FOOTNOTES
[19] “While he was waiting for the hangman, he was questioned again by Pollard as to the concealment of plate, but he had nothing more to say, and would accuse neither himself nor others, but thereupon took his death very patiently.”—Blunt.
[20] This letter is authentic, spelling and all.
[21] [See Note G.] Death of Abbot Whiting.
CHAPTER VIII.
ON THE TRACK.
“We grieve not o’er our abbey lands, e’en pass they as they may,
But we grieve because the tyrant found a richer spoil than they;
He cast aside, as a thing defiled, the remembrance of the just,
And the bones of saints and martyrs he scattered to the dust.”
Neale.
It was in vain that Bishop Latimer besought the tyrant, mad after the spoils which a venal parliament had given him, to let at least some of the monasteries remain as the houses of learning. Few countries could boast of such shrines as those which adorned like jewels the shires of England—but all were ruthlessly sacrificed, from the fane which rose over the mighty dead at Battle, to the humblest cell which but sheltered half-a-dozen poor brethren or sisters.
Such was the value of the noble library at Glastonbury that Leland, an old English antiquarian, tells us, when first he beheld it, “The sight of its vast treasures of antiquity so struck me with awe, that I hesitated to enter.”
Yet we learn from Bale, that such noble collections were sold to grocers for waste paper, and that he knew a man who had bought for that purpose two large monastic libraries at the dissolution, and added that he had been using their contents for ten years, and had hardly got through half his store.
So strongly built were many of the Abbeys, that they had to be blown up with gunpowder, after they were stripped of all that could be sold; the lands were given to greedy favourites, Cromwell himself is said to have secured thirty Abbeys, and the ready money was spent at court in gambling and dissolute living.
So, in a few years, all the wealth which flowed into the hands of the crown was dissipated, and instead of the remission of taxation, by the hope of which many had been bribed to assent to the fall of the monasteries, the burdens laid upon the people were heavier than before.
Four months had passed away since the tragical events recorded in our last chapter, and the blustering month of March was in mid-career; the winds swept over the ruined Abbey, now in great part roofless, and dismantled, the abode of bats and owls; they swept over the bare and rounded summit of Glastonbury Tor, stained so lately by a foul deed of blood. Many a violent storm of rain had beaten upon that blood-stained summit, and the traces of the butchery had long since vanished; but the peasants yet gazed up to the hill top with awe and wonder.
But the storm which had desolated the proud Abbey had left the humble cottage of Giles Hodge untouched: there the old man and his wife lived in peace, like their neighbours, and went through their daily round, their trivial task—
Each morning saw some work begun
Each evening saw its close.
Their foster son was often present to their remembrances, but he had not been with them in person since the martyrdom. They had wisely judged it best to remove him from the immediate neighbourhood of such harrowing recollections, and as old Giles had a brother who lived at Lyme Regis, a seafaring man, thither he had sent Cuthbert to spend the winter.
The change of scene had wrought good. The poor boy had gone there broken-hearted, and suffering from the nervous excitement which he had passed through; the shock had been very great, but youth is elastic, and soon recovers from such a strain. The sea and its wonders, the romantic scenery around, all contributed to the beneficial change. Sometimes Cuthbert would go out fishing with his uncle, as he had learned to call the brother of his foster father; the fishing awakened all his interest: on the deep all the night, watching the moonbeams on the waves, the gradual breaking of the dawn, the “many dimpled smile of ocean:” all this was new to the land-bred youth, and exercised a most happy effect upon his health and spirits.
But it must not be supposed that he forgot the Abbot, or that he was unmindful of the secret entrusted to him; he had told his foster father that he expected some communication from the friends of the late Abbot, and old Hodge had promised that if anyone arrived, and presented the ring which was to serve as a token, he would send for Cuthbert without any delay.
And at last the message came, just when Cuthbert returned home with his “uncle,” after a most successful night at sea, bringing the scaly spoils of the deep in their boats. A rustic messenger had ridden across the country from Glastonbury, through Langport, Ilminster, Chard, and Axminster, a distance of from thirty to forty miles.
