Chapter Nineteen.
How I was concerned in Treason and Love.
The first words of the letter left me in no doubt as to who the writer might be.
“To a certain Hollander, once my servant, and honoured still to live in my memory. Know, my son of Neptune, fledgeling of the Nymphs, and half-brother to the Tritons, that he whom thou knewest once in Parnassus’ grove (whither he himself led thy halting feet), respireth still in sighs for beauty and exhalations of sweet verse. Know, too, that he hath of late composed a notable and admirable epic in praise of the Sun, which, if it please Heaven to bring him, ere the year fall, to London, thou mayest have the high honour of setting in print, thereby assisting at the birth of an immortal.
“Know further, that after many bufferings from the jade Fortune, and tossing, such as ships ne’er endured on thy brawling element, my Hollander, I am here in Chester, beloved of the Muse, yet ill-beholden to the men of the place, who, as the Mantuans their Maro, clapped me in ward because forsooth I stirred the rabble with my moving measures. The moon hath not kissed the golden locks of Galatea four times since I was let out. Now is no zephyr freer than I—or emptier. Yet hath heaven need of her needy sons, and the meanest of Olympus, denizens hath his part to play amidst the earthlings. Know, then, that on the second day after I had ceased to eat my bread at her Majesty’s cost, I met, in eager haste, a certain Irish Achilles who knoweth more of war than verse, and whose arm is more terrible with the sword than is my hand with the pen. This Sir Ludar—such is gratitude and reverence!—O tempora! O mores!—would have given me the go-by, had I not stood boldly in his way, that he might at least see how great an honour he avoided. When he saw me, to be brief, my Hollander, he honoured himself by seeing in me the god Mercury, who beareth messages to the dim regions of the earth. He bade me tell thee, by a means the receipt hereof will apprise thee, that the cause goeth perilously. What cause, I know not; but, be it what it may, it taketh him hence, on what, perchance, may be his last journey. He biddeth you remember your oath, and would have me advertise you that one Merriman hath been heard of in these parts, travelling for London, with a party, of whom one is the lady of the castle on the river, with her ward. He is a dark mysterious man, this Irish wolf-hound of thine, my Hollander, and, did I not suspect him to have a secret tooth for the olives of Parnassus, I had not thus condescended to act as go between you. When I enquired of him concerning her, that incomparable swan, that bright and shining star, that white snowflake, that Cupid’s elder sister, my lady-love—to serve whom I counted as nought the perils of a certain fell voyage you wot of—when I enquired him of her, he asked me back, Did I desire to flounder in the castle moat? By which talk it appeared to me much care hath weakened his mind, and I misdoubt me his present journey bodes no good. My Hollander, I beg not any man’s bread, yet am I hard put to it to show the world that heaven doth not desert her favourites. If the pity of a ’prentice can reach from you to Chester, lend it me, I pray you, as I sit here gazing into the empyrean for my next meal. If I may, I shall shorten the space betwixt us. Meanwhile, count for thyself a lodging in at least one poetic breast, which is that of thy patron and friend, Thomas Graves.
“Post Scriptum: I have overtook my messenger—a poor country carrier—to tell thee strange news. This Ludar hath returned suddenly from his journey in the custody of a troop. I saw him marched through the streets but just now, amid cries of ‘Treason!’ ‘Away with him!’ ‘Hang him!’ sad to hear. The talk runneth that he is party in some great conspiracy against her glorious Majesty, whose foes may Heaven confound! If it be true, then is our Achilles wounded in the heel, and is like enough to journey from here to Tyburn free of charges. Farewell, from thy well-wisher.”
This letter cast me into terrible woe; for it was plain by it that Ludar was in mortal peril, and without a friend to help him. I could do naught, for I knew not where he was taken, or if I did, what could I, outside a stone wall, do for him within? Besides, the message about the maiden put a service on me I was bound to fulfil. Yet what could I do?
Jeannette saw my trouble and shared it; and, being a shrewd lass, advised me to go to Will Peake and hear what was this news of a new-discovered treason, and who were in it?
