summaryrefslogtreecommitdiff
path: root/old/arpn10h.htm
blob: c2bd93bcd90768a8892ac7fbb781f81938242722 (plain) 
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638
639
640
641
642
643
644
645
646
647
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681
682
683
684
685
686
687
688
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720
721
722
723
724
725
726
727
728
729
730
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754
755
756
757
758
759
760
761
762
763
764
765
766
767
768
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780
781
782
783
784
785
786
787
788
789
790
791
792
793
794
795
796
797
798
799
800
801
802
803
804
805
806
807
808
809
810
811
812
813
814
815
816
817
818
819
820
821
822
823
824
825
826
827
828
829
830
831
832
833
834
835
836
837
838
839
840
841
842
843
844
845
846
847
848
849
850
851
852
853
854
855
856
857
858
859
860
861
862
863
864
865
866
867
868
869
870
871
872
873
874
875
876
877
878
879
880
881
882
883
884
885
886
887
888
889
890
891
892
893
894
895
896
897
898
899
900
901
902
903
904
905
906
907
908
909
910
911
912
913
914
915
916
917
918
919
920
921
922
923
924
925
926
927
928
929
930
931
932
933
934
935
936
937
938
939
940
941
942
943
944
945
946
947
948
949
950
951
952
953
954
955
956
957
958
959
960
961
962
963
964
965
966
967
968
969
970
971
972
973
974
975
976
977
978
979
980
981
982
983
984
985
986
987
988
989
990
991
992
993
994
995
996
997
998
999
1000
1001
1002
1003
1004
1005
1006
1007
1008
1009
1010
1011
1012
1013
1014
1015
1016
1017
1018
1019
1020
1021
1022
1023
1024
1025
1026
1027
1028
1029
1030
1031
1032
1033
1034
1035
1036
1037
1038
1039
1040
1041
1042
1043
1044
1045
1046
1047
1048
1049
1050
1051
1052
1053
1054
1055
1056
1057
1058
1059
1060
1061
1062
1063
1064
1065
1066
1067
1068
1069
1070
1071
1072
1073
1074
1075
1076
1077
1078
1079
1080
1081
1082
1083
1084
1085
1086
1087
1088
1089
1090
1091
1092
1093
1094
1095
1096
1097
1098
1099
1100
1101
1102
1103
1104
1105
1106
1107
1108
1109
1110
1111
1112
1113
1114
1115
1116
1117
1118
1119
1120
1121
1122
1123
1124
1125
1126
1127
1128
1129
1130
1131
1132
1133
1134
1135
1136
1137
1138
1139
1140
1141
1142
1143
1144
1145
1146
1147
1148
1149
1150
1151
1152
1153
1154
1155
1156
1157
1158
1159
1160
1161
1162
1163
1164
1165
1166
1167
1168
1169
1170
1171
1172
1173
1174
1175
1176
1177
1178
1179
1180
1181
1182
1183
1184
1185
1186
1187
1188
1189
1190
1191
1192
1193
1194
1195
1196
1197
1198
1199
1200
1201
1202
1203
1204
1205
1206
1207
1208
1209
1210
1211
1212
1213
1214
1215
1216
1217
1218
1219
1220
1221
1222
1223
1224
1225
1226
1227
1228
1229
1230
1231
1232
1233
1234
1235
1236
1237
1238
1239
1240
1241
1242
1243
1244
1245
1246
1247
1248
1249
1250
1251
1252
1253
1254
1255
1256
1257
1258
1259
1260
1261
1262
1263
1264
1265
1266
1267
1268
1269
1270
1271
1272
1273
1274
1275
1276
1277
1278
1279
1280
1281
1282
1283
1284
1285
1286
1287
1288
1289
1290
1291
1292
1293
1294
1295
1296
1297
1298
1299
1300
1301
1302
1303
1304
1305
1306
1307
1308
1309
1310
1311
1312
1313
1314
1315
1316
1317
1318
1319
1320
1321
1322
1323
1324
1325
1326
1327
1328
1329
1330
1331
1332
1333
1334
1335
1336
1337
1338
1339
1340
1341
1342
1343
1344
1345
1346
1347
1348
1349
1350
1351
1352
1353
1354
1355
1356
1357
1358
1359
1360
1361
1362
1363
1364
1365
1366
1367
1368
1369
1370
1371
1372
1373
1374
1375
1376
1377
1378
1379
1380
1381
1382
1383
1384
1385
1386
1387
1388
1389
1390
1391
1392
1393
1394
1395
1396
1397
1398
1399
1400
1401
1402
1403
1404
1405
1406
1407
1408
1409
1410
1411
1412
1413
1414
1415
1416
1417
1418
1419
1420
1421
1422
1423
1424
1425
1426
1427
1428
1429
1430
1431
1432
1433
1434
1435
1436
1437
1438
1439
1440
1441
1442
1443
1444
1445
1446
1447
1448
1449
1450
1451
1452
1453
1454
1455
1456
1457
1458
1459
1460
1461
1462
1463
1464
1465
1466
1467
1468
1469
1470
1471
1472
1473
1474
1475
1476
1477
1478
1479
1480
1481
1482
1483
1484
1485
1486
1487
1488
1489
1490
1491
1492
1493
1494
1495
1496
1497
1498
1499
1500
1501
1502
1503
1504
1505
1506
1507
1508
1509
1510
1511
1512
1513
1514
1515
1516
1517
1518
1519
1520
1521
1522
1523
1524
1525
1526
1527
1528
1529
1530
1531
1532
1533
1534
1535
1536
1537
1538
1539
1540
1541
1542
1543
1544
1545
1546
1547
1548
1549
1550
1551
1552
1553
1554
1555
1556
1557
1558
1559
1560
1561
1562
1563
1564
1565
1566
1567
1568
1569
1570
1571
1572
1573
1574
1575
1576
1577
1578
1579
1580
1581
1582
1583
1584
1585
1586
1587
1588
1589
1590
1591
1592
1593
1594
1595
1596
1597
1598
1599
1600
1601
1602
1603
1604
1605
1606
1607
1608
1609
1610
1611
1612
1613
1614
1615
1616
1617
1618
1619
1620
1621
1622
1623
1624
1625
1626
1627
1628
1629
1630
1631
1632
1633
1634
1635
1636
1637
1638
1639
1640
1641
1642
1643
1644
1645
1646
1647
1648
1649
1650
1651
1652
1653
1654
1655
1656
1657
1658
1659
1660
1661
1662
1663
1664
1665
1666
1667
1668
1669
1670
1671
1672
1673
1674
1675
1676
1677
1678
1679
1680
1681
1682
1683
1684
1685
1686
1687
1688
1689
1690
1691
1692
1693
1694
1695
1696
1697
1698
1699
1700
1701
1702
1703
1704
1705
1706
1707
1708
1709
1710
1711
1712
1713
1714
1715
1716
1717
1718
1719
1720
1721
1722
1723
1724
1725
1726
1727
1728
1729
1730
1731
1732
1733
1734
1735
1736
1737
1738
1739
1740
1741
1742
1743
1744
1745
1746
1747
1748
1749
1750
1751
1752
1753
1754
1755
1756
1757
1758
1759
1760
1761
1762
1763
1764
1765
1766
1767
1768
1769
1770
1771
1772
1773
1774
1775
1776
1777
1778
1779
1780
1781
1782
1783
1784
1785
1786
1787
1788
1789
1790
1791
1792
1793
1794
1795
1796
1797
1798
1799
1800
1801
1802
1803
1804
1805
1806
1807
1808
1809
1810
1811
1812
1813
1814
1815
1816
1817
1818
1819
1820
1821
1822
1823
1824
1825
1826
1827
1828
1829
1830
1831
1832
1833
1834
1835
1836
1837
1838
1839
1840
1841
1842
1843
1844
1845
1846
1847
1848
1849
1850
1851
1852
1853
1854
1855
1856
1857
1858
1859
1860
1861
1862
1863
1864
1865
1866
1867
1868
1869
1870
1871
1872
1873
1874
1875
1876
1877
1878
1879
1880
1881
1882
1883
1884
1885
1886
1887
1888
1889
1890
1891
1892
1893
1894
1895
1896
1897
1898
1899
1900
1901
1902
1903
1904
1905
1906
1907
1908
1909
1910
1911
1912
1913
1914
1915
1916
1917
1918
1919
1920
1921
1922
1923
1924
1925
1926
1927
1928
1929
1930
1931
1932
1933
1934
1935
1936
1937
1938
1939
1940
1941
1942
1943
1944
1945
1946
1947
1948
1949
1950
1951
1952
1953
1954
1955
1956
1957
1958
1959
1960
1961
1962
1963
1964
1965
1966
1967
1968
1969
1970
1971
1972
1973
1974
1975
1976
1977
1978
1979
1980
1981
1982
1983
1984
1985
1986
1987
1988
1989
1990
1991
1992
1993
1994
1995
1996
1997
1998
1999
2000
2001
2002
2003
2004
2005
2006
2007
2008
2009
2010
2011
2012
2013
2014
2015
2016
2017
2018
2019
2020
2021
2022
2023
2024
2025
2026
2027
2028
2029
2030
2031
2032
2033
2034
2035
2036
2037
2038
2039
2040
2041
2042
2043
2044
2045
2046
2047
2048
2049
2050
2051
2052
2053
2054
2055
2056
2057
2058
2059
2060
2061
2062
2063
2064
2065
2066
2067
2068
2069
2070
2071
2072
2073
2074
2075
2076
2077
2078
2079
2080
2081
2082
2083
2084
2085
2086
2087
2088
2089
2090
2091
2092
2093
2094
2095
2096
2097
2098
2099
2100
2101
2102
2103
2104
2105
2106
2107
2108
2109
2110
2111
2112
2113
2114
2115
2116
2117
2118
2119
2120
2121
2122
2123
2124
2125
2126
2127
2128
2129
2130
2131
2132
2133
2134
2135
2136
2137
2138
2139
2140
2141
2142
2143
2144
2145
2146
2147
2148
2149
2150
2151
2152
2153
2154
2155
2156
2157
2158
2159
2160
2161
2162
2163
2164
2165
2166
2167
2168
2169
2170
2171
2172
2173
2174
2175
2176
2177
2178
2179
2180
2181
2182
2183
2184
2185
2186
2187
2188
2189
2190
2191
2192
2193
2194
2195
2196
2197
2198
2199
2200
2201
2202
2203
2204
2205
2206
2207
2208
2209
2210
2211
2212
2213
2214
2215
2216
2217
2218
2219
2220
2221
2222
2223
2224
2225
2226
2227
2228
2229
2230
2231
2232
2233
2234
2235
2236
2237
2238
2239
2240
2241
2242
2243
2244
2245
2246
2247
2248
2249
2250
2251
2252
2253
2254
2255
2256
2257
2258
2259
2260
2261
2262
2263
2264
2265
2266
2267
2268
2269
2270
2271
2272
2273
2274
2275
2276
2277
2278
2279
2280
2281
2282
2283
2284
2285
2286
2287
2288
2289
2290
2291
2292
2293
2294
2295
2296
2297
2298
2299
2300
2301
2302
2303
2304
2305
2306
2307
2308
2309
2310
2311
2312
2313
2314
2315
2316
2317
2318
2319
2320
2321
2322
2323
2324
2325
2326
2327
2328
2329
2330
2331
2332
2333
2334
2335
2336
2337
2338
2339
2340
2341
2342
2343
2344
2345
2346
2347
2348
2349
2350
2351
2352
2353
2354
2355
2356
2357
2358
2359
2360
2361
2362
2363
2364
2365
2366
2367
2368
2369
2370
2371
2372
2373
2374
2375
2376
2377
2378
2379
2380
2381
2382
2383
2384
2385
2386
2387
2388
2389
2390
2391
2392
2393
2394
2395
2396
2397
2398
2399
2400
2401
2402
2403
2404
2405
2406
2407
2408
2409
2410
2411
2412
2413
2414
2415
2416
2417
2418
2419
2420
2421
2422
2423
2424
2425
2426
2427
2428
2429
2430
2431
2432
2433
2434
2435
2436
2437
2438
2439
2440
2441
2442
2443
2444
2445
2446
2447
2448
2449
2450
2451
2452
2453
2454
2455
2456
2457
2458
2459
2460
2461
2462
2463
2464
2465
2466
2467
2468
2469
2470
2471
2472
2473
2474
2475
2476
2477
2478
2479
2480
2481
2482
2483
2484
2485
2486
2487
2488
2489
2490
2491
2492
2493
2494
2495
2496
2497
2498
2499
2500
2501
2502
2503
2504
2505
2506
2507
2508
2509
2510
2511
2512
2513
2514
2515
2516
2517
2518
2519
2520
2521
2522
2523
2524
2525
2526
2527
2528
2529
2530
2531
2532
2533
2534
2535
2536
2537
2538
2539
2540
2541
2542
2543
2544
2545
2546
2547
2548
2549
2550
2551
2552
2553
2554
2555
2556
2557
2558
2559
2560
2561
2562
2563
2564
2565
2566
2567
2568
2569
2570
2571
2572
2573
2574
2575
2576
2577
2578
2579
2580
2581
2582
2583
2584
2585
2586
2587
2588
2589
2590
2591
2592
2593
2594
2595
2596
2597
2598
2599
2600
2601
2602
2603
2604
2605
2606
2607
2608
2609
2610
2611
2612
2613
2614
2615
2616
2617
2618
2619
2620
2621
2622
2623
2624
2625
2626
2627
2628
2629
2630
2631
2632
2633
2634
2635
2636
2637
2638
2639
2640
2641
2642
2643
2644
2645
2646
2647
2648
2649
2650
2651
2652
2653
2654
2655
2656
2657
2658
2659
2660
2661
2662
2663
2664
2665
2666
2667
2668
2669
2670
2671
2672
2673
2674
2675
2676
2677
2678
2679
2680
2681
2682
2683
2684
2685
2686
2687
2688
2689
2690
2691
2692
2693
2694
2695
2696
2697
2698
2699
2700
2701
2702
2703
2704
2705
2706
2707
2708
2709
2710
2711
2712
2713
2714
2715
2716
2717
2718
2719
2720
2721
2722
2723
2724
2725
2726
2727
2728
2729
2730
2731
2732
2733
2734
2735
2736
2737
2738
2739
2740
2741
2742
2743
2744
2745
2746
2747
2748
2749
2750
2751
2752
2753
2754
2755
2756
2757
2758
2759
2760
2761
2762
2763
2764
2765
2766
2767
2768
2769
2770
2771
2772
2773
2774
2775
2776
2777
2778
2779
2780
2781
2782
2783
2784
2785
2786
2787
2788
2789
2790
2791
2792
2793
2794
2795
2796
2797
2798
2799
2800
2801
2802
2803
2804
2805
2806
2807
2808
2809
2810
2811
2812
2813
2814
2815
2816
2817
2818
2819
2820
2821
2822
2823
2824
2825
2826
2827
2828
2829
2830
2831
2832
2833
2834
2835
2836
2837
2838
2839
2840
2841
2842
2843
2844
2845
2846
2847
2848
2849
2850
2851
2852
2853
2854
2855
2856
2857
2858
2859
2860
2861
2862
2863
2864
2865
2866
2867
2868
2869
2870
2871
2872
2873
2874
2875
2876
2877
2878
2879
2880
2881
2882
2883
2884
2885
2886
2887
2888
2889
2890
2891
2892
2893
2894
2895
2896
2897
2898
2899
2900
2901
2902
2903
2904
2905
2906
2907
2908
2909
2910
2911
2912
2913
2914
2915
2916
2917
2918
2919
2920
2921
2922
2923
2924
2925
2926
2927
2928
2929
2930
2931
2932
2933
2934
2935
2936
2937
2938
2939
2940
2941
2942
2943
2944
2945
2946
2947
2948
2949
2950
2951
2952
2953
2954
2955
2956
2957
2958
2959
2960
2961
2962
2963
2964
2965
2966
2967
2968
2969
2970
2971
2972
2973
2974
2975
2976
2977
2978
2979
2980
2981
2982
2983
2984
2985
2986
2987
2988
2989
2990
2991
2992
2993
2994
2995
2996
2997
2998
2999
3000
3001
3002
3003
3004
3005
3006
3007
3008
3009
3010
3011
3012
3013
3014
3015
3016
3017
3018
3019
3020
3021
3022
3023
3024
3025
3026
3027
3028
3029
3030
3031
3032
3033
3034
3035
3036
3037
3038
3039
3040
3041
3042
3043
3044
3045
3046
3047
3048
3049
3050
3051
3052
3053
3054
3055
3056
3057
3058
3059
3060
3061
3062
3063
3064
3065
3066
3067
3068
3069
3070
3071
3072
3073
3074
3075
3076
3077
3078
3079
3080
3081
3082
3083
3084
3085
3086
3087
3088
3089
3090
3091
3092
3093
3094
3095
3096
3097
3098
3099
3100
3101
3102
3103
3104
3105
3106
3107
3108
3109
3110
3111
3112
3113
3114
3115
3116
3117
3118
3119
3120
3121
3122
3123
3124
3125
3126
3127
3128
3129
3130
3131
3132
3133
3134
3135
3136
3137
3138
3139
3140
3141
3142
3143
3144
3145
3146
3147
3148
3149
3150
3151
3152
3153
3154
3155
3156
3157
3158
3159
3160
3161
3162
3163
3164
3165
3166
3167
3168
3169
3170
3171
3172
3173
3174
3175
3176
3177
3178
3179
3180
3181
3182
3183
3184
3185
3186
3187
3188
3189
3190
3191
3192
3193
3194
3195
3196
3197
3198
3199
3200
3201
3202
3203
3204
3205
3206
3207
3208
3209
3210
3211
3212
3213
3214
3215
3216
3217
3218
3219
3220
3221
3222
3223
3224
3225
3226
3227
3228
3229
3230
3231
3232
3233
3234
3235
3236
3237
3238
3239
3240
3241
3242
3243
3244
3245
3246
3247
3248
3249
3250
3251
3252
3253
3254
3255
3256
3257
3258
3259
3260
3261
3262
3263
3264
3265
3266
3267
3268
3269
3270
3271
3272
3273
3274
3275
3276
3277
3278
3279
3280
3281
3282
3283
3284
3285
3286
3287
3288
3289
3290
3291
3292
3293
3294
3295
3296
3297
3298
3299
3300
3301
3302
3303
3304
3305
3306
3307
3308
3309
3310
3311
3312
3313
3314
3315
3316
3317
3318
3319
3320
3321
3322
3323
3324
3325
3326
3327
3328
3329
3330
3331
3332
3333
3334
3335
3336
3337
3338
3339
3340
3341
3342
3343
3344
3345
3346
3347
3348
3349
3350
3351
3352
3353
3354
3355
3356
3357
3358
3359
3360
3361
3362
3363
3364
3365
3366
3367
3368
3369
3370
3371
3372
3373
3374
3375
3376
3377
3378
3379
3380
3381
3382
3383
3384
3385
3386
3387
3388
3389
3390
3391
3392
3393
3394
3395
3396
3397
3398
3399
3400
3401
3402
3403
3404
3405
3406
3407
3408
3409
3410
3411
3412
3413
3414
3415
3416
3417
3418
3419
3420
3421
3422
3423
3424
3425
3426
3427
3428
3429
3430
3431
3432
3433
3434
3435
3436
3437
3438
3439
3440
3441
3442
3443
3444
3445
3446
3447
3448
3449
3450
3451
3452
3453
3454
3455
3456
3457
3458
3459
3460
3461
3462
3463
3464
3465
3466
3467
3468
3469
3470
3471
3472
3473
3474
3475
3476
3477
3478
3479
3480
3481
3482
3483
3484
3485
3486
3487
3488
3489
3490
3491
3492
3493
3494
3495
3496
3497
3498
3499
3500
3501
3502
3503
3504
3505
3506
3507
3508
3509
3510
3511
3512
3513
3514
3515
3516
3517
3518
3519
3520
3521
3522
3523
3524
3525
3526
3527
3528
3529
3530
3531
3532
3533
3534
3535
3536
3537
3538
3539
3540
3541
3542
3543
3544
3545
3546
3547
3548
3549
3550
3551
3552
3553
3554
3555
3556
3557
3558
3559
3560
3561
3562
3563
3564
3565
3566
3567
3568
3569
3570
3571
3572
3573
3574
3575
3576
3577
3578
3579
3580
3581
3582
3583
3584
3585
3586
3587
3588
3589
3590
3591
3592
3593
3594
3595
3596
3597
3598
3599
3600
3601
3602
3603
3604
3605
3606
3607
3608
3609
3610
3611
3612
3613
3614
3615
3616
3617
3618
3619
3620
3621
3622
3623
3624
3625
3626
3627
3628
3629
3630
3631
3632
3633
3634
3635
3636
3637
3638
3639
3640
3641
3642
3643
3644
3645
3646
3647
3648
3649
3650
3651
3652
3653
3654
3655
3656
3657
3658
3659
3660
3661
3662
3663
3664
3665
3666
3667
3668
3669
3670
3671
3672
3673
3674
3675
3676
3677
3678
3679
3680
3681
3682
3683
3684
3685
3686
3687
3688
3689
3690
3691
3692
3693
3694
3695
3696
3697
3698
3699
3700
3701
3702
3703
3704
3705
3706
3707
3708
3709
3710
3711
3712
3713
3714
3715
3716
3717
3718
3719
3720
3721
3722
3723
3724
3725
3726
3727
3728
3729
3730
3731
3732
3733
3734
3735
3736
3737
3738
3739
3740
3741
3742
3743
3744
3745
3746
3747
3748
3749
3750
3751
3752
3753
3754
3755
3756
3757
3758
3759
3760
3761
3762
3763
3764
3765
3766
3767
3768
3769
3770
3771
3772
3773
3774
3775
3776
3777
3778
3779
3780
3781
3782
3783
3784
3785
3786
3787
3788
3789
3790
3791
3792
3793
3794
3795
3796
3797
3798
3799
3800
3801
3802
3803
3804
3805
3806
3807
3808
3809
3810
3811
3812
3813
3814
3815
3816
3817
3818
3819
3820
3821
3822
3823
3824
3825
3826
3827
3828
3829
3830
3831
3832
3833
3834
3835
3836
3837
3838
3839
3840
3841
3842
3843
3844
3845
3846
3847
3848
3849
3850
3851
3852
3853
3854
3855
3856
3857
3858
3859
3860
3861
3862
3863
3864
3865
3866
3867
3868
3869
3870
3871
3872
3873
3874
3875
3876
3877
3878
3879
3880
3881
3882
3883
3884
3885
3886
3887
3888
3889
3890
3891
3892
3893
3894
3895
3896
3897
3898
3899
3900
3901
3902
3903
3904
3905
3906
3907
3908
3909
3910
3911
3912
3913
3914
3915
3916
3917
3918
3919
3920
3921
3922
3923
3924
3925
3926
3927
3928
3929
3930
3931
3932
3933
3934
3935
3936
3937
3938
3939
3940
3941
3942
3943
3944
3945
3946
3947
3948
3949
3950
3951
3952
3953
3954
3955
3956
3957
3958
3959
3960
3961
3962
3963
3964
3965
3966
3967
3968
3969
3970
3971
3972
3973
3974
3975
3976
3977
3978
3979
3980
3981
3982
3983
3984
3985
3986
3987
3988
3989
3990
3991
3992
3993
3994
3995
3996
3997
3998
3999
4000
4001
4002
4003
4004
4005
4006
4007
4008
4009
4010
4011
4012
4013
4014
4015
4016
4017
4018
4019
4020
4021
4022
4023
4024
4025
4026
4027
4028
4029
4030
4031
4032
4033
4034
4035
4036
4037
4038
4039
4040
4041
4042
4043
4044
4045
4046
4047
4048
4049
4050
4051
4052
4053
4054
4055
4056
4057
4058
4059
4060
4061
4062
4063
4064
4065
4066
4067
4068
4069
4070
4071
4072
4073
4074
4075
4076
4077
4078
4079
4080
4081
4082
4083
4084
4085
4086
4087
4088
4089
4090
4091
4092
4093
4094
4095
4096
4097
4098
4099
4100
4101
4102
4103
4104
4105
4106
4107
4108
4109
4110
4111
4112
4113
4114
4115
4116
4117
4118
4119
4120
4121
4122
4123
4124
4125
4126
4127
4128
4129
4130
4131
4132
4133
4134
4135
4136
4137
4138
4139
4140
4141
4142
4143
4144
4145
4146
4147
4148
4149
4150
4151
4152
4153
4154
4155
4156
4157
4158
4159
4160
4161
4162
4163
4164
4165
4166
4167
4168
4169
4170
