Geoffrey the Lollard

by Frances Eastwood

"Hold, young master," said the man, affecting a rough manner to conceal his emotion; "you do not know Charles Bertrand if you think he will basely flee and leave the old man and the child to perish alone, not counting the heir of his lord's house. Nay, I will stay and bring down more than one of the wretches ere they cross the threshold."

"Not so, friend," said the young Lollard. "You have not my permission; for my father's sake, you must escape to tell him of our fate, and beside, you being free, may do somewhat for our liberty in planning some way of escape, while you can do us no good by shooting down one or two of yonder troop. I command you to follow yonder path to the first turning, then to the right, till you see a rock like a horse's head, then ten paces to the left, is a bush growing close to the cliff. Pull it away, and there is a hole large enough for one to lie concealed. Go, Bertrand; there is not a moment to lose, do not say a word."

The man looked still reluctant; but there was such an air of decision in the flashing eye of the young man that he could not disobey, but bounding up the hillside, disappeared as Geoffrey turned to the hut.

"Up, father!" he said in a firm voice, lending his arm to the old man, at the same time motioning Hubert to his side. "Father! you have taught us how to live as Lollards and Christians; now teach us to die like them, for the time is come!" and he led them out to the rocky platform in front of the door.

Scarcely had he ended when a dozen men leapt up to the top of the hill, and as many hands were laid on their unresisting victims, while the morning air was filled with their shouts of delight at their cowardly victory. Some tied them securely, some went to search for the missing soldier, while others threw firebrands about the hut and set it on fire.

Then, driving the boys before them, but disregarding old Humphrey Singleton as a piece of worthless booty, they descended the hill toward the village, where they had left their horses. There each of the boys was fastened to a horse behind a soldier, and by the time the sun had risen they were on their way toward York.

The captain, while looking with the utmost care to the safety of his prisoners, kept as far as possible from the boy whose kindness he was so shamefully repaying. Though his heart was pretty well steeled by many years of rough service as a soldier of fortune, and he was deeply impressed with the hatred of the Reformers which pervaded all classes, yet he had a little conscience left, and it pricked him sharply when he looked on the sea, and thought that but for that lad's strong arm and courageous heart he would there be dashing about, a lifeless, mangled mass. His better angel whispered to him that he might still partially retrieve his error by using his influence with his band to let them escape; but then rose the thought of the disgrace which the escape of Sir John and Lord Cobham had thrown upon him, which could only be atoned for by the capture of these "whelps of rebellion," as the archbishop styled them. Besides, his greedy palm itched for the golden angels which he already saw poured out to him by the delighted ecclesiastic.

So at last he determined to divide matters with his troublesome conscience. He would not take them to York, where they would certainly be killed, but would leave them at a convent near by, where they might not be kept very safely, and thus escape, without the odium resting on him, or the loss of his reward. He therefore ordered his troop to turn into a side-road, and galloping on before, led them to a gloomy, fortified building, surrounded by thick woods, and known to all as the convent of "Our Lady of the Seven Sorrows."

The porteress looked surprised and a little doubtful at the sight of such a band of armed men; but the archbishop's livery, worn by some of his retainers, and the assurance of the captain that he came on holy business, procured them an audience with the head of the establishment.

Mother Beatrice, the prioress, was a tall, dark, hard-featured woman, who, being an importation from Spain, had brought with her all the austerities to which she had been accustomed from her childhood, and meted them out with unsparing hand to the nuns, novices, and pupils over whom she exercised her sway, and soon made the convent as famous for the rigor of its discipline, as she herself was for sanctity and devotion to the Church.