FOOTNOTES
[29] Read “The Andredsweald,” by the same Author. (Parker’s Oxford.)
[30] [See Note J.] The Gubbings.
CHAPTER III.
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.
