Chapter Thirteen.
A Dark Night’s Errand.
“Must you be gone, Bessy?” said Dorothy Denny, sitting down on the side of her bed with a weary air. “Eh, I’m proper tired! Thought this day ’d never come to an end, I did. Couldn’t you tarry a bit longer?”
“I don’t think I ought, Dorothy. Your mistress looked to see Rose abed by now, ’twas plain; and mine gave me leave but till eight o’ the clock. I’d better be on my way.”
“Oh, you’re one of that sort that’s always thinking what they ought, are you? That’s all very well in the main; but, dear heart! one wants a bit of what one would like by nows and thens.”
“One gets that best by thinking what one ought,” said Elizabeth.
“Ay, but it’s all to come sometime a long way off; and how do I know it’ll come to me? Great folks doesn’t take so much note of poor ones, and them above ’ll very like do so too.”
“There’s only One above that has any right to bid aught,” answered Elizabeth, “and He takes more note of poor than rich, Doll, as you’ll find by the Bible. Good-night, Rose; good-night, Dorothy.”
And Elizabeth ran lightly down the stairs, and out so into the street. She had a few minutes left before the hour at which Mrs Clere had enjoined her to be back, so she did not need to hurry, and she went quietly on towards Balcon Lane, carrying her lantern—for there were no street lamps, and nobody could have any light on a winter evening except what he carried with him. Just before she turned the corner of the lane she met two women, both rather heavily laden. Elizabeth was passing on, when her steps were arrested by hearing one of them say,—
“I do believe that’s Bess Foulkes; and if it be—”
Elizabeth came to a standstill.
“Yes, I’m Bess Foulkes,” she said. “What of that?”
“Why, then, you’ll give me a lift, be sure, as far as the North Hill. I’ve got more than I can carry, and I was casting about for a face I knew.”
“I’ve not much time to spare,” said Elizabeth; “but I’ll give you a lift as far as Saint Peter’s—I can’t go further. Margaret Thurston, isn’t it? I must be in by eight; I’ll go with you till then.”
“I’ve only to go four doors past Saint Peter’s, so that’ll do well. You were at the preaching, weren’t you, this even?”
“Ay, and I thought I saw you.”
“Yes, I was there. He talked full bravely. I marvel if he’d stand if it came to it. I don’t think many would.”
“I misdoubt if any would, without God held them up.”
“Margaret says she’s sure she would,” said the other woman.
“Oh, ay, I don’t doubt myself,” said Margaret.
“Then I cry you mercy, but I doubt you,” replied Elizabeth.
“I’m sure you needn’t! I’d never flinch for pope nor priest.”
“Maybe not; but you might for rack or stake.”
“It’ll ne’er come to that here. Queen Mary’s not like to forget how Colchester folk all stood with her against Lady Jane.”
“She mayn’t; but think you the priests shall tarry at that? and she’ll do as the priests bid her.”
“Ay, they say my Lord of Winchester, when he lived, had but to hold up his finger, and she’d have followed him, if it were over London Bridge into the Thames,” said the other woman. “And the like with my Lord Cardinal, that now is.”
By “my Lord of Winchester” she meant Bishop Gardiner, who had been dead rather more than a year. The Cardinal was Reginald Pole, the Queen’s third cousin, who had lately been appointed Archbishop of Canterbury, in the room of the martyred Cranmer, “Why, the Queen and my Lord Cardinal were ever friends, from the time they were little children,” answered Margaret.
“Ay, there was talk once of her wedding with him, if he’d not become a priest. But I rather reckon you’re right, my maid: a priest’s a priest, without he’s a Gospeller; and there’s few of them will think more of goodness and charity than of their own order and of the Church.”
“Goodness and charity? Marry, there’s none in ’em!” cried Margaret. “Howbeit, here’s the Green Sleeves, where I’m bound, and I’m beholden to you, Bessy, for coming with me. Good even.”
Elizabeth returned the greeting, and set off to walk back at a quick pace to Balcon Lane. She had not gone many steps when she was once more stopped, this time by a young man, named Robert Purcas, a fuller, who lived in the neighbouring village of Booking.