So I went and found the Bridge (Sunday as it was), in a flutter. Will Peake I could not see, but from another gossip I heard that news was come of a terrible plot to murder her sacred Majesty and place on her throne, with the help of Spanish rogues, the upstart Mary of Scotland. Many wild stories were afloat concerning the business. One, that not a few of her Majesty’s trusted advisers were mixed in it; others, that the Scotchwoman herself was prime mover; another, that it was the work of the Spanish king, whose armies were on the coast waiting the signal to land.
But as we stood, there came a mighty shouting from the Tower Hill, and, running thither, we saw a man in a cart being conducted by twenty horsemen to the prison. He was clad as a papist priest—yet, when I looked at him, I seemed to know his face.
“Who goes there?” I asked of one who stood near.
“The head and front of it all,” said he; “a renegade priest, Ballard by name.”
“Who hath travelled,” said another, “on this accursed business in the garb of a soldier by the name of Captain Fortescue.”
“Fortescue!” cried I. “Why, to be sure, it was he! I knew I had seen him.”
“You saw him, where? what know you of this?” asked several persons round, suspiciously. “If you be a friend of his, get you up on the cart beside him.”
I had a mind to make a rush that way, if haply I might get a single word with the traitor as to where Ludar was. But I might as soon have tried to get within hail of the Scotch Queen herself, so closely was he fenced in.
“He is no friend,” growled I, “but a vile enemy and traitor, whom I would to God I had run through the body when I had the chance at Carlisle, months since.”
Then to avoid more questions and get away from the rabble, I hastened back and told all to Jeannette. She was very grave. “What think you now?” she asked.
“I can think nothing,” said I, “save that, whatever has befallen Ludar, he could not knowingly be guilty of plotting against the life of a woman, even if she be the Queen herself. Jeannette,” said I, “I could no more believe that than I would believe you to be unkind or untrue.”
She smiled at that and said she, too, could not think so ill of this Ludar of mine.
As the days passed, news came in thick and fast. The plot, we heard, was a devilish one to murder the Queen and her ministers, and give England up to the heretic Spaniard. Men stood aghast as they heard of it. Presently came word that the worst of the traitors were in hiding in London, being mostly young gentlemen of the Court, who had fed at the table of the very Lady they plotted to slay. Try all I would, I could hear nothing of Ludar. Nor durst I name him to my comrades, for fear I should bring him mischief thereby.
One day in the middle of August it was, a man came into our shop in hot haste to tell Master Walgrave that the company had been taken, hidden in a barn in Harrow. Never shall I forget the joy of the City as the news spread like wildfire through the wards. No work did we ’prentices do that day. We marched shouting through the streets, calling for vengeance on the Queen’s enemies, and waiting till they should be brought in, on their way to the Tower.
As for me, my joy was mingled with strange trouble; for, if Ludar should be among them—
“The leader of them is one Babington,” said Will Peake, “and besides him are half-a-dozen dogs as foul—English, all of them.”
“Save one,” said another, “who I hear is Irish.”
“Irish!” cried I, as white as paper. “What is his name?”
“Not Dexter,” said the fellow, looking at me in amaze. “Why, man, what ails you?”
“Tell me his name, as you love me,” said I.
“How should I know the name of every cowardly hound that walks the streets? Go and ask them that can tell you.”
I walked away miserable, and waited at the Aldersgate to see the prisoners come by.
When at last the cry was raised, I scarcely durst look up, for fear that among them should tower the form of Ludar. But when I lifted my eyes and saw only six hang-dog men, who held their hands to their ears to keep out the yelling of the mob, and shrunk closer to their guards to save them from a worse fate than the hangman’s, the beating of my heart eased. For he was not amongst them. So joyful was I that I could even lend my voice for a while to the general cry, and, when night fell, bring my torch to the flaming barrels that blazed on Finsbury Fields.
