FOOTNOTES
[50] At another time, persons so favoured were unfortunately looked upon as special favourites of Satan, and suffered accordingly in the judicial holocausts for supposed witchcraft and sorcery.
CHAPTER XII.
THE HAND OF GOD.
Cuthbert rode at a brisk trot through the woods, sometimes breaking into a gallop; but he was too good a horseman to “take it all out of his steed” at starting, for he felt that the chase might last the entire day. The woods were beautiful in their calm decay, that November morning, but he had no heart to observe them, his whole soul was wrapped up in one consideration—should he overtake Nicholas and prevent his betraying the secret he had so meanly gained?
At any cost the spy must be hindered from reaching Glastonbury that night; if force were necessary, and to fight became the only alternative, the fight must be fought; they were both armed. The ostler had mentioned that Nicholas had a sword by his side, as became a smart young page; but then Cuthbert wore one also, concealed beneath his cloak, as more befitting his present disguise. It will be remembered as the parting gift of Sir Robert Tremayne.
Not only did the life of his patron, Sir Walter, to say nothing of his own, depend upon the non-arrival of Nicholas at Glastonbury, but perchance the lives of many adherents of the old faith, whose names were inscribed upon those documents, which Cuthbert knew were yet hidden in the chest which lay within the undiscovered muniment chamber of the Abbey.
Nor can we pretend to deny that the persistent animosity, the deadly hatred, but above all the underhand way in which Nicholas had now twice penetrated into the secrets intrusted to his care, exasperated our hero to the utmost.
Filled with these thoughts, Cuthbert reached Ilminster, a small country town, where he arrived about ten in the morning; he could not obtain a change of steeds at the inn, so was forced to wait for his horse to bait.
He enquired whether any traveller had been before him on the road, and learned that a youth, dressed as a page, had preceded him by one entire hour.
So as yet he had not gained upon him.
The grey-headed ostler observed his uneasiness.
“Dost thou wish to catch that page?”
“I have most important business with him.”
“Humph! I hope it is friendly, but that is not my affair; if thou canst make it worth my while, I will compound a draught for thy horse, which will make him go as if he had wings, instead of legs, for a few hours——”
“And then?”
“Why, then, he will be very tired; but his work will be done, and if the beast rests for a day or two afterwards he will not suffer.”
“A noble for thee, if thou canst get the draught.”
The ostler went away a brief space, and returned with a mixture which he poured into a bucket with a little water; the steed drank it greedily.
“Now let him rest another half-hour, and he will be ready.”
“Half-an-hour, now—”
“Thou hast but just arrived; get thine own breakfast, and thou needest not tarry again till thou catchest Master Redpate. He could not get a change of horses here either, although he tried hard; there was a hunt in the neighbourhood, and every steed was in the field; thou wilt hear of him before thou reachest Glastonbury.”
Cuthbert was forced to make a merit of necessity and wait as patiently as he could.
“If thou canst not take it easy, take it as easy as thou canst,” said this old philosopher of an ostler.
At the end of the half-hour he brought the horse to the door. Cuthbert mounted eagerly, gave the man his promised douceur, and was off.
“Let him go gently for a mile, then thou wilt need neither whip nor spur,” cried the old man.
Cuthbert obeyed; but soon found the horse eager to canter, then to gallop; joyfully he gave it its head, holding it up carefully in stony places: for did not life, and more than life, depend upon the poor beast?
Mile after mile flew by; and now Langport was in sight; it was the hour of noon.
Cuthbert inquired at the inn again; there was but one, frequented by wayfarers.
“Yes, a young page who seemed anxious to reach Glastonbury, had left but half-an-hour; he had taken a fresh steed, and left his own, much exhausted, behind.”
Cuthbert delayed not a moment; his horse did not seem a wit inclined to tarry either.
But now he entered a district of bad roads, and progress was slow, for a fall would ruin everything; the comfort was that Nicholas must be equally delayed.
Hour after hour of sickening disappointment; every turn of the road, our hero looked for his young foe, but in vain; and now the sun, which sets soon after four in November, was sinking down to the horizon; the ground was becoming hard again with the frost: it had thawed in the noon-tide.
At length, the distant Tor arose upon the horizon, a solitary hill arising like a beacon from the wide plain of Avalon, but still no Nicholas.
Now he entered the precincts of the forest, which had once extended for miles around Glastonbury, that same forest introduced to our readers in the prologue to our tale, wherein the youthful Cuthbert was found in the snow by Giles Hodge.
Suddenly his eyes were attracted by an object still some distance in front of him, lying against the trunk of a huge beech tree.
It looked like a human figure.
Nearer, nearer; yes, it is a youth lying on the road, he is in the dress of a page, he has red hair; it is Nicholas.
Cuthbert leapt from his steed, and as he did so saw the solution of the thing: the red-haired page’s horse had stumbled upon some sharp flints, and thrown his rider with great violence; and there he lay, as if dead, in the road, a low moaning alone testifying that life yet lingered.
“God has interposed in defence of the right,” thought Cuthbert, with awe, not unmingled with pity in spite of his recent hostile intentions; for the sight of the suffering of his foe subdued his animosity.
The wounded youth muttered feebly, “Water! Water!”