4171
4172
4173
4174
4175
4176
4177
4178
4179
4180
4181
4182
4183
4184
4185
4186
4187
4188
4189
4190
4191
4192
4193
4194
4195
4196
4197
4198
4199
4200
4201
4202
4203
4204
4205
4206
4207
4208
4209
4210
4211
4212
4213
4214
4215
4216
4217
4218
4219
4220
4221
4222
4223
4224
4225
4226
4227
4228
4229
4230
4231
4232
4233
4234
4235
4236
4237
4238
4239
4240
4241
4242
4243
4244
4245
4246
4247
4248
4249
4250
4251
4252
4253
4254
4255
4256
4257
4258
4259
4260
4261
4262
4263
4264
4265
4266
4267
4268
4269
4270
4271
4272
4273
4274
4275
4276
4277
4278
4279
4280
4281
4282
4283
4284
4285
4286
4287
4288
4289
4290
4291
4292
4293
4294
4295
4296
4297
4298
4299
4300
4301
4302
4303
4304
4305
4306
4307
4308
4309
4310
4311
4312
4313
4314
4315
4316
4317
4318
4319
4320
4321
4322
4323
4324
4325
4326
4327
4328
4329
4330
4331
4332
4333
4334
4335
4336
4337
4338
4339
4340
4341
4342
4343
4344
4345
4346
4347
4348
4349
4350
4351
4352
4353
4354
4355
4356
4357
4358
4359
4360
4361
4362
4363
4364
4365
4366
4367
4368
4369
4370
4371
4372
4373
4374
4375
4376
4377
4378
4379
4380
4381
4382
4383
4384
4385
4386
4387
4388
4389
4390
4391
4392
4393
4394
4395
4396
4397
4398
4399
4400
4401
4402
4403
4404
4405
4406
4407
4408
4409
4410
4411
4412
4413
4414
4415
4416
4417
4418
4419
4420
4421
4422
4423
4424
4425
4426
4427
4428
4429
4430
4431
4432
4433
4434
4435
4436
4437
4438
4439
4440
4441
4442
4443
4444
4445
4446
4447
4448
4449
4450
4451
4452
4453
4454
4455
4456
4457
4458
4459
4460
4461
4462
4463
4464
4465
4466
4467
4468
4469
4470
4471
4472
4473
4474
4475
4476
4477
4478
4479
4480
4481
4482
4483
4484
4485
4486
4487
4488
4489
4490
4491
4492
4493
4494
4495
4496
4497
4498
4499
4500
4501
4502
4503
4504
4505
4506
4507
4508
4509
4510
4511
4512
4513
4514
4515
4516
4517
4518
4519
4520
4521
4522
4523
4524
4525
4526
4527
4528
4529
4530
4531
4532
4533
4534
4535
4536
4537
4538
4539
4540
4541
4542
4543
4544
4545
4546
4547
4548
4549
4550
4551
4552
4553
4554
4555
4556
4557
4558
4559
4560
4561
4562
4563
4564
4565
4566
4567
4568
4569
4570
4571
4572
4573
4574
4575
4576
4577
4578
4579
4580
4581
4582
4583
4584
4585
4586
4587
4588
4589
4590
4591
4592
4593
4594
4595
4596
4597
4598
4599
4600
4601
4602
4603
4604
4605
4606
4607
4608
4609
4610
4611
4612
4613
4614
4615
4616
4617
4618
4619
4620
4621
4622
4623
4624
4625
4626
4627
4628
4629
4630
4631
4632
4633
4634
4635
4636
4637
4638
4639
4640
4641
4642
4643
4644
4645
4646
4647
4648
4649
4650
4651
4652
4653
4654
4655
4656
4657
4658
4659
4660
4661
4662
4663
4664
4665
4666
4667
4668
4669
4670
4671
4672
4673
4674
4675
4676
4677
4678
4679
4680
4681
4682
4683
4684
4685
4686
4687
4688
4689
4690
4691
4692
4693
4694
4695
4696
4697
4698
4699
4700
4701
4702
4703
4704
4705
4706
4707
4708
4709
4710
4711
4712
4713
4714
4715
4716
4717
4718
4719
4720
4721
4722
4723
4724
4725
4726
4727
4728
4729
4730
4731
4732
4733
4734
4735
4736
4737
4738
4739
4740
4741
4742
4743
4744
4745
4746
4747
4748
4749
4750
4751
4752
4753
4754
4755
4756
4757
4758
4759
4760
4761
4762
4763
4764
4765
4766
4767
4768
4769
4770
4771
4772
4773
4774
4775
4776
4777
4778
4779
4780
4781
4782
4783
4784
4785
4786
4787
4788
4789
4790
4791
4792
4793
4794
4795
4796
4797
4798
4799
4800
4801
4802
4803
4804
4805
4806
4807
4808
4809
4810
4811
4812
4813
4814
4815
4816
4817
4818
4819
4820
4821
4822
4823
4824
4825
4826
4827
4828
4829
4830
4831
4832
4833
4834
4835
4836
4837
4838
4839
4840
4841
4842
4843
4844
4845
4846
4847
4848
4849
4850
4851
4852
4853
4854
4855
4856
4857
4858
4859
4860
4861
4862
4863
4864
4865
4866
4867
4868
4869
4870
4871
4872
4873
4874
4875
4876
4877
4878
4879
4880
4881
4882
4883
4884
4885
4886
4887
4888
4889
4890
4891
4892
4893
4894
4895
4896
4897
4898
4899
4900
4901
4902
4903
4904
4905
4906
4907
4908
4909
4910
4911
4912
4913
4914
4915
4916
4917
4918
4919
4920
4921
4922
4923
4924
4925
4926
4927
4928
4929
4930
4931
4932
4933
4934
4935
4936
4937
4938
4939
4940
4941
4942
4943
4944
4945
4946
4947
4948
4949
4950
4951
4952
4953
4954
4955
4956
4957
4958
4959
4960
4961
4962
4963
4964
4965
4966
4967
4968
4969
4970
4971
4972
4973
4974
4975
4976
4977
4978
4979
4980
4981
4982
4983
4984
4985
4986
4987
4988
4989
4990
4991
4992
4993
4994
4995
4996
4997
4998
4999
5000
5001
5002
5003
5004
5005
5006
5007
5008
5009
5010
5011
5012
5013
5014
5015
5016
5017
5018
5019
5020
5021
5022
5023
5024
5025
5026
5027
5028
5029
5030
5031
5032
5033
5034
5035
5036
5037
5038
5039
5040
5041
5042
5043
5044
5045
5046
5047
5048
5049
5050
5051
5052
5053
5054
5055
5056
5057
5058
5059
5060
5061
5062
5063
5064
5065
5066
5067
5068
5069
5070
5071
5072
5073
5074
5075
5076
5077
5078
5079
5080
5081
5082
5083
5084
5085
5086
5087
5088
5089
5090
5091
5092
5093
5094
5095
5096
5097
5098
5099
5100
5101
5102
5103
5104
5105
5106
5107
5108
5109
5110
5111
5112
5113
5114
5115
5116
5117
5118
5119
5120
5121
5122
5123
5124
5125
5126
5127
5128
5129
5130
5131
5132
5133
5134
5135
5136
5137
5138
5139
5140
5141
5142
5143
5144
5145
5146
5147
5148
5149
5150
5151
5152
5153
5154
5155
5156
5157
5158
5159
5160
5161
5162
5163
5164
5165
5166
5167
5168
5169
5170
5171
5172
5173
5174
5175
5176
5177
5178
5179
5180
5181
5182
5183
5184
5185
5186
5187
5188
5189
5190
5191
5192
5193
5194
5195
5196
5197
5198
5199
5200
5201
5202
5203
5204
5205
5206
5207
5208
5209
5210
5211
5212
5213
5214
5215
5216
5217
5218
5219
5220
5221
5222
5223
5224
5225
5226
5227
5228
5229
5230
5231
5232
5233
5234
5235
5236
5237
5238
5239
5240
5241
5242
5243
5244
5245
5246
5247
5248
5249
5250
5251
5252
5253
5254
5255
5256
5257
5258
5259
5260
5261
5262
5263
5264
5265
5266
5267
5268
5269
5270
5271
5272
5273
5274
5275
5276
5277
5278
5279
5280
5281
5282
5283
5284
5285
5286
5287
5288
5289
5290
5291
5292
5293
5294
5295
5296
5297
5298
5299
5300
5301
5302
5303
5304
5305
5306
5307
5308
5309
5310
5311
5312
5313
5314
5315
5316
5317
5318
5319
5320
5321
5322
5323
5324
5325
5326
5327
5328
5329
5330
5331
5332
5333
5334
5335
5336
5337
5338
5339
5340
5341
5342
5343
5344
5345
5346
5347
5348
5349
5350
5351
5352
5353
5354
5355
5356
5357
5358
5359
5360
5361
5362
5363
5364
5365
5366
5367
5368
5369
5370
5371
5372
5373
5374
5375
5376
5377
5378
5379
5380
5381
5382
5383
5384
5385
5386
5387
5388
5389
5390
5391
5392
5393
5394
5395
5396
5397
5398
5399
5400
5401
5402
5403
5404
5405
5406
5407
5408
5409
5410
5411
5412
5413
5414
5415
5416
5417
5418
5419
5420
5421
5422
5423
5424
5425
5426
5427
5428
5429
5430
5431
5432
5433
5434
5435
5436
5437
5438
5439
5440
5441
5442
5443
5444
5445
5446
5447
5448
5449
5450
5451
5452
5453
5454
5455
5456
5457
5458
5459
5460
5461
5462
5463
5464
5465
5466
5467
5468
5469
5470
5471
5472
5473
5474
5475
5476
5477
5478
5479
5480
5481
5482
5483
5484
5485
5486
5487
5488
5489
5490
5491
5492
5493
5494
5495
5496
5497
5498
5499
5500
5501
5502
5503
5504
5505
5506
5507
5508
5509
5510
5511
5512
5513
5514
5515
5516
5517
5518
5519
5520
5521
5522
5523
5524
5525
5526
5527
5528
5529
5530
5531
5532
5533
5534
5535
5536
5537
5538
5539
5540
5541
5542
5543
5544
5545
5546
5547
5548
5549
5550
5551
5552
5553
5554
5555
5556
5557
5558
5559
5560
5561
5562
5563
5564
5565
5566
5567
5568
5569
5570
5571
5572
5573
5574
5575
5576
5577
5578
5579
5580
5581
5582
5583
5584
5585
5586
5587
5588
5589
5590
5591
5592
5593
5594
5595
5596
5597
5598
5599
5600
5601
5602
5603
5604
5605
5606
5607
5608
5609
5610
5611
5612
5613
5614
5615
5616
5617
5618
5619
5620
5621
5622
5623
5624
5625
5626
5627
5628
5629
5630
5631
5632
5633
5634
5635
5636
5637
5638
5639
5640
5641
5642
5643
5644
5645
5646
5647
5648
5649
5650
5651
5652
5653
5654
5655
5656
5657
5658
5659
5660
5661
5662
5663
5664
5665
5666
5667
5668
5669
5670
5671
5672
5673
5674
5675
5676
5677
5678
5679
5680
5681
5682
5683
5684
5685
5686
5687
5688
5689
5690
5691
5692
5693
5694
5695
5696
5697
5698
5699
5700
5701
5702
5703
5704
5705
5706
5707
5708
5709
5710
5711
5712
5713
5714
5715
5716
5717
5718
5719
5720
5721
5722
5723
5724
5725
5726
5727
5728
5729
5730
5731
5732
5733
5734
5735
5736
5737
5738
5739
5740
5741
5742
5743
5744
5745
5746
5747
5748
5749
5750
5751
5752
5753
5754
5755
5756
5757
5758
5759
5760
5761
5762
5763
5764
5765
5766
5767
5768
5769
5770
5771
5772
5773
5774
5775
5776
5777
5778
5779
5780
5781
5782
5783
5784
5785
5786
5787
5788
5789
5790
5791
5792
5793
5794
5795
5796
5797
5798
5799
5800
5801
5802
5803
5804
5805
5806
5807
5808
5809
5810
5811
5812
5813
5814
5815
5816
5817
5818
5819
5820
5821
5822
5823
5824
5825
5826
5827
5828
5829
5830
5831
5832
5833
5834
5835
5836
5837
5838
5839
5840
5841
5842
5843
5844
5845
5846
5847
5848
5849
5850
5851
5852
5853
5854
5855
5856
5857
5858
5859
5860
5861
5862
5863
5864
5865
5866
5867
5868
5869
5870
5871
5872
5873
5874
5875
5876
5877
5878
5879
5880
5881
5882
5883
5884
5885
5886
5887
5888
5889
5890
5891
5892
5893
5894
5895
5896
5897
5898
5899
5900
5901
5902
5903
5904
5905
5906
5907
5908
5909
5910
5911
5912
5913
5914
5915
5916
5917
5918
5919
5920
5921
5922
5923
5924
5925
5926
5927
5928
5929
5930
5931
5932
5933
5934
5935
5936
5937
5938
5939
5940
5941
5942
5943
5944
5945
5946
5947
5948
5949
5950
5951
5952
5953
5954
5955
5956
5957
5958
5959
5960
5961
5962
5963
5964
5965
5966
5967
5968
5969
5970
5971
5972
5973
5974
5975
5976
5977
5978
5979
5980
5981
5982
5983
5984
5985
5986
5987
5988
5989
5990
5991
5992
5993
5994
5995
5996
5997
5998
5999
6000
6001
6002
6003
6004
6005
6006
6007
6008
6009
6010
6011
6012
6013
6014
6015
6016
6017
6018
6019
6020
6021
6022
6023
6024
6025
6026
6027
6028
6029
6030
6031
6032
6033
6034
6035
6036
6037
6038
6039
6040
6041
6042
6043
6044
6045
6046
6047
6048
6049
6050
6051
6052
6053
6054
6055
6056
6057
6058
6059
6060
6061
6062
6063
6064
6065
6066
6067
6068
6069
6070
6071
6072
6073
6074
6075
6076
6077
6078
6079
6080
6081
6082
6083
6084
6085
6086
6087
6088
6089
6090
6091
6092
6093
6094
6095
6096
6097
6098
6099
6100
6101
6102
6103
6104
6105
6106
6107
6108
6109
6110
6111
6112
6113
6114
6115
6116
6117
6118
6119
6120
6121
6122
6123
6124
6125
6126
6127
6128
6129
6130
6131
6132
6133
6134
6135
6136
6137
6138
6139
6140
6141
6142
6143
6144
6145
6146
6147
6148
6149
6150
6151
6152
6153
6154
6155
6156
6157
6158
6159
6160
6161
6162
6163
6164
6165
6166
6167
6168
6169
6170
6171
6172
6173
6174
6175
6176
6177
6178
6179
6180
6181
6182
6183
6184
6185
6186
6187
6188
6189
6190
6191
6192
6193
6194
6195
6196
6197
6198
6199
6200
6201
6202
6203
6204
6205
6206
6207
6208
6209
6210
6211
6212
6213
6214
6215
6216
6217
6218
6219
6220
6221
6222
6223
6224
6225
6226
6227
6228
6229
6230
6231
6232
6233
6234
6235
6236
6237
6238
6239
6240
6241
6242
6243
6244
6245
6246
6247
6248
6249
6250
6251
6252
6253
6254
6255
6256
6257
6258
6259
6260
6261
6262
6263
6264
6265
6266
6267
6268
6269
6270
6271
6272
6273
6274
6275
6276
6277
6278
6279
6280
6281
6282
6283
6284
6285
6286
6287
6288
6289
6290
6291
6292
6293
6294
6295
6296
6297
6298
6299
6300
6301
6302
6303
6304
6305
6306
6307
6308
6309
6310
6311
6312
6313
6314
6315
6316
6317
6318
6319
6320
6321
6322
6323
6324
6325
6326
6327
6328
6329
6330
6331
6332
6333
6334
6335
6336
6337
6338
6339
6340
6341
6342
6343
6344
6345
6346
6347
6348
6349
6350
6351
6352
6353
6354
6355
6356
6357
6358
6359
6360
6361
6362
6363
6364
6365
6366
6367
6368
6369
6370
6371
6372
6373
6374
6375
6376
6377
6378
6379
6380
6381
6382
6383
6384
6385
6386
6387
6388
6389
6390
6391
6392
6393
6394
6395
6396
6397
6398
6399
6400
6401
6402
6403
6404
6405
6406
6407
6408
6409
6410
6411
6412
6413
6414
6415
6416
6417
6418
6419
6420
6421
6422
6423
6424
6425
6426
6427
6428
6429
6430
6431
6432
6433
6434
6435
6436
6437
6438
6439
6440
6441
6442
6443
6444
6445
6446
6447
6448
6449
6450
6451
6452
6453
6454
6455
6456
6457
6458
6459
6460
6461
6462
6463
6464
6465
6466
6467
6468
6469
6470
6471
6472
6473
6474
6475
6476
6477
6478
6479
6480
6481
6482
6483
6484
6485
6486
6487
6488
6489
6490
6491
6492
6493
6494
6495
6496
6497
6498
6499
6500
6501
6502
6503
6504
6505
6506
6507
6508
6509
6510
6511
6512
6513
6514
6515
6516
6517
6518
6519
6520
6521
6522
6523
6524
6525
6526
6527
6528
6529
6530
6531
6532
6533
6534
6535
6536
6537
6538
6539
6540
6541
6542
6543
6544
6545
6546
6547
6548
6549
6550
6551
6552
6553
6554
6555
6556
6557
6558
6559
6560
6561
6562
6563
6564
6565
6566
6567
6568
6569
6570
6571
6572
6573
6574
6575
6576
6577
6578
6579
6580
6581
6582
6583
6584
6585
6586
6587
6588
6589
6590
6591
6592
6593
6594
6595
6596
6597
6598
6599
6600
6601
6602
6603
6604
6605
6606
6607
6608
6609
6610
6611
6612
6613
6614
6615
6616
6617
6618
6619
6620
6621
6622
6623
6624
6625
6626
6627
6628
6629
6630
6631
6632
6633
6634
6635
6636
6637
6638
6639
6640
6641
6642
6643
6644
6645
6646
6647
6648
6649
6650
6651
6652
6653
6654
6655
6656
6657
6658
6659
6660
6661
6662
6663
6664
6665
6666
6667
6668
6669
6670
6671
6672
6673
6674
6675
6676
6677
6678
6679
6680
6681
6682
6683
6684
6685
6686
6687
6688
6689
6690
6691
6692
6693
6694
6695
6696
6697
6698
6699
6700
6701
6702
6703
6704
6705
6706
6707
6708
6709
6710
6711
6712
6713
6714
6715
6716
6717
6718
6719
6720
6721
6722
6723
6724
6725
6726
6727
6728
6729
6730
6731
6732
6733
6734
6735
6736
6737
6738
6739
6740
6741
6742
6743
6744
6745
6746
6747
6748
6749
6750
6751
6752
6753
6754
6755
6756
6757
6758
6759
6760
6761
6762
6763
6764
6765
6766
6767
6768
6769
6770
6771
6772
6773
6774
6775
6776
6777
6778
6779
6780
6781
6782
6783
6784
6785
6786
6787
6788
6789
6790
6791
6792
6793
6794
6795
6796
6797
6798
6799
6800
6801
6802
6803
6804
6805
6806
6807
6808
6809
6810
6811
6812
6813
6814
6815
6816
6817
6818
6819
6820
6821
6822
6823
6824
6825
6826
6827
6828
6829
6830
6831
6832
6833
6834
6835
6836
6837
6838
6839
6840
6841
6842
6843
6844
6845
6846
6847
6848
6849
6850
6851
6852
6853
6854
6855
6856
6857
6858
6859
6860
6861
6862
6863
6864
6865
6866
6867
6868
6869
6870
6871
6872
6873
6874
6875
6876
6877
6878
6879
6880
6881
6882
6883
6884
6885
6886
6887
6888
6889
6890
6891
6892
6893
6894
6895
6896
6897
6898
6899
6900
6901
6902
6903
6904
6905
6906
6907
6908
6909
6910
6911
6912
6913
6914
6915
6916
6917
6918
6919
6920
6921
6922
6923
6924
6925
6926
6927
6928
6929
6930
6931
6932
6933
6934
6935
6936
6937
6938
6939
6940
6941
6942
6943
6944
6945
6946
6947
6948
6949
6950
6951
6952
6953
6954
6955
6956
6957
6958
6959
6960
6961
6962
6963
6964
6965
6966
6967
6968
6969
6970
6971
6972
6973
6974
6975
6976
6977
6978
6979
6980
6981
6982
6983
6984
6985
6986
6987
6988
6989
6990
6991
6992
6993
6994
6995
6996
6997
6998
6999
7000
7001
7002
7003
7004
7005
7006
7007
7008
7009
7010
7011
7012
7013
7014
7015
7016
7017
7018
7019
7020
7021
7022
7023
7024
7025
7026
7027
7028
7029
7030
7031
7032
7033
7034
7035
7036
7037
7038
7039
7040
7041
7042
7043
7044
7045
7046
7047
7048
7049
7050
7051
7052
7053
7054
7055
7056
7057
7058
7059
7060
7061
7062
7063
7064
7065
7066
7067
7068
7069
7070
7071
7072
7073
7074
7075
7076
7077
7078
7079
7080
7081
7082
7083
7084
7085
7086
7087
7088
7089
7090
7091
7092
7093
7094
7095
7096
7097
7098
7099
7100
7101
7102
7103
7104
7105
7106
7107
7108
7109
7110
7111
7112
7113
7114
7115
7116
7117
7118
7119
7120
7121
7122
7123
7124
7125
7126
7127
7128
7129
7130
7131
7132
7133
7134
7135
7136
7137
7138
7139
7140
7141
7142
7143
7144
7145
7146
7147
7148
7149
7150
7151
7152
7153
7154
7155
7156
7157
7158
7159
7160
7161
7162
7163
7164
7165
7166
7167
7168
7169
7170
7171
7172
7173
7174
7175
7176
7177
7178
7179
7180
7181
7182
7183
7184
7185
7186
7187
7188
7189
7190
7191
7192
7193
7194
7195
7196
7197
7198
7199
7200
7201
7202
7203
7204
7205
7206
7207
7208
7209
7210
7211
7212
7213
7214
7215
7216
7217
7218
7219
7220
7221
7222
7223
7224
7225
7226
7227
7228
7229
7230
7231
7232
7233
7234
7235
7236
7237
7238
7239
7240
7241
7242
7243
7244
7245
7246
7247
7248
7249
7250
7251
7252
7253
7254
7255
7256
7257
7258
7259
7260
7261
7262
7263
7264
7265
7266
7267
7268
7269
7270
7271
7272
7273
7274
7275
7276
7277
7278
7279
7280
7281
7282
7283
7284
7285
7286
7287
7288
7289
7290
7291
7292
7293
7294
7295
7296
7297
7298
7299
7300
7301
7302
7303
7304
7305
7306
7307
7308
7309
7310
7311
7312
7313
7314
7315
7316
7317
7318
7319
7320
7321
7322
7323
7324
7325
7326
7327
7328
7329
7330
7331
7332
7333
7334
7335
7336
7337
7338
7339
7340
7341
7342
7343
7344
7345
7346
7347
7348
7349
7350
7351
7352
7353
7354
7355
7356
7357
7358
7359
7360
7361
7362
7363
7364
7365
7366
7367
7368
7369
7370
7371
7372
7373
7374
7375
7376
7377
7378
7379
7380
7381
7382
7383
7384
7385
7386
7387
7388
7389
7390
7391
7392
7393
7394
7395
7396
7397
7398
7399
7400
7401
7402
7403
7404
7405
7406
7407
7408
7409
7410
7411
7412
7413
7414
7415
7416
7417
7418
7419
7420
7421
7422
7423
7424
7425
7426
7427
7428
7429
7430
7431
7432
7433
7434
7435
7436
7437
7438
7439
7440
7441
7442
7443
7444
7445
7446
7447
7448
7449
7450
7451
7452
7453
7454
7455
7456
7457
7458
7459
7460
7461
7462
7463
7464
7465
7466
7467
7468
7469
7470
7471
7472
7473
7474
7475
7476
7477
7478
7479
7480
7481
7482
7483
7484
7485
7486
7487
7488
7489
7490
7491
7492
7493
7494
7495
7496
7497
7498
7499
7500
7501
7502
7503
7504
7505
7506
7507
7508
7509
7510
7511
7512
7513
7514
7515
7516
7517
7518
7519
7520
7521
7522
7523
7524
7525
7526
7527
7528
7529
7530
7531
7532
7533
7534
7535
7536
7537
7538
7539
7540
7541
7542
7543
7544
7545
7546
7547
7548
7549
7550
7551
7552
7553
7554
7555
7556
7557
7558
7559
7560
7561
7562
7563
7564
7565
7566
7567
7568
7569
7570
7571
7572
7573
7574
7575
7576
7577
7578
7579
7580
7581
7582
7583
7584
7585
7586
7587
7588
7589
7590
7591
7592
7593
7594
7595
7596
7597
7598
7599
7600
7601
7602
7603
7604
7605
7606
7607
7608
7609
7610
7611
7612
7613
7614
7615
7616
7617
7618
7619
7620
7621
7622
7623
7624
7625
7626
7627