Yet I came home that night ill at ease. Fresh news had arrived already that other men had been taken in the country—amongst them, certain who had been in attendance on the Scotch Queen. Yet, ask all I would, never once could I hear of Ludar by name, or of any man resembling him.
A month later we ’prentices had another holiday, this time to witness the end of that terrible business on Tyburn Hill. ’Twas a horrible sight—I would I could forget it—to see those traitors die, foul as their crime had been. Yet what sickened me the most was to think that Ludar perchance might presently follow to the same fate, if indeed he had not already shared it.
But no news came. The weeks slipped by. Men ceased to talk of Babington, and spoke rather of the coming trial of the Scotch Queen for her life. And presently a time came when they even ceased to speak of that. And all the while, never a whisper came to me of Ludar.
Now you are not to think that all this time I had forgot the message contained in the poet’s letter concerning Captain Merriman and the maiden. Far from it. I haunted Whitehall after work hours in the hope of seeing or hearing something of them. But all in vain. It would have been easier to hear of Ludar, I think, than to get any news of an Irish maiden and her step-dame at Court, or of a swaggering captain.
“What is that to thee?” said most whom I asked; and others pricked me out of their company with their swords.
But late in the year, chance put in my way what all my pains had failed to procure.
I remember, it was that same day that the news came to town that Mary Queen of Scots was condemned to die. London went mad with joy at the news. For our pity of the woman was swallowed up in joy that the evil destiny of our country was mastered, and that our gracious Queen was to be freed at one stroke from all her enemies. Be that as it may, we burned bonfires that night in Moorfields, and I had my mistress’ leave to take Jeannette with me to see the sport. For by this time the sweet maid’s lameness was nearly cured, and, like a prisoner newly uncaged, she loved to spread her wings a bit and go abroad.
Had the arm she leaned on been that of Peter Stoupe instead of mine, I wondered if she would have mended as fast as she did? I was a vain coxcomb those days, and thought, no. Yet, for anything she said to me or I to her, we were still ’prentice and young mistress. Only, the duty I owed her was my great joy; and the service she had a right to claim of me, she sometimes prettily asked as a gift.
’Twas a wild, weird scene—those hundreds of citizens lit up by the fierce glare of the bonfires, whose roar mingled with the shoutings, and whose heat was less than the loyal fires which blazed in our bosoms. I could feel Jeannette’s hand tighten on my arm as the rabble surged closer round; and presently, seeing her tired and frightened, I made a way for her through the crowd.
As we reached the skirts there reeled against us a drunken man who, had I not caught him in my arm, would have fallen against my young mistress and done her some hurt. He was not so drunk but that, when I set him on his feet and gave him a kick or two, he was able to stand upright and talk. And at the first word he uttered, I recognised the voice of my old acquaintance, Tom Price, the Captain’s man; whom I had seen last with his master the day Alexander McDonnell fell outside Dunluce.
So dark was it away from the fire, that but for his voice I might not have known him. Certainly he, as he then was, could hardly know me.
“Patience,” whispered I to Jeannette, “here is a man can give us some news. He shall not hurt you; only I must speak with him. Hold close to me.”
And to guard her better, I put an arm around her, while I parleyed with the sergeant.
“Come, comrade,” said I, concealing my voice as best I could, “’tis time you were in quarters. The Captain will be calling for thee.”
“Captain me no captains. Stand thee still, steady—when came he—ugh?”
“He’ll be here to look for thee I warrant, an thou go not home.”
“Got back? what for? when came— Harkee, comrade—keep it snug—he’ll not find her—he, he! he’ll not find her.”
“Not he,” said I, making a guess. “We know where she is, though. Eh, Tom?”
“He, he! do we! So doth that other varlet. But, keep it mum, comrade—the wall is none too high, but my Captain may climb it.”
“Ay,” said I, “but he must needs find it first. Eh? That will trouble him, eh? honest Tom.”
“Honest! thou art right, comrade. Ere he learn where she be I’ll—I’ll—harkee, friend I like not that other varlet. What needs she with two of us? Am not I man enough? eh? thou and I, without him? By my soul, comrade, I will slay him.”
