A CHANCE TO SERVE THE CHURCH.
Now will I show myself
To have more of the serpent then the dove;
That is more knave than fool.
—The Jew of Malta, ii, 3.
And thus I clothe my naked villainy
With odd old ends stolen forth of holy writ,
And seem a saint when most I play the devil.
—King Richard III, i, 3.
Under the newly-cast sign of an iron dolphin suspended before the ale-house of that name, the two horsemen, who had ridden abreast from Finbury Fields, dismounted for hasty refreshment. While Tabbard was securing the horses near the end of the long stone trough, at the front of the building, his waiting companion was idly surveying the suroundings.
Directly across the unpaved highway, he could see the bulky steeple of the parish church of Saint Botolph lifting itself into the misty air, and just beyond the brick walls of the structure, the miserable churchyard of Petty France. The few straggling headstones of the graves of a multitude of buried foreigners could be faintly discerned under scrubby trees inclosed with a fence of crumbling masonry. Its southern edge was bordered by the town ditch, once broad enough for the defense of the city, but now showing only a narrow black mouth under the shadow of the old Roman wall. The latter was near enough to be visible, and, coming out of the fog from east and west, terminated in stone bulwarks against which the ancient gates of Bishopsgate were hung. These were swung back, revealing a black expanse below which ran the unseen road into the metropolis.
The scene was desolate in the extreme, but the spirits of the silent observer had reached too high a pitch of exaltation to be affected by any aspect of Nature. The news brought him by the present henchman of the Duke of Sussex and past servant of the Golden Hind, had lifted his mind above the plane where even thoughts of approaching financial distress or fears of the plague could arise, much less any sober-colored clouds be created by what passed before the eye.
The bearer of the message, menial though he was, had rendered too valuable a service to be treated in any other manner than as a good fellow of equal rank with himself. Hence, he had thrown off the superiority he generally assumed amid the common rabble, and after listening affably to the remarks of Tabbard, had held him for a meal at the Dolphin.
“How long will those gates be open?” asked Tabbard, looking in the direction of the wall.
“Until ten o’clock, and even after that hour you can pass through if you pound upon their fronts loudly enough to wake the keeper, who sleeps within the little black house close to the wall on the southern side. But in pounding, mind thee, Tabbard,” continued the speaker, with a smile, “see to it that you do not mar the stone features of the full length figure of King Richard the Second, which with broken scepter in his hand, stands out from the northern front of one of the rotting gates.”
“He must have his face now against the wall, for they are swung outward,” remarked Tabbard.
“Yes, for the nonce, as closely hidden as the manner of his violent death.”
“Ah,” said Tabbard, his mind crowded with the thoughts of the existing religious persecutions, “did he espouse the cause of the Papists?”
“Nay, my good fellow, that was two hundred years ago, when the fury of the church, then in power, expended itself mainly in bulls of excommunication. The violence of these days did not exist; but still conflicting doctrines entertained by the clergy disturbed the serenity of Rome, and the chief heretic was Wycliffe, whom the young king protected. That priest sowed the most fruitful seeds of the Reformation; but none of the Brownists or Puritans appear to recognize, amid the tenets of their beliefs, the handwriting of that master husbandman.”
“And I suppose that he was burnt, was he not?”
“After death.”
“In hell’s everlasting fire, eh?”
“Nay, I do not mean that. He died a natural death; but many years after, his body was taken from its grave and publicly burned.”
“Little it disturbed him, I wot,” remarked Tabbard.
“So it seems that fanaticism rests not even with the death of the person on whom it would wreak its fury, and it burns even in the breasts of men as mild looking as yonder group of Puritans.”
He pointed to the middle of the road close before them where several men were slowly walking toward Houndsditch. The plainness of their dress, of the same color from head to foot, and of exactly similar cut, was in striking contrast with the apparel of the two men whom they were passing.
