CHAPTER XI.
AN UNFORTUNATE DENOUEMENT.
But
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o' mice and men
Gang aft a-gley.
BURNS.
As Edmund drew nearer to Sir Thomas Stanley his heart began to fail him, and when at last he was sufficiently near the knight to have carried out his design, his courage oozed out at his finger ends and he felt powerless to strike.
Finally he relinquished the attempt altogether, and a new idea flashing upon him, he tossed the knife into the furthest corner of the room, and rising to his feet, he tapped the still unconscious nobleman upon the shoulder, trusting that his careful disguise would preserve him from being recognised by Sir Thomas at least, for circumstances at Haddon had brought them into connection with each other but a few times at most.
"Come at last, eh! and time, too," exclaimed the young knight, as he listlessly held out his hand for his potion of sack. "What, not brought it yet?" he added, as he saw the other's empty hands; "I have been kept waiting for it more than a quarter of an hour."
"Will you have it cool or spiced, my lord?" meekly asked Edmund, following up the idea thus thrown out. "I have but just received the order for it."
"Spiced, indeed!" replied the knight contemptuously; "not I, let me have it fresh from the cellar, and that quickly. No, here, stay," he added by the way of afterthought, "where is Sir George?"
"Sir George! Is that the oldish gentleman with the master?"
"That is Sir George Vernon, yes."
"He is lying down in the parlour," was the ready reply.
"Humph, that's queer, poring over that confounded document again, I'll warrant me. I will go back with you," returned Sir Thomas.
"I will bring it to you in half a minute," gasped Edmund.
"Nay," returned the other, "I will accompany thee. Ha! here he is, coming up again. He's crossing the yard now, and Sir Nicholas Bacon is with him, I perceive."
Edmund had played his last card, and the game was lost. Fortune had forsaken him at every turn; not one of his efforts had met with any success, and after all his endeavours he found himself as securely caught as the rat which was even then writhing within a few inches of his feet, in its last vain endeavour to free itself from the trap in which it was held.
For a moment or two he stood irresolute, but then, quickly gaining a mastery over the feeling of despair which had at first stolen over him, he made for the ladder, only to find, as he put his foot on the topmost step, that Sir George had set his foot upon the one at the bottom.
There was no help for it. He could neither advance nor retreat, so he stood at the top, carefully selecting the darker side, to await the course of events which could bring him no good fortune, but only evil in a greater or lesser degree. The completeness of his disguise, which had so completely deceived Sir Thomas, encouraged him to hope, for the moment, that he might also pass unrecognised even before the eagle eyes of the King of the Peak, and he solaced himself by trusting that if he were discovered the landlord might dismiss him in as summary a manner as he had done the ostler before him.
As Sir George passed him by, deep in conversation with Sir Nicholas Bacon, Edmund's hopes were considerably augmented, but the same ill-luck which had followed him heretofore did not desert him now. His hopes were dashed as soon as they had arisen, for the eye of the worthy Boniface was fixed upon him ere that person had fully entered the room.
Had he been attired in a manner more befitting his station, Edmund would undoubtedly have received a more befitting reception; but clothed as he was in shabby knee-breeches, loosely tied at the knees, a coat which was out at the elbows, a hat minus a portion of its brim, and with a dilapidated ruffle round his neck, which had been in its prime years ago, he presented a striking similarity in appearance to the ordinary marauding beggar of the period, such as were then so exceedingly common, and for one of whom, indeed, the landlord took him to be.
As soon as this worthy had ascended, Edmund coolly made for the ladder, but he was motioned back by a sweep of the arm, as the landlord loosely fastened down the door.
"Who might you be, pray?" he asked, turning to the terror-stricken captive; "and what are you doing here, eh?"
At this sally Sir Thomas Stanley, who had just been exchanging compliments with the Lord Keeper, turned round.
"Who might he be," he laughed, repeating the words he had just overheard; "well, by my troth, Sir George, he does not remember his own servant, even the one he sent about my sack. You have been priming him with his own ale and this is the result.
"Not a drop," interrupted the baron.
"What do you say?" gasped out the astonished innkeeper. "This rascally knave a servant of mine! Pooh, does he look like it, I ask you? You impudent jackanapes," he pursued, as he clutched the unfortunate Edmund by the collar. "What are you here for, eh? What are you here for? Speak."
