The prisoners were marched out, with much show of righteous indignation against them from Manning, and stolid assistance to the sumners on the part of Haimet. When the door was shut and all quiet again, Manning came up to Isel.
“Come, Wife, don’t take on!” he said, in a much more gentle tone than before. “We must not let ourselves be suspected, you know. Perhaps they’ll be acquitted—they seem decent, peaceable folk, and it may be found to be a false accusation. So long as holy Church does not condemn them, we need not: but you know we must not set ourselves against her officers, nor get ourselves suspected and into trouble. Hush, children! the fewer words the better. They may turn out to be all wrong, and then it would be sin to pity them. We can but wait and see.”
“Saints alive! but I’m in a whole sea of trouble already!” cried Isel. “We’ve lost six hands for work; and good workers too; and here had I reckoned on Ermine tarrying with me, and being like a daughter to me, when my own were gone: and what am I to do now, never speak of them?”
“There are plenty more girls in the city,” said Manning.
“Maybe: but not another Ermine.”
“Perhaps not; but it’s no good crying over spilt milk, Isel. Do the best you can with what you have; and keep your mouth shut about what you have not.”
Haimet was seen no more till nearly bedtime, when he came in with the information that all the Germans had been committed to the Castle dungeon, to await the arrival of King Henry, who had summoned a Council of Bishops to sit on the question, the Sunday after Christmas. That untried prisoners should be kept nearly four months in a dark, damp, unhealthy cellar, termed a dungeon, was much too common an occurrence to excite surprise. Isel, as usual, lamented over it, and Derette, who had seen the prisoners marched into the Castle yard, was as warm in her sympathy as even her mother could have wished. Manning tried, not unkindly, to silence them both, and succeeded only when they had worn themselves out.
About ten days later, Derette made her profession, and was installed in the anchorhold, with Leuesa as her maid. The anchorhold consisted of two small chambers, some ten feet square, with a doorway of communication that could be closed by a curtain. The inner room, which was the bedchamber, was furnished with two bundles of straw, two rough woollen rugs, a tin basin, a wooden coffer, a form, and some hooks for hanging garments at one end. The outer room was kitchen and parlour; it held a tiny hearth for a wood-fire (no chimney), another form, a small pair of trestles and boards to form a table, which were piled in a corner when not wanted for immediate use; sundry shelves were put up around the walls, and from hooks in the low ceiling hung a lamp, a water-bucket, a pair of bellows, a bunch of candles, a rope of onions, a string of dried salt fish, and several bundles of medical herbs. The scent of the apartment, as may be imagined, was somewhat less fragrant than that of roses. In one corner stood the Virgin Mary, newly-painted and gilt; in the opposite one, Saint John the Baptist, whom the imager had made with such patent whites to his eyes, set in a bronzed complexion, that the effect was rather startling. A very small selection of primitive culinary utensils lay on a shelf close to the hearth. Much was not wanted, when the most sumptuous meal to be had was boiled fish or roasted onions.
Derette was extremely tired, and it was no cause for wonder. From early morning she had been kept on the strain by most exciting incidents. Her childhood’s home, though it was scarcely more than a stone’s throw from her, she was never to see again. Father or brother might not even touch her hand any more. Her mother and sister could still enter her tiny abode; but she might never go out to them, no matter what necessity required it. Derette was bright, and sensible, and strong: but she was tired that night. And there was no better repose to be had than sitting on a hard form, and leaning her head against the chimney-corner.
“Shut the window, Leuesa,” she said, “and come in. I am very weary, and I must sleep a little, if I can, before compline.”