Their broad brimmed hats were high-crowned and flat at the top, and pulled down so low that only four inches of face were visible above the deep collars of their gray coats. The latter were hung with heavy capes, and fronted with pin-head buttons to the lowest point below their waists. Loose breeches disappeared at their knees into rough looking high-boots with great rolling tops.
Their appearance excited Tabbard to laughter. Although still regarded as objects of ridicule by the irreligious populace and the body of the established church, the more thoughtful of those of adverse belief were beginning to recognize in the Puritans’ open and covert attacks upon the follies and vices of the times, the growth of a moral and political power which likewise demanded forcible suppression. Their railing libels against the clergy of the established church had at length formed a pretext for Parliament to pass an act that year making Puritanism an indictable offense. Their assembling had already been prohibited by the Black Act of 1584.
Despite their persecution, the zeal of the dissenters continued in their attacks upon what they considered crying evils. They stood ready to apprehend all offenders against such ecclesiastical laws as upheld the truth and sacredness of religion and the divinity of Christ. So far as Romanism might be by them considered destructive of true religion, they were ready to wield the sword forged by the Episcopalian Parliament for the dismemberment of the Papists. Many a non-conformist discovered in the person of the prosecuting witness swearing against him a member of the sect of Brownists. But particularly in the case of apostates and blasphemers the Puritans and Brownists directed their efforts toward having meted out to the offender the effective punishment provided by law.
As the two men turned and approached the door of the tavern, a man with deep-set eyes, sunken nose and red-bearded face, and dressed in the garb of a Puritan, hurriedly withdrew his face from a window adjoining the entrance. The sinister expression of his face had grown more pronounced during the last moment of his survey of the newcomers; for it was at them that his gaze had been directed. It was evident that their approach had disturbed him greatly; but the disturbance was rather that of joy than of alarm. Still, whatever the sight created or revived in the mind of Richard Bame, the fanatic, his movements elicited the fact that he was either not desirous of the impending meeting, or that he considered that his presence in another quarter would be more to his advantage. He had seen the gentleman in the black cloak before, but not to the knowledge of the latter, so it was not the dread of an encounter that made Bame turn and hasten toward the side-door of the dimly lighted tap-room. It was the second step which he had taken in what he considered a holy cause; of most evil effect it might be to the man approaching. As the former passed the big chair in which the fat hostess of the Dolphin sat knitting he muttered not too softly to be kept from ears already aroused at the note of his departure:
“My chance to serve the church is ripe.”
He passed into the side alley leading to the high road when the two men entered the room. The leader spoke without giving the woman chance for words of greeting:
“Good hostess, a hasty snack is what we want.”
“Of what shall it be?” she asked.
“Sack, cheese, bread and two pieces of meat as big as your hand. Drop yourself there, Tabbard?”
The speaker had tossed his cloak over the back of a chair as he spoke and as hastily filled another. In impatience he drummed a tattoo with one of his feet on the smooth oaken floor; and, apparently without noting the freshness of the bare walls and the chimney in which no fire had ever burned, his eyes roamed around the room.
“Just built,” remarked Tabbard.
“Yes,” returned the hostess, setting the dishes called for before the two strangers and smiling as though she felt flattered over the knowledge that her house was the subject of observation and comment.
“Where went the old building?” asked Tabbard.
The hostess turned her hand with thumb pointing upwards and said, “In smoke.”
“Yes,” said Marlowe, whose scarlet doublet and silver-corded belt had awakened the hostess’ admiration and almost hushed her into respectful awe, “I saw its blaze from as far south as the Standard in Cheap. The old tavern was twice as large as this, and being just outside the wall was greatly frequented by travelers approaching London late at night.”
“Do many stop here now?” inquired Tabbard.
“Not many at this season,” answered the hostess.
“The last one before you, kind sir,” she continued, now turning her attention to Marlowe and bowing so that her eyes caught only the sparkle of his rapier’s hilt, “left just as you entered. He acted strangely as he caught sight of you.”
“So, who was he?”
“He gave me no name, but as he went out I heard him say: ‘My chance to serve the church is ripe.’”
