Chapter Three.
How I rode post-haste to Oxford.
The summer sun had not been up long before I too was out of bed. Early as the hour was, my master and mistress were both astir, and bade me make a hearty meal in view of my journey.
While I ate, my master said:
“As the tide runs now, Humphrey, you may make a good part of your journey by water, and ’twill do you no harm to be your own waterman.”
“Indeed no,” said I; for I hated to sit idle in a boat.
“Should you reach Brentford on the flood, there are many who will ease you of your craft, and bring her back. Meanwhile ’tis an easy road by the river’s bank to Kingston. We have a good friend there, one Master Udal, the minister, with whom this letter will procure you a welcome, and at his house you are to lie to-night. He will lend you a horse and put you on the way to Oxford.”
“And see here, Humphrey,” said my mistress, holding up a brave cloak of dark red cloth, as long as to my knee, “here is what will comfort you against the cold morning air, and change you into a veritable highwayman on the road.”
It was a brave cloak indeed, so weighty and well padded, that had my journey been not to Oxford, but to the Poles, it would not have been amiss.
“See you take care of it,” continued my good mistress.
“It is your gift and your making,” said I, “so I can readily promise that.”
“I can lend you a hat to match it,” said my master, “and a sword.”
“I have a sword of my own,” said I, proudly, for I had taken one from Mr Merriman’s bully, a week ago.
“Well, well. The weather promises fair for your journey. Do whatever the minister bids you, and return speedily when your business is over. Here is a purse which will cover all your needs, with something to bring back to me at the end. And so, farewell, Humphrey. Be secret, and talk to no one on the way without necessity.”
My mistress also bade me farewell, and between them they hurried me off to the wherry. In my haste I was near leaving behind me my brave new cloak. But my master, seizing it, came with it angrily, and said:
“Is this your care, sirrah! If you end your journey no better than you begin it, ’twill be little enough to boast of.”
Which I considered fuss enough about a matter which concerned only my own person, and not his errand. For what was my cloak to him? Yet I felt ashamed to have neglected my mistress’ kindness, and I told him so, whereat he was pacified.
The tide served me some three hours and more, in which time, by dint of hard rowing, I reached Brentford, where I left the boat. Being weary and hot (for the sun was now high and fierce), I resolved to dine before I went farther, and sought the nearest tavern for that purpose. It was an ill-looking place, and kept by an ill-looking host; but hunger is no respecter of persons; and, as he called me “your worship,” and set before me a brave leg of pork, with ale to keep it in countenance, I forgave him his ugly face, and fell to without more ado. When I came to pay him, and pulled out the purse my master had given me, he grew monstrous civil, and offered to take me across the ferry himself.
Which he did, with one of his men. And, half-way across, the two set upon me with one accord, and thought to rob me. But I, being new to travel, and so suspecting everybody, was ready for them, and knocked their heads soundly together for their pains. I also lightened the boat of my host’s servant, bidding him get to shore some other way. So my host, fearing a like ducking for himself, took me over quietly enough, and never asked a fare.
From there I floundered through the swamps, with the river on my right hand, till I came to Kingston, where it was not long till I found Master Udal’s house.
He was a little grave man, whom I might have swallowed at a gulp, and yet he had an air about him I durst not disobey, and an eye which, when I caught it, made me think of my sins. He asked me many questions about Master Walgrave and his manner of life, which I answered plainly, all except one or more that concerned the secret press in the cellar.
“Your master keepeth one press out of sight?” said he.
“If that be so,” said I, “’tis no wonder if I know nothing of it.”
He smiled.
“Then, he labours at it himself, without your aid?”
“If you say so, sir, no doubt but he does.”
Master Udal smiled again.
“Thou’rt good at a secret, lad, and I’ll tempt thee no more.”
Whereupon he did what was worse, and began to question me about my own ways, and that searchingly, so that I was fain to plead weariness, and asked for my bed. This was even worse; for, being a lonely man, he had but one bed in the house, and that was his own. And that he might have the more of my company, he came to bed too.
