CHAPTER XVI
BUCKINGHAM'S ADVENTURE
Buckingham, returning to the village, where his escort met him, then went to a small unused cabin in the thick woods beyond. Here he changed his attire, making ready for a quick journey and one fraught with some adventure.
As he donned his clothes, ever and anon he paused to hear the low murmuring of voices that came up from the village. 'Twas evident the mob was gathering.
An hour he waited impatiently, when his servant entered, saying that the mob had started and were hurrying along the high-road at great speed.
The Duke mounted and rode after them, quite far enough in the rear for them not to hear his horse's step or see as he passed where some cottage light fell aslant the road.
By the time they came in sight of the monastery, he was exasperated beyond measure to be so held behind and was in no mood to wait the mob's leisure. He leapt from his horse and threw rein to his man.
No light was to be seen. It appeared the monks had either deserted their dwelling or fortified it by fastening with boards the windows and doors. The latter was the case. The besiegers with all sorts of sticks, stones and bludgeons began at once to bombard the building that stood dark and seemingly impregnable. Buckingham stood some distance from them, as if indeed he were of different mould and could not mingle with their steaming, smoking, foul-smelling bodies, that reeked of gin and poor tobacco. He waited only for an entrance to be made, that he might pass in without the labour of making an opening for himself. Indeed, his arm, unused to such rough strength, would become unfit to handle the sword of a gentleman.
He was leant upon one knee behind a strip of iris that bordered a forest path, when suddenly he heard the crash of glass and heard a triumphant yell from the mob. He sprang from his hiding and crept toward the place. A window had been broken in and the fight had already begun. The monks were well equipped for battle with weapon, strength and stout hearts and a good stone wall for shelter, but their numbers were weak.
The siege was destined to be a long and bloody one, unless the ponderous door could be broken, for the mob could not enter fast enough through the small casement. Should this be done, it was evident the monks would be obliged to either take flight, surrender or be foully murdered.
Buckingham could not enter the window without taking part in the fight, and mayhap run a great risk to his person.
He was not long in discovering, however, that the doorway was being bombarded successfully, and soon the massive door must succumb.
At last there was a thundering crash, and broken oak panels flew through the air.
The men rushed in. Buckingham in a moment was in their midst and fighting his way through them. He flung himself aside and escaped the fighting mass by a small door that led him to a passage, where he regained his breath and looked out for his bearings.
He found his way through many winding passages to the panel. This he opened and quickly strode through to the trapdoor, which stood agape. From beneath came the sound of voices. He knelt and looked down. There was no light to guide him. Cautiously he descended the ladder, finding his way warily toward the place where he had seen the chest and whence now came the voices. One was saying:
"It's gone, the damn knaves have secreted it; we must have a light, Anson, or the horde above stair will be upon us, and all the fires of hell could hardly show us out of this dungeon." Whereupon the flint was struck and the forms of three men were dimly outlined.
They began running about nervously in different directions to find the chest; his Grace keeping from view by following in their shadow. Back they went again to the spot where it had stood, and as the light fell full in their faces Buckingham recognized the pale, chiselled countenance of Cantemir. There were two servants with him, which, judging from their eagerness, evidently expected perquisites.
The sound above stairs was growing more and more noisome, as if the monks were being pressed back in the direction of the secret passage. 'Twas evident the Abbés intended this move; for unless there was egress 'twould be a veritable slaughter hole and from the first they had kept together, preferring the direction of retreat.
Suddenly one of the men in front of Buckingham leant down and traced with his finger on the dusty stone,—
"They have moved it in this direction, and there is no mistaking it," and he pointed from the ladder.
They followed the direction, holding the light low, and came at once upon what appeared to be a solid stone wall. Inadvertently the man bearing the lighted taper rested his arm for a moment against the stones. Instantly a blaze flared up and showed a very cleverly concocted wall. A canvas had been padded in shape of unhewn stone and painted in imitation; the oil in the paint had ignited and despoiled the illusion.
