after which she began, but would always stop at the
most interesting points in her story to stir the porridge, or drive the
dogs from the door. The little woman felt her importance, and was
determined to make the most of it.
"Was ever man so plagued by woman!" was poor Dick's exclamation when she
went off to get some water just as she had begun to tell how the boys
had broken through the old door in their dungeon.
"Now there is an ungrateful man!" said the dame on her return. "Better
say, never was man better served by woman. What would ye have done, I'd
like to know, if it had been left in your hands? Ye would have blurted
it out at the gate, and had the whole convent at your heels. I warrant
ye would never have come home with whole bones, let alone the knowledge
ye were seeking."
"A truce to your tongue, woman," said her husband impatiently. "Where
did you say was the door the lad broke through?"
When she had told him he sat for a moment in deep thought, then brought
his great fist down on the table with a blow which made every platter on
the shelves rattle.
"How now, man!" said his wife with a start. "Wouldst thou bring the
house down around our ears?"
"I mind not of the house now," he replied eagerly; "but this I know--if
they are in the dungeon under the east tower, and have opened the door
into the old cellarer's vault, by our Lady, there is not ten feet of
solid earth betwixt us and them, as sure as I am Dick Redwood!"
Both of his auditors were much surprised at this sudden declaration, and
the dame even forgot her stew-pans in her curiosity.
"Twenty-five years ago," continued the soldier, turning to his guest,
"before ever I knew Joan Gilfoy yonder, I was ever ready for a light job
that was well paid for, and knew how to hold my tongue about it when it
was done. Often one would come to me and say: 'Dick, here is a bit of
work and a noble for thee, and if thou forgettest all about it, at the
end of the year thou shalt have another.' So I know many a thing about
this country that few, if any, others do; but never did anything come to
hand so well as this."
"How is it? Tell us now, for mercy's sake," said Bertrand as the
soldier paused.
"Why, you see," replied the Captain, "in the old time, before Mother
Beatrice's day, they led a different life at the convent from what they
do now. But though the prioress was easy herself, she was not enough so
for some of the sisters. They wanted to come out sometimes and take a
walk in the woods by moonlight; so they got me and two others--dead and
gone long ago in the French wars,--to mine a way for them, opening by
one end into the entrance to the cellarer's vault, under the east tower,
and by the other under the bank at the spring, where the convent wall
runs along the edge of the precipice. It is many years now since they
made the beer-vault on the other side for fear of the damp, and when the
new prioress came, all the nuns' fine walks were stopped; so I warrant
you there is not one in the convent now who knows aught of it. If the
way be not too much stopped up with rubbish, I could walk, in half an
hour, from here straight into the lads' prison--that is, if they know
how to open the door, for the spring is on the other side."
"We will see to that matter at once," cried Bertrand, rising and
snatching his cap; and in a few moments they were striding along, as if
on a race, down one of the forest paths. They went on for some time till
they came almost directly under the grim-looking convent walls rising
from the top of a steep bank. They could see plainly the spot where the
entrance had been, but to their great chagrin, found it was impossible
to try whether it were still there, for the drifting snow had been piled
up in the little dell in such huge drifts that they had to abandon all
hope of removing them.
This was a great disappointment, but they both knew that the only thing
to do was to wait for a thaw, and meanwhile Bertrand determined to send
word to Sir John of the state of affairs, and make what preparations he
could for conveying them to London as soon as they could escape.
The next morning, there was an unwonted confusion in the ordinarily
quiet convent of Our Lady of the Seven Sorrows. In spite of all the
strictness of Mother Beatrice's rule, there was an audible hum of voices
in the refectory, and a look, half of terror, half of delight, on every
face. For what earthly power could keep still the tongues of fifty
women, when such an excellent subject for gossip had arisen in their
very midst? Some told the story one way, and some another, but one
thing was plain--a ghost had appeared to several of the inmates of the
convent the preceding night. Sister Hilda, who had fallen behind-hand
with some aves and paters which had been given her by way of penance,
had been in the chapel on her knees before the figure of the Virgin at
midnight, and she declared that just as the last stroke of the bell died
away, she lifted her head, and saw a very tall, white figure pass
through the choir, and out at the door behind the altar. Sister Ann had
been passing down the corridor leading to the infirmary, as it was her
duty to watch Sister Agnes, who was ill, when the apparition had brushed
by her and passed up the tower stairway.
Poor Phoebe was the most frightened of all, though she did not dare to
relate the horrible encounter _she_ had had with the spectre, for
reasons which will shortly appear. It was her duty to hand the great
bunch of keys to the abbess every night, and on the preceding evening
when she got into bed, she suddenly remembered that she had left the key
of the garden-door hanging in its lock. In great terror lest her
forgetfulness should draw upon her some severe punishment, she had
stolen softly down-stairs to recover it before it should be found in the
morning; but just as she came to the door and had taken the key out, a
tall white figure approached, and laid a deathly cold hand on hers. She
had shrieked with fright, dropped the key, and run as if for her life;
and now the key could not be found anywhere. The prioress had not yet
missed it--that was the only comfort; the weather was not pleasant
enough to make the garden an agreeable resort, and it might be some days
before she was disgraced, but it must come at last; so she did not care
to give her experiences with the ghost.