So far was Edmund from complying with this command that he remained absolutely silent. He dare not open his mouth for fear that Sir George would recognise his voice.
"Prowling about for as much as he can lay hold of, I'll warrant me," continued his captor, addressing Sir Thomas Stanley, who had advanced towards them. "How long has he been here, my lord?"
"Nay, I know not," said Sir Thomas. "I saw him but just before you came up."
"Then you may satisfy yourself that he had watched us out," replied the other sharply, "and was surprised enough to find anyone left up here."
"Like enough," assented the baron.
"He was pretty smart with his tricks, then," said Sir Thomas. "How was he to know I wanted any sack, I should like to know?"
The question was unanswerable, and no one attempted to reply.
"How did you know that, eh?" asked the proprietor, emphasising the question by a series of hearty shakings.
Still there was no answer; Edmund would not speak.
"Did you see him enter?" asked Sir Nicholas.
"I did not know he was in the room until he tapped me on the shoulder.
I was watching the play."
"These rogues are wonderfully sharp," muttered Sir George.
"Then probably he was in the room all the time," suggested the Lord
Keeper.
"What did the rascal say to you, my lord?" went on the tavern keeper.
"He asked me whether I would have my sack spiced or no."
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Sir George; "that was cool enough, at any rate.
I think we ought to let the knave free this time for his wit."
"And let him prey on somebody else?" added Sir Nicholas.
"Bad policy, Sir George, bad policy. He might try his hand on you next time."
"I wonder how much property of mine he has taken already?" continued the host. "I will have him thoroughly searched. I know the rascal well enough, he's been here before now many a time. There's a whole lot of them prowling around the neighbourhood; a regular gang. I'll make an example of this one, I will. You might as well give me what you have taken," he added, turning to his captive, "and save me the labour of taking it from you."
"I have nothing of yours," replied Edmund, in a strangely foreign voice.
"Not been through the house yet, maybe, eh!"
"No."
"Humph, I don't believe you. Here, Hugh," he cried, hearing the ostler moving about below, "come up here."
Edmund's quondam friend and fellow conspirator came up in answer to the summons in no very enviable frame of mind, anticipating very correctly what was about to take place, and debating within himself what course of action to pursue. He quickly decided, however, that inasmuch as he had not yet possessed himself of the money due to him from the captive, that he would screen him as far as he was able—compatibly with his own safety.
"What's this fellow doing here?" demanded his master, as soon as Hugh stepped into the room.
"Can't say, sir," replied Hugh, gazing at Edmund with well-simulated surprise, "maybe he's in drink."
"A likely story, that. Do drunken folk climb up ladders, eh?"
"Not always, sir."
"How long has he been up here, now?"
"Never seen him afore, sir," returned the unabashed ostler, with an air of perfect candour.
"You will be getting into serious trouble some day if you don't be careful to speak the truth," exclaimed his master, "so I warn you, sir. Now, out with it; he was here when you went down."
"I had not seen him then, by the blessed Virgin I had not. I have never clap't eyes on the knave before!"
"Now, mind, I warn you, so be careful."
"I had only just got up, master; upon my word I had. I had not sufficient time to see anybody before you came and sent me down," and at the remembrance of that event he stepped back a pace or two in order that his previous experience might not be repeated.
"You good-for-nothing rascal you!" broke out the landlord. "I stood and watched you myself, you were looking at the play. Get you gone, you idle vagabond," he added, in high dudgeon, "get you gone, and bring me up some stout cord."
Glad to escape, Hugh quickly made his exit, having come off far more easily than at one time he feared. He reappeared in a short time, but with empty hands.
"Well, where's the cord?" angrily enquired his master.
"An it please you, sir," he replied, with a sly wink at Edmund, "I cannot find one strong enough to bear him."
"You can't hang him yet; let him have a proper trial. There has been naught proved against him as yet," eagerly interrupted the baron, upon whom the lesson of his own trouble had not been lost.
"He shall have a proper trial, my lord," exclaimed the landlord, "and to-morrow we shall have him in the pillory. The proprietor of the Cock Tavern is no hangman; I only wanted to bind him. Fetch me a piece of cord, you knave, and be quick, or I'll lay it about your back when it does come. Nay, you don't do that," he added, turning to Edmund, who was struggling to free himself; "not yet, my fine fellow. I have not done with thee yet," and by Sir Nicholas' timely help the prisoner was laid upon his back and then firmly secured with the cords which the ostler brought up a minute later.