7628
7629
7630
7631
7632
7633
7634
7635
7636
7637
7638
7639
7640
7641
7642
7643
7644
7645
7646
7647
7648
7649
7650
7651
7652
7653
7654
7655
7656
7657
7658
7659
7660
7661
7662
7663
7664
7665
7666
7667
7668
7669
7670
7671
7672
7673
7674
7675
7676
7677
7678
7679
7680
7681
7682
7683
7684
7685
7686
7687
7688
7689
7690
7691
7692
7693
7694
7695
7696
7697
7698
7699
7700
7701
7702
7703
7704
7705
7706
7707
7708
7709
7710
7711
7712
7713
7714
7715
7716
7717
7718
7719
7720
7721
7722
7723
7724
7725
7726
7727
7728
7729
7730
7731
7732
7733
7734
7735
7736
7737
7738
7739
7740
7741
7742
7743
7744
7745
7746
7747
7748
7749
7750
7751
7752
7753
7754
7755
7756
7757
7758
7759
7760
7761
7762
7763
7764
7765
7766
7767
7768
7769
7770
7771
7772
7773
7774
7775
7776
7777
7778
7779
7780
7781
7782
7783
7784
7785
7786
7787
7788
7789
7790
7791
7792
7793
7794
7795
7796
7797
7798
7799
7800
7801
7802
7803
7804
7805
7806
7807
7808
7809
7810
7811
7812
7813
7814
7815
7816
7817
7818
7819
7820
7821
7822
7823
7824
7825
7826
7827
7828
7829
7830
7831
7832
7833
7834
7835
7836
7837
7838
7839
7840
7841
7842
7843
7844
7845
7846
7847
7848
7849
7850
7851
7852
7853
7854
7855
7856
7857
7858
7859
7860
7861
7862
7863
7864
7865
7866
7867
7868
7869
7870
7871
7872
7873
7874
7875
7876
7877
7878
7879
7880
7881
7882
7883
7884
7885
7886
7887
7888
7889
7890
7891
7892
7893
7894
7895
7896
7897
7898
7899
7900
7901
7902
7903
7904
7905
7906
7907
7908
7909
7910
7911
7912
7913
7914
7915
7916
7917
7918
7919
7920
7921
7922
7923
7924
7925
7926
7927
7928
7929
7930
7931
7932
7933
7934
7935
7936
7937
7938
7939
7940
7941
7942
7943
7944
7945
7946
7947
7948
7949
7950
7951
7952
7953
7954
7955
7956
7957
7958
7959
7960
7961
7962
7963
7964
7965
7966
7967
7968
7969
7970
7971
7972
7973
7974
7975
7976
7977
7978
7979
7980
7981
7982
7983
7984
7985
7986
7987
7988
7989
7990
7991
7992
7993
7994
7995
7996
7997
7998
7999
8000
8001
8002
8003
8004
8005
8006
8007
8008
8009
8010
8011
8012
8013
8014
8015
8016
8017
8018
8019
8020
8021
8022
8023
8024
8025
8026
8027
8028
8029
8030
8031
8032
8033
8034
8035
8036
8037
8038
8039
8040
8041
8042
8043
8044
8045
8046
8047
8048
8049
8050
8051
8052
8053
8054
8055
8056
8057
8058
8059
8060
8061
8062
8063
8064
8065
8066
8067
8068
8069
8070
8071
8072
8073
8074
8075
8076
8077
8078
8079
8080
8081
8082
8083
8084
8085
8086
8087
8088
8089
8090
8091
8092
8093
8094
8095
8096
8097
8098
8099
8100
8101
8102
8103
8104
8105
8106
8107
8108
8109
8110
8111
8112
8113
8114
8115
8116
8117
8118
8119
8120
8121
8122
8123
8124
8125
8126
8127
8128
8129
8130
8131
8132
8133
8134
8135
8136
8137
8138
8139
8140
8141
8142
8143
8144
8145
8146
8147
8148
8149
8150
8151
8152
8153
8154
8155
8156
8157
8158
8159
8160
8161
8162
8163
8164
8165
8166
8167
8168
8169
8170
8171
8172
8173
8174
8175
8176
8177
8178
8179
8180
8181
8182
8183
8184
8185
8186
8187
8188
8189
8190
8191
8192
8193
8194
8195
8196
8197
8198
8199
8200
8201
8202
8203
8204
8205
8206
8207
8208
8209
8210
8211
8212
8213
8214
8215
8216
8217
8218
8219
8220
8221
8222
8223
8224
8225
8226
8227
8228
8229
8230
8231
8232
8233
8234
8235
8236
8237
8238
8239
8240
8241
8242
8243
8244
8245
8246
8247
8248
8249
8250
8251
8252
8253
8254
8255
8256
8257
8258
8259
8260
8261
8262
8263
8264
8265
8266
8267
8268
8269
8270
8271
8272
8273
8274
8275
8276
8277
8278
8279
8280
8281
8282
8283
8284
8285
8286
8287
8288
8289
8290
8291
8292
8293
8294
8295
8296
8297
8298
8299
8300
8301
8302
8303
8304
8305
8306
8307
8308
8309
8310
8311
8312
8313
8314
8315
8316
8317
8318
8319
8320
8321
8322
8323
8324
8325
8326
8327
8328
8329
8330
8331
8332
8333
8334
8335
8336
8337
8338
8339
8340
8341
8342
8343
8344
8345
8346
8347
8348
8349
8350
8351
8352
8353
8354
8355
8356
8357
8358
8359
8360
8361
8362
8363
8364
8365
8366
8367
8368
8369
8370
8371
8372
8373
8374
8375
8376
8377
8378
8379
8380
8381
8382
8383
8384
8385
8386
8387
8388
8389
8390
8391
8392
8393
8394
8395
8396
8397
8398
8399
8400
8401
8402
8403
8404
8405
8406
8407
8408
8409
8410
8411
8412
8413
8414
8415
8416
8417
8418
8419
8420
8421
8422
8423
8424
8425
8426
8427
8428
8429
8430
8431
8432
8433
8434
8435
8436
8437
8438
8439
8440
8441
8442
8443
8444
8445
8446
8447
8448
8449
8450
8451
8452
8453
8454
8455
8456
8457
8458
8459
8460
8461
8462
8463
8464
8465
8466
8467
8468
8469
8470
8471
8472
8473
8474
8475
8476
8477
8478
8479
8480
8481
8482
8483
8484
8485
8486
8487
8488
8489
8490
8491
8492
8493
8494
8495
8496
8497
8498
8499
8500
8501
8502
8503
8504
8505
8506
8507
8508
8509
8510
8511
8512
8513
8514
8515
8516
8517
8518
8519
8520
8521
8522
8523
8524
8525
8526
8527
8528
8529
8530
8531
8532
8533
8534
8535
8536
8537
8538
8539
8540
8541
8542
8543
8544
8545
8546
8547
8548
8549
8550
8551
8552
8553
8554
8555
8556
8557
8558
8559
8560
8561
8562
8563
8564
8565
8566
8567
8568
8569
8570
8571
8572
8573
8574
8575
8576
8577
8578
8579
8580
8581
8582
8583
8584
8585
8586
8587
8588
8589
8590
8591
8592
8593
8594
8595
8596
8597
8598
8599
8600
8601
8602
8603
8604
8605
8606
8607
8608
8609
8610
8611
8612
8613
8614
8615
8616
8617
8618
8619
8620
8621
8622
8623
8624
8625
8626
8627
8628
8629
8630
8631
8632
8633
8634
8635
8636
8637
8638
8639
8640
8641
8642
8643
8644
8645
8646
8647
8648
8649
8650
8651
8652
8653
8654
8655
8656
8657
8658
8659
8660
8661
8662
8663
8664
8665
8666
8667
8668
8669
8670
8671
8672
8673
8674
8675
8676
8677
8678
8679
8680
8681
8682
8683
8684
8685
8686
8687
8688
8689
8690
8691
8692
8693
8694
8695
8696
8697
8698
8699
8700
8701
8702
8703
8704
8705
8706
8707
8708
8709
8710
8711
8712
8713
8714
8715
8716
8717
8718
8719
8720
8721
8722
8723
8724
8725
8726
8727
8728
8729
8730
8731
8732
8733
8734
8735
8736
8737
8738
8739
8740
8741
8742
8743
8744
8745
8746
8747
8748
8749
8750
8751
8752
8753
8754
8755
8756
8757
8758
8759
8760
8761
8762
8763
8764
8765
8766
8767
8768
8769
8770
8771
8772
8773
8774
8775
8776
8777
8778
8779
8780
8781
8782
8783
8784
8785
8786
8787
8788
8789
8790
8791
8792
8793
8794
8795
8796
8797
8798
8799
8800
8801
8802
8803
8804
8805
8806
8807
8808
8809
8810
8811
8812
8813
8814
8815
8816
8817
8818
8819
8820
8821
8822
8823
8824
8825
8826
8827
8828
8829
8830
8831
8832
8833
8834
8835
8836
8837
8838
8839
8840
8841
8842
8843
8844
8845
8846
8847
8848
8849
8850
8851
8852
8853
8854
8855
8856
8857
8858
8859
8860
8861
8862
8863
8864
8865
8866
8867
8868
8869
8870
8871
8872
8873
8874
8875
8876
8877
8878
8879
8880
8881
8882
8883
8884
8885
8886
8887
8888
8889
8890
8891
8892
8893
8894
8895
8896
8897
8898
8899
8900
8901
8902
8903
8904
8905
8906
8907
8908
8909
8910
8911
8912
8913
8914
8915
8916
8917
8918
8919
8920
8921
8922
8923
8924
8925
8926
8927
8928
8929
8930
8931
8932
8933
8934
8935
8936
8937
8938
8939
8940
8941
8942
8943
8944
8945
8946
8947
8948
8949
8950
8951
8952
8953
8954
8955
8956
8957
8958
8959
8960
8961
8962
8963
8964
8965
8966
8967
8968
8969
8970
8971
8972
8973
8974
8975
8976
8977
8978
8979
8980
8981
8982
8983
8984
8985
8986
8987
8988
8989
8990
8991
8992
8993
8994
8995
8996
8997
8998
8999
9000
9001
9002
9003
9004
9005
9006
9007
9008
9009
9010
9011
9012
9013
9014
9015
9016
9017
9018
9019
9020
9021
9022
9023
9024
9025
9026
9027
9028
9029
9030
9031
9032
9033
9034
9035
9036
9037
9038
9039
9040
9041
9042
9043
9044
9045
9046
9047
9048
9049
9050
9051
9052
9053
9054
9055
9056
9057
9058
9059
9060
9061
9062
9063
9064
9065
9066
9067
9068
9069
9070
9071
9072
9073
9074
9075
9076
9077
9078
9079
9080
9081
9082
9083
9084
9085
9086
9087
9088
9089
9090
9091
9092
9093
9094
9095
9096
9097
9098
9099
9100
9101
9102
9103
9104
9105
9106
9107
9108
9109
9110
9111
9112
9113
9114
9115
9116
9117
9118
9119
9120
9121
9122
9123
9124
9125
9126
9127
9128
9129
9130
9131
9132
9133
9134
9135
9136
9137
9138
9139
9140
9141
9142
9143
9144
9145
9146
9147
9148
9149
9150
9151
9152
9153
9154
9155
9156
9157
9158
9159
9160
9161
9162
9163
9164
9165
9166
9167
9168
9169
9170
9171
9172
9173
9174
9175
9176
9177
9178
9179
9180
9181
9182
9183
9184
9185
9186
9187
9188
9189
9190
9191
9192
9193
9194
9195
9196
9197
9198
9199
9200
9201
9202
9203
9204
9205
9206
9207
9208
9209
9210
9211
9212
9213
9214
9215
9216
9217
9218
9219
9220
9221
9222
9223
9224
9225
9226
9227
9228
9229
9230
9231
9232
9233
9234
9235
9236
9237
9238
9239
9240
9241
9242
9243
9244
9245
9246
9247
9248
9249
9250
9251
9252
9253
9254
9255
9256
9257
9258
9259
9260
9261
9262
9263
9264
9265
9266
9267
9268
9269
9270
9271
9272
9273
9274
9275
9276
9277
9278
9279
9280
9281
9282
9283
9284
9285
9286
9287
9288
9289
9290
9291
9292
9293
9294
9295
9296
9297
9298
9299
9300
9301
9302
9303
9304
9305
9306
9307
9308
9309
9310
9311
9312
9313
9314
9315
9316
9317
9318
9319
9320
9321
9322
9323
9324
9325
9326
9327
9328
9329
9330
9331
9332
9333
9334
9335
9336
9337
9338
9339
9340
9341
9342
9343
9344
9345
9346
9347
9348
9349
9350
9351
9352
9353
9354
9355
9356
9357
9358
9359
9360
9361
9362
9363
9364
9365
9366
9367
9368
9369
9370
9371
9372
9373
9374
9375
9376
9377
9378
9379
9380
9381
9382
9383
9384
9385
9386
9387
9388
9389
9390
9391
9392
9393
9394
9395
9396
9397
9398
9399
9400
9401
9402
9403
9404
9405
9406
9407
9408
9409
9410
9411
9412
9413
9414
9415
9416
9417
9418
9419
9420
9421
9422
9423
9424
9425
9426
9427
9428
9429
9430
9431
9432
9433
9434
9435
9436
9437
9438
9439
9440
9441
9442
9443
9444
9445
9446
9447
9448
9449
9450
9451
9452
9453
9454
9455
9456
9457
9458
9459
9460
9461
9462
9463
9464
9465
9466
9467
9468
9469
9470
9471
9472
9473
9474
9475
9476
9477
9478
9479
9480
9481
9482
9483
9484
9485
9486
9487
9488
9489
9490
9491
9492
9493
9494
9495
9496
9497
9498
9499
9500
9501
9502
9503
9504
9505
9506
9507
9508
9509
9510
9511
9512
9513
9514
9515
9516
9517
9518
9519
9520
9521
9522
9523
9524
9525
9526
9527
9528
9529
9530
9531
9532
9533
9534
9535
9536
9537
9538
9539
9540
9541
9542
9543
9544
9545
9546
9547
9548
9549
9550
9551
9552
9553
9554
9555
9556
9557
9558
9559
9560
9561
9562
9563
9564
9565
9566
9567
9568
9569
9570
9571
9572
9573
9574
9575
9576
9577
9578
9579
9580
9581
9582
9583
9584
9585
9586
9587
9588
9589
9590
9591
9592
9593
9594
9595
9596
9597
9598
9599
9600
9601
9602
9603
9604
9605
9606
9607
9608
9609
9610
9611
9612
9613
9614
9615
9616
9617
9618
9619
9620
9621
9622
9623
9624
9625
9626
9627
9628
9629
9630
9631
9632
9633
9634
9635
9636
9637
9638
9639
9640
9641
9642
9643
9644
9645
9646
9647
9648
9649
9650
9651
9652
9653
9654
9655
9656
9657
9658
9659
9660
9661
9662
9663
9664
9665
9666
9667
9668
9669
9670
9671
9672
9673
9674
9675
9676
9677
9678
9679
9680
9681
9682
9683
9684
9685
9686
9687
9688
9689
9690
9691
9692
9693
9694
9695
9696
9697
9698
9699
9700
9701
9702
9703
9704
9705
9706
9707
9708
9709
9710
9711
9712
9713
9714
9715
9716
9717
9718
9719
9720
9721
9722
9723
9724
9725
9726
9727
9728
9729
9730
9731
9732
9733
9734
9735
9736
9737
9738
9739
9740
9741
9742
9743
9744
9745
9746
9747
9748
9749
9750
9751
9752
9753
9754
9755
9756
9757
9758
9759
9760
9761
9762
9763
9764
9765
9766
9767
9768
9769
9770
9771
9772
9773
9774
9775
9776
9777
9778
9779
9780
9781
9782
9783
9784
9785
9786
9787
9788
9789
9790
9791
9792
9793
9794
9795
9796
9797
9798
9799
9800
9801
9802
9803
9804
9805
9806
9807
9808
9809
9810
9811
9812
9813
9814
9815
9816
9817
9818
9819
9820
9821
9822
9823
9824
9825
9826
9827
9828
9829
9830
9831
9832
9833
9834
9835
9836
9837
9838
9839
9840
9841
9842
9843
9844
9845
9846
9847
9848
9849
9850
9851
9852
9853
9854
9855
9856
9857
9858
9859
9860
9861
9862
9863
9864
9865
9866
9867
9868
9869
9870
9871
9872
9873
9874
9875
9876
9877
9878
9879
9880
9881
9882
9883
9884
9885
9886
9887
9888
9889
9890
9891
9892
9893
9894
9895
9896
9897
9898
9899
9900
9901
9902
9903
9904
9905
9906
9907
9908
9909
9910
9911
9912
9913
9914
9915
9916
9917
9918
9919
9920
9921
9922
9923
9924
9925
9926
9927
9928
9929
9930
9931
9932
9933
9934
9935
9936
9937
9938
9939
9940
9941
9942
9943
9944
9945
9946
9947
9948
9949
9950
9951
9952
9953
9954
9955
9956
9957
9958
9959
9960
9961
9962
9963
9964
9965
9966
9967
9968
9969
9970
9971
9972
9973
9974
9975
9976
9977
9978
9979
9980
9981
9982
9983
9984
9985
9986
9987
9988
9989
9990
9991
9992
9993
9994
9995
9996
9997
9998
9999
10000
10001
10002
10003
10004
10005
10006
10007
10008
10009
10010
10011
10012
10013
10014
10015
10016
10017
10018
10019
10020
10021
10022
10023
10024
10025
10026
10027
10028
10029
10030
10031
10032
10033
10034
10035
10036
10037
10038
10039
10040
10041
10042
10043
10044
10045
10046
10047
10048
10049
10050
10051
10052
10053
10054
10055
10056
10057
10058
10059
10060
10061
10062
10063
10064
10065
10066
10067
10068
10069
10070
10071
10072
10073
10074
10075
10076
10077
10078
10079
10080
10081
10082
10083
10084
10085
10086
10087
10088
10089
10090
10091
10092
10093
10094
10095
10096
10097
10098
10099
10100
10101
10102
10103
10104
10105
10106
10107
10108
10109
10110
10111
10112
10113
10114
10115
10116
10117
10118
10119
10120
10121
10122
10123
10124
10125
10126
10127
10128
10129
10130
10131
10132
10133
10134
10135
10136
10137
10138
10139
10140
10141
10142
10143
10144
10145
10146
10147
10148
10149
10150
10151
10152
10153
10154
10155
10156
10157
10158
10159
10160
10161
10162
10163
10164
10165
10166
10167
10168
10169
10170
10171
10172
10173
10174
10175
10176
10177
10178
10179
10180
10181
10182
10183
10184
10185
10186
10187
10188
10189
10190
10191
10192
10193
10194
10195
10196
10197
10198
10199
10200
10201
10202
10203
10204
10205
10206
10207
10208
10209
10210
10211
10212
10213
10214
10215
10216
10217
10218
10219
10220
10221
10222
10223
10224
10225
10226
10227
10228
10229
10230
10231
10232
10233
10234
10235
10236
10237
10238
10239
10240
10241
10242
10243
10244
10245
10246
10247
10248
10249
10250
10251
10252
10253
10254
10255
10256
10257
10258
10259
10260
10261
10262
10263
10264
10265
10266
10267
10268
10269
10270
10271
10272
10273
10274
10275
10276
10277
10278
10279
10280
10281
10282
10283
10284
10285
10286
10287
10288
10289
10290
10291
10292
10293
10294
10295
10296
10297
10298
10299
10300
10301
10302
10303
10304
10305
10306
10307
10308
10309
10310
10311
10312
10313
10314
10315
10316
10317
10318
10319
10320
10321
10322
10323
10324
10325
10326
10327
10328
10329
10330
10331
10332
10333
10334
10335
10336
10337
10338
10339
10340
10341
10342
10343
10344
10345
10346
10347
10348
10349
10350
10351
10352
10353
10354
10355
10356
10357
10358
10359
10360
10361
10362
10363
10364
10365
10366
10367
10368
10369
10370
10371
10372
10373
10374
10375
10376
10377
10378
10379
10380
10381
10382
10383
10384
10385
10386
10387
10388
10389
10390
10391
10392
10393
10394
10395
10396
10397
10398
10399
10400
10401
10402
10403
10404
10405
10406
10407
10408
10409
10410
10411
10412
10413
10414
10415
10416
10417
10418
10419
10420
10421
10422
10423
10424
10425
10426
10427
10428
10429
10430
10431
10432
10433
10434
10435
10436
10437
10438
10439
10440
10441
10442
10443
10444
10445
10446
10447
10448
10449
10450
10451
10452
10453
10454
10455
10456
10457
10458
10459
10460
10461
10462
10463
10464
10465
10466
10467
10468
10469
10470
10471
10472
10473
10474
10475
10476
10477
10478
10479
10480
10481
10482
10483
10484
10485
10486
10487
10488
10489
10490
10491
10492
10493
10494
10495
10496
10497
10498
10499
10500
10501
10502
10503
10504
10505
10506
10507
10508
10509
10510
10511
10512
10513
10514
10515
10516
10517
10518
10519
10520
10521
10522
10523
10524
10525
10526
10527
10528
10529
10530
10531
10532
10533
10534
10535
10536
10537
10538
10539
10540
10541
10542
10543
10544
10545
10546
10547
10548
10549
10550
10551
10552
10553
10554
10555
10556
10557
10558
10559
10560
10561
10562
10563
10564
10565
10566
10567
10568
10569
10570
10571
10572
10573
10574
10575
10576
10577
10578
10579
10580
10581
10582
10583
10584
10585
10586
10587
10588
10589
10590
10591
10592
10593
10594
10595
10596
10597
10598
10599
10600
10601
10602
10603
10604
10605
10606
10607
10608
10609
10610
10611
10612
10613
10614
10615
10616
10617
10618
10619
10620
10621
10622
10623
10624
10625
10626
10627
10628
10629
10630
10631
10632
10633
10634
10635
10636
10637
10638
10639
10640
10641
10642
10643
10644
10645
10646
10647
10648
10649
10650
10651
10652
10653
10654
10655
10656
10657
10658
10659
10660
10661
10662
10663
10664
10665
10666
10667
10668
10669
10670
10671
10672
10673
10674
10675
10676
10677
10678
10679
10680
10681
10682
10683
10684
10685
10686
10687
10688
10689
10690
10691
10692
10693
10694
10695
10696
10697
10698
10699
10700
10701
10702
10703
10704
10705
10706
10707
10708
10709
10710
10711
10712
10713
10714
10715
10716
10717
10718
10719
10720
10721
10722
10723
10724
10725
10726
10727
10728
10729
10730
10731
10732
10733
10734
10735
10736
10737
10738
10739
10740
10741
10742
10743
10744
10745
10746
10747
10748
10749
10750
10751
10752
10753
10754
10755
10756
10757
10758
10759
10760
10761
10762
10763
10764
10765
10766
10767
10768
10769
10770
10771
10772
10773
10774
10775
10776
10777
10778
10779
10780
10781
10782
10783
10784
10785
10786
10787
10788
10789
10790
10791
10792
10793
10794
10795
10796
10797
10798

<!DOCTYPE html
     PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
     "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html>
<head>
<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" />
<title>The Armourer's Prentices</title>
</head>
<body>
<h2>
<a href="#startoftext">The Armourer's Prentices, by Charlotte Mary Yonge</a>
</h2>
<pre>
The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Armourer's Prentices, by Charlotte M. Yonge

Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the
copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing
this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook.

