Chapter Two.
Stolen Away.
Meanwhile the friar and Stephen Bassett conversed together, seated on a rude bench at the other side of the dimly-lit room. The friar was a man of kindly curiosity, who let his interests run freely after his neighbours’ affairs, and, attracted by the boy, whose education had far overpast that of the knight’s son, Edgar, he made searching inquiries, which Stephen answered frankly, relating more fully than Hugh how in Flanders, where he had travelled in order to perfect himself in an art not yet brought to a high pitch of excellence in England, his wife had died, and he having been left with the boy on his hands, the child had excited the interest of the monks, who, finding him teachable, had instructed him in the then rare accomplishments of reading and writing.
“He is like to forget them, though,” he added with a sigh, “unless in our wanderings we fall upon other brothers as good as those, which is scarce likely.”
“Have you thought of his taking the habit?”
“Nay, his bent lies not that way,” said Bassett, smiling. The other smiled also.
“Truly, it seemed not so by the lusty manner in which he laid about him but now. And I mind me he spoke of his wish to be a soldier.”
“That I will not consent to,” Bassett replied hastily; “he shall follow my trade. It would break my heart if I thought that all my labours died with me.” He was interrupted by a fit of coughing.
“And where,” inquired the Franciscan, “where dost thou purpose going when the fair is ended?”
“In good sooth, holy friar, that is what troubles me. I had thought of London, but I wot not—”
The other leaned forward, resting his elbow on his knee, and his chin in the palm of his hand.
“I wot not either,” he said at last, “but in these days there is much noble work akin to thine going on in the great churches and minsters of the kingdom. There is St. Peter’s at Exeter, now. One of our order was telling me but lately how gloriously the bishop of that see is bringing it to perfection. The air in those western shires is soft and healing, better for thy cough than London, which has many fens giving out their vapours, to say nothing of the smoke arising from that vile coal the citizens are now trying to burn, and which pours out its choking fumes upon the poor air. Were I thee I would not bestow myself in London.”
“Exeter,” said Bassett reflectively; “I thank thee for the suggestion. My wife came from those shires, and a bishop with a zeal for decoration might well give me employment.”
“The journey is long,” put in the friar, with a desire that prudence should have her share in this advice of his which the wood-carver seemed so ready to adopt.
“We are used to journeys and I dread them not.”
“Nor fear robbers?”
“I am too poor to tempt them. Besides, our great king has done much for the security of the country, by what I hear. Is it not so, holy friar?”
“Truly it is. But Scotland has taken more of his thought lately, and when the lion is in combat, the smaller beasts slink out to fall on their prey. But if you make your way to Exeter and would go first through London, our house in Newgate Street will give you hospitable lodging.—How now, Mistress Eleanor?”
“It is the monkey, Friar Nicholas—might he not bring it for madam, our mother, to see? He says that Wolf would eat him.”
“And in good sooth that were not unlikely. Better be content to come here again and see the little pagan beast, if Mistress Judith does not mislike it. Fare thee well, Master Bassett. I will meet thee again, and hear whether Exeter still has attraction.”
Mistress Judith rose and shook her skirts before folding them round her, an operation which the monkey, happening to be close to her on Hugh’s shoulder, resented greatly, chattering at and scolding her with all his might. Eleanor screamed with delight, while Anne hid her face; and Hugh, somewhat abashed at Mistress Judith’s displeasure, retired with Agrippa to the back of the room, while his father escorted his guests a few paces beyond the door.
He came back and found Hugh enthusiastic over his new friends.
“The dog, father, a noble beast! I would you had seen him! I warrant me Peter the smith’s son has had enough of fighting to last him a while. He ran like a deer!”
“And how fell it out?”
Thus questioned a long story had to be told of the ill deeds of Peter, who had been the chief offender; and the damage to Hugh’s garments, which Mistress Judith had but hastily caught together, was ruefully exhibited. Stephen shook his head.
“Another time keep thy fighting till a woman is near to back up thy prowess with her needle. Yet—I’ll not blame thee. ’Twould have been a cowardly deed to have suffered that poor beast to be stoned. And at least I can mother thee for these bruises and scratches.”