When dame Redwood appeared at the grate to ask for the plaster Lady
Katharine had been so kind as to promise her, she noticed her daughter's
pale face, but was too much occupied with her particular business to ask
her many questions. It seemed so long to her before the lady came that
she feared lest something should have happened to prevent their meeting
altogether; but at last she appeared, walking as demurely as Mother
Beatrice herself. As soon as she was sure of being free from
observation, however, she raised her hood and showed to the dame a face
so expressive of hardly repressed fun, that the good woman could not
help catching the infection.
"Ah! my poor afflicted sister!" said Kate, imitating the nuns' tone,
"how is that emaciated back of thine to-day?"
Fortunately the dame never laughed very loud; she only screwed up her
round face and shook her fat sides for a minute or two, and as soon as
she had indulged in this irresistible fit of merriment, she answered:
"Ah! lady, it is not so much about me as about the bottle you'll be
asking, and here it is, and a little meat in this package, if you can
hide so much."
"That can I," replied Kate, opening her cloak and showing some
ingeniously arranged pockets. "A nun's garb is good for hiding, if for
naught else. But here is another matter: do you think your good man
could make another key like that? Phoebe told me he had replaced one
once that had been lost, but that he needed a copy." Here she produced,
with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, the identical key which had
caused the poor under-porteress such trouble and fright. "It is the key
of the garden-gate, and it is very necessary for my comfort that Mother
Beatrice and I should each have a means of entrance there."
"The saints preserve me, lady! but how got you hold of a key that not
even my Phoebe herself would dare use without Sister Ursula's
permission? She has told me as much herself."
"Ah! I have a way," said Kate, her mouth twitching with fun; "and as to
daring, I dare anything--for those I love," she added to herself; but
the very thought sent a flush of color to her cheek, and moisture to her
eye.
"As to the key," said the dame, turning it over and over in her hands,
"it is as like as a twin to the one that opens the big oak chest at
home. I know it well, for I have handled it now nigh upon forty years."
"That is good news," replied the young schemer. "I am to go into the
garden to-day, but with Mother Beatrice. When she turns her back I
think I can throw a string with a stone at the end over the east side,
close by the tower turret. Could not Bertrand fasten the key to it
then, so that I could draw it up at the next turn? They would not
notice such a little thing from the windows."
This led to a full account of the hidden entrance, and when they parted,
it was with the agreement that a note should be thrown over the wall by
a string in case of any emergency, and, until Bertrand and Dick could
clear out the passage, the prisoners should remain quiet, and be, above
all, particular to excite no suspicion.
Mother Beatrice being now pretty well assured that her prisoners were
subdued by hunger and long confinement, thought it high time to begin
the work of their conversion, and on this very day she had sent Father
Paul, one of the confessors of the convent, to have a conversation with
them.
When he entered the room it was afternoon, and some sunbeams which had
lost their way among these grim walls and towers, shot through the
grated window and rested on the face of a pale, thin boy, who was
reclining on the straw in the corner, partly supported by the wall,
while with his long, thin fingers he was braiding some straw into fancy
shapes. Beside him knelt his brother, trying to pin around him a
tattered cloak in such a way as to keep off the cold air from the
window. He sprang to his feet as the door opened, and placed himself as
if for a shield in front of the sick child.
"Do not be afraid, my sons," said the monk, softening his tones
involuntarily at the sight of such suffering. He drew a wooden stool to
the side of the bed, and laid his hand on the boy's high forehead with
such a tender touch that Geoffrey's fears were for the moment disarmed.
"Thou art very ill, my son. Wouldst thou not like to leave this sad
place and go out into the bright world? It is almost spring now--the
flowers will soon be out in the woods."
The boy did not answer for a moment; he only gave a long, deep sigh, but
it was such a longing and yet patient sigh, that Geoffrey's brow waxed
dark with indignation, and he walked away toward the window to conceal
his feelings.
"Ah! Father, if you had been a prisoner all these weary months, you
would not ask that question."
"Then, my son, all thou hast to do is to kneel down here at my knee and
confess thy sins, and then thou shalt go free out into the sunshine; for
I think thou hast borne penance enough for all the wrong thou canst have
committed, poor child!"
Geoffrey turned with an angry answer on his lips, but Hubert's quiet
voice was already replying:
"I shrive me to God morning and evening, and Christ hath long since
borne my penance. He only stands betwixt my God and me."
"How!" said Father Paul, amazed at finding such opposition at the very
outset. "So young, and a heretic already! Dost thou set thyself
against the holy mother church and all her teachings?"
"By all the saints ye worship, sir priest!" Geoffrey burst out, no
longer able to restrain himself, "your holy mother church hath showed
herself but a sorry jade of a step-mother to us. What obedience do we
owe to one who has robbed us of our home and our friends, and who
thirsts for our blood? You had better choose another place to preach
the papistrie in than this foul dungeon!"
"Boy!" said the monk sternly, "I came to bring you a message of peace,
but you will make me turn it to one of wrath and justice. If you are old
enough thus to brave authority, you are old enough for the rack to force
from you more seemly speech."
Geoffrey was cooler now, but none the less determined. He stood before
his visitor with such resolution in his hollow eyes, and stern contempt
in the rigid lines about his mouth, that the monk involuntarily stepped
back a space. He spoke in a low, deep tone: