"What! for Gloucester, friend? You must have been hard upon my heels the whole way for——"
"No," interrupted Calverley, in an assumed gruffness of tone, and with something more than his usual authoritativeness, "my journey is ended now. The king has recalled that writ of prohibition you were to deliver to the judge. You are to return the writ to me, and proceed with your other dispatches."
The messenger had heard—for state secrets will sometimes transpire—that the chancellor had a struggle to obtain the writ; and this knowledge, though it made him the more readily credit Calverley's assertion, yet vexed him that his master should be foiled. Looking, therefore, with a surly scrutiny at the steward—
"The writ," said he, "was given to me by my lord archbishop; and how do I know that I should be right in surrendering it to a stranger? Have you any order from his grace?"
"Order from his grace," repeated Calverley, sarcastically: "Do you not know, my good friend, that your master is in disgrace with mine, and that the eloquent William of Wykeham will, ere many days pass, be high chancellor of England. Come, come, give me the writ, and don't lose time. I must not stir from my saddle this night, unless to change horses, till I reach Westminster."
The news of Islip's dismissal confounded the messenger. This new pursuivant might be in the interest of William of Wykeham, and it would be ill policy to make an enemy where every good office might be wanting to preserve him his situation. At all events, there was little use in contending: he accordingly unlocked his bag, and Calverley, with a thrill of pleasure, felt the writ within his grasp.
A hasty salutation passed, and the horsemen rode off in opposite directions. Calverley then, sending his associate home, spurred on to Gloucester.
The steward's first care was to put up his horse at an inn a little within the north-gate of Gloucester; and then, proceeding on to where the four streets, leading from the four gates of the city form a cross, he went down Westgate-street, and, passing the beautiful cathedral, presently reached the Severn. The evening was dark, and, looking cautiously round, he dropt the damask dress,—and, as he thought, the prohibitory writ,—in the oblivious waters.
CHAPTER V.