Thus bidden, Robin began his story.
“When Mr Rose and I were parted, I was sent first to the Marshalsea. Here I abode a full year, during the which I several times saw Austin Bernher. But afore I had been there a month, I was had up afore my Lord of London. So soon as he saw me, he put on a very big and ruffling air, and quoth he,—‘Come hither, thou wicked heretic! what canst thou say for thyself?’—‘Nothing, my Lord,’ said I, ‘save that though I be sinful, yet am I no heretic,’—‘Ha! sayest thou so?’ quoth my Lord. ‘I will soon see whether thou be an heretic or no. Tell me, dost thou hold the very presence of Christ’s body and blood to be in the sacrament of the altar?’ To whom I—‘My Lord, I do believe verily, as Christ hath said, that where two or three be gathered together in His name, there is He in the midst of them.’—‘Ho, thou crafty varlet!’ quoth he, ‘wouldst turn the corner after that manner? By Saint Mary her kirtle, but it shall not serve thy turn. Tell me now, thou pestilent companion; when the priest layeth the bread and wine upon the altar, afore the consecration, what then is there?’ Then said I,—‘Bread and wine, my Lord.’—‘Well said,’ quoth he. ‘And after the words of consecration be spoken, what then is there?’—‘Bread and wine, my Lord,’ I answered again.—‘Ha!’ saith he, ‘I thought I could catch thee, thou lither (wicked, abandoned) heretic. Dost not then believe that after consecration done, there in the body and blood of Christ, verily and alone, nor any more the substance of bread and wine remaining?’—‘My Lord,’ said I, ‘my sense doth assure me that the wine is yet wine, and the bread, bread; mine understanding doth assure me that the body of our Lord is a true natural human body, and cannot therefore be on an hundred altars at one and the same time; and I am therein confirmed of Saint Paul, which saith, that so oft as we do eat this bread, we do show forth the death of the Lord.’—‘Ha, thou runagate!’ he roareth out; ‘wilt thou quote from Scripture in English? Hast thou no Latin? I have a whip that shall make thee speak Latin.’—‘My Lord,’ said I, ‘I can quote from the Scripture in Latin, if that like your Lordship the better; and likewise in Greek, the which (being the tongue wherein they were written at the first) should be all the surer; but I, being an Englishman born (for the which I thank God), do more naturally read the Scripture in English.’—‘I will not have thee to speak Greek!’ crieth he. ‘’Tis the Devil that did invent Greek of late years, to beguile unwary men. And I do thee to wit that the Scripture was not writ in Greek, thou lying varlet! but in the holy tongue, Latin.’—‘It would ill become me to gainsay your Lordship,’ said I.—‘I will have thee back,’ saith he, ‘to the first matter. And I bid thee answer me without any cunning or evasion: Dost thou believe that our Lord’s body was eaten of the blessed Apostles, or no?’—‘My Lord,’ I answered, ‘with all reverence unto your Lordship’s chair and office, seeing the Lord’s body was crucified on the Friday, I do not believe, nor cannot, that it was eaten of the Apostles the even afore.’ Then he arose up out of his seat, and gnashed his teeth, and railed on me with great abuse; crying, ‘Ha, thou heretic! thou lither knave! (and worser words than these) I have thee! I have outwitted thee! Thou art fairly beat and put down.—Have the heretic knave away, and keep him close.’ And so I was carried back to the Marshalsea.”
“Marry,” said Mr Underhill, “but I think it was Edmund Bonner that was put down. I never knew what a witty fellow thou wert.”
“Robin,” said Isoult, “it should have aggrieved me sorely to be so unjustly handled. To hear him say that he had beat thee, when it was thou that hadst beat him! It should have gone mightily against the grain with me.”
“The old story,” answered Mr Rose. “‘Is not that He whose high places and whose altars Hezekiah hath taken away?’ Methinks that should rankle sore in Hezekiah’s mind, and in the hearts of them that lovest him. Bishop Bonner is somewhat coarser and less subtle, yet ’tis the same thing in both cases.”