He fetched some water as he spoke, took out a few dried herbs from a bag, set them in the water on the fire, and as soon as the decoction was ready bathed the boy’s many hurts with a hand as gentle indeed as his mother’s could have been. While this was going on he talked to the child with a freedom which showed them to be more than usually companions in the fullest sense of the word.
“What thinkest thou the good friar hit upon? He thought I might find work at one of the great churches which are rising to perfection in the land. And, Hugh, thou hast heard thy mother speak of Exeter? At Exeter there is much of this going on, and if we could get there, I might obtain the freedom of one of the craft guilds, and apprentice thee.”
“Ay”—doubtfully.
“Well, why that doleful tone?”
“I would be a soldier, father.”
“Serve thy ’prenticeship first and talk of fighting afterwards. Dost thou think King Edward takes little varlets of eleven years old to make his army? Besides—speak not of it, Hugh. My heart is set upon thy carrying on my work. Life has not been sweet for me, and ’tis likely to be short; let me see some fruit before I die.”
The boy flung his arms round Bassett’s neck.
“Father, talk not like that! I will be what thou wilt!”
“Thou wilt? Promise me, then,” said his father eagerly.
“I promise.”
Stephen Bassett’s breath came short and fast.
“See here, Hugh. Thou art young in years but quick of understanding, and hast been my close companion of late. Thou art ready to engage, as far as thou canst—I would not bind thee too closely,” he added, reluctantly—“to renounce those blood-letting dreams of thine, and follow my trade, and, as I well believe thou wilt, make our name famous?”
“Ay,” said the little lad gravely, “that will I do. Only—”
“What?”
“If I must needs be cutting something, I would sooner ’twere stone than wood.”
“Sayest thou so?” said the carver, rising and walking backwards and forwards in the room. He was evidently disappointed, and was undergoing a struggle with himself. But at last he stopped, and laid his hand kindly upon the boy’s shoulder. “As thou wilt, Hugh,” he said; “I would not be unreasonable; and truly I believe thy hand finds more delight in that cold unfriendly surface than in the fine responsive grain of the wood. So thou art a carver, choose thine own material. Stone and wood are both needed in the churches. We will go to Exeter. I mind me thy mother had cousins there. We will but wait for the end of the fair, and there will be folk going to London with whom we may journey safely.”
The man’s sanguine nature as usual overleapt all difficulties. His cough and his breathing were so bad, that others might have well dreaded the effects of a long and toilsome journey, but he would hear of no possible drawbacks, and Hugh was too young to be alarmed, and took the over-bright eyes and occasional flush of the cheek as glad signs that his father was getting well again.
Thanks to Hugh’s new friends, moreover, Bassett sold his work, and sold it well. Dame Edith de Trafford sent for him, desiring he would bring his boy and some specimens of his carving. Hugh begged sore to be allowed to take Agrippa, for the joy it would give to the little Eleanor, but his father would not have it. The monkey, though it had attached itself devotedly to Hugh, was capricious with others, variable in temper, and at times a very imp of mischief, and Stephen feared its pranks might offend their new patroness.
Agrippa was, therefore, consigned to the rafters, where he chattered with displeasure at seeing his master go out without him.
“If he is to journey with us, we must get him a cord,” said Bassett. “As it is, we shall pass for a party of mountebanks. See that the door is safely closed, for John the sacristan will not be back yet awhile.”