Old Giles could not write, he only sent word by his envoy, “Come home, I have seen the ring, he expects thee to-morrow.”
We have not hitherto explained fully the social position of Giles Hodge. Well, he was a yeoman, having no lands of his own; only he had a farm of three or four pounds a year,[22] and hereupon he tilled as much as kept five or six men. He had walk for a hundred sheep, and his wife milked thirty kine. He was able and bound to provide one man and horse, with “harness” for both, when the king had need of him; for this species of feudal tenure yet lingered, and supplied the want of a standing army. In short, he was an English yeoman, “all of the olden time.”
The fire was burning brightly on the hearth in old Giles’ cottage, which looked as pleasant as in days of yore; he and his old dame occupied their chairs on either side, for the day’s work was over, and they were resting after its fatigues, whilst they anxiously awaited the arrival of their foster son, their Cuthbert.
It was only just dark, not yet seven o’clock; the evening meal was already prepared, and set forth with many a tempting dish upon a comely white cloth, to tempt the appetite of the darling of their old age.
A knock at the door—the hearts of the old couple beat with anticipation—yet the knock! Would Cuthbert stop to knock? “Come in,” they cried.
The latch lifted, and their parish priest entered, Doctor Adam Tonstal.
“Good even to you, my worthy friends; I have come for a chat with you about a matter of importance.”
“Nothing amiss about Cuthbert, I hope,” said the old dame, anxiously.
“No, there is naught amiss, yet still my errand is about him. Are you not expecting him home?”
“Yes, thank God, this very night; we thought when you knocked that it was he.”
“Well, I know you will be glad to see him again, for he is a worthy lad, and there are few who have not a good word for him, but it will be just as well not to let anyone know of his arrival, and to get him away again as soon as possible. My object was to warn you against allowing him to return, and also to advise you not to tell anyone where he may be found.”
“But why,” inquired Giles, aghast, as soon as he could get a word in; “what harm hath the poor lad done?”
“Harm, forsooth!” then lowering his voice, “what harm had Richard Whiting done?”
“But Cuthbert is too young to be answerable for such weighty matters.”
“I know that, but not too young to be an object of interest just now. You see it is reported that he was deep in the Abbot’s secrets.”
“They would indeed be weighty secrets, which the Abbot would entrust to a mere boy.”
“Ordinarily your remarks would be just, but the case is peculiar. The Abbot was suspected to be in possession of lists of names, of papers, nay of treasure, in connection with the rising in the north, which had been entrusted to him after the disastrous collapse of the Pilgrimage of Grace: we are all friends here,” added the priest, fearing lest he might have committed himself, for had such an expression as “disastrous,” applied to the royal triumph, been reported to Cromwell, it might have been his death-warrant.[23]
“We are alone, my wife and I, and we be no tale-bearers.”
“Well then, it is said that there must be a secret chamber, somewhere in the Abbey, not yet discovered, in spite of all the search made for it by Sir John Redfyrne, the administrator of the property of the Abbey for the king; who is also an ally of Cromwell, that arch-heretic, and oppressor of the Church. You are sure there is no one in the house save yourselves?”
“Quite sure, don’t fear; but what has this to do with Cuthbert?”
“Only that a lad named Nicholas Grabber offers to make oath that he heard the Abbot reveal the secret to Cuthbert, when the two were in his private chamber, and bid him await the arrival of some mysterious person, with a ring: Grabber’s account is very defective, but he says the Abbot discovered his presence, and ordered him roughly away.”
“As I live,”—said Giles.
“Of course you know nothing,” said the priest, interrupting, “but I have learned through friends that a warrant is about to be issued against the lad: now if he is taken——”
“But they can lay no crime to his charge, to know a secret is no crime.”
“But they may, and probably will consider that secret of sufficient importance to the State to insist upon its disclosure, and if the poor boy, as will very likely be the case, refuse to tell, they will see what the thumb-screw, or failing that, even the rack, may effect.”
“Good heavens! Saint Joseph forbid.”
“Amen; but the best way is to keep Cuthbert out of the way.”
“Too late; for here he is!”