“Well,” said Robin, with a smile to those who had spoken, “after that I was not called up again. When at last I was brought out from the Marshalsea, I counted it would be surely either for an other examination or for burning. But, to my surprise, they set me on an horse, that was tied to the horse of one of the Sheriff’s men, and I (with some twelve other prisoners likewise bound) was taken a long journey of many days. I could see by the sun that we were going west; but whither I wist not, and the man to whom I was bound refused to tell me. At the last we entered into a great city, walled and moated. Here we were brought afore a priest, that demanded of each of us what was the cause of our sentence; to whom I answered, ‘Sir, I have not yet been sentenced, but I believe the cause of my prison to be that I do put faith in Saint Paul’s words, that when we do show forth the Lord’s death in the Sacrament of His Supper, it is bread the which we do eat.’ Whereat he smiled somewhat, but after scowled, and bade an officer have me thence. Of whom I was taken down into a cell or little dungeon, and there set by myself. I asked of the officer where I was; and he laughed, and at first would not tell me. But after he said, ‘Well, you are in Exeter, but say not unto any that I told it you.’ In the prison at Exeter (where I was alone) I lay methinks over two years. Ah!” pursued Robin, dropping his voice, “it was hard work lying there! Men had forgotten me, I thought; I began to marvel whether God had. I saw none but my gaoler, that brought me meat (then the generic term for food) morning and evening, but scarce ever spake to me: and I fell at times to talking with myself, that I should not forget mine own tongue, nor be affrighted at the sound of mine own voice. At last, just as the warm days of Spring were coming, I was brought out, and again set on an horse. We went north this time; and one even, after passing by certain monastical buildings, we stayed at the door of a stately palace. Here I was bidden to ’light, for that we should go no further. They carried me away through many lobbies, and down stairs, and at length we came unto a chamber where was a gaoler sitting, with his keys at his girdle. He and my guide spake together, and he then bare me unto a cell, wherein I was locked. I asked again where I was, but to no end beyond being bidden to hold my peace, and stricken on the head with his keys. Here I passed not many days, ere one even the gaoler came unto me, and bade me to follow him. He led me down further stairs, and at the very bottom opened a heavy door. I could see nothing within. ‘Go in,’ said he, gruffly, ‘and fall no further than you can help. You were best to slide down.’ I marvelled whither I were going; but I took his avisement, and grasping the door-sill with mine hands, I slid down into the darkness. At length my feet found firm ground, though I were a little bruised in the descent; but I lighted on no floor, but a point only—all the walls sloping away around me. ‘Are you there?’ growls the gaoler—but his voice sounded far above me. ‘I am some whither,’ said I, ‘but I can find no floor.’ He laughed a rough laugh, and saith ‘You can find as much as there is. There is little ease yonder.’ And he shut to the door and left me. All at once it flashed on me where I was: and so terrible was the knowledge, that a cold sweat brake forth all over me. I had heard of the horrible prison in the Bishop of Lincoln’s Palace of Woburn, called Little Ease (Note 1), which tapered down to a point, wherein a man might neither stand, nor sit, nor lie. Somewhat like despair came over me. Were they about to leave me to lie here and die of hunger? I shouted, and my voice came back to me with a mocking echo. I held my breath to listen, and I heard no sound. I was an outcast, a dead man out of mind; ‘the earth with her bars was about me for ever.’ I had borne all easily (so to speak) save this. But now I covered my face with mine hands, and wept like a child.”
“My poor Robin!” said Isoult. “Tell me when this was.”
“It was at the beginning of the hot weather,” he answered. “I fancy it might be about June. I thanked God heartily that it was not winter.”
“Ay,” said she, “thou wouldst have more light.”
“Light!” he said, and smiled. “No light ever came into Little Ease. I never knew day from night all the while I was there. Once in three days my gaoler unlocked the door, and let down to me a rope, at the end whereof was a loaf of bread, and after a tin pitcher of water; and I had to fasten thereto the empty pitcher. Such thirst was on me that I commonly drank the water off, first thing.”