The night had been wet, and the gaiety of the fair much bedraggled in consequence. Under foot, indeed, the mud and mire of the trampled grass made so sticky a compound that it was difficult for one foot to follow the other. The poor folk who had been obliged—as numbers were—to sleep on rough boards, raised on four legs from the ground, and but slightly protected from the weather, were in sad plight. Happily the sun had come out, and though there was not much heat in his rays, they served to lessen some of the discomfort, and to bring back a touch of cheerfulness. Peter the smith’s son, with one or two others, pointed and grimaced at Hugh as he passed on, without venturing to approach nearer. The goldsmiths were hanging up costly chains and sets of pearls with which to tempt the noble ladies who approached, while a Hans trader called attention to the fact that winter was coming and his furs would protect from cramps and rheumatism. Presently down through the booths rode a party of knights and javelin men, none other than the high sheriff with the four coroners and others, on their way to the shire court, which was to be held that day under the shire-oak a few miles distant. A number of countrymen had already gone off to this meeting, and in a few minutes Hugh saw Wolf bounding along by the side of a smaller group of knights; Edgar was behind with a younger party, and evidently Sir Thomas de Trafford as one of the knights of the shire was proceeding to join the assembly. Many remarks were made by the bystanders, to which Bassett, who had been long out of England, listened attentively. He found that much satisfaction was in general expressed, though one or two malcontents declared that each assembly was but the herald for a demand for money.
“Parliament or no parliament, ’tis ever the same,” grumbled one small cobbler, drest in the usual coarse garment reaching just below the knees, and headed by a square cape, too large for his shrunk shoulders: “wars to be waged, and money to be squeezed from our bodies.”
“Thine would not furnish the realm with the weight of a silver penny,” said a burly countryman, glancing with much contempt at the cobbler. “And when does the king ask for aid except in case of need? If thou hadst, as I friends in Cumberland, I reckon you would be the first to cry out that a stop should be put to these Scotch outlaws harrying the borders.”
“And hast thou friends in Gascony, too, Dick-o’-the-Hill?” demanded the little cobbler spitefully.
“Nay, it’s been a scurvy trick of the French king, that getting hold of Gascony,” put in a baker who had joined the group; “I’m all for fighting for Gascony.”
“Well, I’ll warrant that our burgesses, Master Dennis and Master Small, will speak their minds against any wicked waste,” persisted the cobbler. “’Tis time the king were checked.”
“And who has given you burgesses to speak for you, ay, and passed laws putting the ay and the nay into your own hands?” broke in Stephen Bassett indignantly. “I have been out of England for many a long year, but I mind the time, my masters, if you have forgotten, when the parliament was called, not to vote whether or no the money should be raised, but to raise it. Few laws had you in old days, and little voice in them!”
“He speaks the truth,” said a grave franklin standing by.
“When, since the days of Alfred, has there been an English king like our King Edward?” added Dick-o’-the-Hill.
“One that ever keeps his word.”
“And makes laws for the poor.”
“I say that none speak against him except traitors and false loons,” said the baker, squaring up towards the cobbler in a threatening manner.
“Nay, my masters, I meant no harm,” urged the cobbler, alarmed. “The saints forbid that I should say a word against King Edward! Doubtless, we shall pay our twelfth, such of us as can—and be as much better as we are like to be.”
He added these words under his breath, but Stephen Bassett caught them.
“Ay,” he said, “so long as we are saved from sinking into a nation of curs such as thee.”
The cobbler cast an infuriated look at him as he walked on, the flush which Hugh loved to see on his cheek.
“That was an evil man, father,” said the boy. Bassett was silent for a space.
“There are many such discontented knaves,” he returned at last, “eating like a canker into the very heart of our nation. Self, self, that is the limit to which their thoughts rise. And they measure all others by their own petty standard—even the king. It makes one sick at heart to think what he has done for his country, and how—to hear some of these mean-spirited loons talk—it is turned against him, and besmirched, till fairest deeds are made to look black, and nothing is left to him but his faults.”
If Hugh could not understand all, he took in much, and remembered it afterwards. But the delights of the fair drove all else out of his head for the moment, and he could scarce be torn away from the dancing bear.
“Hearken,” said his father at last with a laugh, “whatever happens, I’ll have none of the bear! His masters may die, and he be baited by all the dogs in the town, but he shall never be my travelling fellow. Come, ’tis time we were at the lady’s.”