There was a spring close by; Cuthbert brought clear sparkling water in a flask which he carried; the poor wretch drank eagerly, and then suddenly recognized Cuthbert.
“What, Cuthbert! can it be thou! dost thou forgive me then? since I am dying, and can harm thee no more.”
“I am trying to do so.”
“Cuthbert! canst thou forgive one who sought thy life with such animosity, spied upon thee, obtained thy secrets, and was even now on his road to betray thee? if thou canst, God may forgive me too, for He will not be less merciful than man.”
“Yes, I do forgive,” said Cuthbert, touched by this appeal, “as I hope to be forgiven.”
“Thou art better far than I: I should have passed by thee, too glad to get to Glastonbury first, and do the devil’s work. Cuthbert, I am dying, I cannot move my legs or body, only my head, and can hardly breathe.”
He spoke with short gasps.
“I was riding so fast—I came upon my hands—but pitched over again on my back—my spine came upon that sharp stone there—put there to punish me for my sins;—oh! for a priest—am I to die unhouselled,—unanointed,—unabsolved?”
“God can forgive without sacraments when they cannot be had, I have heard the Abbot say so in old times.”
“Ah! the Abbot, had I but followed his holy precepts; but I betrayed him to his enemies and followed Sir John, and he has led me into all kinds of sin—debauchery, riot, uncleanness, as if he loved to corrupt me.”
A change passed over the face of the dying youth.
“A strange numbness creeps over me,—only my head seems alive—my breathing is—so difficult—I choke—raise my head.”
A painful struggle succeeded. Cuthbert had been taught the rudiments of surgery and he knew the truth; the spine was broken just below the neck, and he saw that suffocation would be the end, from inability to inflate the lungs, or to inhale the air.
“Pray! ask the saints to intercede for thee! call upon the Blessed Mother! nay upon the Incarnate Son Himself!” said Cuthbert after the teaching of his day.
“Sancte Nicolæ ora pro me—Cuthbert hasten to Glastonbury—Sir John—the secret chamber—midnight—beware—omnes sancti—orate pro me peccatore.”
And so he died.
“I thank God his blood is not upon my head, that He Who has said ‘Vengeance is Mine, I will repay,’ has Himself decided the question between us: poor Nicholas! yes, I can forgive thee freely, and the best proof of forgiveness is to pray for thy soul.”
He first laid the body decently on the turf, beneath the spreading beech, closed the eyes, composed the features, then spread the ill-fated youth’s cloak over his corpse, and knelt down to pray.
When he arose, the setting sun was casting his rays on all that was mortal of Nicholas Grabber. Cuthbert re-mounted his steed, cast a lingering look behind, then rode on slowly, for he could give his horse rest now, towards Glastonbury.
He entered that old monastic town by moonlight, ere the curfew rang; he felt strangely moved by all that had happened, yet he could but be sensible of great relief that such a danger was averted, much as he now pitied his late foe.
He passed the butts where he had once contended with Nicholas for the silver arrow, and entered the town; every street and almost every house awakened a flood of boyish recollections; but he turned not aside, until he reached the outskirts on the opposite side of the place, where his old foster father and mother yet, as he knew, lived, in a new cottage on the site of the former one, destroyed by fire.
Yes, there stood the new house; built after the pattern of the old one, and Cuthbert tied up his horse and knocked at the door with beating heart.
“Come in,” says a dear familiar voice; he enters, is recognized. Yes, they are both there; the old man stands amazed, but the poor old lady throws her arms around him crying out “My boy, my boy.”
During all these long years they had but once or twice heard of him, until the messenger, of whom we have spoken, reached them from Sir Robert Tremayne; they could not read, and if they could, it would have been dangerous for Cuthbert to have written to them; they knew nought of his recent dangers, of the trial at Exeter; let my readers then imagine how much Cuthbert had to tell.
And when hunger was appeased, he began his long story, and they listened with deep interest to the narrative of his recent captivity and marvellous escape; but when he told them of the fate of Nicholas, and how he lay dead in the woods, they seemed awe-struck.
They had not seen Sir John Redfyrne, and knew not if he was in the neighbourhood.
“The ways of God are beyond our thoughts,” said the old man, “but He is manifestly on thy side, my boy, so fear not, all will be well.”
Then some words he had often sung in choir, came into Cuthbert’s mind; I shall give them as he once sang them—
“Nisi quia Dominus erat in nobis, dicat nunc Israel: nisi quia Dominus erat in nobis;
Cum exsurgerent homines in nos: forte vivos deglutissent nos.”[51]
But it was drawing near midnight, and Cuthbert told them he had to meet Father Ambrose at that hour in the ruins of the Abbey.
“God preserve us,” said the old people together, “O mihi beate Martine;[52] men do say they are haunted.”
“Though as many ghosts were there as stones in the ruined pile, thither must I go.”
“Thou wilt see us once more, dear boy?”
“If possible; I will knock at the door when our work is done—that is if permitted to tarry; but of one thing be assured, that while I live my heart will ever beat true to its first love—the love of my foster parents.”
They embraced in silence amidst tears.
“The saints preserve him,” said the aged couple.
They did not retire to bed that night, it would have been a mere mockery of rest; they sat up and watched.