He was a good man—this Master Udal—for he prayed long with me at the bedside, and talked comfortingly to me about my home, and the snares of my city life. But with his grave talk he would not let me rest. Even when we lay in bed, and it was too dark to see his face, I felt his eye upon me still, and was fain to confess myself to him, like a Papist to his priest. But when I told him tremblingly that I loved a maiden, he gave a grunt of displeasure and turned over on his side, and left me in peace.
And so that fair maiden, little as she knew it, rescued me that night from a great tribulation; and it were strange if, in gratitude, I did not dream of her.
Master Udal roused me betimes, and after reading again my master’s letter, asked me, was I a horseman? I said I could sit a horse with any ’prentice in Finsbury Fields, even at the water leap. Then he asked, had I a cloak? I said, proudly, yes, my dear mistress had given me one, with which I would not part for two others as good. He said that was right, unless Master Penry wished it.
“Who is Master Penry, then?” I demanded.
“Him you go to see at Oxford—and you are to do everything he tells you, even if it be to part with your cloak. Here is a letter to him, at Saint Alban Hall. You are to go to him privately, and submit to him in all things.”
It all seemed strange enough to me, but I said I would do as I was bidden. For all that, I resolved that if it came to parting with my brave cloak to a stranger, I would be hard put to it before I suffered so much wrong to my mistress’ goodness.
Then Master Udal instructed me carefully as to the way, showing me by what roads I should ride, and where I should halt for the night. He also cautioned me about speaking to strangers by the way, and bade me beware lest I fell among thieves.
Then he went to the stable and fetched his horse—a sorry nag, and ill accustomed to my heavy weight. Then he fetched me some food to carry in the saddle-bag; and, after a prayer that God would protect me and further the business on hand, he let me go.
I was glad to be alone in the sweet summer morning air, with the lark carolling high above my head, and the new-mown hay scenting the meadows, and the early sun slanting through the lime trees, and the half-awakened cattle standing to watch me as I passed. It was enough to make any heart glad, and if I myself sang in tune with the birds as I ambled in, it was because I could not help it.
The road was hard to find betwixt Kingston and Hounslow, for it was across country, and the narrow lanes twisted and twined so that, had it not been for the sun, I should soon not have known if I was going north, south, east, or west. Except a few yokels trudging to their work, and now and then a blithe milkmaid calling to her cows, I met no one. These looked hard at me, and wondered what such a one as I, in cloak and sword and hat, wanted there at that hour. But I let them guess, and pushed on, along the river’s bank, to Twickenham, and then over the wild heath, and through the woods, till at last I came to Hounslow, where I halted to rest my beast.
As I was leaving that place, there overtook me an important-looking man with two men-servants, mounted, following him. He seemed friendly disposed and talkative, and as he too was going to Oxford, we agreed to join company, and fell into conversation. He asked me my errand and I replied, truly enough, I went to visit a gentleman at Oxford. He told me, with not a little bluster, he too went to wait upon a gentleman at Oxford, but he guessed the varlet would get little joy out of his visit.
“Why,” said I, “are you an officer of the courts of law, or a bailiff?”
“Yes and no,” said he. “I serve a great master, and go to catch a great rogue.”
Then, being warmed by the ale he had had at Hounslow and my questions, he told me he was no other than the Bishop of London’s man; and that wind had come to his Grace that some evil-disposed persons had been issuing a wicked and scandalous libel against the Queen and her bishops and clergy, and that the arch offender in this bad business was known to be a certain—he would not say who—at Oxford. He told me how he would give a finger off his hand to have the rascal laid by the heels, ay, and the printer too, who had vilely lent himself to the business. He waxed so fierce and eloquent in defence of the good bishops, that I promised him, should my urgent errand in any way permit it, he might count on me to assist him in his righteous hue and cry. For I loathed all that set itself up to vex our gracious Queen and the peaceful order of her kingdom. The man commended my loyalty, and we talked of other matters—he doing the most of it—till we came to Colnbrook, where, finding my nag slow, and his business being very urgent, he left me and rode forward; appointing to meet me two days hence at the inn at Iffley, should I still be of a mind to do him and the bishop a service.
