Geoffrey the Lollard

by Frances Eastwood

"If he is only safe, and knew what had become of you," she observed, "he might work outside, while we arranged matters within. It would do us small good if we were this moment in yonder forest, if we had no one to help us on our journey. That was what I could not think how to manage; there was never a garrison yet that had not one traitor at least in its midst, if one only knows rightly how to influence him; and I think I know of one or two in this convent whom Mother Beatrice has not yet turned into stone and built up into the walls."

But meanwhile, what had become of the faithful Bertrand?

Remembering well his young master's orders, as soon as the soldiers had retired, he came out of his hiding place, and, having done what he could for poor old Humphrey Singleton, he set about sending information of the boys' capture to their father. He, however, found that the Lollard communications had been much interrupted lately, and that it would be necessary for him to go himself and carry the message.

He and De Forest, with other refugees, consulted together concerning the best means of escape. Sir John determined to forsake his unhappy country, and dwell, for a time at least, in Denmark or Germany. He decided that in the early spring he would go to London, in hopes that his sons might meet him there, and then all flee together. Bertrand was to try and find out where the children had been carried, to wander round in disguise, and, if possible, open communication with them. All the details were left to his own inventive powers.

He therefore returned to York, entering it one snowy winter's evening, footsore and weary, and not a little despondent. His disguise was that of a minstrel, as best calculated to give him admittance into various places where he might chance to hear somewhat of the objects of his search. He was a tolerable performer on the crwth, or Welsh violin, an accomplishment he had picked up in the course of his wanderings, and he was glad to be able to turn it to such good account.

So far he had been entirely unsuccessful, and cold, wet, and hungry, his chief desire was to find some inn or hostelry where he might obtain refreshment. He turned into one of the humblest, as befitting his station, and approached the fire, where a dozen rough-looking men were drinking beer and cracking low jokes with each other, accompanying each with a round oath and a burst of laughter. It seemed that most of their witticisms were directed toward one of their number, who either could not or would not reply, but sat in moody silence, with his back partly turned to the company, drinking an immense quantity of beer, perhaps with the hope of getting himself into a better humor.

"Now, by our Lady," said one, "I tell you Dick has cracked his pate."

"By the mass," said another, "he acts just like my dog that ran mad, last year; he refuses his victuals, can't stay still a minute, and snaps at the hand of his best friends."

"And he won't fight," said one long-legged fellow who sat cleaning his sword and patting it affectionately; "he, who used to go into a quarrel as a child goes to a show, with a hop, skip, and jump. Hola! Sir Minstrel, sing us a song of the wars of king Harry, to put a little spirit into yon lazy dog, who has grown afraid of his own cross-bow."

"By your leave, my merry masters," said Bertrand, "I will first put a little spirit into myself; I am as wet as though I had swam across the German ocean." So saying, he drew a stool up to the cheerful blaze, and raised an immense leathern flagon to his lips.