“Bessy,” said he. “It is thou, I know well, for I heard thee bid Margaret Thurston good den, and I should know thy voice among a thousand.”
“I cannot ’bide, Robin. I’m late, even now.”
“Tarry but one minute, Bessy. Trust me, thou wouldst if—”
“Well, then, make haste,” said Elizabeth, pausing.
“Thou art friends with Alice Mount, of Bentley, and she knows Mistress Ewring, the miller’s wife.”
“Ay; well, what so?”
“Bid Alice Mount tell Master Ewring there’s like to be a writ out against him for heresy and contumaciousness toward the Church. Never mind how I got to know; I know it, and that’s enough. He, and Mistress Silverside, and Johnson, of Thorpe, be like enough to come into court. Bessy, take heed to thy ways, I pray thee, that thou be not suspect.”
No thought of herself had caused Elizabeth Foulkes to lay her hand suddenly on the buttress of Saint Peter’s, beside her. The father who was so dear to little Cissy was in imminent danger; and Cissy had just been asking God to send somebody to see after him. Elizabeth’s voice was changed when she spoke again.
“They must be warned,” she said. “Robin, thou and I must needs do this errand to-night. I shall be chidden, but that does not matter. Canst thou walk ten miles for the love of God?”
“I’d do that for the love of thee, never name God.”
Elizabeth did not answer the words. There was too much at stake to lose time.
“Then go thou to Thorpe, and bid Johnson get away ere they take him. Mistress Wade has the children, and she’ll see to them, or Alice Mount will. I must—”
“Thou’d best not put too much on Alice Mount, for Will Mount’s as like as not to be in the next batch.”
“Lord, have mercy on us! I’ll go warn them—they are with Mistress Ewring at the mill; and then I’ll go on to Mistress Silverside. Make haste, Robin, for mercy’s sake!”
And, without waiting for anything more, Elizabeth turned and ran up the street as fast as she dared in the comparative darkness. Streets were very rough in those days, and lanterns would not light far.
Old Mistress Silverside lived in Tenant’s Lane, which was further off than the mill. Elizabeth ran across from the North Hill to Boucher’s Street, and up that, towards the gate, beyond which the mill stood on the bank of the Colne. Mr Ewring, the miller, was a man who kept early hours; and, as Elizabeth ran up to the gate, she saw that the lights were already out in the windows of the mill. The gate was closed. Elizabeth rapped sharply on the window, and the shutter was opened, but, all being dark inside, she could not see by whom.
“Prithee, let me through the gate. I’ve a message of import for Master Ewring, at the mill.”
“Gate’s shut,” said the gruff voice of the gatekeeper. “Can’t let any through while morning.”
“Darnell, you’ll let me through!” pleaded Elizabeth. “I’m servant to Master Clere, clothier, of Balcon Lane, and I’m sent with a message of grave import to the mill.”
“Tell Master Clere, if he wants his corn ground, he must send by daylight.”
And the wooden shutter was flung to. Elizabeth stood for an instant as if dazed.
“I can’t get to them,” she said to herself. “There’s no chance that way. I must go to Tenant’s Lane.”
She turned away from the gate, and went round by the wall to the top of Tenant’s Lane.
“Pray God I be in time to warn somebody! We are all in danger, we who were at the preaching to-night, and Mistress Wade most of all, for it was in her house. I’ll go to the King’s Head ere I go home.”
Thus thinking, Elizabeth reached Mrs Silverside’s, and rapped at the door. Once—twice—thrice—four times. Not a sound came from inside, and she was at last sorrowfully compelled to conclude that nobody was at home. Down the lane she went, and came out into High Street at the bottom.
“Then I can only warn Mistress Wade. I dare be bound she’ll let the others know, as soon as morning breaks. I do trust that will be time enough.”
She picked her way across High Street, and had just reached the opposite side, when her arm was caught as if in an iron vice, and she felt herself held fast by greater strength than her own.
“Hussy, what goest thou about?” said the stern voice of her master, Nicholas Clere.