Chapter Four.
How I met a Runaway Scholar.
As I entered the poor kitchen of the inn—for it was a sorry shed altogether—there rose to meet me a figure which, if I live to Methuselah’s age, I shall not easily forget. He was tall and had the limbs of a giant. His hair was tawny and inclined to red, and hung in disorderly waves on his shoulders. His raiment—for he had flung his scholar’s cap and robe to a corner of the room—was poor and ragged, and seemed scarcely to hang together on his brawny back. His arms were long and nervous, and the hands at the end of them twitched uneasily even while the rest of his body was motionless. His carriage was erect and martial, and you knew not whether to admire most the weight and solidity of the man as he stood still, or the tiger-like spring in every limb when he moved.
Yet it was not one of these things which made me stand almost in awe as I saw him. It was his face, which, if ever a man’s face deserved the name, was beautiful. I cannot explain why; for I have seen features more finely carved and better proportioned in faces which never seemed to me so beautiful as his. I have seen more strength of mouth, more light of eyes, many a time, and yet never looked twice; I have seen faces as noble which never struck me as his did. I know not how it was. I think it was the expression which moulded all his face into a look, partly wild, partly noble, partly sad, and wholly gentle. For as you watched it, it changed like an April day from cloud to fair, from thunder to lightning, from night to day; yet whatever came or went, the look of a gentle man remained.
Man, did I say? He was scarcely my senior, even if he was my equal in years; and his beardless chin and the boyish glow on his cheek made him seem younger than he was.
But why all this picture-drawing of a stray Oxford student, whom, while I talk about him, I keep standing in front of me on the floor of that poor kitchen? You shall hear.
It was not to do me obeisance that he rose as I entered. His dirk was drawn and his face was thunderous as he took a step forward and spoke.
“I want you not! So leave me.”
My Lord Burleigh himself could not have spoken the words more royally, although he would have spoken them with less music and more of an English accent in his voice.
Now, moved as I was by the look of my companion, it offended me to hear a loyal London ’prentice talked to thus like a dog, or, worse, like the drawer of the inn.
“By your leave,” said I, and it was not often I said as much to any man, “unless you be the landlord of the place, I have as good a right to be here as you.”
“Then,” said he, solemnly and, as I thought, sadly, “guard yourself.” I whipped out my sword. In my boastfulness, I thought I had too great an advantage with my long weapon against his short and not too highly-tempered blade, and I resolved with myself not to run him through if I could otherwise satisfy him. But my tune changed as soon as we closed. I could do nothing. My fine thrusts and parries wherewith I was wont to set Finsbury Fields a-gaping all went for nothing. He got in at me over my guard, under my guard, beside my guard, and through my guard. Nor could I even do myself justice. For while I fenced, I was fascinated by the flashing of his eyes and the noble gracefulness of his every motion. In two minutes he had me disarmed, pinned up against the wall, as helpless as a silly ox in the grip of a tiger.
It mortified me as much as anything to find that when he had me thus at his mercy he dropped me half disdainfully, half pitifully, and put his dirk back into its sheath.
“Will you go now?”
“No,” said I, doggedly. For so chapfallen was I that I wished nothing better than that he should do his worst with me.
At that he looked at me in solemn perplexity, and I expected to see his hand back at his girdle. But, to my confusion, he only shrugged his shoulders and turned away.
This completed my humbling; for no man had ever disdained me thus before. I might easily have reached my sword, which lay at my feet, and run him through before he could face round; yet he did not even deign to notice me, and walked slowly to the fire, where he sat with his back to me.
I could stand it no longer, and crossed the room to face him.
“You have beaten me,” said I—and the words were hard to say—“take my sword, for, by heaven, I will never wear it again, and fare you well.”
The cloud on his face broke into sunlight as he sprang to his feet, and, taking my arm, said—
“No. Stay here and let us be friends. I am too poor to offer thee supper, but here’s my hand.”
I took his hand like one in a dream. I could not help it, strange as it seemed.
“Sir,” said I, “whoever you be, I strike hands on one condition only, that is, that you sup to-night with me. I’m a London ’prentice, but I know when I meet my match.”
What that had to do with his supping with me, I know not; but I was so flurried with my late defeat and my enemy’s sudden friendliness, that I scarcely knew what I said.
“If that be the price, I must even pay it,” said he, solemnly, “so long as we be friends.”
So I called to the man of the house to bring us food quickly, and, while it was coming, set myself to know more of my new comrade.