The door opened and our hero entered, all flushed with travel, and with the delight of meeting his old friends, whom he embraced warmly; after which he saluted the priest with a lowly reverence.
“How well he is looking, poor lad,” said the dame: for his face was flushed with pleasure, or she might still have seen some traces of his recent trial. A more thoughtful expression sat on his features, such a period as he had gone through had done the work of years in sobering his boyish spirits, and bringing on, prematurely, the thoughts and cares of manhood.
“Now, Cuthbert,” said the good priest, “I will take a turn on the green, while you tell all your news to your kind friends, and satisfy your hunger, and after that I will return for a little talk with you;” and he went out, but only to pace up and down the green, keeping the cottage still in sight.
And we too will leave the good souls within to their endearments for the same space of time; they will soon know the extent of the danger in which their foster boy is placed.
But the priest knows it, and he walks up and down, peering sometimes into the darkness beyond the green, in the direction of the town, scrutinizing the faces of the passers-by, until curfew rings from the tower of his own church. Then he re-enters the cottage.
Cuthbert, hunger satisfied, is seated in the chimney-corner; the logs sparkle in the draughts of wind, which find their entrance through every cranny; the aged couple are seated as before.
“Father, we have told Cuthbert that you think he ought not to stay here, but he says he is bound to remain over the morrow; that will not hurt, will it?”
“Not if he is unseen, and the news of his coming has not got abroad.”
“Did anyone see thee, child, as thou enteredst the town?”
“Alas, I fear one did; Nicholas Grabber was hanging about the gate on the common.”
“Nicholas Grabber; then, my boy, thou must not tarry an hour; it is he who hast already betrayed thee.”
“Betrayed me! how?” said Cuthbert, alarmed.
Then the priest told Cuthbert all that our readers have already learned from his lips, and the lad at once recognized his danger, for he remembered how Nicholas had lurked about the Abbot’s chamber that eventful night, when the secret was revealed to him.
“You are right, Father,” he said, “I must go.”
“Too late!” said the priest, “too late!”
For at that moment the tramp of many feet was heard without, followed by a violent knocking at the door, which the priest fortunately had barred when he entered.
“Hide him,” said the good man; “I will keep them at bay for a few minutes.”
And the old people hurried Cuthbert out of the room.
“The back door,” said the boy.
“Nay, that is watched too; I hear them whispering without.”
“Then I am lost.”
“No! no! my boy,” said the old woman, “come up stairs, and get into the loft.”
They went hastily up the stairs, into the old people’s bedroom.
There was no ceiling, but that which plain boards overhead, separating them from the attic beneath the roof, afforded; knocking one of these aside with his staff, the old man bade Cuthbert mount on his shoulders, and get into the loft. The lad did so easily, for the roof of the room was low, and then replaced the boards, so that no one could see that there had been any disturbance thereof.
The loft was often used for the storage of fruit, corn, flax, and the like, and there was a quantity of the latter material stored therein; on this Cuthbert lay.
Meanwhile the priest below fulfilled his task.
“Who are ye, disturbing an honest family after curfew?”
“Officers of the law, constables; open, in the name of the law.”
“There be many who avail themselves of that name, with very little title; robbers be about, and I must have surer warrant ere I admit you.”
“Open, or we will break down the door.”
“Nay, and thou come to that game, there be those within, good at the game of quarter staff; meanwhile we will blow the horn and rouse the watch.”
“Thou old fool, we will break thy bones, as well as the door; we tell thee we are the constables—the watch.”
“’Tisn’t old Hodge’s voice,” said another; “ask the fellow who he is.”
“Who art thou, fool?”
“That is for wise men like thee to find out.”
“Well, then, here are Roger Hancock, John Sprygs, James Griggs, Denis Howlet, the four constables, and Laurence Craveall, a body servant of Sir John Redfyrne.”
“I fear me, friend, thou art taking the names of better men in vain; more to the token, thou showest thyself a liar: for well do I know that neither Jack Sprygs nor Jim Griggs ever leave the ale-tap after curfew, until it is time to tumble, drunk, into their sinful beds.”
“Break open the doors,” cried the two impugned worthies, in a rage.