This time they were passed through the passage to the talking room, where Dame Edith was sitting on a bench or low settle. The walls were unplastered, its rough floor uncarpeted, its windows unglazed, to modern notions it would have seemed little better than a cell, but Dame Edith herself created about her an air of refinement and delicacy. After the new fashion, instead of the plaits which had been worn, her fair hair was turned up and enclosed in a network caul of gold thread, over which was placed a veil. She wore a kirtle of pale blue silk, and a fawn-coloured velvet mantle, with an extravagantly long train embroidered in blue. She looked too young to be the mother of Edgar, and indeed was Sir Thomas’s second wife, and the very darling of his heart. The twins, especially Anne, strongly resembled her; Eleanor had more of her father’s and her step-brother’s eager impetuosity, but Anne bade fair to be as sweet-mannered and dainty as her mother. Bassett and his son had hardly made their greeting, before the little maidens were in the room, Eleanor so brimming over with questions about the monkey that she could scarce keep her tongue in check.
Dame Edith smiled very kindly on the boy.
“I have heard all the tale from Friar Nicholas,” she said, “and of how discreetly Wolf came to the rescue. And so thou wouldst be a soldier?”
Hugh coloured, and his father broke in—
“Nay, lady, he hath laid by that foolish fancy. He will be a carver, like myself.”
She lifted her pretty eyebrows.
“In good sooth? Now we had settled matters quite otherwise. I had won my good husband to consenting that he should be taken into our meiné, and there he might have risen. Is the subject quite decided?”
“Quite, lady,” Bassett said firmly. “I thank you very humbly for your goodness, but Hugh and I must hold together while I live, and I have set my heart upon his carving a name for himself with a lowlier but a more lasting weapon than the sword.”
His cough shook him again as he spoke, and Dame Edith, though unused to opposition, was too kindly natured to show displeasure. She asked to see what he had brought, and was soon wrapt in admiration at the free and delicate work which was displayed. Meanwhile, Eleanor could whisper to Hugh—
“Hath Agrippa eaten all the nuts? Doth he like spice-bread or figs? I’ll give thee some. But oh, I wish, I wish thou hadst brought him! Wolf is gone to the shire-oak. And see now, bend down thy head, and hearken to a secret. Madam, our mother, has a silken cord for thee to hold him with. When may we come again and see him? I should like it to be to-day.”
Dame Edith was a liberal purchaser. Her last choice was a beautiful little reliquary box, minutely carved, yet with a freedom of design which enchanted her. She would scarcely allow them to leave her, and the afternoon had advanced before father and son found themselves on their way back to the sacristan’s house. He met them at the door—a little, withered old man—in an indignant temper.
“Folk should shut the door behind them, and not leave the house to be pillaged,” he said, crossly. “Here I come back and find all in disorder, and the door wide open to invite all the ill loons in the place to come in and work their will.”
“We left the door safely shut,” said Bassett, in surprise.
“Father—Agrippa!” cried Hugh, bolting into the house.
His fears were too true. No Agrippa chattered his welcome to them from the rafters, and as he always remained in that place of refuge during their absence, and was too timid to come down to any stranger, it was evident that some dire abduction had taken place. Hugh, who had grown very fond of the monkey, was like one distracted. John, the sacristan, who loved it less, was disposed to be philosophical.
“Well, well, well,” he said, “if the varlets have taken nought else I wish them joy of their bargain, and ’tis well it’s no worse. By ’r Lady, ’tis a foul thing to break into a man’s house, and we shall see what the Master of the College will say to the watch.”
“I’ll find the poor beast, if he be still alive,” said Hugh, with a choke in his voice, “wherever they’ve bestowed him. ’Tis Peter’s work!”
He was rushing out when Bassett checked him.
“Softly, softly,” he said, “prudence may do more than valour in this case. Let us ask a few questions to begin with. Master John, at what time came you back?”
“At four o’ the clock, and found the door open—thus, and the tankard of ale I had left emptied. The scurvy knaves! But there’s no virtue left in the watch since Master Simpkins got the upper hand, and hath upset all the ancient customs.”