Yet when I came to question him I felt abashed. For he looked so grave and noble that, despite his ragged clothes, it seemed presumptuous to ask him who he was. While I doubted how to begin, he spared me the trouble.
“Are you going to Oxford?” said he.
“I am,” said I. “I was to reach there this night, but lost my way; and even yet do not know how near I am.”
“Not an hour from the cursed place,” said he, giving his student’s cap, which lay on the floor at his feet, a little kick.
“Then it agrees not with you?” said I.
“Agrees!” said he, and then dropped silent, far more eloquently than if he had spoken a volume.
“Pray, sir,” said I, after an awkward pause, “do you know one Master Penry of Saint Alban Hall?”
He laughed at that.
“The Welshman? Verily, I know him. What do you want with him?”
“I am to deliver him a letter from my master. Can you take me to him?”
“No,” said my companion, “for I shall never enter Oxford again.”
“Is your term done, then?” I asked.
“For me it is,” said he. “I have been here two months, and will have no more of it.”
“But are you free to leave?” I asked—for my curiosity was roused.
“Free!” said he: “I am here, that is enough. If my tutor come after me, there will be two men who will never see Oxford again.”
I pitied his tutor, whoever he was, when he said that.
“But where are you going then?” I asked.
“To-night I shall lie here. The man of the place is my friend, and will shelter me, though I have nothing to pay him. To-morrow I shall take the road.”
Here our supper came in: a fine big trout from the river, and a dish which mine host called mutton, but which I smelt to be venison.
It smote me to the heart to mark the struggle in my comrade’s face to keep down the ravenous joy which for a moment hailed the coming in of these good things. But the ecstasy lasted only a moment, and when I bade him fall to, he said indifferently he had no appetite and wanted nothing.
“But it was a bargain,” said I.
So he took a small helping. It plainly cut him to the quick to receive hospitality from a ’prentice, and he would, I think, as soon have starved, but for his promise.
I feigned not to notice what he took; yet I could not help marking the hungry way in which he devoured what was on his platter. Then when it was done, he rose and went to his seat at the fireplace, while I finished my supper at the table.
Before I had done, I filled my cup, as was my wont, and drank to Her Majesty, bidding my guest do the same.
He came gravely to the table at that, and filled a mug of ale to the brim. “Here’s to my Queen,” said he.
This struck me as odd, for his tone and manner were as if he were drinking to another toast than mine. Yet I did not dare to question him about it, and only hoped so noble a youth was one of Her Majesty’s loyal servants.
Our host had but one small room with a single bed in it to offer us, which accordingly we shared for the night. Nor was it long before we were each sound asleep, forgetful of our troubles and quarrels and weariness.
Before we fell over, however, my comrade said:
“When go you into Oxford?”
“To-morrow, betimes,” said I, “for my message is urgent.”
“You will have trouble enough,” said he. “There is little love between town and gown there, and unless you like knocks, you had better send your letter by the hand of one who does.”
“I mind no knocks,” said I, groaning a little at the memory of some I had received that very evening; “besides, I am bound to give my letter by my own hand.”
“Then,” said he, “take my cap and gown: they are no use to me and may be a passport to you. Lend me your cloak in exchange. It will serve to hide me, while it would but betray you as an intruder inside Oxford.”
“This cloak,” said I, “is the gift of my dear mistress in London. But perhaps your advice is good. I will go into Oxford in a scholar’s garb, and you meanwhile shall shelter here in my cloak till I return about noon. Is it a bargain?”
“As you please,” said he, and fell asleep.
I was the more pleased with this exchange, as I remembered what Master Udal had said concerning the fancy Master Penry might take for my brave cloak. It would be safer here, protecting my comrade, than flaunting in the eyes of the ravenous youth of Oxford.
When I arose next morning with the sun, my bedfellow still slept heavily. I could not forbear taking a look at him as he lay there. His face in sleep, with all the care and unrest out of it, looked like that of some boyish, resolute Greek divinity. His arm was flung carelessly behind his head, and the tawny hair which strayed over the pillow served as a setting for his fine-cut features.
But I had no time for admiring Greek divinities just then; and slipping on the scholar’s robe and cap, which, to my thinking, made me a monstrous fine fellow, I left my own cloak at his bedside, and, taking my letter, started on my errand, afoot.
In the clear morning I could plainly see the towers of the city ahead of me before I had been long on the road. But it is one thing to see and another to touch. The inn where I had lain was at the river’s bank, and yet no road seemed to lead to it or from it. As for mounting the river bank, that was impossible, by reason of the thickets which crowded down to the water’s edge. I had to tramp inland, through marsh and quagmire, in which more than once I thought to end my days, till, after much searching, I hit upon the road which led to the city. Before I entered it the bells were clanging from a score of steeples, and many a hurrying form, clad like myself, crossed my path.
