FOOTNOTES
[46] “He shall feed me in a green pasture, and lead me forth beside the waters of comfort.”—Psalm xxiii. 2.
[47] Witness, for instance, the case of Lord Dacre, of Hurstmonceux, executed for an offence which, a few generations earlier, would hardly have been considered an offence at all. Like Percy of Chevy Chase he had gone hunting in his neighbour’s grounds; a fray took place and he slew a gamekeeper. Henry would hear of no excuse, and the noble paid for the peasant’s blood on the scaffold at Tyburn, June 29th, 1541.
[48] Sir Walter Raleigh, born six years later, in 1552.
CHAPTER X.
THE SHADOWS DARKEN.
In the library of Castle Redfyrne sat Sir John, the present lord of that ancient manor, at a writing table placed in the embrasure of a gothic window, whence he could look over the broad acres he had made his own.
In the shelves were ranged many printed books and curious manuscripts, in part the plunder of Glastonbury Abbey; and in truth never was typography clearer, or more beautiful than in the first century of its existence; nor on the other hand was caligraphy, as exemplified in ancient missals and breviaries, ever more a work of art than when about to be superseded by the printing press.
But Sir John was not thinking of these things, his evil heart was full of bitterness.
There is an old Spanish proverb,—“The man who has injured thee, will never forgive thee.” Sir John had injured his brother’s child, deeply, cruelly, and he could not forgive him.
He rose from the table and paced the room; his brow was knit; oft times he gnashed his teeth. So we are told that his namesake, king John, would roll on the floor and bite the straw which served in his royal palace as carpet, in his maniacal fits of passion. With his name, a double portion of his spirit had fallen upon the hapless Redfyrne of our tale.
The whole of that scene at Exeter was before his mind as he strode to and fro, painted by the vivid pencil of a too faithful memory.
At length he rang a bell which stood on the table, and soon Nicholas appeared in the door way.
He was now a tall youth; his hair was brighter than ever,—that hair had betrayed him more than once: when he was young, playing truant, he had hidden in a field of long grass, the schoolmaster was abroad, and after him, and by chance, gazing over the field, saw a head, bright as a poppy, peep up and disappear; it was enough, he was caught; thanks to the lively hues with which nature had ornamented him.
And the sly expression of his features was not altered; that sharp nose which had once won him the nick-name “Pointer,” gave him as fox-like an expression as ever.
The tie between him and Sir John was one of evil, yet Sir John loved him as much as it was in his cold and selfish nature to love any one; he liked him for his very vices, in forming which he had taken no slight share; like those of whom the Apostle writes:—
“Who knowing the judgment of God, that they who do such things are worthy of death, not only do them, but take pleasure in them that do them.”
Nicholas was now rather the companion than the page, and on very familiar terms with Sir John.
“Didst thou lie awake long last night, Nick?”
“I was somewhat restless, sir.”
“Didst thou hear aught unusual?”
“No,” said Nicholas, after pausing to reflect.
“Think again; any loud noise?”
“I cannot remember any.”
Sir John again paced up and down as if communing with himself.
“Was there aught unusual, sir?”
“Yes, I distinctly heard a door shut with a loud clang.”
“May have been the wind.”
“Nay, that would not have startled me; the fact is, the sound was not that of any door about this place; it shut with a clang as of a dungeon door falling into a framework of stone.”
“There is no such door, save in the old oubliettes below the towers; I wish we had Cuthbert in one, and his reverend father in another.”
“No there is none; the fact startled me, and a strange thrill, which I cannot account for, went through me as I heard it.”
Sir John paused, and a visible tremor passed over him, which was strange in a man of his iron constitution.
“But I have not sent for you to talk about this; hast thou gleaned any tidings of Cuthbert at Glastonbury?”