Scarce restraining Hugh’s impatience, his father made inquiries at some of the houses round, and ended at last in gaining information. Goody Jones was sick of a fever, and her little grandchild, playing at bob-apple before the door with another, had seen Peter, the smith’s son, and two other boys, whom she named, go into the sacristan’s house. Pressed to say whether she saw them come out again, she said nay. Her grandam had called her, and she had run in.
Link the first was therefore established.
Hugh was for rushing at once to Peter, and forcing the rest out of him, but Bassett counselled more wary walking.
“’Tis a deep-laid plot,” he said, “and it were best to meet craft by craft. Besides, if they are accused, they may kill the poor beast to save themselves and spite thee. Let us go out to the fair, and maybe we shall pick up some tidings.”
It was dreadful to Hugh to behold Peter in the distance, and to be restrained from falling upon him, and the fair had quite lost its charm, though the noise and stir had increased. Costard-mongers were bawling apples—red, white, and grey costards—at the top of their voices; pig-women inviting the passers-by to partake of the roast pig which smoked on their tables; tooth-drawers and barbers, each proclaiming his calling more loudly than the other. The abbot of a neighbouring monastery had his palfrey surrounded by a group of clothiers, while a fool in motley was the centre of another group. Among these the wood-carver spied a sturdy yeoman, the same Dick-o’-the-Hill who had opposed the cobbler earlier in the day. It struck him that here was a man for his purpose, and he managed to extract him from the others, and to tell him what they were seeking. Honest Dick-o’-the-Hill scratched his head.
“If you knew where they had disposed the beast,” he said, “and breaking of heads could do it, I’m your man. But as for finding where ’tis hid, my wife would tell you I was the veriest numskull!” The next moment he brightened. “I have it! There’s my cousin before us, carrying that fardel of hay. He’s the wisest head for miles round, and I’ll warrant he’ll clap some sense on the matter. Hi, Mat! Ancient Mat!”
Thus adjured, a small, dried-up, pippin-faced man paused on his way, and waited till his cousin overtook him and explained what was amiss. He listened testily, showing profound contempt for honest Dick’s straightforward, though somewhat heavy-handed, suggestions, but more deference towards Stephen Bassett.
“More likely that the knaves have sold than harmed the creature,” he pronounced at the end of the story.
“Find out where it is, and I’ll do what cracking of crowns is needed,” said Dick.
“Mend thine own, which is cracked past recovery,” growled the other. “Hearken, master,”—to Bassett—“who is likely to buy such a beast?”
“Some noble household.”
“Rather some puppet-show or party of mountebanks; those who have dancing dogs or a bear.”
“Right!” cried Stephen, joyfully. “What a fool was I not to think of it!”
“I said he had the best head in the shire,” said Dick, with triumph.
“And,” continued Matthew, unheeding, “thou wottest that the licence to all foreigners expires to-day, and that they must leave the fair? See there, those Flemish traders are putting their wares together, and the abbot has made a good bargain for his silken hangings. My counsel is to go to the watch, and, when the bear and his masters are on the march, search for the monkey. If I mistake not they will not be able to hide him.”
“Well thought of, friend,” said Bassett, heartily. “No need of the watch, though,” put in Dick-o’-the-Hill; “I’ll bring a stout fellow or two who’ll do what is necessary.”
“Ay, and get us trounced up as the trailbastons the king hates, numskull,” said his cousin. “But ’tis nothing to me. Go thine own way for an obstinate loggerhead!”
Dick, who seemed to regard Mat’s railing as something rather honourable than otherwise entered into the proposal with extreme zest. He produced a quarterstaff, which he flourished with formidable ease, declaring himself ready with its aid to encounter the bear himself. Stephen Bassett hoped to carry the matter through peaceably, but he felt that his efforts might go more smoothly backed up by a display of force, and welcomed Dick’s assistance, as well as that of a neighbour whom he offered to fetch. There was not much time to lose, and they agreed to meet at a certain spot within half an hour, a time which to Hugh’s impatience seemed interminable. His father had enough to do in keeping him quiet, and in finding out where the watch, whose business it was to keep order at the fair, were bestowed. Matthew, having disposed of his hay, rejoined Bassett, really desirous to know whether his surmises turned out to be correct; but, as he declared, solely that he might help to check his cousin Dick’s ignorant zeal.