The blaze was quenched in a moment, the canvas door pried open and the three men passed beyond, carefully closing the door behind them.
Buckingham was close upon them.
They fled rapidly along, Cantemir following his servants and ever glancing behind with eyes staring with fear.
Buckingham was not to be caught by fear-staring eyes and kept well in shadow.
The passage was narrow with many windings and appeared to be interminable.
The men began to run, which was very incautious under the circumstances, for in a moment they were precipitated into a small chamber occupied by two stalwart monks. The latter had barely time to throw themselves upon the defensive ere they were attacked.
Cantemir had the advantage, as the monks were encumbered with their long robes.
Then ensued a short fight, in which Cantemir's men won the day—he remaining well in the background.
One of the servants was wounded and lay helpless upon the floor, his head falling against some object that held him in a semi-upright posture. Cantemir turned with the torch he had taken from the floor, and looked about him, stumbling over the prostrate bodies of the monks as they lay wounded. Noting his injured servant's position, he ran to him, and seeing the thing upon which his head rested, kicked his body from the chest, as if the fellow had been his enemy's dog, instead of his own serving man.
With a cudgel he and his comrade opened the chest, after first finding it too heavy to carry at speed and for an indefinite distance.
Cantemir's eyes waxed big with greed and delight, as he looked within. He spread out his long fingers, as if to grasp all the chest contained.
"These small caskets must be filled with jewels. Anson, fasten the torch somehow and put these in the bags. Here are some rare laces, looted from some dead Croesus, I warrant,—put those in too;—those infernal papers—they can be of no consequence—"
"Then I will take them, my lord," said the servant. Cantemir eyed him with no fondness and slipped the papers within his own bag.
Buckingham, watching them from his little cove in the rocks, caught a sound that made him start. It was very distant and indistinct, yet he was quite certain some one was coming, and without further delay he cried out and drew his sword upon the man nearest him, which happened to be Anson.
The fellow used his sword fairly, but no match for his adversary.
Buckingham run him through before the Russian had regained his presence of mind.
As the unfortunate Anson fell, the Duke turned to Cantemir, who was separated from him by two prone figures and the chest. The Count held the advantage and meant to use it by springing ahead into the opening. There was no opportunity for Buckingham to either reach him or head him off. Cantemir had caught up the filled bags and was smiling insolently across at him. Buckingham was exasperated, not by the fellow's triumph, but at his own helplessness to cut him off. But there was no time to be lost; those other sounds were growing nearer.
The Duke made a bound toward the opening. Cantemir, with an exultant laugh, sprung also toward the opening, but his laugh was turned into a yell of fear, as his leg was caught in a death-like grip by the servant he had kicked from the chest.
In an instant Buckingham was upon him and binding his arms tight behind; the poor, cowardly knave begging at every breath for his life. He was completely undone with fright, his heart melted and his knees bent.
"And would it not be thy meed to run thee through also, for serving thy wounded knave with a kick? 'twas inhuman—by God! 'tis a pity it takes a man with a soul to suffer the tortures of hell, for thou wilt never get thy deserts!" He looked down and saw the poor servant's eyes raised to his pleadingly. The Duke drew from his pocket a flask of wine and gave it to him; then gathered the bags that lay filled by the chest and hurriedly looked at their contents. As he did so the wounded knave feebly raised his voice,—
"I will be killed if I am found here."
"Nay, a gentleman—" and he cast a scornful glance at Cantemir,—"would not kick thee when thou art down; say nothing of our most noble fathers putting to flight what small life thou hast in thee. What is thy name?"
"Christopher," came in weakened tones from his pallid lips.
In another moment the Duke was gone with his looted treasures.
He flew along at a most undignified gait, bearing his pack as a labourer. His shoulders, unused to such burden, grew tired. He began to wonder if the passage would never end. He was growing more exhausted than he cared to own, and beside, he apprehended he was pursued.
