The rest of our journey northward passed almost without incident. The
day after our arrival at Godalming we rode quickly through Guildford to
London, where we tarried no longer than we could possibly help, staying
that night in the village of Highgate.
Four days later, following the seemingly endless Great North Road, we
arrived at the village of Bawtry, from which it is said most of our New
England colonists had come. This place is just over the Yorkshire
border, and to our unaccustomed ears the broad dialect seemed almost a
foreign tongue.
Here we stayed the night, intending to make an early start, so as to be
at Holwick before sunset. An old farmer advised us to go by Thorne
rather than by Doncaster, and, taking his advice, we rode over a fairly
level road, which in three hours brought us in sight of the former
place.
Here we followed a broad, sluggish river, whereon lay many
broad-bottomed craft not unlike those we had seen on the inland waters
of the Dutch Republic. This river they call the Don. When we left it
we crossed another--the Aire--at a place called Snaith.
We were now but a few miles from our destination, and our hopes and
fears ran high. At Carleton we left the main road, and after a few miles
of a narrow winding lane the gaunt tower of Holwick rose before us.
The village was a straggling one, consisting of a few stone cottages, an
indifferent inn, and a small church, its square tower, blackened by
fire, a silent witness to a long-forgotten Scottish raid. From its
lead-covered summit Old Noll himself had directed the attack upon my
father's stronghold.
Poverty, through manorial neglect, was only too apparent, and I could
not help exclaiming despondently: "Look, friends! What a heritage, and
hardly a scrap of paper to prove my right to it!"
We halted at the old inn, and enquired in a seemingly casual tone
whether we could be accommodated there. "For," quoth Felgate to the
servile landlord, "we have a desire to know more of this old castle, and
methinks that good fishing is obtainable in this stream."
"Eh, my masters," replied he, "'tis not to be beaten in all Yorkshire
for good sport--trout, dace, chub, and even the lordly salmon; and as
for t'old castle--well, 'tis said that spooks be about. Leastwise I
never care to go yonder missen, for strange noises affright the whole
countryside!"
"Oh!" I ejaculated. "And is that so?"
"Ay, young sir. With the disappearance of Sir Owen, the owner of
Holwick, after the taking of the castle some two-and-twenty years ago by
the malignants--and a curse be on 'em all--Sir Owen was last seen
fighting his way through the rebel foot. They say he was killed, and
his body buried in the dry moat by the rebels; and ever since that time
we often hear most fearsome cries and noises."
When we had arranged for a few days' stay, a serving man led our horses
away, and we entered the best room of the place. It was an
oak-panelled, wainscoted room, with a low, smoke-grimed ceiling that was
traversed by a massive beam. The floor was paved with large stones,
while an ingle nook and settle imparted a cheerful aspect to the
apartment. But what attracted my attention most was a mattock and a
couple of spades, with the rich red clay still sticking to them, lying
in a corner of the room.
"Is our host a gravedigger as well as an innkeeper?" asked Drake, his
eye following the glance I gave at the implements.
"Nay, Greville, it means that we are forestalled; someone is already at
work here."
"Who?"
"I'll wager 'tis none other than that villain Increase Joyce."
"Ho, landlord!" shouted Felgate, in a voice that sounded like the
bellowing of a bull.
Our host soon appeared, cringing and bowing like the menial that he was.
"Where is the man that uses these things?" I demanded, pointing to the
spades and mattock.
Our host, taken aback, stammered some inaudible reply.
"Speak up, man!" I commanded sternly.
"'Tis but a king's officer making a survey of the castle."
"King's officer, forsooth! Now, listen! As you value your hide, answer
truly. We are king's officers; he is an arrant rogue and villain. For
aught I know you may be his accomplice. Now, where is he?"
"He rode off this morning to Selby."
"And he returns----?"
"Sir, I know not--on my honour!"
Whether the man lied or not I could not tell. His crafty face was
expressionless.
"Now, listen, sirrah! Say not one word that we are here, but directly
he returns let us know. Fail us, or play us false, and you'll answer to
the king's justices at York."