“How was he dressed?” asked Marlowe, suddenly setting down his half-raised mug, and fixing his eyes upon the hostess.
“Like a Puritan,” she answered.
“And what business have honest Puritans hanging around the bars of ordinaries and taverns?” exclaimed Marlowe, while Tabbard sneered audibly, and asked:
“And of what appearance was this man who was lounging here for the service of God?”
“His long red beard was all I noted,” she replied.
“I know him not,” said Marlowe, shaking his head, and then he asked:
“Do you know his name?”
“Methinks that a man who was with him earlier called him Bame at times, and again Richard.”
“Richard Bame!” exclaimed Marlowe, lifting his eyebrows and gazing fixedly at the woman. “And he said that his chance to serve the church was ripe?”
“True,” nodded the hostess, with her fists against her waist and continuing to look at her interlocutor as though in expectation that he would explain what interest he had in the man who had departed.
“Draw us two more cups, Mistress Bunbay,” he said, noticing the inquisitive expression on the woman’s face and desirous to get her out of earshot.
As the woman went towards the bar, he whispered to Tabbard, “Good fellow, for the turn thou hast done me in bringing news of the lady at Deptford I would knight thee had I the power, or enrich thee had I gold, but I have neither the one nor the other, except a brace of angels of which one is thine. Here put it in thy pocket and when occasion offers drink to the health of thy friend and to the confusion of all such fellows as just left here. But now I would ask another service of thee.”
“Speak, I am ready,” said Tabbard, picking up the ten-shilling piece, and holding it as though he would have it grow into his palm.
“The man who left here,” continued the other, “is Richard Bame, who has sworn to secure my arrest.”
“And for what?” exclaimed Tabbard. “Hast thou committed a crime?”
“Nay, listen. He is a whining, canting hypocrite, who has filed an accusation against me for blasphemy. He hath no cause of grievance, and his charges, if like what I have heard, are false. Word of this was brought me but yesterday, and friendly warning given that as soon as my whereabouts were known, my arrest would follow. I said as we journeyed across the fields, a short time since, that I hung behind the crowd to avoid my creditors, and that was partly true; but besides, I was apprehensive of encountering a constable with the writ issued upon the accusation. This Bame hath been watching for me and is now going for the officer, if I mistake not.”
“And what can I do for thee?” asked Tabbard, excitedly. “The sword point is all too good for him. How is it that Barrowe was burnt, and such as he live?”
“He is either carried away by religious fervor or is acting at the instance of some writer whom I have grievously offended, but it matters not what gives the spur to his actions,”[18] continued Marlowe; “I would not incite thee to do him violence. As soon as I reach the County of Surrey, the writ issued by the justice will be inoperative; but they may stay me before I cross London Bridge. Nothing must prevent my reaching the Golden Hind, in Deptford, to-night.”
“And why not mount in haste and ride on now down Bishopsgate Street to the Bridge?”
“The constable may be close at hand, and the pair even now awaiting my departure. Then, again, I must stop at my quarters in Coward Lane before I leave the city.”
“Well, well,” exclaimed Tabbard, “give me the word of action. I am ready.”
“Mount horse at once, and press after him. Did you hear her description of him? A red-bearded man with broad-brimmed hat and long gray coat. If he encounters an officer and turns, haste thee here before them with the warning. If he goes to his journey’s end, you will find it at the office of the justice at the corner of the Old Jewry and Poultry Street. It was there that the charge against me was sworn to. Ride down Bishopsgate Street to Threadneedle and then into Poultry. You will know the justice’s office by the red crown in the stone wall above the doorway. Watch the actions of the man. If a constable starts from the office upon Bame’s arrival, see to it that such officer is interrupted by hook or crook, until thou hast reason to believe that London Bridge lies between us.”
Tabbard had risen before the last word was spoken, and saying, “You can trust me to keep your way clear,” he disappeared.