At last he felt almost compelled to leave one of the bags behind, and stopped to think which, one he should leave. Yet he was a-mind to carry them all if he broke his back; and beside, it was so dark he was unable to tell which was the more important.
As he stood undecided he heard distinctly the fast approach of footsteps. He gathered his strength and bags and flung along, somewhat refreshed by the change of burdens. As he made a turn, the fresh outside air blew upon him. He grew cautious and moved more slowly, listening now in both directions. He might not be overtaken, but some one might be at the opening of the passage. There was no light or sound beyond, and soon he stood in the deep darkness of the outer night 'neath dripping trees. Warily he stepped, lest some cracking twig exposed his presence.
He ascertained his surrounding was a thicket, and was about to make his way into its labyrinthine density, step by step; for the way was difficult, when there was a tramping of horses' hoofs upon the rain-soaked road that appeared to be in close proximity.
Under cover of the noise he swept hastily and boldly through the briery bushes that were thickly entangled, and was able to make considerable headway whence he had come, when the noise ceased and a peculiar whistle rang out; then there were a few moments of quiet, as if those who signalled were listening for an answer.
There appeared to be a chaise with several outriders, as Buckingham thought, by the tramp of horses' feet, and a creaking of wheels pulling heavily along.
As he gazed anxiously in their direction, a torch was suddenly set a-glow and a horseman rode up with it to the mouth of the subterranean passage. He leant from his steed and examined the ground closely, noting doubtless the footprints that led away from the road and directly to the place where the Duke stood. He turned abruptly back to the group upon the highway and conversed in low tones.
Buckingham was not a little perturbed, for a horseman could with less trouble than it takes to tell it, track and overtake him in a moment's time. He fain would have a few minutes to ease his burden, but his peril was great. There was no doubt but what these men were monks, come to assist their fellows with the chest and convey them to a place of safety.
Indeed, the secret of the chest must be royal, but whether in jewels or papers he did not know, nor was it the time and place to find out. If he only knew in which pack was the bone of contention he would certainly lighten his burden.
Again he lifted the bags and strode on lightly, for he still could be heard to the highway, if one should listen.
He had not gone far, however, when there was a shout from the subterranean opening and much confusion following upon it.
The Duke was now thoroughly aroused. Doubtless the monks within the passage had at that moment arrived at its mouth, there to make known to their comrades the robbery of the chest's contents. They were in pursuit; he could hear the bushes crackling beneath horses' feet. Never before had the wily Duke felt so hard pressed. He could afford to be taken himself, for he was sure of a release sooner or later; but his whole being revolted at the idea of losing the riches of his burden and above all—the secret, the secret that would make his fortunes thribble, the secret that would make him more powerful than heretofore. The King's favour would be boundless. And George Villiers turned abruptly and—fell into a swollen ravine that was throbbing with its over-filled sides. He straightened himself to his full height and thanked God for the stream, for truly 'twas life-giving water.
He waded in and found it hardly came to his waist in the deepest part. After crossing to its farthest bank, he kept the watery path for nearly a league, thereby throwing his pursuers effectually off the trail. But where his course trended, 'twas impossible to tell, as there was no moon, and the stars were veiled by thick cloud that vomited forth rain in gusts.
The leather bags were very near rain-soaked and had become so heavy 'twas impossible for anything less than a beast of burden to carry them further, so leaving the friendly stream, he walked some little distance from it, gaining to his surprise an open road. This was not what he wished, and was turning from it when he stumbled and fell prone. Being hot with anger and fatigue, he reached for the obstacle that had so unmanned him to damn it. 'Twas a large, round knot. It struck his memory, as he held it, with a thought of the morning before.
"Eureka!" he cried, as he felt the very presence of the tall tree by the public highway that led from Crandlemar, London way. He arose and reached for the aperture.
"Egad, 'tis there!"
Fortunately the royal tree was not far from the unused cabin that had afforded him accommodation some hours before. He immediately sat down upon the bags and rested.