As I gained the east bridge, there was no small tumult in progress. For a handful of scholars, on their way to morning lecture, had fallen foul of a handful of yeomen bound for the fields, and were stoutly disputing the passage. When I appeared, I was claimed at once by the scholars as one of them, and willy-nilly, had to throw in my lot with them. The fight was a sharp one, for the yeomen had their sticks and shares and sickles, and laid stoutly about, whereas the scholars were unarmed, all except a few. At last, when two of our side had been pitched head first over the bridge, our leaders seemed inclined to parley; but the countrymen, puffed up with success, and calling to mind, perhaps, some old grievance, called, “No quarter! To the river with them, everyone,” and closed in.
Then the scholars had to fight for their lives; and I, forgetting I was not really one of them, girt my gown about me, and, shouting to them to follow me, charged the varlets. They were sorry then they had not ended the matter sooner. Two or three of them went over the bridge to look for our comrades beneath, others were soundly cudgelled with their own sticks, while our fists slowly did the rest. All of a sudden up rode two or three horsemen, at whose coming our men showed signs of panic, while the townsmen cheered loudly and made a fresh stand. This vexed me sorely, for I had supposed the battle at an end. Wherefore, I made for the chief horseman, and, putting out all my strength, pulled him off his horse. Scarcely had I done so when my comrades behind raised a shout of “’Tis the Mayor!—’tis the Mayor! Fly!—fly!” and off they made, dragging me with them. To think that I, a loyal London apprentice, should have lived to assault a mayor! But there was no time for excuses or reproaches. The citizens were at our heels shouting and threatening, and as they followed, the whole town turned out in hue and cry. One by one the gownsmen dodged like rabbits into their holes, leaving me, who knew nothing of the city, almost alone. At last the enemy were almost up to me, and I was expecting every moment to be taken and perhaps hanged, when, as good luck would have it, just as I turned a corner, there faced me a wall not so high but that a good leaper might get over it. Over I scrambled just as the pack in full cry rushed round the corner.
Then I laughed as I heard their yapping, and grumbling, and questioning what had become of me. But I gave them no time to find out, for, crossing the garden into which I had fallen, I quickly slipped out at the gate into a fair cloistered square where, adjusting my battle-stained gown, I marched boldly up to the house at the gate and knocked.
A porter came at my summons and demanded, surlily enough, what I wanted.
“I am a fresh man here,” said I, “and have lost my way. I pray you direct me to Saint Alban Hall.”
“Saint Alban Hall?” said he. “Art thou a scholar of Saint Alban Hall?”
“No,” said I, “but I bear a message to one there, Master Penry by name.”
“How comes it,” demanded the porter, who, by the tone of him, might have been the chancellor himself, “that you wear that gown, sirrah?”
“That is my business,” said I, seeing it was no profit to talk civilly to him, “and if you want not to see your neck wrung, give over questions, and tell me where is Saint Alban Hall.”
He grew red in the face as I gripped his arm, which he could by no means get free till I let him.
“This is Saint Alban Hall,” said he, “and Master Penry lives over my lodging.”
Then I thought it better to be civil to the fellow, as he guessed I had no business there in a college gown. So I gave him a groat, and bad him take me up forthwith.
Master Penry was a lean, wrathful-visaged Welshman, with deep grey eyes, and a large forehead, and a mass of straight black hair down his neck. As I entered his room, which was disordered and dirty, he was pacing to and fro, talking or praying aloud in his native tongue. He let me stand there a minute or two, amazed at his jargon, and scarcely knowing whether I had lit upon a sane man or not. Then he stopped suddenly in front of me and scanned me.
“Well?” said he, in good English.
“Are you Master Penry?” I asked.
“I am. You have a message for me?”
“I have; from Master Walgrave. Here it is,” said I, putting the letter into his hand.
He tore it open and read it eagerly, and, as he did so, his face relaxed into a grim smile.
“That is well, so far,” said he. Then, looking hard at me, he added, “Have you ridden from London in that disguise?”
“No,” said I, “this gown was lent me by a friend to protect me against annoyance from the wild men of the town.”
His face suddenly turned pale and passionate.
“Then where is the cloak your master speaks of in this letter?”
“The cloak!” I knew from the very first there would be trouble about that, and I was glad now I had left it behind in the safe keeping of my comrade at the inn.