“I will loose the mastiff upon you.”
But in spite of this direful threat, which it would have been difficult to fulfil, as no mastiff was in the house, the men commenced breaking down the door.
At that instant old Hodge appeared, and signifying by a sign all was right, cried aloud—
“What are you doing at my door?”
“Breaking it down, with a search warrant for our justification.”
“Thou mayst save thyself the trouble; I have nought here to hide;” and the old man withdrew the bars.
Four ill-looking men, Jacks in office, entered, and behind them two faces appeared, whose owners preferred to stay without; the one was the valet of Sir John Redfyrne, the other Nicholas Grabber.
The two constables whom he had so grievously aspersed fixed their eyes upon the priest.
“So it was thou, was it, who kept us waiting?”
“Your pardon, if I mistook you; doubtless you have good cause for your untimely errand.”
“We have pulled down monks, and your turn may come next,” said the surly John Sprygs, “and then you may not have the chance of taking sober folks’ reputation away; but enough of this, where is that young rascal, Cuthbert Hodge, if that is his name, we have a warrant for his apprehension?”
“Why, he has been away ever since November.”
“But came home to-night; here is the witness. Nick Grabber, when didst thou last see Cuthbert Hodge?”
“This evening, riding with another lad through the common gate, on the Langport Road.”
“And does thy worshipful father permit thee, now thy school days are over, to spend thy time in Glastonbury as a spy?” said old Hodge.
“My worshipful father has given me to the care of Sir John Redfyrne, as a page, old man, so thou hadst better keep a civil tongue in thine head, and it will be better for thy young bastard’s bones; he shall pay for it.”
“I think, my son,” said the priest very quietly, “that when thou wast coupled between two hounds, as a truant, thou must have learnt from them to bite and snarl.”
“We have no time for all this nonsense,” said the head constable, “where is this youngster?”
“Since you say he is here, you had better find him.”
“He has not gone out by the back door,” said Grabber.
“Or you would have grabbed him.”
“Even so, with right good will.”
They proceeded to search the house, but all in vain, and they were at length about to conclude that the boy had left the place before their entrance, when Grabber remarked to one of the constables, that he might be above the boards of the bedroom. “When we were schoolfellows,” he said, “I have often heard him say that very good apples were kept there.”
“The boy has got the right sow by the ear,” says James Griggs, and followed by the others, he went upstairs again, whereupon the old lady began to cry.
“Ah,” said Nicholas, “the scent is hot, the old lady gives tongue.”
A board was withdrawn, chests piled beneath, and John Sprygs cried out, “Now, young Nick, you go and grab him.”
“After you,” said Nicholas, who remembered the weight of his young opponent’s fist that night in the woods.
John Sprygs mounted, and was no sooner in the loft than he cried,—
“The place is as dark as pitch, pass me up the torch.”
“Nay! nay!” cried Giles Hodge, “the place is full of flax.”
“We will take care of that; thou dost not want thy precious brat found.”
Up went the torch which the men had brought with them, a flaring pine torch, to assist in the operations; in very wantonness Nick Grabber tossed it into the fellow’s hand, crying “Catch.” He missed it, and it fell into a heap of flax. The man started back to avoid the blaze which instantly sprang up, and so put the fire between him and the moveable planks—the only moveable ones—which served as a trap-door.
“Come down, come down,” called out the appalled voices below.
But the wretch could not face that sea of flame, until, maddened by desperation, he took a header as boys might say, at the opening through the fire, and falling head foremost on the bedroom floor, split his skull and died on the spot. The others could do nothing for him, the loft was one mass of flame, and shouting “Fire! Fire!” they ran to get water, in a vain attempt to save the cottage. But of this there was little hope; the roof was of thatch, and the building mainly of timber, so they saw in a few minutes that there was nothing for it but to help the aged couple to save their furniture.
But what of Cuthbert? they had forgotten him, for the time, then they said,—
“The boy couldn’t have been there, nor in the house, or he would be driven from his hiding-place now. See how unconcerned the old man looks; he wouldn’t look so if his precious boy were in danger.”