The man Bame paused not a moment on reaching the road, but hastily crossed the bridge over the moat, passed through the wide gate and strode on toward the south. Although he walked with alacrity, a galloping rider coming in his wake had overtaken him before he entered the street now known as Threadneedle. Crowds of people were moving in all directions, but the broad-brimmed hat of the man on foot and his long coat could be easily distinguished, and the rider, slackening his horse’s pace, rode only fast enough to keep this figure in view.
Contrary to the expectation of the rider, Bame, instead of going into and through Poultry Street, turned northerly and passed into Lothbury, by the residences of rich merchants, by the Lothbury entrance of the Windmill tavern, which was once a Jewish synagogue, by the low-built stone shops of coppersmiths and founders of candlesticks, lamps and dishes, and around the corner of the Old Jewry. Here before an arched entrance of the long stone building, known as the Old or Prince’s Wardrobe, he encountered a broad-shouldered man in leather doublet and jerkin, and, as the two halted for a moment, Tabbard dismounted and tied his horse at the corner of the parish church of St. Olave.
Tabbard could not overhear the conversation between the two men; but as they moved, he followed to a building with quaint gables projecting over the broad windows of two upper stories and a wide stone entrance, above which was a great crown made of iron, set in the grimy wall, and painted red. It was the house in which Thomas à Becket first saw the light of day. Bame and his companion entered this building, and Tabbard, leaning against a thick window frame near the door, and on a level with his breast, looked through one of the small squares of glass.
Several candles had already been lighted in the room, for the high walls of the structures facing on the street, aided by the fog, made the interior as obscure as the hold of a vessel with closed hatches. He saw a man with periwig clapped on his gray head, beard trimmed like an ace of spades with sharp end down, and a loose taffeta gown, girt at his gross waist by a buff leather belt. He filled a chair large enough for two men as slender as Tabbard, and had his eyes been less confused by waking suddenly from a comfortable nap, or wide open instead of blinking, he might have seen the curious outsider.
Even Bame’s self-possession was disturbed in the presence of the awakening conservator of the peace, and as noiseless as a drummer in retreat from battle, he bowed most humbly.
“Well,” thundered the dazed justice, “who now, Gyves? Is this thy last catch? And is it bail or the jail? What——”
“Nothing of that sort, your honor,” interrupted the constable, for such he was.
“No,” began Bame, gaining confidence in himself from the knowledge that the justice required some information which he could advance, “I am Richard Bame, who swore to the accusation of blasphemy against——”
“Tut, tut, I know thee,” exclaimed the justice, cutting him short and reaching across the table for a folded paper, “here, Gyves, this is the warrant,” he continued. “It hath lain here to await information of the whereabouts of the rogue. And where is he?”
“At the Dolphin tavern, in Bishopsgate, without the wall,” answered Bame.
“I know not the place. Is it within the ward?”
“’Tis next outside the gate.”
“Then the arrest can be made there by this constable.”
“True, your honor,” murmured the latter, “it is the new ale-house this side of Fisher’s Folly where the bowling alleys are.”
“Get you off, rascal, and bring him in.”
“He is a young man and wears a black cloak, scarlet doublet, and cap with white feather. His horse is gray and perchance you may meet him on the road,” said Bame impressively and repeated the description, while the constable kept nodding his head in token of the reception and retention of the words.
As the constable came from the justice’s office into the street he ran into Tabbard who had purposely placed himself in his way. The latter gave utterance to a groan and limped as Gyves stammered an apology for his apparent clumsiness.
“My leg,” whined Tabbard, “is badly knocked. You must help me to the wine room of the Windmill across the way.”
“I can do that much for you,” returned the constable, taking his arm, and across the uneven street, not yet lighted by the watchmen’s lanterns, nor disturbed by the bellman’s drowsy tinkling, the scheming Tabbard proceeded with his prospective comrade for an evening’s carousal. Meanwhile the man left at the Dolphin tavern, settled his bill, mounted his horse and was riding down Bishopsgate Street toward London Bridge.