This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project
Gutenberg file.  Please do not remove it.  Do not change or edit the
header without written permission.

Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the
eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file.  Included is
important information about your specific rights and restrictions in
how the file may be used.  You can also find out about how to make a
donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved.


**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**

**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**

*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!*****


Title: The Armourer's Prentices

Author: Charlotte Mary Yonge

Release Date: February, 2006  [EBook #9959]
[This file was first posted on November 5, 2003]

Edition: 10

Language: English

Character set encoding: US-ASCII
</pre>
<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p>
<p>Transcribed by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div>
<h1>THE ARMOURER&rsquo;S PRENTICES</h1>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div>
<h2>PREFACE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>I have attempted here to sketch citizen life in the early Tudor days,
aided therein by Stowe&rsquo;s <i>Survey of London</i>, supplemented
by Mr. Loftie&rsquo;s excellent history, and Dr. Burton&rsquo;s <i>English
Merchants</i>.</p>
<p>Stowe gives a full account of the relations of apprentices to their
masters; though I confess that I do not know whether Edmund Burgess
could have become a citizen of York after serving an apprenticeship
in London.&nbsp; Evil May Day is closely described in Hall&rsquo;s <i>Chronicle</i>.&nbsp;
The ballad, said to be by Churchill, a contemporary, does not agree
with it in all respects; but the story-teller may surely have license
to follow whatever is most suitable to the purpose.&nbsp; The sermon
is exactly as given by Hall, who is also responsible for the description
of the King&rsquo;s sports and of the Field of the Cloth of Gold and
of Ardres.&nbsp; Knight&rsquo;s admirable <i>Pictorial History of England</i>
tells of Barlow, the archer, dubbed by Henry VIII. the King of Shoreditch.</p>
<p><i>Historic Winchester</i> describes both St. Elizabeth College and
the Archer Monks of Hyde Abbey.&nbsp; The tales mentioned as told by
Ambrose to Dennet are really New Forest legends.</p>
<p>The Moresco&rsquo;s Arabic Gospel and Breviary are mentioned in Lady
Calcott&rsquo;s <i>History of Spain</i>, but she does not give her authority.&nbsp;
Nor can I go further than Knight&rsquo;s <i>Pictorial History</i> for
the King&rsquo;s adventure in the marsh.&nbsp; He does not say where
it happened, but as in Stowe&rsquo;s map &ldquo;Dead Man&rsquo;s Hole&rdquo;
appears in what is now Regent&rsquo;s Park, the marsh was probably deep
enough in places for the adventure there.&nbsp; Brand&rsquo;s <i>Popular
Antiquities</i> are the authority for the nutting in St. John&rsquo;s
Wood on Holy Cross Day.&nbsp; Indeed, in some country parishes I have
heard that boys still think they have a license to crack nuts at church
on the ensuing Sunday.</p>
<p>Seebohm&rsquo;s <i>Oxford Reformers</i> and the <i>Life of Sir Thomas
More</i>, written by William Roper, are my other authorities, though
I touched somewhat unwillingly on ground already lighted up by Miss
Manning in her <i>Household of Sir Thomas More</i>.</p>
<p>Galt&rsquo;s <i>Life of Cardinal Wolsey</i> afforded the description
of his household taken from his faithful Cavendish, and likewise the
story of Patch the Fool.&nbsp; In fact, a large portion of the whole
book was built on that anecdote.</p>
<p>I mention all this because I have so often been asked my authorities
in historical tales, that I think people prefer to have what the French
appropriately call <i>pi&egrave;ces justificatives</i>.</p>
<p>C. M. YONGE.</p>
<p><i>August</i> 1<i>st</i>, 1884</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER I.&nbsp; THE VERDURER&rsquo;S LODGE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>&ldquo;Give me the poor allottery my father left me by testament,
with that I will go buy me fortunes.&rdquo;<br />&ldquo;Get you with
him, you old dog.&rdquo;</p>
<p><i>As You Like It</i>.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>The officials of the New Forest have ever since the days of the Conqueror
enjoyed some of the pleasantest dwellings that southern England can
boast.</p>
<p>The home of the Birkenholt family was not one of the least delightful.&nbsp;
It stood at the foot of a rising ground, on which grew a grove of magnificent
beeches, their large silvery boles rising majestically like columns
into a lofty vaulting of branches, covered above with tender green foliage.&nbsp;
Here and there the shade beneath was broken by the gilding of a ray
of sunshine on a lower twig, or on a white trunk, but the floor of the
vast arcades was almost entirely of the russet brown of the fallen leaves,
save where a fern or holly bush made a spot of green.&nbsp; At the foot
of the slope lay a stretch of pasture ground, some parts covered by
&ldquo;lady-smocks, all silver white,&rdquo; with the course of the
little stream through the midst indicated by a perfect golden river
of shining kingcups interspersed with ferns.&nbsp; Beyond lay tracts
of brown heath and brilliant gorse and broom, which stretched for miles
and miles along the flats, while the dry ground was covered with holly
brake, and here and there woods of oak and beech made a sea of verdure,
purpling in the distance.</p>
<p>Cultivation was not attempted, but hardy little ponies, cows, goats,
sheep, and pigs were feeding, and picking their way about in the marshy
mead below, and a small garden of pot-herbs, inclosed by a strong fence
of timber, lay on the sunny side of a spacious rambling forest lodge,
only one story high, built of solid timber and roofed with shingle.&nbsp;
It was not without strong pretensions to beauty, as well as to picturesqueness,
for the posts of the door, the architecture of the deep porch, the frames
of the latticed windows, and the verge boards were all richly carved
in grotesque devices.&nbsp; Over the door was the royal shield, between
a pair of magnificent antlers, the spoils of a deer reported to have
been slain by King Edward IV., as was denoted by the &ldquo;glorious
sun of York&rdquo; carved beneath the shield.</p>
<p>In the background among the trees were ranges of stables and kennels,
and on the grass-plat in front of the windows was a row of beehives.&nbsp;
A tame doe lay on the little green sward, not far from a large rough
deer-hound, both close friends who could be trusted at large.&nbsp;
There was a mournful dispirited look about the hound, evidently an aged
animal, for the once black muzzle was touched with grey, and there was
a film over one of the keen beautiful eyes, which opened eagerly as
he pricked his ears and lifted his head at the rattle of the door latch.&nbsp;
Then, as two boys came out, he rose, and with a slowly waving tail,
and a wistful appealing air, came and laid his head against one of the
pair who had appeared in the porch.&nbsp; They were lads of fourteen
and fifteen, clad in suits of new mourning, with the short belted doublet,
puffed hose, small ruffs and little round caps of early Tudor times.&nbsp;
They had dark eyes and hair, and honest open faces, the younger ruddy
and sunburnt, the elder thinner and more intellectual&mdash;and they
were so much the same size that the advantage of age was always supposed
to be on the side of Stephen, though he was really the junior by nearly
a year.&nbsp; Both were sad and grave, and the eyes and cheeks of Stephen
showed traces of recent floods of tears, though there was more settled
dejection on the countenance of his brother.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ay, Spring,&rdquo; said the lad, &ldquo;&rsquo;tis winter
with thee now.&nbsp; A poor old rogue!&nbsp; Did the new housewife talk
of a halter because he showed his teeth when her ill-nurtured brat wanted
to ride on him?&nbsp; Nay, old Spring, thou shalt share thy master&rsquo;s
fortunes, changed though they be.&nbsp; Oh, father! father! didst thou
guess how it would be with thy boys!&rdquo;&nbsp; And throwing himself
on the grass, he hid his face against the dog and sobbed.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Come, Stephen, Stephen; &rsquo;tis time to play the man!&nbsp;
What are we to do out in the world if you weep and wail?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She might have let us stay for the month&rsquo;s mind,&rdquo;
was heard from Stephen.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ay, and though we might be more glad to go, we might carry
bitterer thoughts along with us.&nbsp; Better be done with it at once,
say I.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;There would still be the Forest!&nbsp; And I saw the moorhen
sitting yester eve!&nbsp; And the wild ducklings are out on the pool,
and the woods are full of song.&nbsp; Oh!&nbsp; Ambrose!&nbsp; I never
knew how hard it is to part&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay, now, Steve, where be all your plots for bravery?&nbsp;
You always meant to seek your fortune&mdash;not bide here like an acorn
for ever.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I never thought to be thrust forth the very day of our poor
father&rsquo;s burial, by a shrewish town-bred vixen, and a base narrow-souled&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hist! hist!&rdquo; said the more prudent Ambrose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Let him hear who will!&nbsp; He cannot do worse for us than
he has done!&nbsp; All the Forest will cry shame on him for a mean-hearted
skinflint to turn his brothers from their home, ere their father and
his, be cold in his grave,&rdquo; cried Stephen, clenching the grass
with his hands, in his passionate sense of wrong.</p>
<p>&ldquo;That&rsquo;s womanish,&rdquo; said Ambrose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Who&rsquo;ll be the woman when the time comes for drawing
cold steel?&rdquo; cried Stephen, sitting up.</p>
<p>At that moment there came through the porch a man, a few years over
thirty, likewise in mourning, with a paler, sharper countenance than
the brothers, and an uncomfortable pleading expression of self-justification.</p>
<p>&ldquo;How now, lads!&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;what means this passion?&nbsp;
You have taken the matter too hastily.&nbsp; There was no thought that
ye should part till you had some purpose in view.&nbsp; Nay, we should
be fain for Ambrose to bide on here, so he would leave his portion for
me to deal with, and teach little Will his primer and accidence.&nbsp;
You are a quiet lad, Ambrose, and can rule your tongue better than Stephen.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thanks, brother John,&rdquo; said Ambrose, somewhat sarcastically,
&ldquo;but where Stephen goes I go.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I would&mdash;I would have found Stephen a place among the
prickers or rangers, if&mdash;&rdquo; hesitated John.&nbsp; &ldquo;In
sooth, I would yet do it, if he would make it up with the housewife.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;My father looked higher for his son than a pricker&rsquo;s
office,&rdquo; returned Ambrose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;That do I wot,&rdquo; said John, &ldquo;and therefore, &rsquo;tis
for his own good that I would send him forth.&nbsp; His godfather, our
uncle Birkenholt, he will assuredly provide for him, and set him forth&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>The door of the house was opened, and a shrewish voice cried, &ldquo;Mr.