“Yes; that a stranger called upon those old dolts, the foster father and mother of my friend Cuthbert; he came from the west, for his horse cast a shoe, and the smith remarked that the beast had been shod in Devon, from the make of his shoes. This happened in the hearing of a cunning fellow, Luke Sharp, who is in our pay, and he managed to entice the fellow to an ale house, and tried to make him drunk. Well, the messenger was, after all, a little too cute for that; but Luke told me that both from what the fellow did say, and from what he did not say, he was sure that he came from our old acquaintances; and I fancy they may both be expected to pay a visit to Glastonbury on particular business ere long.”
“Thou hatest this Cuthbert?”
“Ever since I have known him.”
“Because he once gave you a thrashing, hey, Nick?”
“No; I am not ashamed of that, for I fought as long as I could stand or see; but I only wish this, that I could try chances again with him; with the sword, not the fist. I would sooner have him face to face with me, on the sward, with nothing but our shirts between sword point and breast, than see him on the scaffold again: I believe I could master him, the reverend brethren are poor masters of fence, and scant mercy should he get were he down.”
Sir John laughed merrily; the cheerful sentiment delighted him.
“Nick,” he said, “mayst thou have thy desire, and may I be there to see; I should laugh heartily to see thee pink him; but I want thee to ride with me now; saddle our horses and be ready in ten minutes.”
In a dismal dell or hollow glen, which had been worn from the side of a hill, in the course of ages by a streamlet, filled with brambles, nettles, and the slime of rotting vegetation, was a squalid hut, and therein dwelt an old blear-eyed, toothless hag, named Gammer Gatch.
By common repute she was a witch, and would long since have tasted of a lighted tar-barrel, and a few faggots to help, but for the protection extended to her by her landlord, Sir John.
Years of persecution had made her a lonely misanthrope, believing absolutely in her communion with Satan, and her power for evil; poor wretch, whatever may have been her degree of Satanic inspiration she was guilty in intention; and when, after her temporary protector was gone, she was at last brought to trial, she gloried in her supposed alliance with Satan, and so made it easy for the judge and jury to send her with clear consciences to the stake.
Those who read the terrible literature which exists on this subject will be puzzled about many things, but will not doubt that several who suffered for impossible crimes, lacked but the power, not the will to have performed them.
It has often been noticed that men who have renounced their belief in Christianity, or even in a God, have become willing captives to the grossest forms of superstition, a truth not lacking examples in our own days; and thus it came to pass that Sir John, denying the existence of God, believed, instead, in Gammer Gatch; and thither he was bound now.
Leaving Nicholas on the brink of the glen in charge of the horses, he descended into the dell, and entered the hut which was avoided by all Christian people, save a few, who despite of their creed, came to consult the “wise woman” in divers difficulties.
Lying, littered about, were human bones, a few grinning skulls, unclean reptiles, uncouth wax figures; the wall was blackened by cabalistic signs. The hut was built against the rocky side of the glen, and a ragged curtain concealed an aperture in the natural wall.
“Mother,” said Sir John, “I have business to talk over; there are foes who hide from me, foes of mine, and of the king, whom I would fain crush; canst thou help me to discover their whereabouts?”
“The blackamoor may help us, if thou hast courage to face him.”
Sir John winced;—“I would rather not see him if it can be done without.”
“Couldst thou bear to hear his voice?”
“I could, methinks.”
“Come, then, follow me, and we will do our best; thou shalt ask one question, and if he be in the mood he will answer.”
She took up a torch of pine, and lit it at the fire. “Follow,” she said, and drew aside the curtain; a dark passage seemed to lead into the very bowels of the earth.
It was one of those celebrated limestone caves of which so remarkable an example exists in the Cheddar valley; the water which oozed through the rifts had a strange petrifying power, and objects upon which it fell were in due time either incrusted with stone or actually petrified.
From the roof descended long spars of stone in shape like icicles; fantastic resemblances of various objects met the gaze; here were shrouds and winding sheets, there delicate tracery like lace; here hung graceful curtains, and there were grotesque caricatures of animal life, but all in cold stone. The height of the passage varied; once Sir John had to follow his haggard guide on hands and knees, but onward they crawled or walked, deeper and deeper beneath the bowels of the earth, until they reached a dark cave, which seemed to be hung round with funereal trappings of black stone; in the centre was a sombre pool, into which heavy drops of water from above kept falling with a monotonous splash.[49]
The hag renewed some half obliterated marks with chalk, which represented a circle inscribed in a pentagon, and motioned Sir John to stand beside her within its protection,—“Not a foot or hand outside,” she said earnestly; then she repeated some mystic words in an unknown tongue; a mephytic vapour arose, the pool boiled like a geyser, the cave appeared to tremble, and a deep voice said—
“Why hast thou brought me up?”