“So, he is there, too, where she is?”
“Ho, he! Jack Gedge in a convent? ho, he! Ne’er such luck for him, or thee, or me; eh? ho, ho! Jack in a convent? No, but, comrade,” here he took my arm and whispered, “he ne’er quitteth the city, and no man can get at her but he knows it. ’Tis a very bulldog. Hang him, comrade, hang him, I say.”
“Ay, I am with you there,” said I. “What right hath he to stand betwixt her and honest folk like you and me?”
“Harkee, friend. This varlet, they say, was appointed to the service by one—hang the name of him—an Irish knave that made eyes at her. You know him—”
“Ay, ay,” said I. “Lubin, or Ludar, or some such name.”
“Thou hast it. Ludar. Well, as I told thee, this varlet is appointed to the charge by this Lu— Say it again, comrade.”
“Ludar,” said I.
“Ay, Ludar. Well, this varlet, as I—”
“And where is the villain now?”
“Why, as I told thee, dullard, he lurks in Canterbury city hard by the convent—and though ’twas I helped her there—I or thou, I forget if thou didst assist—I say, though ’twas I—or I or thou—or I and thou—helped her there, this dog now keepeth guard like a very bulldog.”
“Well,” said I, trembling to have so much news, “may be he doeth no harm. The lady oweth more to thee than him.”
“Ay—’twas a deft trick, spiriting her thither—and the Captain little knows ’twas honest Tom Price baulked him. Not but—harkee,”—here he whispered again—“not but the lady did not make it worth the while, eh? I have a noble of it left still, comrade. As I told thee, the Captain knoweth naught. He! he! he hath followed her hither and thither. But, mercy on us, he’d as soon look in the Fleet Ditch as in Canterbury. Harkee, comrade, that other varlet is a knave. Hang him, I say. ’Twas thou and I helped her there—he knew naught till—how a plague found he us out? Honest friend, I pray thee slay me this dog.”
“Where in Canterbury shall I find him?” said I.
“Thou knowest a certain tavern, or inn, or hostel by the sign of the Oriflame, neighbour. Well, ’tis but a stone’s-throw from the convent; and I warrant the sot will be not far away. Fetch me his head, comrade; and I vow thou shalt share my noble. Get thee gone.”
That moment Jeannette gripped my arm and pointed to a figure which slouched away from us towards the fire. I got but one glimpse of him. He may have been anyone; for the crowd was spreading fast. Yet Jeannette and I both fancied the form was like that of Peter Stoupe, whom we had already seen once in the crowd that evening.
“Poor Peter,” said I, “no doubt he envies me my charge of you, Jeannette.”
She disengaged herself from my arm, and put her hand on my sleeve.
“Let us begone,” said she, uneasily. “I am sorry I came here.”
So I left Tom Price sitting on the grass, singing to himself; and full of my great news, yet troubled at Jeannette’s speech I walked with her silently homewards.
As we neared Temple Bar, I could not refrain from questioning her.
“You are silent, Jeannette?” said I.
“The better company for you,” said she.
“Are you tired?”
“Yes.”
“And vexed?”
“Yes.”
“Because Peter—if it was Peter—saw me with my arm around thee?”
“He would not know that it was only because I feared the drunken man,” said she.
“He would suspect me, instead, of being thy sweetheart?” asked I.
“Ay,” said she, “Peter hath a long tongue.”
“What if he suspect me aright, Jeannette?”
I felt the hand on my arm give a little start, as she dropped her eyes, and quickened her flagging steps.
She said nothing. But you might have heard the beating of my heart, as I looked down at her, and laid my hand on hers.
“If Peter guessed aright,” repeated I, “what then, Jeannette?”
This time her hand lay very quiet, and her footsteps grew slower, till at last they stood still.
Then she lifted her head and looked me in the face.
“Then, Humphrey, I should not mind what anybody said.”
So all was peace betwixt us two; and we were sorry when our walk was ended.