Birkenholt&mdash;here, husband!&nbsp; You are wanted.&nbsp; Here&rsquo;s
little Kate crying to have yonder smooth pouch to stroke, and I cannot
reach it for her.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Father set store by that otter-skin pouch, for poor Prince
Arthur slew the otter,&rdquo; cried Stephen.&nbsp; &ldquo;Surely, John,
you&rsquo;ll not let the babes make a toy of that?&rdquo;</p>
<p>John made a helpless gesture, and at a renewed call, went indoors.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You are right, Ambrose,&rdquo; said Stephen, &ldquo;this is
no place for us.&nbsp; Why should we tarry any longer to see everything
moiled and set at nought?&nbsp; I have couched in the forest before,
and &rsquo;tis summer time.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay,&rdquo; said Ambrose, &ldquo;we must make up our fardels
and have our money in our pouches before we can depart.&nbsp; We must
tarry the night, and call John to his reckoning, and so might we set
forth early enough in the morning to lie at Winchester that night and
take counsel with our uncle Birkenholt.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I would not stop short at Winchester,&rdquo; said Stephen.&nbsp;
&ldquo;London for me, where uncle Randall will find us preferment!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And what wilt do for Spring!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Take him with me, of course!&rdquo; exclaimed Stephen.&nbsp;
&ldquo;What! would I leave him to be kicked and pinched by Will, and
hanged belike by Mistress Maud?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I doubt me whether the poor old hound will brook the journey.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then I&rsquo;ll carry him!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Ambrose looked at the big dog as if he thought it would be a serious
undertaking, but he had known and loved Spring as his brother&rsquo;s
property ever since his memory began, and he scarcely felt that they
could be separable for weal or woe.</p>
<p>The verdurers of the New Forest were of gentle blood, and their office
was well-nigh hereditary.&nbsp; The Birkenholts had held it for many
generations, and the reversion passed as a matter of course to the eldest
son of the late holder, who had newly been laid in the burial ground
of Beaulieu Abbey.&nbsp; John Birkenholt, whose mother had been of knightly
lineage, had resented his father&rsquo;s second marriage with the daughter
of a yeoman on the verge of the Forest, suspected of a strain of gipsy
blood, and had lived little at home, becoming a sort of agent at Southampton
for business connected with the timber which was yearly cut in the Forest
to supply material for the shipping.&nbsp; He had wedded the daughter
of a person engaged in law business at Southampton, and had only been
an occasional visitor at home, ever after the death of his stepmother.&nbsp;
She had left these two boys, unwelcome appendages in his sight.&nbsp;
They had obtained a certain amount of education at Beaulieu Abbey, where
a school was kept, and where Ambrose daily studied, though for the last
few months Stephen had assisted his father in his forest duties.</p>
<p>Death had come suddenly to break up the household in the early spring
of 1515, and John Birkenholt had returned as if to a patrimony, bringing
his wife and children with him.&nbsp; The funeral ceremonies had been
conducted at Beaulieu Abbey on the extensive scale of the sixteenth
century, the requiem, the feast, and the dole, all taking place there,
leaving the Forest lodge in its ordinary quiet.</p>
<p>It had always been understood that on their father&rsquo;s death
the two younger sons must make their own way in the world; but he had
hoped to live until they were a little older, when he might himself
have started them in life, or expressed his wishes respecting them to
their elder brother.&nbsp; As it was, however, there was no commendation
of them, nothing but a strip of parchment, drawn up by one of the monks
of Beaulieu, leaving each of them twenty crowns, with a few small jewels
and properties left by their own mother, while everything else went
to their brother.</p>
<p>There might have been some jealousy excited by the estimation in
which Stephen&rsquo;s efficiency&mdash;boy as he was&mdash;was evidently
held by the plain-spoken underlings of the verdurer; and this added
to Mistress Birkenholt&rsquo;s dislike to the presence of her husband&rsquo;s
half-brothers, whom she regarded as interlopers without a right to exist.&nbsp;
Matters were brought to a climax by old Spring&rsquo;s resentment at
being roughly teased by her spoilt children.&nbsp; He had done nothing
worse than growl and show his teeth, but the town-bred dame had taken
alarm, and half in terror, half in spite, had insisted on his instant
execution, since he was too old to be valuable.&nbsp; Stephen, who loved
the dog only less than he loved his brother Ambrose, had come to high
words with her; and the end of the altercation had been that she had
declared that she would suffer no great lubbers of the half-blood to
devour her children&rsquo;s inheritance, and teach them ill manners,
and that go they must, and that instantly.&nbsp; John had muttered a
little about &ldquo;not so fast, dame,&rdquo; and &ldquo;for very shame,&rdquo;
but she had turned on him, and rated him with a violence that demonstrated
who was ruler in the house, and took away all disposition to tarry long
under the new dynasty.</p>
<p>The boys possessed two uncles, one on each side of the house.&nbsp;
Their father&rsquo;s elder brother had been a man-at-arms, having preferred
a stirring life to the Forest, and had fought in the last surges of
the Wars of the Roses.&nbsp; Having become disabled and infirm, he had
taken advantage of a corrody, or right of maintenance, as being of kin
to a benefactor of Hyde Abbey at Winchester, to which Birkenholt some
generations back had presented a few roods of land, in right of which,
one descendant at a time might be maintained in the Abbey.&nbsp; Intelligence
of his brother&rsquo;s death had been sent to Richard Birkenholt, but
answer had been returned that he was too evil-disposed with the gout
to attend the burial.</p>
<p>The other uncle, Harry Randall, had disappeared from the country
under a cloud connected with the king&rsquo;s deer, leaving behind him
the reputation of a careless, thriftless, jovial fellow, the best company
in all the Forest, and capable of doing every one&rsquo;s work save
his own.</p>
<p>The two brothers, who were about seven and six years old at the time
of his flight, had a lively recollection of his charms as a playmate,
and of their mother&rsquo;s grief for him, and refusal to believe any
ill of her Hal.&nbsp; Rumours had come of his attainment to vague and
unknown greatness at court, under the patronage of the Lord Archbishop
of York, which the Verdurer laughed to scorn, though his wife gave credit
to them.&nbsp; Gifts had come from time to time, passed through a succession
of servants and officials of the king, such as a coral and silver rosary,
a jewelled bodkin, an agate carved with St. Catherine, an ivory pouncet
box with a pierced gold coin as the lid; but no letter with them, as
indeed Hal Randall had never been induced to learn to read or write.&nbsp;
Master Birkenholt looked doubtfully at the tokens and hoped Hal had
come honestly by them; but his wife had thoroughly imbued her sons with
the belief that Uncle Hal was shining in his proper sphere, where he
was better appreciated than at home.&nbsp; Thus their one plan was to
go to London to find Uncle Hal, who was sure to put Stephen on the road
to fortune, and enable Ambrose to become a great scholar, his favourite
ambition.</p>
<p>His gifts would, as Ambrose observed, serve them as tokens, and with
the purpose of claiming them, they re-entered the hall, a long low room,
with a handsome open roof, and walls tapestried with dressed skins,
interspersed with antlers, hung with weapons of the chase.&nbsp; At
one end of the hall was a small polished barrel, always replenished
with beer, at the other a hearth with a wood fire constantly burning,
and there was a table running the whole length of the room; at one end
of this was laid a cloth, with a few trenchers on it, and horn cups,
surrounding a barley loaf and a cheese, this meagre irregular supper
being considered as a sufficient supplement to the funeral baked meats
which had abounded at Beaulieu.&nbsp; John Birkenholt sat at the table
with a trencher and horn before him, uneasily using his knife to crumble,
rather than cut, his bread.&nbsp; His wife, a thin, pale, shrewish-looking
woman, was warming her child&rsquo;s feet at the fire, before putting
him to bed, and an old woman sat spinning and nodding on a settle at
a little distance.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Brother,&rdquo; said Stephen, &ldquo;we have thought on what
you said.&nbsp; We will put our stuff together, and if you will count
us out our portions, we will be afoot by sunrise to-morrow.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay, nay, lad, I said not there was such haste; did I, mistress
housewife?&rdquo;&mdash;(she snorted); &ldquo;only that thou art a well-grown
lusty fellow, and &rsquo;tis time thou wentest forth.&nbsp; For thee,
Ambrose, thou wottest I made thee a fair offer of bed and board.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That is,&rdquo; called out the wife, &ldquo;if thou wilt make
a fair scholar of little Will.&nbsp; &rsquo;Tis a mighty good offer.&nbsp;
There are not many who would let their child be taught by a mere stripling
like thee!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay,&rdquo; said Ambrose, who could not bring himself to thank
her, &ldquo;I go with Stephen, mistress; I would mend my scholarship
ere I teach.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;As you please,&rdquo; said Mistress Maud, shrugging her shoulders,
&ldquo;only never say that a fair offer was not made to you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And,&rdquo; said Stephen, &ldquo;so please you, brother John,
hand us over our portions, and the jewels as bequeathed to us, and we
will be gone.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Portions, quotha?&rdquo; returned John.&nbsp; &ldquo;Boy,
they be not due to you till you be come to years of discretion.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The brothers looked at one another, and Stephen said, &ldquo;Nay,
now, brother, I know not how that may be, but I do know that you cannot
drive us from our father&rsquo;s house without maintenance, and detain
what belongs to us.&rdquo;</p>
<p>And Ambrose muttered something about &ldquo;my Lord of Beaulieu.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Look you, now,&rdquo; said John, &ldquo;did I ever speak of
driving you from home without maintenance?&nbsp; Hath not Ambrose had
his choice of staying here, and Stephen of waiting till some office
be found for him?&nbsp; As for putting forty crowns into the hands of
striplings like you, it were mere throwing it to the robbers.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That being so,&rdquo; said Ambrose turning to Stephen, &ldquo;we
will to Beaulieu, and see what counsel my lord will give us.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yea, do, like the vipers ye are, and embroil us with my Lord
of Beaulieu,&rdquo; cried Maud from the fire.</p>
<p>&ldquo;See,&rdquo; said John, in his more caressing fashion, &ldquo;it
is not well to carry family tales to strangers, and&mdash;and&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>He was disconcerted by a laugh from the old nurse, &ldquo;Ho!&nbsp;
John Birkenholt, thou wast ever a lad of smooth tongue, but an thou,
or madam here, think that thy brothers can be put forth from thy father&rsquo;s
door without their due before the good man be cold in his grave, and
the Forest not ring with it, thou art mightily out in thy reckoning!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Peace, thou old hag; what matter is&rsquo;t of thine?&rdquo;
began Mistress Maud, but again came the harsh laugh.&nbsp; &ldquo;Matter
of mine!&nbsp; Why, whose matter should it be but mine, that have nursed
all three of the lads, ay, and their father before them, besides four
more that lie in the graveyard at Beaulieu?&nbsp; Rest their sweet souls!&nbsp;
And I tell thee, Master John, an thou do not righteously by these thy
brothers, thou mayst back to thy parchments at Southampton, for not
a man or beast in the Forest will give thee good day.&rdquo;</p>
<p>They all felt the old woman&rsquo;s authority.&nbsp; She was able
and spirited in her homely way, and more mistress of the house than
Mrs. Birkenholt herself; and such were the terms of domestic service,
that there was no peril of losing her place.&nbsp; Even Maud knew that
to turn her out was an impossibility, and that she must be accepted
like the loneliness, damp, and other evils of Forest life.&nbsp; John
had been under her dominion, and proceeded to persuade her.&nbsp; &ldquo;Good
now, Nurse Joan, what have I denied these rash striplings that my father
would have granted them?&nbsp; Wouldst thou have them carry all their
portion in their hands, to be cozened of it at the first ale-house,
or robbed on the next heath?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I would have thee do a brother&rsquo;s honest part, John Birkenholt.&nbsp;
A loving part I say not.&nbsp; Thou wert always like a very popple for
hardness, and smoothness, ay, and slipperiness.&nbsp; Heigh ho!&nbsp;
But what is right by the lads, thou <i>shalt</i> do.&rdquo;</p>
<p>John cowered under her eye as he had done at six years old, and faltered,
&ldquo;I only seek to do them right, nurse.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Nurse Joan uttered an emphatic grunt, but Mistress Maud broke in,
&ldquo;They are not to hang about here in idleness, eating my poor child&rsquo;s
substance, and teaching him ill manners.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;We would not stay here if you paid us for it,&rdquo; returned
Stephen.</p>
<p>&ldquo;And whither would you go?&rdquo; asked John.</p>
<p>&ldquo;To Winchester first, to seek counsel with our uncle Birkenholt.&nbsp;
Then to London, where uncle Randall will help us to our fortunes.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Gipsy Hal!&nbsp; He is more like to help you to a halter,&rdquo;
sneered John, <i>sotto voce</i>, and Joan herself observed, &ldquo;Their
uncle at Winchester will show them better than to run after that there
go-by-chance.&rdquo;</p>
<p>However, as no one wished to keep the youths, and they were equally
determined to go, an accommodation was come to at last.&nbsp; John was
induced to give them three crowns apiece and to yield them up the five
small trinkets specified, though not without some murmurs from his wife.&nbsp;
It was no doubt safer to leave the rest of the money in his hands than
to carry it with them, and he undertook that it should be forthcoming,
if needed for any fit purpose, such as the purchase of an office, an
apprentice&rsquo;s fee, or an outfit as a squire.&nbsp; It was a vague
promise that cost him nothing just then, and thus could be readily made,
and John&rsquo;s great desire was to get them away so that he could
aver that they had gone by their own free will, without any hardship,
for he had seen enough at his father&rsquo;s obsequies to show him that
the love and sympathy of all the scanty dwellers in the Forest was with
them.</p>
<p>Nurse Joan had fought their battles, but with the sore heart of one
who was parting with her darlings never to see them again.&nbsp; She
bade them doff their suits of mourning that she might make up their
fardels, as they would travel in their Lincoln-green suits.&nbsp; To
take these she repaired to the little rough shed-like chamber where
the two brothers lay for the last time on their pallet bed, awake, and
watching for her, with Spring at their feet.&nbsp; The poor old woman
stood over them, as over the motherless nurslings whom she had tended,
and she should probably never see more, but she was a woman of shrewd
sense, and perceived that &ldquo;with the new madam in the hall&rdquo;
it was better that they should be gone before worse ensued.</p>
<p>She advised leaving their valuables sealed up in the hands of my
Lord Abbot, but they were averse to this&mdash;for they said their uncle
Randall, who had not seen them since they were little children, would
not know them without some pledge.</p>
<p>She shook her head.&nbsp; &ldquo;The less you deal with Hal Randall
the better,&rdquo; she said.&nbsp; &ldquo;Come now, lads, be advised
and go no farther than Winchester, where Master Ambrose may get all
the book-learning he is ever craving for, and you, Master Steevie, may
prentice yourself to some good trade.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Prentice!&rdquo; cried Stephen, scornfully.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ay, ay.&nbsp; As good blood as thine has been prenticed,&rdquo;
returned Joan.&nbsp; &ldquo;Better so than be a cut-throat sword-and-buckler
fellow, ever slaying some one else or getting thyself slain&mdash;a
terror to all peaceful folk.&nbsp; But thine uncle will see to that&mdash;a
steady-minded lad always was he&mdash;was Master Dick.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Consoling herself with this hope, the old woman rolled up their new
suits with some linen into two neat knapsacks; sighing over the thought
that unaccustomed fingers would deal with the shirts she had spun, bleached,
and sewn.&nbsp; But she had confidence in &ldquo;Master Dick,&rdquo;
and concluded that to send his nephews to him at Winchester gave a far
better chance of their being cared for, than letting them be flouted
into ill-doing by their grudging brother and his wife.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER II.&nbsp; THE GRANGE OF SILKSTEDE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&ldquo;All Itchen&rsquo;s valley
lay,<br />St. Catherine&rsquo;s breezy side and the woodlands far away,<br />The
huge Cathedral sleeping in venerable gloom,<br />The modest College
tower, and the bedesmen&rsquo;s Norman home.&rdquo;</p>
<p>LORD SELBORNE.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Very early in the morning, even according to the habits of the time,
were Stephen and Ambrose Birkenholt astir.&nbsp; They were full of ardour
to enter on the new and unknown world beyond the Forest, and much as
they loved it, any change that kept them still to their altered life
would have been distasteful.</p>
<p>Nurse Joan, asking no questions, folded up their fardels on their
backs, and packed the wallets for their day&rsquo;s journey with ample
provision.&nbsp; She charged them to be good lads, to say their Pater,
Credo, and Ave daily, and never omit Mass on a Sunday.&nbsp; They kissed
her like their mother and promised heartily&mdash;and Stephen took his
crossbow.&nbsp; They had had some hope of setting forth so early as
to avoid all other human farewells, except that Ambrose wished to begin
by going to Beaulieu to take leave of the Father who had been his kind
master, and get his blessing and counsel.&nbsp; But Beaulieu was three
miles out of their way, and Stephen had not the same desire, being less
attached to his schoolmaster and more afraid of hindrances being thrown
in their way.</p>
<p>Moreover, contrary to their expectation, their elder brother came
forth, and declared his intention of setting them forth on their way,
bestowing a great amount of good advice, to the same purport as that
of nurse Joan, namely, that they should let their uncle Richard Birkenholt
find them some employment at Winchester, where they, or at least Ambrose,
might even obtain admission into the famous college of St. Mary.</p>
<p>In fact, this excellent elder brother persuaded himself that it would
be doing them an absolute wrong to keep such promising youths hidden
in the Forest.</p>
<p>The purpose of his going thus far with them made itself evident.&nbsp;
It was to see them past the turning to Beaulieu.&nbsp; No doubt he wished
to tell the story in his own way, and that they should not present themselves
there as orphans expelled from their father&rsquo;s house.&nbsp; It
would sound much better that he had sent them to ask counsel of their
uncle at Winchester, the fit person to take charge of them.&nbsp; And
as he represented that to go to Beaulieu would lengthen their day&rsquo;s
journey so much that they might hardly reach Winchester that night,
while all Stephen&rsquo;s wishes were to go forward, Ambrose could only
send his greetings.&nbsp; There was another debate over Spring, who
had followed his master as usual.&nbsp; John uttered an exclamation
of vexation at perceiving it, and bade Stephen drive the dog back.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Or give me the leash to drag him.&nbsp; He will never follow
me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He goes with us,&rdquo; said Stephen.</p>
<p>&ldquo;He!&nbsp; Thou&rsquo;lt never have the folly!&nbsp; The old
hound is half blind and past use.&nbsp; No man will take thee in with
him after thee.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then they shall not take me in,&rdquo; said Stephen.&nbsp;
&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll not leave him to be hanged by thee.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Who spoke of hanging him!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thy wife will soon, if she hath not already.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thou wilt be for hanging him thyself ere thou have made a
day&rsquo;s journey with him on the king&rsquo;s highway, which is not
like these forest paths, I would have thee to know.&nbsp; Why, he limps
already.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then I&rsquo;ll carry him,&rdquo; said Stephen, doggedly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What hast thou to say to that device, Ambrose?&rdquo; asked
John, appealing to the elder and wiser.</p>
<p>But Ambrose only answered &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll help,&rdquo; and as John
had no particular desire to retain the superannuated hound, and preferred
on the whole to be spared sentencing him, no more was said on the subject
as they went along, until all John&rsquo;s stock of good counsel had
been lavished on his brothers&rsquo; impatient ears.&nbsp; He bade them
farewell, and turned back to the lodge, and they struck away along the
woodland pathway which they had been told led to Winchester, though
they had never been thither, nor seen any town save Southampton and
Romsey at long intervals.&nbsp; On they went, sometimes through beech
and oak woods of noble, almost primeval, trees, but more often across
tracts of holly underwood, illuminated here and there with the snowy
garlands of the wild cherry, and beneath with wide spaces covered with
young green bracken, whose soft irregular masses on the undulating ground
had somewhat the effect of the waves of the sea.&nbsp; These alternated
with stretches of yellow gorse and brown heather, sheets of cotton-grass,
and pools of white crowfoot, and all the vegetation of a mountain side,
only that the mountain was not there.</p>
<p>The brothers looked with eyes untaught to care for beauty, but with
a certain love of the home scenes, tempered by youth&rsquo;s impatience
for something new.&nbsp; The nightingales sang, the thrushes flew out
before them, the wild duck and moorhen glanced on the pools.&nbsp; Here
and there they came on the furrows left by the snout of the wild swine,
and in the open tracts rose the graceful heads of the deer, but of inhabitants
or travellers they scarce saw any, save when they halted at the little
hamlet of Minestead, where a small alehouse was kept by one Will Purkiss,
who claimed descent from the charcoal-burner who had carried William
Rufus&rsquo;s corpse to burial at Winchester&mdash;the one fact in history
known to all New Foresters, though perhaps Ambrose and John were the
only persons beyond the walls of Beaulieu who did not suppose the affair
to have taken place in the last generation.</p>
<p>A draught of ale and a short rest were welcome as the heat of the
day came on, making the old dog plod wearily on with his tongue out,
so that Stephen began to consider whether he should indeed have to be
his bearer&mdash;a serious matter, for the creature at full length measured
nearly as much as he did.&nbsp; They met hardly any one, and they and
Spring were alike too well known and trained, for difficulties to arise
as to leading a dog through the Forest.&nbsp; Should they ever come
to the term of the Forest?&nbsp; It was not easy to tell when they were
really beyond it, for the ground was much of the same kind.&nbsp; Only
the smooth, treeless hills, where they had always been told Winchester
lay, seemed more defined; and they saw no more deer, but here and there
were inclosures where wheat and barley were growing, and black timbered
farm-houses began to show themselves at intervals.&nbsp; Herd boys,
as rough and unkempt as their charges, could be seen looking after little
tawny cows, black-faced sheep, or spotted pigs, with curs which barked
fiercely at poor weary Spring, even as their masters were more disposed
to throw stones than to answer questions.</p>
<p>By and by, on the further side of a green valley, could be seen buildings
with an encircling wall of flint and mortar faced with ruddy brick,
the dark red-tiled roofs rising among walnut-trees, and an orchard in
full bloom spreading into a long green field.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Winchester must be nigh.&nbsp; The sun is getting low,&rdquo;
said Stephen.</p>
<p>&ldquo;We will ask.&nbsp; The good folk will at least give us an
answer,&rdquo; said Ambrose wearily.</p>
<p>As they reached the gate, a team of plough horses was passing in
