FOOTNOTES
[12] The Abbot’s history is wrong, but he is under the belief that Joseph of Arimathæa founded Glastonbury Abbey, or at least first preached the Gospel on that spot.
[14] This was actually the case. Henry would not allow his subjects the privilege of concealing their thoughts. It is scarcely possible now, to believe the fact that the treason statute touched the life and enacted the fearful penalties of high treason against all who would not admit and assent in words to the royal supremacy; it made it treason not only to speak against the king’s prerogatives, but even to “imagine” anything against them. “Malicious silence,” which was assumed to imply such evil imaginations, was to be interpreted as treason and punished by death. See Perry’s History of English Church, p. 112-3.
CHAPTER V.
THE ROAD-SIDE INN.
The evening of Tuesday, the twelfth of November, in the year of grace fifteen hundred and thirty-nine, was closing in.
The day had been very fine, such a day as we sometimes enjoy, even in November; the golden sunbeams had brightened the foliage which yet hung upon many of the trees of the forest, and turned the russet plumage into gold. Now and then, in the calm atmosphere, a leaf would flutter down, and break the oppressive silence of the forest of Avalon.
It is broken more seriously; hark, that is the tread of many feet, and those voices are the voices of lads out for a day in the woods. See here they come into this lonely haunt, where no road or path exists, startling yon raven from his perch; see how sulkily he flies away, as if to say, “What right have these intruders here?”
A large chestnut-tree has dropped its fruit on the ground, and amidst the dead leaves the lads are searching, and loading their pockets with the spoil; there are about twenty of them, evidently a band of the Glastonbury boys, and amidst them we recognise two old acquaintances, Cuthbert and Nicholas Grabber.
“It is time to be moving,” says Cuthbert; “we promised the Prior to be home in time to sing vespers.”
“Sing vespers! how pious we are!” said Nicholas, and the irreverent fellow clasped his hands together affectedly, and began to chant in a ridiculous voice the Psalm “Dixit Dominus.”
“Stop that,” said several voices at once, and Nicholas obeyed, finding the general feeling was against such mockery, as it ought to be with sensible and manly boys.
“Well, thank God, there will not be many more services in the Abbey; I am for freedom, for shaking off the yoke of bondage under which the old monks have kept us: those visitors who have been taking an inventory of the goods and chattels at the place, are only a token that the end is near; and it can’t come too soon for me.”[15]
“More shame for you to say so, after you have been educated at the cost of the Abbey, and eaten and drunk its fare for many years,” said Cuthbert.
“And poor fare I have found it: I daresay the Abbot’s favourites get better,” replied Nicholas.
“‘Abbot’s favourites,’ what do you mean?” said Cuthbert, colouring.
“Let those who find the cap fit, put it on.”
“He means it for you, Cuthbert,” said two or three voices at once.
“I suppose one can’t help being liked,” said Gregory Bell.
“Nay, but one should not curry favour at the expense of others.”
“That isn’t fair,” cried Adam Banister; “no one can say Cuthbert is a sneak.”
“Sneak! who guided the commissioners to find the Abbot? that was the part of a sneak,” said Cuthbert; “but I know one way in which I could avoid favour; by running away from school and being brought back tied between two foxhounds, on all fours.”
A general burst of laughter, and then Nicholas lost all self-control, and struck Cuthbert in the face.
“A blow!” “A fair blow!” “A fight!” “A fight!”
Yes, a fight was inevitable under the circumstances; according to the moral (or immoral) code of the fifteenth century, no one could receive a blow from an equal without returning it, unless he wished to be exiled from the society, whether of boys or men. Nothing was clearer to their eyes than that the duty of all good Christians was to fight each other.
So the blow was returned, straight between the eyes. But a fight was too good a thing to be lost in that irregular manner: a ring was formed, two seconds selected, Gregory Bell for Cuthbert, and a cousin, like-minded with himself, for Grabber.
Now we are not going to enter into the details of the fight—those who like a scene of the kind will find one well described in “Tom Brown’s School Days,”—suffice it to say in this instance, that the contest was long and desperate, not to say bloody, and that in spite of Grabber’s greater physical strength and weight, the skill and endurance of Cuthbert gave him the advantage, as indeed I think he deserved to have it.
So intent were the twenty lads upon the scene, that they did not notice how the sun went down amidst rising clouds, how the wind began to sigh through the forest; darkness was gathering over the spectators and combatants, who had now fought many rounds, lasting nearly an hour, when at last, to the great joy of many present, Grabber, at the conclusion of a round, in which he had exhausted all his strength, got a knock-down blow, and was unable to “come up to time,” so amidst deafening cheers, Cuthbert was hailed as the victor.
He advanced to Grabber who was supported on the knee of his second.
“Give me your hand, Nicholas, and let us forgive and forget. I hope you are not much hurt.”
Grabber sullenly refused.
“That shows a bad heart; a fellow should never bear malice for a fair thrashing, one can only do his best after all,” said Gregory.
And the majority shared his opinion.
“We must make haste out of the woods, or we shall lose our way and be here all night.”
Three or four boys remained with Grabber, for he was not without his sympathizers,—we are sorry to say there are black sheep even in the best schools,—and these would not leave the spot with the rest, but said they could find their own way home.
The others struck boldly towards the west, which was easily distinguished, owing to the reddened and angry clouds, which showed where the monarch of the day had gone down.