All this talk had made me uneasy, for he had hinted broadly that a close watch was being kept on all disorderly printers; and I, remembering my master’s press in the cellar, hoped no suspicion might attach to him, and resolved to warn him when I returned home.
From Colnbrook I rode solitary in the heat of the day. So hot was it that I was tempted to take off my cloak and lay it across the saddle in front of me. It was my vanity and the pride of being seen in so brave a garment that hindered me; and it fell out well that it was so. For just over the heath, as you come upon Topley, there sprang out upon me a rider, who without any parley let fly at me with a pistol; and but that the ball, badly aimed, glanced off from the stiff padding of my cloak, I had not been here to tell this tale.
Before he could load again I spurred my horse, hoping to close with him. But the wretched jade was no match in pace for his, and he got away. But not before I had let fly my club at him, from twelve yards away, and dealt him a crack on the cheek that should have caused him to bear me in mind for a week. I expected him back after that, but being dazed by the blow, and seeing that I was not the gentleman he took me for, he spurred off; and I, waiting only to pick up my club and make sure that the bullet had done me no harm, did the same, and rode on to Maidenhead.
Here an odd adventure befel me; for, going to the inn of the place where I meant to lie that night, I found it in possession of a roystering crew of gallants, who sat and quaffed their sack and sang lustily, roaring and quarrelling enough to deafen a man. When, by dint of hard pushing, I had made myself a seat at the table and called for my supper—for I was hungry—they gave over their wrangling and began to look hard at me. There was much whispering among them, and one said:
“I know the rogue in spite of his cloak. Call me an ass if there be not a shaven crown under that hat of his.”
“If you mean by that,” said another cavalier, “that he’s a Jesuit—”
Here the company took up the word. “A Jesuit!—a Jesuit!” they cried, and at the sudden accusation I turned crimson and blushed like a girl.
“Smelt out?” cried the company. “To the gallows with him!” Then it seemed to me to be time to go.
“Who called Jesuit?” said I, pulling out my sword.
They laughed at this, and one of them cried:
“If you be not, drink to the Queen, where you stand, and confound her enemies!”
I took off my hat, that they might see I wore no monkish tonsure, and drank.
“That shows nothing,” cried another. “They might curse the Pope himself, and yet be all the better Jesuits.”
“A crew of cowards,” said another, “who never dare be what they seem or seem what they are—”
“Then,” said I, “if that be so, I can easily prove I am a true and loyal subject of the Queen. Let who will come on, two at a time, and take back his lie at the point of my sword.” And I put my back up to the wall and cast my cloak back over my shoulder.
Whereat they laughed again, and he who had spoken first said:
“If I doubted it before, I am sure of it now, for no one but a Jesuit could feign a swagger like that. Come, let’s hang him and have done with him.”
“Come on,” said I. “I tell you I’m no Jesuit, but a loyal London ’prentice, on a message for my master to Oxford. If you hold it English that twenty men should set upon one, then—”
“What! a plague on you!” cried my opponent, before I could finish. “Why did you not say what you were before? We have something better to do than hang ’prentices. Get you gone—a stick to your back is what you want, unmannerly dog.”
“Fetch it then,” said I, “for before I leave here I shall finish my supper, and if you like not my company, you may go elsewhere.”
I think they were abashed at that, for they tried to laugh it off, and go on with their carouse. Indeed I think they meant only to frighten me all the while, so perhaps I was a fool to take it all in earnest. However that be, I finished my supper and bade them all good-night; whereat they laughed again. Then, as an hour of daylight remained, I called for my horse and resolved to ride to the next inn and lie there for the night.
I had no cause to complain of the company here (it was the house midway betwixt Maidenhead and Henley, as you come to Bisham), for I had the place to myself. Nor did I wonder at that when I saw the pig-sty of an inn which it was. The landlord, a villainous-looking rogue, demanded to finger my money before he would admit me; and as for my horse, I had to see to him myself, for there was no one about the place to do it for me. However, a night’s lodging was all I wanted, and, having brought away the stable key in my pocket, I pulled my bed across the chamber floor, wrapped myself up in my cloak, and slept like the seven sleepers.