led by a peasant lad, while a lay brother, with his gown tucked up,
rode sideways on one, whistling.&nbsp; An Augustinian monk, ruddy, burly,
and sunburnt, stood in the farm-yard, to receive an account of the day&rsquo;s
work, and doffing his cap, Ambrose asked whether Winchester were near.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Three mile or thereaway, my good lad,&rdquo; said the monk;
&ldquo;thou&rsquo;lt see the towers an ye mount the hill.&nbsp; Whence
art thou?&rdquo; he added, looking at the two young strangers.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Scholars?&nbsp; The College elects not yet a while.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;We be from the Forest, so please your reverence,&rdquo; and
are bound for Hyde Abbey, where our uncle, Master Richard Birkenholt,
dwells.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And oh, sir,&rdquo; added Stephen, &ldquo;may we crave a drop
of water for our dog?&rdquo;</p>
<p>The monk smiled as he looked at Spring, who had flung himself down
to take advantage of the halt, hanging out his tongue, and panting spasmodically.&nbsp;
&ldquo;A noble beast,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;of the Windsor breed, is&rsquo;t
not?&rdquo;&nbsp; Then laying his hand on the graceful head, &ldquo;Poor
old hound, thou art o&rsquo;er travelled.&nbsp; He is aged for such
a journey, if you came from the Forest since morn.&nbsp; Twelve years
at the least, I should say, by his muzzle.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Your reverence is right,&rdquo; said Stephen, &ldquo;he is
twelve years old.&nbsp; He is two years younger than I am, and my father
gave him to me when he was a little whelp.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;So thou must needs take him to seek thy fortune with thee,&rdquo;
said the good-natured Augustinian, not knowing how truly he spoke.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Come in, my lads, here&rsquo;s a drink for him.&nbsp; What said
you was your uncle&rsquo;s name?&rdquo; and as Ambrose repeated it,
&ldquo;Birkenholt!&nbsp; Living on a corrody at Hyde!&nbsp; Ay! ay!&nbsp;
My lads, I have a call to Winchester to-morrow, you&rsquo;d best tarry
the night here at Silkstede Grange, and fare forward with me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The tired boys were heartily glad to accept the invitation, more
especially as Spring, happy as he was with the trough of water before
him, seemed almost too tired to stand over it, and after the first,
tried to lap, lying down.&nbsp; Silkstede was not a regular convent,
only a grange or farm-house, presided over by one of the monks, with
three or four lay brethren under him, and a little colony of hinds,
in the surrounding cottages, to cultivate the farm, and tend a few cattle
and numerous sheep, the special care of the Augustinians.</p>
<p>Father Shoveller, as the good-natured monk who had received the travellers
was called, took them into the spacious but homely chamber which served
as refectory, kitchen, and hall.&nbsp; He called to the lay brother
who was busy over the open hearth to fry a few more rashers of bacon;
and after they had washed away the dust of their journey at the trough
where Spring had slaked his thirst, they sat down with him to a hearty
supper, which smacked more of the grange than of the monastery, spread
on a large solid oak table, and washed down with good ale.&nbsp; The
repast was shared by the lay brethren and farm servants, and also by
two or three big sheep dogs, who had to be taught their manners towards
Spring.</p>
<p>There was none of the formality that Ambrose was accustomed to at
Beaulieu in the great refectory, where no one spoke, but one of the
brethren read aloud some theological book from a stone pulpit in the
wall.&nbsp; Here Brother Shoveller conversed without stint, chiefly
with the brother who seemed to be a kind of bailiff, with whom he discussed
the sheep that were to be taken into market the next day, and the prices
to be given for them by either the college, the castle, or the butchers
of Boucher Row.&nbsp; He however found time to talk to the two guests,
and being sprung from a family in the immediate neighbourhood, he knew
the verdurer&rsquo;s name, and ere he was a monk, had joined in the
chase in the Forest.</p>
<p>There was a little oratory attached to the hall, where he and the
lay brethren kept the hours, to a certain degree, putting two or three
services into one, on a liberal interpretation of <i>laborare est orare</i>.&nbsp;
Ambrose&rsquo;s responses made their host observe as they went out,
&ldquo;Thou hast thy Latin pat, my son, there&rsquo;s the making of
a scholar in thee.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Then they took their first night&rsquo;s rest away from home, in
a small guest-chamber, with a good bed, though bare in all other respects.&nbsp;
Brother Shoveller likewise had a cell to himself, but the lay brethren
slept promiscuously among their sheep-dogs on the floor of the refectory.</p>
<p>All were afoot in the early morning, and Stephen and Ambrose were
awakened by the tumultuous bleatings of the flock of sheep that were
being driven from their fold to meet their fate at Winchester market.&nbsp;
They heard Brother Shoveller shouting his orders to the shepherds in
tones a great deal more like those of a farmer than of a monk, and they
made haste to dress themselves and join him as he was muttering a morning
abbreviation of his obligatory devotions in the oratory, observing that
they might be in time to hear mass at one of the city churches, but
the sheep might delay them, and they had best break their fast ere starting.</p>
<p>It was Wednesday, a day usually kept as a moderate fast, so the breakfast
was of oatmeal porridge, flavoured with honey, and washed down with
mead, after which Brother Shoveller mounted his mule, a sleek creature,
whose long ears had an air of great contentment, and rode off, accommodating
his pace to that of his young companions up a stony cart-track which
soon led them to the top of a chalk down, whence, as in a map, they
could see Winchester, surrounded by its walls, lying in a hollow between
the smooth green hills.&nbsp; At one end rose the castle, its fortifications
covering its own hill, beneath, in the valley, the long, low massive
Cathedral, the college buildings and tower with its pinnacles, and nearer
at hand, among the trees, the Almshouse of Noble Poverty at St. Cross,
beneath the round hill of St. Catherine.&nbsp; Churches and monastic
buildings stood thickly in the town, and indeed, Brother Shoveller said,
shaking his head, that there were well-nigh as many churches as folk
to go to them; the place was decayed since the time he remembered when
Prince Arthur was born there.&nbsp; Hyde Abbey he could not show them,
from where they stood, as it lay further off by the river side, having
been removed from the neighbourhood of the Minster, because the brethren
of St. Grimbald could not agree with those of St. Swithun&rsquo;s belonging
to the Minster, as indeed their buildings were so close together that
it was hardly possible to pass between them, and their bells jangled
in each other&rsquo;s ears.</p>
<p>Brother Shoveller did not seem to entertain a very high opinion of
the monks of St. Grimbald, and he asked the boys whether they were expected
there.&nbsp; &ldquo;No,&rdquo; they said; &ldquo;tidings of their father&rsquo;s
death had been sent by one of the woodmen, and the only answer that
had been returned was that Master Richard Birkenholt was ill at ease,
but would have masses said for his brother&rsquo;s soul.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hem!&rdquo; said the Augustinian ominously; but at that moment
they came up with the sheep, and his attention was wholly absorbed by
them, as he joined the lay brothers in directing the shepherds who were
driving them across the downs, steering them over the high ground towards
the arched West Gate close to the royal castle.&nbsp; The street sloped
rapidly down, and Brother Shoveller conducted his young companions between
the overhanging houses, with stalls between serving as shops, till they
reached the open space round the Market Cross, on the steps of which
women sat with baskets of eggs, butter, and poultry, raised above the
motley throng of cattle and sheep, with their dogs and drivers, the
various cries of man and beast forming an incongruous accompaniment
to the bells of the churches that surrounded the market-place.</p>
<p>Citizens&rsquo; wives in hood and wimple were there, shrilly bargaining
for provision for their households, squires and grooms in quest of hay
for their masters&rsquo; stables, purveyors seeking food for the garrison,
lay brethren and sisters for their convents, and withal, the usual margin
of begging friars, wandering gleemen, jugglers and pedlars, though in
no great numbers, as this was only a Wednesday market-day, not a fair.&nbsp;
Ambrose recognised one or two who made part of the crowd at Beaulieu
only two days previously, when he had &ldquo;seen through tears the
juggler leap,&rdquo; and the jingling tune one of them was playing on
a rebeck brought back associations of almost unbearable pain.&nbsp;
Happily, Father Shoveller, having seen his sheep safely bestowed in
a pen, bethought him of bidding the lay brother in attendance show the
young gentlemen the way to Hyde Abbey, and turning up a street at right
angles to the principal one, they were soon out of the throng.</p>
<p>It was a lonely place, with a decayed uninhabited appearance, and
Brother Peter told them it had been the Jewry, whence good King Edward
had banished all the unbelieving dogs of Jews, and where no one chose
to dwell after them.</p>
<p>Soon they came in sight of a large extent of monastic buildings,
partly of stone, but the more domestic offices of flint and brick or
mortar.&nbsp; Large meadows stretched away to the banks of the Itchen,
with cattle grazing in them, but in one was a set of figures to whom
the lay brother pointed with a laugh of exulting censure.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Long bows!&rdquo; exclaimed Stephen.&nbsp; &ldquo;Who be they?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Brethren of St. Grimbald, sir.&nbsp; Such rule doth my Lord
of Hyde keep, mitred abbot though he be.&nbsp; They say the good bishop
hath called him to order, but what recks he of bishops?&nbsp; Good-day,
Brother Bulpett, here be two young kinsmen of Master Birkenholt to visit
him; and so <i>benedicite</i>, fair sirs.&nbsp; St. Austin&rsquo;s grace
be with you!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Through a gate between two little red octagonal towers, Brother Bulpett
led the two visitors, and called to another of the monks, &ldquo;<i>Benedicite</i>,
Father Segrim, here be two striplings wanting speech of old Birkenholt.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Looking after dead men&rsquo;s shoes, I trow,&rdquo; muttered
father Segrim, with a sour look at the lads, as he led them through
the outer court, where some fine horses were being groomed, and then
across a second court surrounded with a beautiful cloister, with flower
beds in front of it.&nbsp; Here, on a stone bench, in the sun, clad
in a gown furred with rabbit skin, sat a decrepit old man, both his
hands clasped over his staff.&nbsp; Into his deaf ears their guide shouted,
&ldquo;These boys say they are your kindred, Master Birkenholt.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Anan?&rdquo; said the old man, trembling with palsy.&nbsp;
The lads knew him to be older than their father, but they were taken
by surprise at such feebleness, and the monk did not aid them, only
saying roughly, &ldquo;There he is.&nbsp; Tell your errand.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;How fares it with you, uncle?&rdquo; ventured Ambrose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Who be ye?&nbsp; I know none of you,&rdquo; muttered the old
man, shaking his head still more.</p>
<p>&ldquo;We are Ambrose and Stephen from the Forest,&rdquo; shouted
Ambrose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ah!&nbsp; Steve! poor Stevie!&nbsp; The accursed boar has
rent his goodly face so as I would never have known him.&nbsp; Poor
Steve!&nbsp; Best his soul!&rdquo;</p>
<p>The old man began to weep, while his nephews recollected that they
had heard that another uncle had been slain by the tusk of a wild boar
in early manhood.&nbsp; Then to their surprise, his eyes fell on Spring,
and calling the hound by name, he caressed the creature&rsquo;s head&mdash;&ldquo;Spring,
poor Spring!&nbsp; Stevie&rsquo;s faithful old dog.&nbsp; Hast lost
thy master?&nbsp; Wilt follow me now?&rdquo;</p>
<p>He was thinking of a Spring as well as of a Stevie of sixty years
ago, and he babbled on of how many fawns were in the Queen&rsquo;s Bower
this summer, and who had best shot at the butts at Lyndhurst, as if
he were excited by the breath of his native Forest, but there was no
making him understand that he was speaking with his nephews.&nbsp; The
name of his brother John only set him repeating that John loved the
greenwood, and would be content to take poor Stevie&rsquo;s place and
dwell in the verdurer&rsquo;s lodge; but that he himself ought to be
abroad, he had seen brave Lord Talbot&rsquo;s ships ready at Southampton,
John might stay at home, but he would win fame and honour in Gascony.</p>
<p>And while he thus wandered, and the boys stood by perplexed and distressed,
Brother Segrim came back, and said, &ldquo;So, young sirs, have you
seen enough of your doting kinsman?&nbsp; The sub-prior bids me say
that we harbour no strange, idling, lubber lads nor strange dogs here.&nbsp;
&rsquo;Tis enough for us to be saddled with dissolute old men-at-arms
without all their idle kin making an excuse to come and pay their devoirs.&nbsp;
These corrodies are a heavy charge and a weighty abuse, and if there
be the visitation the king&rsquo;s majesty speaks of, they will be one
of the first matters to be amended.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Wherewith Stephen and Ambrose found themselves walked out of the
cloister of St. Grimbald, and the gates shut behind them.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER III.&nbsp; KINSMEN AND STRANGERS</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>&ldquo;The reul of St. Maure and of St. Beneit<br />Because that
it was old and some deale streit<br />This ilke monk let old things
pace;<br />He held ever of the new world the trace.&rdquo;</p>
<p>CHAUCER.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>&ldquo;The churls!&rdquo; exclaimed Stephen.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Poor old man!&rdquo; said Ambrose; &ldquo;I hope they are
good to him!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;To think that thus ends all that once was gallant talk of
fighting under Talbot&rsquo;s banner,&rdquo; sighed Stephen, thoughtful
for a moment.&nbsp; &ldquo;However, there&rsquo;s a good deal to come
first.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yea, and what next?&rdquo; said the elder brother.</p>
<p>&ldquo;On to uncle Hal.&nbsp; I ever looked most to him.&nbsp; He
will purvey me to a page&rsquo;s place in some noble household, and
get thee a clerk&rsquo;s or scholar&rsquo;s place in my Lord of York&rsquo;s
house.&nbsp; Mayhap there will be room for us both there, for my Lord
of York hath a goodly following of armed men.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Which way lies the road to London?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;We must back into the town and ask, as well as fill our stomachs
and our wallets,&rdquo; said Ambrose.&nbsp; &ldquo;Talk of their rule!&nbsp;
The entertaining of strangers is better understood at Silkstede than
at Hyde.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Tush!&nbsp; A grudged crust sticks in the gullet,&rdquo; returned
Stephen.&nbsp; &ldquo;Come on, Ambrose, I marked the sign of the White
Hart by the market-place.&nbsp; There will be a welcome there for foresters.&rdquo;</p>
<p>They returned on their steps past the dilapidated buildings of the
old Jewry, and presently saw the market in full activity; but the sounds
and sights of busy life where they were utter strangers, gave Ambrose
a sense of loneliness and desertion, and his heart sank as the bolder
Stephen threaded the way in the direction of a broad entry over which
stood a slender-bodied hart with gold hoofs, horns, collar, and chain.</p>
<p>&ldquo;How now, my sons?&rdquo; said a full cheery voice, and to
their joy, they found themselves pushed up against Father Shoveller.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Returned already!&nbsp; Did you get scant welcome at Hyde?&nbsp;
Here, come where we can get a free breath, and tell me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>They passed through the open gateway of the White Hart, into the
court, but before listening to them, the monk exchanged greetings with
the hostess, who stood at the door in a broad hat and velvet bodice,
and demanded what cheer there was for noon-meat.</p>
<p>&ldquo;A jack, reverend sir, eels and a grampus fresh sent up from
Hampton; also fresh-killed mutton for such lay folk as are not curious
of the Wednesday fast.&nbsp; They are laying the board even now.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Lay platters for me and these two young gentlemen,&rdquo;
said the Augustinian.&nbsp; &ldquo;Ye be my guests, ye wot,&rdquo; he
added, &ldquo;since ye tarried not for meat at Hyde.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nor did they ask us,&rdquo; exclaimed Stephen; &ldquo;lubbers
and idlers were the best words they had for us.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ho! ho!&nbsp; That&rsquo;s the way with the brethren of St
Grimbald!&nbsp; And your uncle?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Alas, sir, he doteth with age,&rdquo; said Ambrose.&nbsp;
&ldquo;He took Stephen for his own brother, dead under King Harry of
Windsor.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;So!&nbsp; I had heard somewhat of his age and sickness.&nbsp;
Who was it who thrust you out?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;A lean brother with a thin red beard, and a shrewd, puckered
visage.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ha!&nbsp; By that token &rsquo;twas Segrim the bursar.&nbsp;
He wots how to drive a bargain.&nbsp; St. Austin! but he deemed you
came to look after your kinsman&rsquo;s corrody.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He said the king spake of a visitation to abolish corrodies
from religious houses,&rdquo; said Ambrose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;He&rsquo;ll abolish the long bow from them first,&rdquo; said
Father Shoveller.&nbsp; &ldquo;Ay, and miniver from my Lord Abbot&rsquo;s
hood.&nbsp; I&rsquo;d admonish you, my good brethren of S.&nbsp; Grimbald,
to be in no hurry for a visitation which might scarce stop where you
would fain have it.&nbsp; Well, my sons, are ye bound for the Forest
again?&nbsp; An ye be, we&rsquo;ll wend back together, and ye can lie
at Silkstede to-night.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Alack, kind father, there&rsquo;s no more home for us in the
Forest,&rdquo; said Ambrose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Methought ye had a brother?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yea; but our brother hath a wife.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ho! ho!&nbsp; And the wife will none of you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She would have kept Ambrose to teach her boy his primer,&rdquo;
said Stephen; &ldquo;but she would none of Spring nor of me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;We hoped to receive counsel from our uncle at Hyde,&rdquo;
added Ambrose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Have ye no purpose now?&rdquo; inquired the Father, his jolly
good-humoured face showing much concern.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yea,&rdquo; manfully returned Stephen.&nbsp; &ldquo;&rsquo;Twas
what I ever hoped to do, to fare on and seek our fortune in London.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ha!&nbsp; To pick up gold and silver like Dick Whittington.&nbsp;
Poor old Spring here will scarce do you the part of his cat,&rdquo;
and the monk&rsquo;s hearty laugh angered Stephen into muttering, &ldquo;We
are no fools,&rdquo; but Father Shoveller only laughed the more, saying,
&ldquo;Fair and softly, my son, ye&rsquo;ll never pick up the gold if
ye cannot brook a kindly quip.&nbsp; Have you friends or kindred in
London?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yea, that have we, sir,&rdquo; cried Stephen; &ldquo;our mother&rsquo;s
own brother, Master Randall, hath come to preferment there in my Lord
Archbishop of York&rsquo;s household, and hath sent us tokens from time
to time, which we will show you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Not while we be feasting,&rdquo; said Father Shoveller, hastily
checking Ambrose, who was feeling in his bosom.&nbsp; &ldquo;See, the
knaves be bringing their grampus across the court.&nbsp; Here, we&rsquo;ll
clean our hands, and be ready for the meal;&rdquo; and he showed them,
under a projecting gallery in the inn yard a stone trough, through which
flowed a stream of water, in which he proceeded to wash his hands and
face, and to wipe them in a coarse towel suspended nigh at hand.&nbsp;
Certainly after handling sheep freely there was need, though such ablutions
were a refinement not indulged in by all the company who assembled round
the well-spread board of the White Hart for the meal after the market.&nbsp;
They were a motley company.&nbsp; By the host&rsquo;s side sat a knight
on his way home from pilgrimage to Compostella, or perhaps a mission
to Spain, with a couple of squires and other attendants, and converse
of political import seemed to be passing between him and a shrewd-looking
man in a lawyer&rsquo;s hood and gown, the recorder of Winchester, who
preferred being a daily guest at the White Hart to keeping a table of
his own.&nbsp; Country franklins and yeomen, merchants and men-at-arms,
palmers and craftsmen, friars and monks, black, white, and grey, and
with almost all, Father Shoveller had greeting or converse to exchange.&nbsp;
He knew everybody, and had friendly talk with all, on canons or crops,
on war or wool, on the prices of pigs or prisoners, on the news of the
country side, or on the perilous innovations in learning at Oxford,
which might, it was feared, even affect St. Mary&rsquo;s College at
Winchester.</p>
<p>He did not affect outlandish fishes himself, and dined upon pike,
but observing the curiosity of his guests, he took good care to have
them well supplied with grampus; also in due time with varieties of
the pudding and cake kind which had never dawned on their forest-bred
imagination, and with a due proportion of good ale&mdash;the same over
which the knight might be heard rejoicing, and lauding far above the
Spanish or French wines, on which he said he had been half starved.</p>
<p>Father Shoveller mused a good deal over his pike and its savoury
stuffing.&nbsp; He was not by any means an ideal monk, but he was equally
far from being a scandal.&nbsp; He was the shrewd man of business and
manager of his fraternity, conducting the farming operations and making
all the bargains, following his rule respectably according to the ordinary
standard of his time, but not rising to any spirituality, and while
duly observing the fast day, as to the quality of his food, eating with
the appetite of a man who lived in the open fields.</p>
<p>But when their hunger was appeased, with many a fragment given to
Spring, the young Birkenholts, wearied of the endless talk that was
exchanged over the tankard, began to grow restless, and after exchanging
signs across Father Shoveller&rsquo;s solid person, they simultaneously
rose, and began to thank him and say they must pursue their journey.</p>
<p>&ldquo;How now, not so fast, my sons,&rdquo; said the Father; &ldquo;tarry
a bit, I have more to say to thee.&nbsp; Prayers and provender, thou
knowst&mdash;I&rsquo;ll come anon.&nbsp; So, sir, didst say yonder beggarly
Flemings haggle at thy price for thy Southdown fleeces.&nbsp; Weight
of dirt forsooth!&nbsp; Do not we wash the sheep in the Poolhole stream,
the purest water in the shire?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Manners withheld Ambrose from responding to Stephen&rsquo;s hot impatience,
while the merchant in the sleek puce-coloured coat discussed the Flemish
wool market with the monk for a good half-hour longer.</p>
<p>By this time the knight&rsquo;s horses were brought into the yard,
and the merchant&rsquo;s men had made ready his palfrey, his pack-horse
being already on the way; the host&rsquo;s son came round with the reckoning,
and there was a general move.&nbsp; Stephen expected to escape, and
hardly could brook the good-natured authority with which Father Shoveller
put Ambrose aside, when he would have discharged their share of the
reckoning, and took it upon himself.&nbsp; &ldquo;Said I not ye were
my guests?&rdquo; quoth he.&nbsp; &ldquo;We missed our morning mass,
it will do us no harm to hear Nones in the Minster.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sir, we thank you, but we should be on our way,&rdquo; said
Ambrose, incited by Stephen&rsquo;s impatient gestures.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Tut, tut.&nbsp; Fair and softly, my son, or more haste may
be worse speed.&nbsp; Methought ye had somewhat to show me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Stephen&rsquo;s youthful independence might chafe, but the habit
of submission to authorities made him obediently follow the monk out
at the back entrance of the inn, behind which lay the Minster yard,