“Ask thy question at once,” whispered the witch.
“Where may I meet my foes?” said Sir John.
“In the Abbot’s lodging, within the ruined Abbey, at the third midnight from hence.”
All was still, the pool became quiet, the atmosphere cleared, and the hag seizing the hand of Sir John began to retrace her steps. To him the whole seemed like a dream.
But is it not possible that He, Who sent an evil spirit into the mouths of the false prophets of Ahab, to lure him to his doom at Ramoth Gilead, and permitted the witch of Endor, not by any power of her own, to raise up the spirit of Samuel, that he might foretell to the unhappy Saul his coming fate; that He allowed the instrumentality of this wretched victim of a terrible delusion, to accomplish his end—that end which the progress of our tale will reveal as the direct consequence of this episode.
With difficulty Sir John dragged his failing limbs back to the hut, and for a time he and the hag sat by the fire, all in a tremor. She seemed as shaken as he: perhaps she, too, had been taken aback by the phenomenon, when simply preparing some jugglery.
At length Sir John rose, like one from stupor.
“Mother, here is money for thee; keep the secret.”
“Or it would cost me my life; but, Sir John, beware of the Abbey at midnight, I fear he means thee harm.”
“Thou carest for me, then?”
“What would become of me wert thou gone?”
He shook his head and returned to Nicholas.
“Good heavens, how pale thou art, sir!”
“So wouldst thou be hadst thou been with us.”
“She ought to be burnt.”
“She is useful just now, and ministers to our designs.”
Not one word did Sir John speak all the ride homeward; perhaps he hesitated in his purpose, but at length his mind was made up.
They supped together, Nicholas waiting on his lord, but yet enjoying the privilege of supping at the same table.
After supper, as they discussed some hot sack, the patron said—
“Nicholas, I wish thee to go out on the western road which leads from Glastonbury to Exeter, and thou mayst pass the night at the ‘Robin Hood;’ I have a strange impression our mutual friends will stop there to-morrow night. If thou meetest them stick to them like a leech, and follow them, thyself unseen, if possible, to Glastonbury; then join me in the Abbey, and we will await them there; it is their purpose, I am sure, to enter that secret chamber and destroy the papers, and I would fain seize them in the act, and so learn the great secret.”
“There is much gold hidden there,” said Nicholas.
“There is, and it may be advisable for us to anticipate the work of the executioner on the spot, in which case”—
“I will answer for Cuthbert,” said Nicholas, even eagerly. “No one living knows the amount of gold and jewels; and we may deal with the papers as shall seem advisable; make our market of them, either with the parties compromised or with the government.”
They said no more, for up to this moment no idea of acting otherwise than the law would sanction had crossed the mind of Sir John: to minister to the vindictive feelings of the king, and to gratify the royal cupidity, thereby securing his own advancement, had been the original motives which had actuated him, but now—
He looked at Nicholas, but neither spoke again on the subject that night.
Sir John retired to rest a little before midnight; his page slept in the adjoining room. He was soon asleep, but with sleep came a strange dream,—his dead brother again stood by the bed side, and held an hour-glass, in which the sand was fast running out, but a few particles left. “What does it mean?” The dead one shook his head mournfully, and Sir John awoke—
Awoke to hear an awful sound; he felt it coming before it came, something seemed moving through space; then came a sudden clang as when the iron door of an oubliette shuts for ever upon the captive of a living tomb.
“Nicholas! Nicholas!”
“What is the matter, sir?”
“Didst thou not hear?”
“Nay, I was awake, and all was still; thou wert dreaming, Sir John.”