The landlord, thoroughly cowed, promised compliance, and we withdrew to
a remote room to await events.
Twilight was drawing in as the sound of horse's hoofs was heard on the
hard road. We made our way to a window where we could overlook the
front of the inn, and the horseman proved without doubt to be the rogue
Joyce, though he was arrayed more gaily than of yore, and a
close-trimmed beard hid the lower part of his face.
The landlord took his horse to the stables where ours were kept, and
Joyce made to follow, but with some inaudible remark the former
succeeded in inducing the villain to enter the house.
In a few minutes we heard him calling for food and drink, and the
clattering of knives and platters showed that he was appeasing his
appetite with zest.
It was a pitch-dark night; a keen easterly wind whistled through the
trees, while rain-laden, murky, ill-defined clouds drifted across the
sky.
"Hist!" whispered Felgate, laying his hand on my arm.
Cautiously out of the doorway crept the figure of a man, his form
muffled in a dark cloak, while a broad-brimmed hat was pulled down over
his face. In his hand he carried a horn lantern, while the jangle of
steel showed that the spades were to be brought to work. It was
Increase Joyce.
With a stealthy tread he vanished down the road, hugging the buildings
as if fearful of meeting a benighted stranger in the now deserted
village.
Without a word we buckled on our swords and left the inn, following
carefully in his track, pausing ever and anon to try and detect the
sound of his footsteps.
At length we came to the confines of the castle grounds, where a thick
belt of trees added to the already overpowering darkness. Groping
blindly forward, stumbling over roots and colliding with unseen trunks
of trees, we continued our quest, fearful lest the crackling of a dry
twig or the clanking of our weapons should betray our whereabouts.
Just as we reached the far side of the wood the sudden gleam of a
lantern being lit arrested us. Simultaneously we dropped on the
dew-sodden grass and awaited further developments.
The ghostly light of the lantern flickered upon the grey walls of the
tower, casting the long shadow of the man upon it in grotesque shapes.
For a moment Joyce paused, then, turning towards us, began to walk,
counting the paces as he went. At the thirty-second he set the lantern
down, and, plying his spade with great vigour, sent the soil in all
directions, some of the dirt falling close to us.
For over an hour he delved, till his laboured breathing showed how great
his efforts were. Five feet down he dug, till the heap of soil hid him
from us.
"Now!" whispered Felgate, laying his hand on his swordhilt.
"Nay! He has found naught. Let him enjoy his disappointment for a
while."
Muttering curses at his want of success, Joyce dragged himself out of
the pit and walked towards the castle, leaving the lantern on the
ground. Then he began to pace afresh, but in a different direction,
till his form was lost in the darkness.
For a while no sound save the occasional hoot of an owl and the rapidly
dying breeze broke the stillness as we waited for some signs of the
renewed efforts of the treasure seeker.
Suddenly a hideous cry, so terrifying that it caused the blood to freeze
in our veins, echoed through the silence of the night. Accustomed
though we were to scenes of bloodshed and violence, this weird outburst,
the concentrated expression of mortal agony, held us spellbound.
Drake was the first to recover himself, and, springing to his feet with
a shout, he drew his sword and dashed across the open space of grass,
while we followed close at his heels.
Stopping but for a moment to possess himself of the lantern, he made his
way in the direction from which the sound had come.
Something compelled him to halt, and we stopped too. At our feet flowed
the stream, its weed-encumbered waters looking black and forbidding in
the dim light of the lantern, as with silent eddies it swirled between
the steep rush-lined banks.
"Aubrey, that man is beyond your vengeance; a Higher Power has claimed
him," exclaimed Greville, pointing with his weapon at a dark object
that, arrested by a dense growth of weeds, floated in the centre of the
stream. It was the hat of the doomed man, but not a bubble marked the
spot where he had sunk.
In the presence of Death, that great leveller of rank and persons, we
removed our hats and stood in silence, our eyes riveted on the spot
under which the remains of my mortal enemy lay hidden from our view.
Then, extinguishing the lantern, we made our way through the wood,
regained the road, and returned to the inn.