the grand western front rising in front of them, and the buildings of
St. Swithun&rsquo;s Abbey extending far to their right.&nbsp; The hour
was nearly noon, and the space was deserted, except for an old woman
sitting at the great western doorway with a basket of rosaries made
of nuts and of snail shells, and a workman or two employed on the bishop&rsquo;s
new reredos.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Now for thy tokens,&rdquo; said Father Shoveller.&nbsp; &ldquo;See
my young foresters, ye be new to the world.&nbsp; Take an old man&rsquo;s
counsel, and never show, nor speak of such gear in an hostel.&nbsp;
Mine host of the White Hart is an old gossip of mine, and indifferent
honest, but who shall say who might be within earshot?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Stephen had a mind to say that he did not see why the meddling monk
should wish to see them at all, and Ambrose looked a little reluctant,
but Father Shoveller said in his good-humoured way, &ldquo;As you please,
young sirs.&nbsp; &rsquo;Tis but an old man&rsquo;s wish to see whether
he can do aught to help you, that you be not as lambs among wolves.&nbsp;
Mayhap ye deem ye can walk into London town, and that the first man
you meet can point you to your uncle&mdash;Randall call ye him?&mdash;as
readily as I could show you my brother, Thomas Shoveller of Granbury.&nbsp;
But you are just as like to meet with some knave who might cozen you
of all you have, or mayhap a beadle might take you up for vagabonds,
and thrust you in the stocks, or ever you get to London town; so I would
fain give you some commendation, an I knew to whom to make it, and ye
be not too proud to take it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You are but too good to us, sir,&rdquo; said Ambrose, quite
conquered, though Stephen only half believed in the difficulties.&nbsp;
The Father took them within the west door of the Minster, and looking
up and down the long arcade of the southern aisle to see that no one
was watching, he inspected the tokens, and cross-examined them on their
knowledge of their uncle.</p>
<p>His latest gift, the rosary, had come by the hand of Friar Hurst,
a begging Minorite of Southampton, who had it from another of his order
at Winchester, who had received it from one of the king&rsquo;s archers
at the Castle, with a message to Mistress Birkenholt that it came from
her brother, Master Randall, who had good preferment in London, in the
house of my Lord Archbishop of York, without whose counsel King Henry
never stirred.&nbsp; As to the coming of the agate and the pouncet box,
the minds of the boys were very hazy.&nbsp; They knew that the pouncet
box had been conveyed through the attendants of the Abbot of Beaulieu,
but they were only sure that from that time the belief had prevailed
with their mother that her brother was prospering in the house of the
all-powerful Wolsey.&nbsp; The good Augustinian, examining the tokens,
thought they gave colour to that opinion.&nbsp; The rosary and agate
might have been picked up in an ecclesiastical household, and the lid
of the pouncet box was made of a Spanish coin, likely to have come through
some of the attendants of Queen Katharine.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It hath an appearance,&rdquo; he said.&nbsp; &ldquo;I marvel
whether there be still at the Castle this archer who hath had speech
with Master Randall, for if ye know no more than ye do at present, &rsquo;tis
seeking a needle in a bottle of hay.&nbsp; But see, here come the brethren
that be to sing Nones&mdash;sinner that I am, to have said no Hours
since the morn, being letted with lawful business.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Again the unwilling Stephen had to submit.&nbsp; There was no feeling
for the incongruous in those days, and reverence took very different
directions from those in which it now shows itself, so that nobody had
any objection to Spring&rsquo;s pacing gravely with the others towards
the Lady Chapel, where the Hours were sung, since the Choir was in the
hands of workmen, and the sound of chipping stone could be heard from
it, where Bishop Fox&rsquo;s elaborate lace-work reredos was in course
of erection.&nbsp; Passing the shrine of St. Swithun, and the grand
tomb of Cardinal Beaufort, where his life-coloured effigy filled the
boys with wonder, they followed their leader&rsquo;s example, and knelt
within the Lady Chapel, while the brief Latin service for the ninth
hour was sung through by the canon, clerks, and boys.&nbsp; It really
was the Sixth, but cumulative easy-going treatment of the Breviary had
made this the usual time for it, as the name of noon still testifies.&nbsp;
The boys&rsquo; attention, it must be confessed, was chiefly expended
on the wonderful miracles of the Blessed Virgin in fresco on the walls
of the chapel, all tending to prove that here was hope for those who
said their Ave in any extremity of fire or flood.</p>
<p>Nones ended, Father Shoveller, with many a halt for greeting or for
gossip, took the lads up the hill towards the wide fortified space where
the old Castle and royal Hall of Henry of Winchester looked down on
the city, and after some friendly passages with the warder at the gate,
Father Shoveller explained that he was in quest of some one recently
come from court, of whom the striplings in his company could make inquiry
concerning a kinsman in the household of my Lord Archbishop of York.&nbsp;
The warder scratched his head, and bethinking himself that Eastcheap
Jockey was the reverend.&nbsp; Father&rsquo;s man, summoned a horse-boy
to call that worthy.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Where was he?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sitting over his pottle in the Hall,&rdquo; was the reply,
and the monk, with a laugh savouring little of asceticism, said he would
seek him there, and accordingly crossed the court to the noble Hall,
with its lofty dark marble columns, and the Round Table of King Arthur
suspended at the upper end.&nbsp; The governor of the Castle had risen
from his meal long ago, but the garrison in the piping times of peace
would make their ration of ale last as far into the afternoon as their
commanders would suffer.&nbsp; And half a dozen men still sat there,
one or two snoring, two playing at dice on a clear corner of the board,
and another, a smart well-dressed fellow in a bright scarlet jerkin,
laying down the law to a country bumpkin, who looked somewhat dazed.&nbsp;
The first of these was, as it appeared, Eastcheap Jockey, and there
was something both of the readiness and the impudence of the Londoner
in his manner, when he turned to answer the question.&nbsp; He knew
many in my Lord of York&rsquo;s house&mdash;as many as a man was like
to know where there was a matter of two hundred folk between clerks
and soldiers, he had often crushed a pottle with them.&nbsp; No; he
had never heard of one called Randall, neither in hat nor cowl, but
he knew more of them by face than by name, and more by byname than surname
or christened name.&nbsp; He was certainly not the archer who had brought
a token for Mistress Birkenholt, and his comrades all avouched equal
ignorance on the subject.&nbsp; Nothing could be gained there, and while
Father Shoveller rubbed his bald head in consideration, Stephen rose
to take leave.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Look you here, my fair son,&rdquo; said the monk.&nbsp; &ldquo;Starting
at this hour, though the days be long, you will not reach any safe halting
place with daylight, whereas by lying a night in this good city, you
might reach Alton to-morrow, and there is a home where the name of Brother
Shoveller will win you free lodging and entertainment.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And to-night, good Father?&rdquo; inquired Ambrose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;That will I see to, if ye will follow me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Stephen was devoured with impatience during the farewells in the
Castle, but Ambrose represented that the good man was giving them much
of his time, and that it would be unseemly and ungrateful to break from
him.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What matter is it of his?&nbsp; And why should he make us
lose a whole day?&rdquo; grumbled Stephen.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What special gain would a day be to us?&rdquo; sighed Ambrose.&nbsp;
&ldquo;I am thankful that any should take heed for us.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ay, you love leading-strings,&rdquo; returned Stephen.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Where is he going now?&nbsp; All out of our way!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Father Shoveller, however, as he went down the Castle hill, explained
that the Warden of St. Elizabeth&rsquo;s Hospital was his friend, and
knowing him to have acquaintance among the clergy of St. Paul&rsquo;s,
it would be well to obtain a letter of commendation from him, which
might serve them in good stead in case they were disappointed of finding
their uncle at once.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It would be better for Spring to have a little more rest,&rdquo;
thought Stephen, thus mitigating his own longing to escape from the
monks and friars, of whom Winchester seemed to be full.</p>
<p>They had a kindly welcome in the pretty little college of St. Elizabeth
of Hungary, lying in the meadows between William of Wykeham&rsquo;s
College and the round hill of St. Catharine.&nbsp; The Warden was a
more scholarly and ecclesiastical-looking person than his friend, the
good-natured Augustinian.&nbsp; After commending them to his care, and
partaking of a drink of mead, the monk of Silkstede took leave of the
youths, with a hearty blessing and advice to husband their few crowns,
not to tell every one of their tokens, and to follow the counsel of
the Warden of St. Elizabeth&rsquo;s, assuring them that if they turned
back to the Forest, they should have a welcome at Silkstede.&nbsp; Moreover
he patted Spring pitifully, and wished him and his master well through
the journey.</p>
<p>St. Elizabeth&rsquo;s College was a hundred years older than its
neighbour St. Mary&rsquo;s, as was evident to practised eyes by its
arches and windows, but it had been so entirely eclipsed by Wykeham&rsquo;s
foundation that the number of priests, students, and choir-boys it was
intended to maintain, had dwindled away, so that it now contained merely
the Warden, a superannuated priest, and a couple of big lads who acted
as servants.&nbsp; There was an air of great quietude and coolness about
the pointed arches of its tiny cloister on that summer&rsquo;s day,
with the old monk dozing in his chair over the manuscript he thought
he was reading, not far from the little table where the Warden was eagerly
studying Erasmus&rsquo;s <i>Praise of Folly</i>.&nbsp; But the Birkenholts
were of the age at which quiet means dulness, at least Stephen was,
and the Warden had pity both on them and on himself; and hearing joyous
shouts outside, he opened a little door in the cloister wall, and revealed
a multitude of lads with their black gowns tucked up &ldquo;a playing
at the ball&rdquo;&mdash;these being the scholars of St. Mary&rsquo;s.&nbsp;
Beckoning to a pair of elder ones, who were walking up and down more
quietly, he consigned the strangers to their care, sweetening the introduction
by an invitation to supper, for which he would gain permission from
their Warden.</p>
<p>One of the young Wykehamists was shy and churlish, and sheered off
from the brothers, but the other catechised them on their views of becoming
scholars in the college.&nbsp; He pointed out the cloister where the
studies took place in all weathers, showed them the hall, the chapel,
and the chambers, and expatiated on the chances of attaining to New
College.&nbsp; Being moreover a scholarly fellow, he and Ambrose fell
into a discussion over the passage of Virgil, copied out on a bit of
paper, which he was learning by heart.&nbsp; Some other scholars having
finished their game, and become aware of the presence of a strange dog
and two strange boys, proceeded to mob Stephen and Spring, whereupon
the shy boy stood forth and declared that the Warden of St. Elizabeth&rsquo;s
had brought them in for an hour&rsquo;s sport.</p>
<p>Of course, in such close quarters, the rival Warden was esteemed
a natural enemy, and went by the name of &ldquo;Old Bess,&rdquo; so
that his recommendation went for worse than nothing, and a dash at Spring
was made by the inhospitable young savages.&nbsp; Stephen stood to the
defence in act to box, and the shy lad stood by him, calling for fair
play and one at a time.&nbsp; Of course a fight ensued, Stephen and
his champion on the one side, and two assailants on the other, till
after a fall on either side, Ambrose&rsquo;s friend interfered with
a voice as thundering as the manly crack would permit, peace was restored,
Stephen found himself free of the meads, and Spring was caressed instead
of being tormented.</p>
<p>Stephen was examined on his past, present, and future, envied for
his Forest home, and beguiled into magnificent accounts, not only of
the deer that had fallen to his bow and the boars that had fallen to
his father&rsquo;s spear, but of the honours to which his uncle in the
Archbishop&rsquo;s household would prefer him&mdash;for he viewed it
as an absolute certainty that his kinsman was captain among the men-at-arms,
whom he endowed on the spot with scarlet coats faced with black velvet,
and silver medals and chains.</p>
<p>Whereat one of the other boys was not behind in telling how his father
was pursuivant to my Lord Duke of Norfolk, and never went abroad save
with silver lions broidered on back and breast, and trumpets going before;
and another dwelt on the splendours of the mayor and aldermen of Southampton
with their chains and cups of gold.&nbsp; Stephen felt bound to surpass
this with the last report that my Lord of York&rsquo;s men rode Flemish
steeds in crimson velvet housings, passmented with gold and gems, and
of course his uncle had the leading of them.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Who be thine uncle?&rdquo; demanded a thin, squeaky voice.&nbsp;
&ldquo;I have brothers likewise in my Lord of York&rsquo;s meim&eacute;.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Mine uncle is Captain Harry Randall, of Shirley,&rdquo; quoth
Stephen magnificently, scornfully surveying the small proportions of
the speaker, &ldquo;What is thy brother?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Head turnspit,&rdquo; said a rude voice, provoking a general
shout of laughter; but the boy stood his ground, and said hotly: &ldquo;He
is page to the comptroller of my lord&rsquo;s household, and waits at
the second table, and I know every one of the captains.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He&rsquo;ll say next he knows every one of the Seven Worthies,&rdquo;
cried another boy, for Stephen was becoming a popular character.</p>
<p>&ldquo;And all the paladins to boot.&nbsp; Come on, little Rowley!&rdquo;
was the cry.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I tell you my brother is page to the comptroller of the household,
and my mother dwells beside the Gate House, and I know every man of
them,&rdquo; insisted Rowley, waxing hot.&nbsp; &ldquo;As for that Forest
savage fellow&rsquo;s uncle being captain of the guard, &rsquo;tis more
like that he is my lord&rsquo;s fool, Quipsome Hal!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Whereat there was a cry, in which were blended exultation at the
hit, and vituperation of the hitter.&nbsp; Stephen flew forward to avenge
the insult, but a big bell was beginning to ring, a whole wave of black
gowns rushed to obey it, sweeping little Rowley away with them; and
Stephen found himself left alone with his brother and the two lads who
had been invited to St. Elizabeth&rsquo;s, and who now repaired thither
with them.</p>
<p>The supper party in the refectory was a small one, and the rule of
the foundation limited the meal to one dish and a pittance, but the
dish was of savoury eels, and the Warden&rsquo;s good nature had added
to it some cates and comfits in consideration of his youthful guests.</p>
<p>After some conversation with the elder Wykehamist, the Warden called
Ambrose and put him through an examination on his attainments, which
proved so satisfactory, that it ended in an invitation to the brothers
to fill two of the empty scholarships of the college of the dear St.
Elizabeth.&nbsp; It was a good offer, and one that Ambrose would fain
have accepted, but Stephen had no mind for the cloister or for learning.</p>
<p>The Warden had no doubt that he could be apprenticed in the city
of Winchester, since the brother at home had in keeping a sum sufficient
for the fee.&nbsp; Though the trade of &ldquo;capping&rdquo; had fallen
off, there were still good substantial burgesses who would be willing
to receive an active lad of good parentage, some being themselves of
gentle blood.&nbsp; Stephen, however, would not brook the idea.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Out upon you, Ambrose!&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;to desire to bind
your own brother to base mechanical arts.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;&rsquo;Tis what Nurse Joan held to be best for us both,&rdquo;
said Ambrose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Joan!&nbsp; Yea, like a woman, who deems a man safest when
he is a tailor, or a perfumer.&nbsp; An you be minded to stay here with
a black gown and a shaven crown, I shall on with Spring and come to
preferment.&nbsp; Maybe thou&rsquo;lt next hear of me when I have got
some fat canonry for thee.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay, I quit thee not,&rdquo; said Ambrose.&nbsp; &ldquo;If
thou fare forward, so do I.&nbsp; But I would thou couldst have brought
thy mind to rest there.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What! wouldst thou be content with this worn-out place, with
more churches than houses, and more empty houses than full ones?&nbsp;
No! let us on where there is something doing!&nbsp; Thou wilt see that
my Lord of York will have room for the scholar as well as the man-at-arms.&rdquo;</p>
<p>So the kind offer was declined, but Ambrose was grieved to see that
the Warden thought him foolish, and perhaps ungrateful.</p>
<p>Nevertheless the good man gave them a letter to the Reverend Master
Alworthy, singing clerk at St. Paul&rsquo;s Cathedral, telling Ambrose
it might serve them in case they failed to find their uncle, or if my
Lord of York&rsquo;s household should not be in town.&nbsp; He likewise
gave them a recommendation which would procure them a night&rsquo;s
lodging at the Grange, and after the morning&rsquo;s mass and meat,
sped them on their way with his blessing, muttering to himself, &ldquo;That
elder one might have been the staff of mine age!&nbsp; Pity on him to
be lost in the great and evil City!&nbsp; Yet &rsquo;tis a good lad
to follow that fiery spark his brother.&nbsp; <i>Tanquam agnus inter
lupos</i>.&nbsp; Alack!&rdquo;</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER IV.&nbsp; A HERO&rsquo;S FALL</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>&ldquo;These four came all afront and mainly made at me.&nbsp; I
made no more ado, but took their seven points on my target&mdash;thus&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>SHAKESPEARE.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>The journey to Alton was eventless.&nbsp; It was slow, for the day
was a broiling one, and the young foresters missed their oaks and beeches,
as they toiled over the chalk downs that rose and sank in endless succession;
though they would hardly have slackened their pace if it had not been
for poor old Spring, who was sorely distressed by the heat and the want
of water on the downs.&nbsp; Every now and then he lay down, panting
distressfully, with his tongue hanging out, and his young masters always
waited for him, often themselves not sorry to rest in the fragment of
shade from a solitary thorn or juniper.</p>
<p>The track was plain enough, and there were hamlets at long intervals.&nbsp;
Flocks of sheep fed on the short grass, but there was no approaching
the shepherds, as they and their dogs regarded Spring as an enemy, to
be received with clamour, stones, and teeth, in spite of the dejected
looks which might have acquitted him of evil intentions.</p>
<p>The travellers reached Alton in the cool of the evening, and were
kindly received by a monk, who had charge of a grange just outside the
little town, near one of the springs of the River Wey.</p>
<p>The next day&rsquo;s journey was a pleasanter one, for there was
more of wood and heather, and they had to skirt round the marshy borders
of various bogs.&nbsp; Spring was happier, being able to stop and lap
whenever he would, and the whole scene was less unfriendly to them.&nbsp;
But they scarcely made speed enough, for they were still among tall
whins and stiff scrub of heather when the sun began to get low, gorgeously
lighting the tall plumes of golden broom, and they had their doubts
whether they might not be off the track; but in such weather, there
was nothing alarming in spending a night out of doors, if only they
had something for supper.&nbsp; Stephen took a bolt from the purse at
his girdle, and bent his crossbow, so as to be ready in case a rabbit
sprang out, or a duck flew up from the marshes.</p>
<p>A small thicket of trees was in sight, and they were making for it,
when sounds of angry voices were heard, and Spring, bristling up the
mane on his neck, and giving a few premonitory fierce growls like thunder,
bounded forward as though he had been seven years younger.&nbsp; Stephen
darted after him, Ambrose rushed after Stephen, and breaking through
the trees, they beheld the dog at the throat of one of three men.&nbsp;
As they came on the scene, the dog was torn down and hurled aside, giving
a howl of agony, which infuriated his master.&nbsp; Letting fly his
crossbow bolt full at the fellow&rsquo;s face, he dashed on, reckless
of odds, waving his knotted stick, and shouting with rage.&nbsp; Ambrose,
though more aware of the madness of such an assault, still hurried to
his support, and was amazed as well as relieved to find the charge effectual.&nbsp;
Without waiting to return a blow, the miscreants took to their heels,
and Stephen, seeing nothing but his dog, dropped on his knees beside
the quivering creature, from whose neck blood was fast pouring.&nbsp;
One glance of the faithful wistful eyes, one feeble movement of the
expressive tail, and Spring had made his last farewell!&nbsp; That was
all Stephen was conscious of; but Ambrose could hear the cry, &ldquo;Good
sirs, good lads, set me free!&rdquo; and was aware of a portly form
bound to a tree.&nbsp; As he cut the rope with his knife, the rescued
traveller hurried out thanks and demands&mdash;&ldquo;Where are the
rest of you?&rdquo; and on the reply that there were no more, proceeded,
&ldquo;Then we must on, on at once, or the villains will return!&nbsp;
They must have thought you had a band of hunters behind you.&nbsp; Two
furlongs hence, and we shall be safe in the hostel at Dogmersfield.&nbsp;
Come on, my boy,&rdquo; to Stephen, &ldquo;the brave hound is quite
dead, more&rsquo;s the pity.&nbsp; Thou canst do no more for him, and
we shall soon be in his case if we dally here.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I cannot, cannot leave him thus,&rdquo; sobbed Stephen, who
had the loving old head on his knees.&nbsp; &ldquo;Ambrose! stay, we
must bring him.&nbsp; There, his tail wagged!&nbsp; If the blood were
staunched&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Stephen!&nbsp; Indeed he is stone dead!&nbsp; Were he our
brother we could not do otherwise,&rdquo; reasoned Ambrose, forcibly
dragging his brother to his feet.&nbsp; &ldquo;Go on we must.&nbsp;
Wouldst have us all slaughtered for his sake?&nbsp; Come!&nbsp; The
rogues will be upon us anon.&nbsp; Spring saved this good man&rsquo;s
life.&nbsp; Undo not his work.&nbsp; See!&nbsp; Is yonder your horse,
sir?&nbsp; This way, Stevie!&rdquo;</p>
<p>The instinct of catching the horse roused Stephen, and it was soon
accomplished, for the steed was a plump, docile, city-bred palfrey,
with dapple-grey flanks like well-stuffed satin pincushions, by no means
resembling the shaggy Forest ponies of the boys&rsquo; experience, but
quite astray in the heath, and ready to come at the master&rsquo;s whistle,
and call of &ldquo;Soh!&nbsp; Soh!&mdash;now Poppet!&rdquo;&nbsp; Stephen
caught the bridle, and Ambrose helped the burgess into the saddle.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Now, good boys,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;each of you lay a hand
on my pommel.&nbsp; We can make good speed ere the rascals find out
our scant numbers.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You would make better speed without us, sir,&rdquo; said Stephen,
hankering to remain beside poor Spring.</p>
<p>&ldquo;D&rsquo;ye think Giles Headley the man to leave two children,
that have maybe saved my life as well as my purse, to bear the malice
of the robbers?&rdquo; demanded the burgess angrily.&nbsp; &ldquo;That
were like those fellows of mine who have shown their heels and left
their master strapped to a tree!&nbsp; Thou! thou! what&rsquo;s thy
name, that hast the most wit, bring thy brother, unless thou wouldst
have him laid by the side of his dog.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Stephen was forced to comply, and run by Poppet&rsquo;s side, though
his eyes were so full of tears that he could not see his way, even when
the pace slackened, and in the twilight they found themselves among
houses and gardens, and thus in safety, the lights of an inn shining
not far off.</p>
<p>A figure came out in the road to meet them, crying, &ldquo;Master!