Leaving Edmund to bemoan his fate to himself, the party drew nigh to the window to witness the play afresh. They were just in time to witness the advent of another "silent scene."
"Let me explain it to you," proffered the once more equable Boniface. "I know all about these things, they oft-times visit us here. I know every bit of this play as well as I know my creed."
"Happen you may not be very familiar with the creed, though," laughed
Sir Thomas.
"Don't I know it, though?" he replied. "Sir Nicholas, if I might be pardoned for mentioning it, knows full well that every citizen of London knows the creed by heart."
"Yes," assented the Lord Keeper, "everyone is compelled to attend some church at least once a Sabbath."
"Or else they are smartly fined for staying away, as I was," ruefully added the landlord. "Yes, my lords, I know my creed full well."
"Well, what's that fellow drinking now?" asked Sir George.
"He's fainting, poor fellow," replied Sir Thomas.
"Fainting," laughed the host, "fainting! not a bit of it. He is drinking some of my best Malmesey wine, that's what he is doing; only you must think he is taking poison. He is Gorboduc, the king."
"Well?"
"Oh, I forgot, you know naught of him as yet. Well, he, a king of Britain years ago, has just told everybody that the kingdom is to be divided between his two sons, Ferrex and Porrex. Some of his councillors advised 'Yes,' and some said 'No,' but the old king was decided upon having his own way, and the land had just been divided between them."
"Get on," said the baron impatiently, as the other paused and finally came to a dead stop. "They are beginning to act again."
"And one of the old councillors strongly advised the king to keep his realm entire," continued the man, "I remember his very words. He told the king how bad any division would be, not only for himself, but also for his sons. He says:—
But worst of all for this our native land.
Within one land one single rule is best,
Divided reigns do make divided hearts,
But peace preserves the country and the prince."
"As correct as the creed itself," whispered Sir Nicholas.
"It may be so," exclaimed the young knight, "but we will let the poetry go. For my part I can't understand that new-fashioned poetry, and I don't want to either. I only like it when it rhymes, like Chaucer."
"That all means," resumed the landlord, "that Queen Mary of Scotland had far better leave our gracious Queen Elizabeth (God bless her) to herself. We don't want Roman Catholic princesses here again, Sir Nicholas."
"No, indeed not. Mary was enough."
Sir George Vernon frowned heavily. He was too sincere a Papist himself to relish such remarks, but he dared not show his displeasure in the face of the Queen's minister.
"And I don't care for poetry anyhow," he gruffly said, "so finish without any more of it if you can."
"I will then. You saw those two mugs offered to the king?"
"Both made of common horn, yes."
"They both came from my bar. One was full of wine, but the other held water."
"Then when my sack comes I would prefer it without the water," Sir
Thomas replied, amid a chorus of laughter.
"You exercise your wit upon me, my lord," replied the landlord with some asperity, "but I have not the means wherewith to retort. I am a man of business, not a Court fool." Here he paused, astonished at his own trepidity, and also in fear lest his aristocratic customers should be offended. As he stopped his virtuous indignation passed away, and when he resumed again it was in a tone at once apologetic and placid.
"The water," he continued, "was offered by the good councillors, but
Gorboduc took the poison, and now he has drunk it off, so——"
"Look at your prisoner," interrupted Sir Nicholas, "or very soon you will not have one to look after."
Edmund had, in fact, been thrown down just over his knife, and very soon finding this out he had, by dint of considerable trouble, succeeded in cutting the cord which bound his wrists, and was busily engaged in freeing his legs by a similar process when he unfortunately attracted the attention of the Queen's Councillor.
No time was lost in securing him afresh. In spite of his strenuous efforts he was quickly overpowered, and after all his labour he only found himself more hopelessly a prisoner than he had been before.
"Why, the fellow must be bewitched," exclaimed Sir George, "I never saw his like before. Take him away before he does us any injury. Take him away, we don't want him here."
"He is safe enough now, my lord."
"Take him away, I say," repeated the baron. "We want him here no longer. Do you hear me, sirrah! Take him away I say, and lock him up in safety," and amid the oft-continued reiteration of the baron's order, Edmund Wynne was carried below and consigned to the care of the ostler until such time as the gaol officials could be conveniently communicated with.