“What is my cloak to you?” said I, not relishing the tone of his voice, “I have given it away to my friend.”
“Fool and jackass!” said he, gnashing his teeth, “do you know you have ruined me and your master by this?”
“No, I do not,” said I, “and as for the foul names you call me, take them back on the instant, or I swear I will ram them down your mouth!”
He took no notice whatever of my wrath, but went on, breaking in on his speech every now and then with Welsh words which I took to be curses.
“You must get it back at any price,” said he. “Lose not a moment! Where is this friend? Who is he? If he resist you, you must slay him, so as you get it back. If it fall into the hands of an enemy, you and I, ay and your master, and all that belongs to you will perish. Ah, the folly of the man to trust such a missive to this thick-headed blunderer! What time lost, what labour wasted, what peril run, what ruin on our holy cause!”
I was well out of temper by this time, and, but that he looked so miserable and ill-fed, I would have rattled his bones a bit. At last:
“That cloak,” said he, coming up to me, “contained papers sent by your master to me; which, if they be found on any one’s person, mean Tyburn. Do you understand that?”
“Yes,” said I, beginning to see the drift of his coil, “and if you had told me so at first, I had been half-way back to get it by this time. Heaven is my witness, you are welcome to the cloak if that is what it contains; and I doubt not my friend will give it up to do you a pleasure.”
“Hasten!” cried he, with tears of vexation in his eyes, “there is not a moment to be lost—nay, I will go with you. Where did you leave it? Come!”
“Nay,” said I, remembering it for the first time, “I am not very sure where it was. ’Twas at a river-side inn, about four miles from here.”
“And who is your friend? Is he a true man?”
“I know not that either,” said I. “He is a valiant man, and hath a dirk at his girdle; and I pity the man who tries to take the cloak from him by force.”
Master Penry made another speech to himself in Welsh.
“Fool!” exclaimed he, half blubbering. “This precious missive you leave at an inn you know not where; with a man you know not whom; and yet your master speaks of you as a trusty lad. Bah! Lead on!”
I swallowed my wrath and obeyed him. He stalked impatiently at my side, saying nothing, but urging me forward so that I could scarcely keep pace with him. I was in luck, in one way, to have his escort; for as I came near the East Bridge, there lurked not a few of the townsmen who had been in the fight when I assaulted the Mayor. Seeing me with Master Penry, who, I suppose, was a man of some standing, they did not look twice at me; else I might have been caught, and put to rest my limbs in the cage. When we had crossed the bridge, and were in the country, my companion suddenly stopped.
“This friend of yours,” said he, “with the dirk in his girdle. Was he a scholar?”
“He lent me this gown,” said I.
“An Irishman?”
“I know not. He spoke good English, with a foreign trip of the tongue.”
“A great big boy, with wild fair hair, and hands that never are still?”
“The very man. You know him?”
“Do I know him? For two months I have endured the pains of the lost through him. A wild, untameable savage, subject to no laws, a heathen, a butcher, a scoffer at things holy, an idler, a highwayman, a traitor, a rebel, an Irish Papist wolf-hound! Do I know my own pupil? And—oh my God!—is it he who has the coat? Oh, we are doubly lost! Knaves, fools, all conspire to ruin us!”
I let him run on, for he was like one demented. But you may suppose I opened my eyes as I heard this brave character of my new friend.
“Your pupil, is he?” said I at last; “then I counsel you to stay where you are; for he will assuredly eat you alive if he gets you.”
The Welshman paid no head to this warning, but rushed on, jabbering in Welsh to himself, and groaning, ay, and even sobbing now and then in his excitement.
At last, after an hour’s hard work, we came to where I had found the road that morning. Then, for another hour, I dragged him through the swamps and marshes. His strength had begun to fail him long ere we reached the river’s bank; and he was fain, when at last we felt solid earth under our feet, to cry a halt.
“I must rest for one moment,” said he, puffing and panting and clutching at his side in a way that made me sorry for him. Then he fell on his knees and prayed in his own tongue, and before he was done, sunk half-fainting on a tree-trunk.
“Master Penry,” said I, helping him from the ground, “you are not fit to go on. I pray you, let me go alone. This pupil of yours is my friend, and will give me the cloak. Stay here, unless you would spoil all; for assuredly if he see you, he will turn at bay and yield nothing. The inn is but a mile from here. In less than an hour I will be back with the cloak, that I vow.”
He had no strength in him to protest. So I left him there and ran on towards the inn.