But soon these also disappeared, and the road was not yet attained; darkness fell upon the scene, and the lads who were with Cuthbert wandered about lost, utterly lost, until a distant light gladdened their eager sight, and with a joyous cry they bent their course towards it.
In a few minutes they emerged from the woods on the high-road from London, where a well-known inn, “The Cross Keys,” hung out a lamp as a guide to travellers.
They all knew their way now, and would fain have started home at once, only Cuthbert was faint after his late exertions, and a cup of “Malmsey” seemed the right thing.
“You had better let him have a good wash; cold water will revive him, and remove the blood from his face too,” said the landlord, who saw the lad had been fighting, and a fight was too common a thing, we are sorry to say, to excite any further comment or enquiries, on his part.
So they adjourned to the pump, where, with the help of a rough towel, Cuthbert soon made himself presentable, although he still bore very evident traces of the conflict.
This necessary task accomplished, the boys entered the inn, ordinarily a forbidden place to them, and the landlord brought a cup of wine for Cuthbert.
But while they were there a body of armed men entered the house.
They wore the uniform of the King’s guard: there was no regular army in those days, every man was a soldier in time of need, but there was a small body of men kept about the King’s person, who were sent from time to time on special services, and were called the King’s “beef-eaters.”
And these were some of them.
“Landlord, bring us some mulled sack,” said one who appeared to be their leader, “and tell us, have you seen that fox the Abbot of Glastonbury pass this way to-day on his road home?”
“He has not yet returned from London?”
“Nay, but he is on his way,—we have no listening ears have we?” The boys were separated by a partition. “Are you for Abbot or King?”
“I am a friend to the King.”
“Well said, so should every good Englishman be; and we have charge to arrest this wily Abbot on his return, as a foe to King Harry, and take him to Wells to be tried for his life.”
“Has he not been tried and acquitted?”
“He has been solemnly condemned in a Court where Thomas Cromwell sat as prosecutor, jury and judge: but that is not quite the law, so he has been dismissed home, and we have been sent by an after thought to take him to Wells for a regular trial.”[16]
“On what charge?”
“Robbing the Abbey Church.”
“Good heavens!”
“Why, I thought thee a friend of the King.”
“So I am, but what can all this mean?”
“That he hid the Abbey plate, so that the King’s visitors could not find it, when they wanted to make an inventory, and confiscate patens and chalices for the King’s use.”
“But it was his own.”
“Only in trust, you see.”
“Still he might hide it in trust for the Abbey, that would not be robbery.”
“Friend, I should advise thee to consider it robbery in these days; it is better for all men who do not want their necks stretched to think as the King and his minister, Thomas Cromwell, think; don’t fear but we shall find men to bring him in guilty.”
The poor inn-keeper was silent; perhaps he remembered that one of his predecessors had been hanged for saying he would make his son heir to the “Crown,” meaning the “Crown Inn.”
The boys stole out unobserved.
“What shall we do?”
“Go and meet the Abbot and warn him, he will pass Headly Cross.”
“But then we may but share his fate,” said several.
“I shall go if I go alone,” said Cuthbert.
“And so shall I,” said Gregory Bell.
“Well, two are as good as the lot of us, and better; more likely to pass unobserved,” said Adam Banister; “the rest of us had better get home, and tell the monks all we have heard and seen.”
It was a wild place, Headly Cross, where two woodland roads crossed each other. Report said that a cruel murder had been committed there years agone, and that the place was haunted; every one believed in haunted places then.
But as there was a choice of routes, and the Abbot might come either way, it was the right thing to await him where the roads converged.
And there Cuthbert and Gregory waited all alone, as the dark hours rolled away, until they heard the “Angelus” ring from a distant tower, and knew it was nine o’clock, when decent people, in those days, went to bed.
The chime had hardly died away, when they heard the tread of horses, and soon three riders came in view in the dim light of the stars; and the boys recognised the Abbot, with two attendants, one his faithful serving man, the other a stranger.
Cuthbert dashed forward. “My Lord Abbot,” he said, “one moment, it is I, Cuthbert, and here is Gregory Bell.”
“Cuthbert and Gregory Bell; why are you here, boys?”
“We have heard a plot against you: men are waiting at the ‘Cross Keys’ to arrest you, and take you for trial at Wells; they say it will cost your life.”
“On what charge?”
“Concealing the Abbey plate.”
The Abbot smiled sadly.
“My children,” he said, “this can hardly be true, yet if it be as you say, I will not fly a jury of my countrymen.”
“Neither could he,” said the stranger on his left hand, “if he would; my duty is to see him safe to Glastonbury, unless relieved beforehand by royal authority.”
“You see, my Cuthbert and Gregory, that your devotion is all in vain; neither would I avail myself of it if I could. Mount on the pillion behind me, Cuthbert; my good Ballard here will take Gregory behind him, and you may return with us to Glastonbury, if such return be permitted.”
“It never will be, never will be,” said Cuthbert, with sinking heart.
And how that young heart beat, as they approached the “Cross Keys,” and as a line of men, forming across the road, stopped the cavalcade.
“My Lord Abbot, we arrest you in the King’s name.”
“On what charge?”
“Robbery of the Abbey Church.”
“This is a base pretence, to deprive me of the credit of martyrdom for my convictions: but there was One who suffered more for me.”
And the Abbot yielded himself peacefully to those who sought his life.