There passed him several horsemen and a chaise; whether they were his whilom companions of the thicket or not he did not care. It was sure they were in haste to leave the village as far behind them as possible.
When the sound of the horses' hoofs had died away, he again donned his leathery burden and made for the depths behind him.
He was not long in reaching the rendezvous, and was met by his anxious servant, who had but just arrived from seeking him.
The exhausted Duke gave orders for one hour's rest, then fell upon a pile of blankets that were spread upon the damp and open floor.
An hour later saw the Duke astride his horse, that stood with flaring nostrils, caring not a whit for his extra burden of saddle-bags and flew along the wet road, regardless.
Hours after his master jumped from his back at Hornby's.
The morning was far advanced and Mistress Penwick was fretting under the delay.
Monmouth had plead that the weather was too wet and Lady Constance was too ill to proceed until the following day.
The maid had demurred, saying Janet might remain with her ladyship; but Monmouth was not quite at liberty to take Katherine without first seeing Buckingham, whom he thought should have arrived early in the morning.
As Buckingham came into the great room of the inn, Katherine proposed they set out at once, as she would reach Whitehall, if possible, before Sunday.
It was not the Duke's wish to proceed further without resting himself and horse; but being anxious to please Mistress Penwick, he said 'twould be his pleasure to start at her convenience; whereupon she relaxed her ardour, finding no opposition, and asked him if he thought the weather would permit. He answered that the weather must permit, and that they could easily reach their destination without killing more than three relays.
"Nay, nay, your Grace, if one horse only were to die, I would not permit such hurry!"
Suffice it; the Duke had his rest, and being of no mind to remain longer, at five o'clock in a gale of wind and rain set forth.
They had but common post-chaises as any squire would have, as these travelled about without drawing the attention that a London coach would. They rattled and slid along at their own convenience on the muddy road, and the postilion were soon reeking with mire thrown from the horses' feet.
For five hours the chaise jostled Constance, until she declared she would go no farther. Buckingham, who rode with his secret in the chaise that followed, said if they stopped to rest over night, they could not reach Whitehall before the King should leave.
This was a ruse planned by himself and Monmouth, as the latter had settled where he should take Katherine, and the former, not having had time to examine the contents of the bags, was loath she should see the King ere he had done so.
Katherine, seeing that Constance' lips were blue and her face pale, and forgetting her ladyship's evil ways, agreed they should stop at the first inn and there lie until the next morning; Janet having declared privately to her mistress that she should not waste any time with her ladyship.
Though the night was black and the road uncertain, yet they maintained a fair pace over the open downs, having left the shadowy trees behind; but there were no lights ahead and the prospects of getting shelter for the night were dubitable.
Constance became more and more impatient, pulling up the window every few minutes to inquire if any lights were to be seen, each time letting in a shower of rain that deluged her dress. This dampness was soon felt by her ladyship, whose temper could hardly keep her warm, and she called for blankets. There were none. At this knowledge she grew worse, and cried that she was in a chill and must have aid from somewhere.
For a truth, her teeth were chattering and her hands were cold, but it was nothing but mimosis brought on by the evil caldron that boiled within her wicked body. She had heard Buckingham tell Katherine that the King would be gone from Whitehall if they were delayed. Her plans were now made, and this sudden illness was a ruse to detain the maid. No, she must not see the King. She must now, first of all, become Monmouth's mistress, then Cedric in his wild despair would turn again to her; his playfellow, his old love, Constance.
Whether the postilion were in their master's confidence or not is not certain, but just before midnight they plunged into a narrow, miry road that traversed wastes and low coppices; the plash of the horses' feet showed the tract to be marshy and full of pools. Her ladyship looked out across the dreary fen and exclaimed,—
"I'll be damned, they have set us out like ducks!" At her words Katherine drew from her with disgust. It was the first she had heard her swear; but she had not yet seen her true nature.
On a sudden the chaise made a lunge and stopped in a deep rut. Some one plodded laboriously to the door and thrust in a rain-soaked visage, saying,—
"Their Graces beg your patience, as we cannot move until help comes.