The man eyed me surlily enough in the morning, and told me, if I doubted his honesty, I might go and lie somewhere else next time; which I promised to do, for I guessed when he talked of honesty that he had tried to steal my horse in the night, and being baulked of that, had had it in his mind to rob me. We parted in dudgeon; but I felt well out of that place with my purse in my pocket and my horse under me.
As I rode through Henley, who should overtake me but a troop of horsemen, among whom I recognised not a few of the roysterers who had used me so scurvily at Maidenhead the night before. I drew aside to let them pass, for I wanted none of their company. But one—he who had voted to hang me—came up in a friendly way.
“Come, lad,” said he, “look not glum; our gallants will have their jest.”
“’Tis no jest to call a loyal subject of the Queen a Jesuit, still less to hang him,” said I.
“Well, well,” said he, “next time we’ll call thee Puritan and burn thee—that will make the balance straight. Meanwhile join us, and scour that frown off thy visage,” and he clapped me on the back with a whack which made my nag prick up her ears and jump a foot off the ground.
It took me some time to follow his last advice; but as the fellow seemed honest, though a fool, and he and his comrades made little more pace than I did, I made the best of what I could not help, and ambled beside him at the tail of the troop.
Then he told me that they were going to Wales to get together provisions for an expedition to Ireland, and offered me good pay and plenty of knocks if I would only join them.
“We shall have a merry time of it,” said he, “with a merry man for captain.”
At this I pricked my ears.
“What is his name?” asked I.
“What I say: Captain Merriman, a gallant officer, and a desperate man of war.”
“I know he is that,” said I, with the blood rushing to my temples.
“You know him, then?” said the man, “and you will join us. Ho! ho! Who would thought I could find him such a recruit?”
“Before I serve under your Captain Merriman,” said I, losing temper, “you may do what you promised last night, and hang me up on the nearest tree.”
He stared at me when I said that.
“Why, what mean you?”
“That is my business,” said I, shortly; “but if you would take him a message, you may tell him there is as good duck-weed in Ireland as ever there is in Finsbury Fields, and that Humphrey Dexter says so.”
The man burst into a laugh.
“Did ever I see such blustering roarers as you city ’prentices? I warrant you Captain Merriman will shake in his shoes when I tell him. I do not know if I should not run you through the body for talking thus of a gallant gentleman; but I’ll spare thee, Humphrey, this time: ’tis too hot to fight.”
“Not for me,” said I, “if that is what you mean.”
He laughed again at that.
“Come along,” said he, clapping me again on the back, “join us, and you shall tell Captain Merriman all about the duck-weed yourself; and a proud man he will be, I warrant you.”
I was sorry now I had bragged, for nothing but contempt came from it, as indeed, had I been a little wiser, I might have known. So I said no more about the matter, and let my comrade talk, which he did to his heart’s content, telling me of the battles he had fought in, and the spoils he had taken, and the triumphs he had seen.
Thus talking, we beguiled the time till we came to where we had to part company; for the troop went by way of Abingdon, whereas I, following Master Udal’s directions, continued on the east bank of the river to Oxford. He bade me think over what he had said about joining the wars, and told me where he might be found during the next week or two.
“Ask for Tom Price,” said he; “they all know me. And on the day you’re Lord Mayor of London, which I take it is not far hence, find me a humble seat below the salt at your lordship’s table; and so farewell.”
I felt it lonely enough after my company had left; besides which, I clean lost my way, and was forced at last to seek the river and guide myself by that. Heavy work it was; for the river’s bank was swampy and often impassable with bushes and woods, so that I had to go miles out of my way to circumvent them, leading my horse by the hand. At last, when I hardly knew where I was, night fell; and worn-out with weariness and hunger, I made for the first house I could see—which chanced to be an inn—and resolved to go no farther that night.
Had I gone on, I am certain of one thing, which is, that this veritable history would never have been written. For I should not then have met the wild person who, just as I stood unharnessing my nag at the door, dashed past me and flung himself into the house.