Four of them, therefore, to say nothing of Hugh, took up their position in the field just on the outskirts of the fair, and waited patiently or impatiently, after their natures, for the event.
Soon a motley crowd began to emerge from the booths. The most picturesque features of the show, indeed, were departing, for foreigners were not allowed to compete with the English traders beyond a certain number of days; and Flemish, Italians, Chinese, streamed forth, to find a night’s lodging as best they might beyond the forbidden limits. This expulsion was accompanied by a good deal of coarse jesting and railing from the other sellers, who rejoiced at the departure.
It was not long before the bear appeared, led by two men.
“Father, father!” cried Hugh, in a tumult of excitement.
“Speak the word, master, when thou desirest an appeal to my quarterstaff,” put in Dick-o’-the-Hill, “or even give me a nod, and I’ll warrant I’ll not be backward. I’ll answer for the bear.”
“Ay, I verily believe thy head to be as thick as its own,” said Matthew. “When wilt thou learn that brains are better than fists? Peace, and keep back.”
Stephen Bassett had stepped out, and civilly informed the men that a monkey had been taken from his house, and that he had reason to think it might be in their possession.
“Going beyond known facts,” muttered Matthew, “yet one must sometimes make a leap in the dark. They shake their heads and deny. What next? Friend Stephen presses his demand, and all four knaves wax violent in vowing lies; and Dick is puffing and blowing with desire to break heads. They have the beast, but where?”
His quick eyes, darting hither and thither, had soon answered this question. One or two of the men had bundles on their backs, and a boy carried something of the same sort, though smaller. Matthew noticed that, at a word from one of the men, this boy slipped out of the group, and, avoiding the side where Dick and his neighbour Hob were mounting guard, passed round near Matthew himself. In an absolutely unexpected moment he found himself caught by the arm, and though he fought and kicked he was held in a vice. The men turned upon Matthew with threatening gestures, and Dick, in high delight, flourished his quarterstaff, and pressed up to the defence with one eye on the bear, who in a free fight might be held to represent an unknown quantity.
Finding they had fallen into powerful hands the Italians confined themselves to pouring out violent ejaculations, while Hugh flung himself upon the bundle. His fingers trembled so much with excitement that he could hardly drag out the wooden skewers which served to keep it together, but in a minute or two it was unrolled, and the terrified monkey sprang out. He had made one frightened leap already when Hugh’s call checked him, and the next moment, with a cry of delight, almost human in its intensity, he ran to the boy, and clambering on his shoulder gave the most unmistakable signs of pleasure.
“The monkey is his own jury,” said Matthew, sententiously. “Tried and found guilty, my masters.”
The Italians, however, had no intention of giving up their booty without a struggle, and they called upon several jongleurs, who had crowded round, to assist them. One went so far as to seize the monkey, whereupon Dick’s cudgel, describing a circle in the air, came down upon the head of the assailant with such force that he dropped like a stone, and Hob following up with another blow scarcely less formidable, it seemed likely that here would be a battle royal. Two men fell upon Matthew, who would have been in evil case had not Dick done as much for him as he had for the monkey; and Stephen Bassett was set upon with a vigour which soon left him breathless, although Hugh, clasping Agrippa with one hand, with the other arm laid about him to such excellent purpose that he hoped to save his father from hurt till Dick could come to the rescue.
But might has been often found to get the upper hand of right, and both Stephen and Dick had fallen into the common English error of underrating their opponents. A good many of the foreigners had closed round with the desire to help their own body, and without knowing anything of the quarrel; and the English, who would have stoutly taken the opposite side, could only see that some quarrel was going on, and supposed the strangers to be fighting among themselves. Dick had done prodigies of valour, and dealt furious blows with his quarterstaff, but he was hampered by numbers who clung to his arm, and by the charge of protecting his cousin, and he was reluctantly framing a call for rescue when a party of horsemen rode into the very thick of the struggling mass, and scattered it in all directions.