There is a light ahead, and we hope to get on directly."
It was hours, however, before the lumbering equipages were pried out and started on. The light beyond had paled as dawn broke. They were once more upon the causeway, and the horses' feet beating with loud and even step upon the wet road.
Constance had calmed, and with the other occupants slept through the long delay. Nor did she wake until they had entered a thick wood where the branches of the trees swept tumultuously against the window. Then she opened her eyes with a start and saw Katherine still sleeping, her head pillowed on Janet's bosom. Her limbs were stiff from their cramped position. Vainly she essayed to stretch, and cried out as a rheumatic pain took her. She swore roundly and vowed she would alight at the first hut they should come upon.
It seemed hours before they came to a long, low stone building, evidently an old-time lodge. It was covered with ivy that trembled and glistened in the wind and rain.
The chaises stopped at the door, which was thrown open by an outrider who knocked up the locker with his whip handle.
The opening disclosed great, high-backed pews and an altar and pulpit. It was indeed a place of refuge to the weary travellers. It was dry and clean and afforded rest. Katherine stepped inside first, and immediately knelt and crossed herself. Monmouth did the same, knowing that the maid's eyes were upon him.
They took seats not far from the altar and settled themselves comfortably; for the servants had gone to find food and fresh horses.
Katherine was stirred by the sacredness of the day and place, and took little part in the conversation that was becoming more and more animated, as the Dukes and Constance drank heavily of wine brought from Monmouth's box in the chaise. And when meat, bread and cheese were brought and more wine was drank, her ladyship became maudlin and cast her eye about for diversion.
It fell upon the pulpit, and she tripped up to it, passing over the sacred altar in vulgar insouciance.
It pained Katherine to see the place so lightly esteemed, and she gave a little cry of "Oh!" as Constance threw open the Bible and began to preach in mockery of the Methody parson.
Buckingham's face was as stolid as Janet's; Monmouth's bearing a smile that was bastard of mirth.
Hardly was her ladyship started, when a tall form, strong boned and sinewy, strode through the open door. His ruddy face disclosed what appeared to be a stern and rough temper. His forehead was high; his nose well set over a mouth moderately large. His habit was plain and modest. The rain dripped from his red hair and the bit of mustachio that he wore on his upper lip. His quick, sharp eye noted the men and women that sat apart, and then turned like a flash upon the woman in the pulpit.
As Constance saw the man full in the face, there was a bathos in her zeal, and she stopped, open-mouthed, and closed the book.
Neither Buckingham nor Monmouth could see the countenance of him that entered, so they held quiet and wondered at her ladyship's behaviour. Katherine had bent her head upon the back of the seat.
The tall man proceeded up the aisle, his eyes upon the titled woman whose face was now covered with a genuine blush. For the first time in her life she felt ashamed. She felt a presence near her that was not altogether of this earth's mould.
At last regaining a semblance of her usual aplomb, she stepped from the pulpit and made toward the door, where others were entering. She looked back when half-way down the aisle and beckoned to the others of her party to follow. As she did so, there came from the pulpit a voice so rich and sweet, so penetrating the soul, the woman trembled and listened.
It was the "Kyrie Eleison" sung in a new tune with clear, strong English words, and they rung and rung in Constance' ears, as they continued to do for the rest of her days.
"He is a Ranter. Let us stay and hear him?" Monmouth said.
"Nay," said Katherine; "I am without covering for my head. Let's begone, the meeting is gathering. What a glory is in his countenance, and his voice is like music!"
"The lack of a bonnet need not hinder. Thou art a lady and privileged."
"Nay, nay. I would know who he is?" Monmouth plucked the sleeve of a passer-by and inquired. The man answered with a question put in a whisper,—
"Hast never read 'Pilgrim's Progress'?" The Duke threw back a glance at the form in the pulpit, then strode forward and jumped into the chaise.