master! is it you? and without scathe?&nbsp; Oh, the saints be praised!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ay, Tibble, &rsquo;tis I and no other, thanks to the saints
and to these brave lads!&nbsp; What, man, I blame thee not, I know thou
canst not strike; but where be the rest?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;In the inn, sir.&nbsp; I strove to call up the hue and cry
to come to the rescue, but the cowardly hinds were afraid of the thieves,
and not one would come forth.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I wish they may not be in league with them,&rdquo; said Master
Headley.&nbsp; &ldquo;See! I was delivered&mdash;ay, and in time to
save my purse, by these twain and their good dog.&nbsp; Are ye from
these parts, my fair lads?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;We be journeying from the New Forest to London,&rdquo; said
Ambrose.&nbsp; &ldquo;The poor dog heard the tumult, and leapt to your
aid, sir, and we made after him.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;&rsquo;Twas the saints sent him!&rdquo; was the fervent answer.&nbsp;
&ldquo;And&rdquo; (with a lifting of the cap) &ldquo;I hereby vow to
St. Julian a hound of solid bronze a foot in length, with a collar of
silver, to his shrine in St. Faith&rsquo;s, in token of my deliverance
in body and goods!&nbsp; To London are ye bound?&nbsp; Then will we
journey on together!&rdquo;</p>
<p>They were by this time near the porch of a large country hostel,
from the doors and large bay window of which light streamed out.&nbsp;
And as the casement was open, those without could both see and hear
all that was passing within.</p>
<p>The table was laid for supper, and in the place of honour sat a youth
of some seventeen or eighteen years, gaily dressed, with a little feather
curling over his crimson cap, and thus discoursing:&mdash;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yea, my good host, two of the rogues bear my tokens, besides
him whom I felled to the earth.&nbsp; He came on at me with his sword,
but I had my point ready for him; and down he went before me like an
ox.&nbsp; Then came on another, but him I dealt with by the back stroke
as used in the tilt-yard at Clarendon.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I trow we shall know him again, sir.&nbsp; Holy saints! to
think such rascals should haunt so nigh us,&rdquo; the hostess was exclaiming.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Pity for the poor goodman, Master Headley.&nbsp; A portly burgher
was he, friendly of tongue and free of purse.&nbsp; I well remember
him when he went forth on his way to Salisbury, little thinking, poor
soul, what was before him.&nbsp; And is he truly sped?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I tell thee, good woman, I saw him go down before three of
their pikes.&nbsp; What more could I do but drive my horse over the
nearest rogue who was rifling him?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;If he were still alive&mdash;which Our Lady grant!&mdash;the
knaves will hold him to ransom,&rdquo; quoth the host, as he placed
a tankard on the table.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am afraid he is past ransom,&rdquo; said the youth, shaking
his head.&nbsp; &ldquo;But an if he be still in the rogues&rsquo; hands
and living, I will get me on to his house in Cheapside, and arrange
with his mother to find the needful sum, as befits me, I being his heir
and about to wed his daughter.&nbsp; However, I shall do all that in
me lies to get the poor old seignior out of the hands of the rogues.&nbsp;
Saints defend me!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;The poor old seignior is much beholden to thee,&rdquo; said
Master Headley, advancing amid a clamour of exclamations from three
or four serving-men or grooms, one protesting that he thought his master
was with him, another that his horse ran away with him, one showing
an arm which was actually being bound up, and the youth declaring that
he rode off to bring help.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well wast thou bringing it,&rdquo; Master Headley answered.&nbsp;
&ldquo;I might be still standing bound like an eagle displayed, against
yonder tree, for aught you fellows recked.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay, sir, the odds&mdash;&rdquo; began the youth.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Odds! such odds as were put to rout&mdash;by what, deem you?&nbsp;
These two striplings and one poor hound.&nbsp; Had but one of you had
the heart of a sparrow, ye had not furnished a tale to be the laugh
of the Barbican and Cheapside.&nbsp; Look well at them.&nbsp; How old
be you, my brave lads?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I shall be sixteen come Lammas day, and Stephen fifteen at
Martinmas day, sir,&rdquo; said Ambrose; &ldquo;but verily we did nought.&nbsp;
We could have done nought had not the thieves thought more were behind
us.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;There are odds between going forward and backward,&rdquo;
said Master Headley, dryly.&nbsp; &ldquo;Ha!&nbsp; Art hurt?&nbsp; Thou
bleedst,&rdquo; he exclaimed, laying his hand on Stephen&rsquo;s shoulder,
and drawing him to the light.</p>
<p>&ldquo;&rsquo;Tis no blood of mine,&rdquo; said Stephen, as Ambrose
likewise came to join in the examination.&nbsp; &ldquo;It is my poor
Spring&rsquo;s.&nbsp; He took the coward&rsquo;s blow.&nbsp; His was
all the honour, and we have left him there on the heath!&rdquo;&nbsp;
And he covered his face with his hands.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Come, come, my good child,&rdquo; said Master Headley; &ldquo;we
will back to the place by times to-morrow when rogues hide and honest
men walk abroad.&nbsp; Thou shalt bury thine hound, as befits a good
warrior, on the battle-field.&nbsp; I would fain mark his points for
the effigy we will frame, honest Tibble, for St. Julian.&nbsp; And mark
ye, fellows, thou godson Giles, above all, who &rsquo;tis that boast
of their valour, and who &rsquo;tis that be modest of speech.&nbsp;
Yea, thanks, mine host.&nbsp; Let us to a chamber, and give us water
to wash away soil of travel and of fray, and then to supper.&nbsp; Young
masters, ye are my guests.&nbsp; Shame were it that Giles Headley let
go farther them that have, under Heaven and St. Julian, saved him in
life, limb, and purse.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The inn was large, being the resort of many travellers from the south,
often of nobles and knights riding to Parliament, and thus the brothers
found themselves accommodated with a chamber, where they could prepare
for the meal, while Ambrose tried to console his brother by representing
that, after all, poor Spring had died gallantly, and with far less pain
than if he had suffered a wasting old age, besides being honoured for
ever by his effigy in St. Faith&rsquo;s, wherever that might be, the
idea which chiefly contributed to console his master.</p>
<p>The two boys appeared in the room of the inn looking so unlike the
dusty, blood-stained pair who had entered, that Master Headley took
a second glance to convince himself that they were the same, before
beckoning them to seats on either side of him, saying that he must know
more of them, and bidding the host load their trenchers well from the
grand fabric of beef-pasty which had been set at the end of the board.&nbsp;
The runaways, four or five in number, herded together lower down, with
a few travellers of lower degree, all except the youth who had been
boasting before their arrival, and who retained his seat at the board,
thumping it with the handle of his knife to show his impatience for
the commencement of supper; and not far off sat Tibble, the same who
had hailed their arrival, a thin, slight, one-sided looking person,
with a terrible red withered scar on one cheek, drawing the corner of
his mouth awry.&nbsp; He, like Master Headley himself, and the rest
of his party were clad in red, guarded with white, and wore the cross
of St. George on the white border of their flat crimson caps, being
no doubt in the livery of their Company.&nbsp; The citizen himself,
having in the meantime drawn his conclusions from the air and gestures
of the brothers, and their mode of dealing with their food, asked the
usual question in an affirmative tone, &ldquo;Ye be of gentle blood,
young sirs?&rdquo;</p>
<p>To which they replied by giving their names, and explaining that
they were journeying from the New Forest to find their uncle in the
train of the Archbishop of York.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Birkenholt,&rdquo; said Tibble, meditatively.&nbsp; &ldquo;He
beareth vert, a buck&rsquo;s head proper, on a chief argent, two arrows
in saltire.&nbsp; Crest, a buck courant, pierced in the gorge by an
arrow, all proper.&rdquo;</p>
<p>To which the brothers returned by displaying the handles of their
knives, both of which bore the pierced and courant buck.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ay, ay,&rdquo; said the man.&nbsp; &ldquo;&rsquo;Twill be
found in our books, sir.&nbsp; We painted the shield and new-crested
the morion the first year of my prenticeship, when the Earl of Richmond,
the late King Harry of blessed memory, had newly landed at Milford Haven.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Verily,&rdquo; said Ambrose, &ldquo;our uncle Richard Birkenholt
fought at Bosworth under Sir Richard Pole&rsquo;s banner.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;A tall and stalwart esquire, methinks,&rdquo; said Master
Headley.&nbsp; &ldquo;Is he the kinsman you seek?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Not so, sir.&nbsp; We visited him at Winchester, and found
him sorely old and with failing wits.&nbsp; We be on our way to our
mother&rsquo;s brother, Master Harry Randall.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Is he clerk or layman?&nbsp; My Lord of York entertaineth
enow of both,&rdquo; said Master Headley.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Lay assuredly, sir,&rdquo; returned Stephen; &ldquo;I trust
to him to find me some preferment as page or the like.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Know&rsquo;st thou the man, Tibble?&rdquo; inquired the master.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Not among the men-at-arms, sir,&rdquo; was the answer; &ldquo;but
there be a many of them whose right names we never hear.&nbsp; However,
he will be easily found if my Lord of York be returned from Windsor
with his train.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then will we go forward together, my young Masters Birkenholt.&nbsp;
I am not going to part with my doughty champions!&rdquo;&mdash;patting
Stephen&rsquo;s shoulder.&nbsp; &ldquo;Ye&rsquo;d not think that these
light-heeled knaves belonged to the brave craft of armourers?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Certainly not,&rdquo; thought the lads, whose notion of armourers
was derived from the brawny blacksmith of Lyndhurst, who sharpened their
boar spears and shod their horses.&nbsp; They made some kind of assent,
and Master Headley went on.&nbsp; &ldquo;These be the times!&nbsp; This
is what peace hath brought us to!&nbsp; I am called down to Salisbury
to take charge of the goods, chattels, and estate of my kinsman, Robert
Headley&mdash;Saints rest his soul!&mdash;and to bring home yonder spark,
my godson, whose indentures have been made over to me.&nbsp; And I may
not ride a mile after sunset without being set upon by a sort of robbers,
who must have guessed over-well what a pack of cowards they had to deal
with.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sir,&rdquo; cried the younger Giles, &ldquo;I swear to you
that I struck right and left.&nbsp; I did all that man could do, but
these rogues of serving-men, they fled, and dragged me along with them,
and I deemed you were of our company till we dismounted.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Did you so?&nbsp; Methought anon you saw me go down with three
pikes in my breast.&nbsp; Come, come, godson Giles, speech will not
mend it!&nbsp; Thou art but a green, town-bred lad, a mother&rsquo;s
darling, and mayst be a brave man yet, only don&rsquo;t dread to tell
the honest truth that you were afeard, as many a better man might be.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The host chimed in with tales of the thieves and outlaws who then,
and indeed for many later generations, infested Bagshot heath, and the
wild moorland tracks around.&nbsp; He seemed to think that the travellers
had had a hair&rsquo;s-breadth escape, and that a few seconds&rsquo;
more delay might have revealed the weakness of the rescuers and have
been fatal to them.</p>
<p>However there was no danger so near the village in the morning, and,
somewhat to Stephen&rsquo;s annoyance, the whole place turned out to
inspect the spot, and behold the burial of poor Spring, who was found
stretched on the heather, just as he had been left the night before.&nbsp;
He was interred under the stunted oak where Master Headley had been
tied.&nbsp; While the grave was dug with a spade borrowed at the inn,
Ambrose undertook to cut out the dog&rsquo;s name on the bark, but he
had hardly made the first incision when Tibble, the singed foreman,
offered to do it for him, and made a much more sightly inscription than
he could have done.&nbsp; Master Headley&rsquo;s sword was found honourably
broken under the tree, and was reserved to form a base for his intended
<i>ex voto</i>.&nbsp; He uttered the vow in due form like a funeral
oration, when Stephen, with a swelling heart, had laid the companion
of his life in the little grave, which was speedily covered in.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER V.&nbsp; THE DRAGON COURT</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&ldquo;A citizen<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Of
credit and renown;<br />A trainband captain eke was he<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Of
famous London town.&rdquo;</p>
<p>COWPER.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>In spite of his satisfaction at the honourable obsequies of his dog,
Stephen Birkenholt would fain have been independent, and thought it
provoking and strange that every one should want to direct his movements,
and assume the charge of one so well able to take care of himself; but
he could not escape as he had done before from the Warden of St. Elizabeth,
for Ambrose had readily accepted the proposal that they should travel
in Master Headley&rsquo;s company, only objecting that they were on
foot; on which the good citizen hired a couple of hackneys for them.</p>
<p>Besides the two Giles Headleys, the party consisted of Tibble, the
scarred and withered foreman, two grooms, and two serving-men, all armed
with the swords and bucklers of which they had made so little use.&nbsp;
It appeared in process of time that the two namesakes, besides being
godfather and godson, were cousins, and that Robert, the father of the
younger one, had, after his apprenticeship in the paternal establishment
at Salisbury, served for a couple of years in the London workshop of
his kinsman to learn the latest improvements in weapons.&nbsp; This
had laid the foundation of a friendship which had lasted through life,
though the London cousin had been as prosperous as the country one had
been the reverse.&nbsp; The provincial trade in arms declined with the
close of the York and Lancaster wars.&nbsp; Men were not permitted to
turn from one handicraft to another, and Robert Headley had neither
aptitude nor resources.&nbsp; His wife was vain and thriftless, and
he finally broke down under his difficulties, appointing by will his
cousin to act as his executor, and to take charge of his only son, who
had served out half his time as apprentice to himself.&nbsp; There had
been delay until the peace with France had given the armourer some leisure
for an expedition to Salisbury, a serious undertaking for a London burgess,
who had little about him of the ancient northern weapon-smith, and had
wanted to avail himself of the protection of the suite of the Bishop
of Salisbury, returning from Parliament.&nbsp; He had spent some weeks
in disposing of his cousin&rsquo;s stock in trade, which was far too
antiquated for the London market; also of the premises, which were bought
by an adjoining convent to extend its garden; and he had divided the
proceeds between the widow and children.&nbsp; He had presided at the
wedding of the last daughter, with whom the mother was to reside, and
was on his way back to London with his godson, who had now become his
apprentice.</p>
<p>Giles Headley the younger was a fine tall youth, but clumsy and untrained
in the use of his limbs, and he rode a large, powerful brown horse,
which brooked no companionship, lashing out with its shaggy hoofs at
any of its kind that approached it, more especially at poor, plump,
mottled Poppet.&nbsp; The men said he had insisted on retaining that,
and no other, for his journey to London, contrary to all advice, and
he was obliged to ride foremost, alone in the middle of the road; while
Master Headley seemed to have an immense quantity of consultation to
carry on with his foreman, Tibble, whose quiet-looking brown animal
was evidently on the best of terms with Poppet.&nbsp; By daylight Tibble
looked even more sallow, lean, and sickly, and Stephen could not help
saying to the serving-man nearest to him, &ldquo;Can such a weakling
verily be an armourer?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yea, sir.&nbsp; Wry-mouthed Tibble, as they call him, was
a sturdy fellow till he got a fell against the mouth of a furnace, and
lay ten months in St. Bartholomew&rsquo;s Spital, scarce moving hand
or foot.&nbsp; He cannot wield a hammer, but he has a cunning hand for
gilding, and coloured devices, and is as good as Garter-king-at-arms
himself for all bearings of knights and nobles.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;As we heard last night,&rdquo; said Stephen.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Moreover in the spital he learnt to write and cast accompts
like a very scrivener, and the master trusts him more than any, except
maybe Kit Smallbones, the head smith.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What will Smallbones think of the new prentice!&rdquo; said
one of the other men.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Prentice!&nbsp; &rsquo;Tis plain enough what sort of prentice
the youth is like to be who beareth the name of a master with one only
daughter.&rdquo;</p>
<p>An emphatic grunt was the only answer, while Ambrose pondered on
the good luck of some people, who had their futures cut out for them
with no trouble on their own part.</p>
<p>This day&rsquo;s ride was through more inhabited parts, and was esteemed
less perilous.&nbsp; They came in sight of the Thames at Lambeth, but
Master Headley, remembering how ill his beloved Poppet had brooked the
ferry, decided to keep to the south of the river by a causeway across
Lambeth marsh, which was just passable in high and dry summers, and
which conducted them to a raised road called Bankside, where they looked
across to the towers of Westminster, and the Abbey in its beauty dawned
on the imagination of Stephen and Ambrose.&nbsp; The royal standard
floated over the palace, whence Master Headley perceived that the King
was there, and augured that my Lord of York&rsquo;s mein&eacute; would
not be far to seek.&nbsp; Then came broad green fields with young corn
growing, or hay waving for the scythe, the tents and booths of May Fair,
and the beautiful Market Cross in the midst of the village of Charing,
while the Strand, immediately opposite, began to be fringed with great
monasteries within their ample gardens, with here and there a nobleman&rsquo;s
castellated house and terraced garden, with broad stone stairs leading
to the Thames.</p>
<p>Barges and wherries plied up and down, the former often gaily canopied
and propelled by liveried oarsmen, all plying their arms in unison,
so that the vessel looked like some brilliant many-limbed creature treading
the water.&nbsp; Presently appeared the heavy walls inclosing the City
itself, dominated by the tall openwork timber spire of St. Paul&rsquo;s,
with the foursquare, four-turreted Tower acting, as it has been well
said, as a padlock to a chain, and the river&rsquo;s breadth spanned
by London bridge, a very street of houses built on the abutments.&nbsp;
Now, Bankside had houses on each side of the road, and Wry-mouthed Tibble
showed evident satisfaction when they turned to cross the bridge, where
they had to ride in single file, not without some refractoriness on
the part of young Headley&rsquo;s steed.</p>
<p>On they went, now along streets where each story of the tall houses
projected over the last, so that the gables seemed ready to meet; now
beside walls of convent gardens, now past churches, while the country
lads felt bewildered with the numbers passing to and fro, and the air
was full of bells.</p>
<p>Cap after cap was lifted in greeting to Master Headley by burgess,
artisan, or apprentice, and many times did he draw Poppet&rsquo;s rein
to exchange greetings and receive congratulations on his return.&nbsp;
On reaching St. Paul&rsquo;s Minster, he halted and bade the servants
take home the horses, and tell the mistress, with his dutiful greetings,
that he should be at home anon, and with guests.</p>
<p>&ldquo;We must e&rsquo;en return thanks for our safe journey and
great deliverance,&rdquo; he said to his young companions, and thrusting
his arm into that of a russet-vested citizen, who met him at the door,
he walked into the cathedral, recounting his adventure.</p>
<p>The youths followed with some difficulty through the stream of loiterers
in the nave, Giles the younger elbowing and pushing so that several
of the crowd turned to look at him, and it was well that his kinsman
soon astonished him by descending a stair into a crypt, with solid,
short, clustered columns, and high-pitched vaulting, fitted up as a
separate church, namely that of the parish of St. Faith.&nbsp; The great
cathedral, having absorbed the site of the original church, had given
this crypt to the parishioners.&nbsp; Here all was quiet and solemn,
in marked contrast to the hubbub in &ldquo;Paul&rsquo;s Walk,&rdquo;
above in the nave.&nbsp; Against the eastern pillar of one of the bays
was a little altar, and the decorations included St. Julian, the patron
of travellers, with his saltire doubly crossed, and his stag beside
him.&nbsp; Little ships, trees, and wonderful enamelled representations
of perils by robbers, field and flood, hung thickly on St. Julian&rsquo;s
pillar, and on the wall and splay of the window beside it; and here,
after crossing himself, Master Headley rapidly repeated a Paternoster,
and ratified his vow of presenting a bronze image of the hound to whom
he owed his rescue.&nbsp; One of the clergy came up to register the
vow, and the good armourer proceeded to bespeak a mass of thanksgiving
on the next morning, also ten for the soul of Master John Birkenholt,
late Verdurer of the New Forest in Hampshire&mdash;a mode of showing
his gratitude which the two sons highly appreciated.</p>
<p>Then, climbing up the steps again, and emerging from the cathedral
by the west door, the boys beheld a scene for which their experiences
of Romsey, and even of Winchester, had by no means prepared them.&nbsp;
It was five o&rsquo;clock on a summer evening, so that the place was
full of stir.&nbsp; Old women sat with baskets of rosaries and little
crosses, or images of saints, on the steps of the cathedral, while in
the open space beyond, more than one horse was displaying his paces
for the benefit of some undecided purchaser, who had been chaffering
for hours in Paul&rsquo;s Walk.&nbsp; Merchants in the costume of their
countries, Lombard, Spanish, Dutch, or French, were walking away in
pairs, attended by servants, from their Exchange, likewise in the nave.&nbsp;
Women, some alone, some protected by serving-men or apprentices, were
returning from their orisons, or, it might be, from their gossipings.&nbsp;
Priests and friars, as usual, pervaded everything, and round the open
space were galleried buildings with stalls beneath them, whence the
holders were removing their wares for the night.&nbsp; The great octagonal
structure of Paul&rsquo;s Cross stood in the centre, and just beneath
the stone pulpit, where the sermons were wont to be preached, stood
a man with a throng round him, declaiming a ballad at the top of his
sing-song voice, and causing much loud laughter by some ribaldry about
monks and friars.</p>
<p>Master Headley turned aside as quickly as he could, through Paternoster
Row, which was full of stalls, where little black books, and larger
sheets printed in black-letter, seemed the staple commodities, and thence
the burgess, keeping a heedful eye on his young companions among all
his greetings, entered the broader space of Cheapside, where numerous
prentice lads seemed to be playing at different sports after the labours
of the day.</p>
<p>Passing under an archway surmounted by a dragon with shining scales,
Master Headley entered a paved courtyard, where the lads started at
the figures of two knights in full armour, their lances in rest, and
their horses with housings down to their hoofs, apparently about to
charge any intruder.&nbsp; But at that moment there was a shriek of
joy, and out from the scarlet and azure petticoats of the nearest steed,
there darted a little girl, crying, &ldquo;Father! father!&rdquo; and
in an instant she was lifted in Master Headley&rsquo;s arms, and was
clinging round his neck, while he kissed and blessed her, and as he
set her on her feet, he said, &ldquo;Here, Dennet, greet thy cousin
Giles Headley, and these two brave young gentlemen.&nbsp; Greet them
like a courteous maiden, or they will think thee a little town mouse.&rdquo;</p>
<p>In truth the child had a pointed little visage, and bright brown
eyes, somewhat like a mouse, but it was a very sweet face that she lifted
obediently to be kissed not only by the kinsman, but by the two guests.&nbsp;
Her father meantime was answering with nods to the respectful welcomes
of the workmen, who thronged out below, and their wives looking down
from the galleries above; while Poppet and the other horses were being
rubbed down after their journey.</p>
<p>The ground-floor of the buildings surrounding the oblong court seemed
to be entirely occupied by forges, workshops, warehouses and stables.&nbsp;
Above, were open railed galleries, with outside stairs at intervals,
giving access to the habitations of the workpeople on three sides.&nbsp;
The fourth, opposite to the entrance, had a much handsomer, broad, stone
stair, adorned on one side with a stone figure of the princess fleeing
from the dragon, and on the other of St. George piercing the monster&rsquo;s
open mouth with his lance, the scaly convolutions of the two dragons
forming the supports of the handrail on either side.&nbsp; Here stood,
cap in hand, showing his thick curly hair, and with open front, displaying
a huge hairy chest, a giant figure, whom his master greeted as Kit Smallbones,
inquiring whether all had gone well during his absence.&nbsp; &ldquo;&rsquo;Tis
time you were back, sir, for there&rsquo;s a great tilting match on
hand for the Lady Mary&rsquo;s wedding.&nbsp; Here have been half the
gentlemen in the Court after you, and my Lord of Buckingham sent twice
for you since Sunday, and once for Tibble Steelman, and his squire swore
that if you were not at his bidding before noon to-morrow, he would
have his new suit of Master Hillyer of the Eagle.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He shall see me when it suiteth me,&rdquo; said Mr. Headley
coolly.&nbsp; &ldquo;He wotteth well that Hillyer hath none who can
burnish plate armour like Tibble here.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Moreover the last iron we had from that knave Mepham is nought.&nbsp;
It works short under the hammer.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That shall be seen to, Kit.&nbsp; The rest of the budget to-morrow.&nbsp;
I must on to my mother.&rdquo;</p>
<p>For at the doorway, at the head of the stairs, there stood the still
trim and active figure of an old woman, with something of the mouse
likeness seen in her grand-daughter, in the close cap, high hat, and
cloth dress, that sumptuary opinion, if not law, prescribed for the
burgher matron, a white apron, silver chain and bunch of keys at her
girdle.&nbsp; Due and loving greetings passed between mother and son,
after the longest and most perilous absence of Master Headley&rsquo;s
life, and he then presented Giles, to whom the kindly dame offered hand
and cheek, saying, &ldquo;Welcome, my young kinsman, your good father
was well known and liked here.&nbsp; May you tread in his steps!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thanks, good mistress,&rdquo; returned Giles.&nbsp; &ldquo;I
am thought to have a pretty taste in the fancy part of the trade.&nbsp;
My Lord of Montagu&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>Before he could get any farther, Mistress Headley was inquiring what
was the rumour she had heard of robbers and dangers that had beset her
son, and he was presenting the two young Birkenholts to her.&nbsp; &ldquo;Brave
boys! good boys,&rdquo; she said, holding out her hands and kissing
each according to the custom of welcome, &ldquo;you have saved my son
for me, and this little one&rsquo;s father for her.&nbsp; Kiss them,
Dennet, and thank them.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It was the poor dog,&rdquo; said the child, in a clear little
voice, drawing back with a certain quaint coquetting shyness; &ldquo;I
would rather kiss him.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Would that thou couldst, little mistress,&rdquo; said Stephen.&nbsp;
&ldquo;My poor brave Spring!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Was he thine own?&nbsp; Tell me all about him,&rdquo; said
Dennet, somewhat imperiously.</p>
<p>She stood between the two strangers looking eagerly up with sorrowfully
interested eyes, while Stephen, out of his full heart, told of his faithful
comradeship with his hound from the infancy of both.&nbsp; Her father
meanwhile was exchanging serious converse with her grandmother, and
Giles finding himself left in the background, began: &ldquo;Come hither,
pretty coz, and I will tell thee of my Lady of Salisbury&rsquo;s dainty
little hounds.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I care not for dainty little hounds,&rdquo; returned Dennet;
&ldquo;I want to hear of the poor faithful dog that flew at the wicked
robber.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;A mighty stir about a mere chance,&rdquo; muttered Giles.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I know what <i>you</i> did,&rdquo; said Dennet, turning her
bright brown eyes full upon him.&nbsp; &ldquo;You took to your heels.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Her look and little nod were so irresistibly comical that the two
brothers could not help laughing; whereupon Giles Headley turned upon
them in a passion.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What mean ye by this insolence, you beggars&rsquo; brats picked
up on the heath?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Better born than thou, braggart and coward that thou art!&rdquo;
broke forth Stephen, while Master Headley exclaimed, &ldquo;How now,
lads?&nbsp; No brawling here!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Three voices spoke at once.</p>
<p>&ldquo;They were insolent.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He reviled our birth.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Father! they did but laugh when I told cousin Giles that he
took to his heels, and he must needs call them beggars&rsquo; brats
picked up on the heath.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ha! ha! wench, thou art woman enough already to set them together
by the ears,&rdquo; said her father, laughing.&nbsp; &ldquo;See here,
Giles Headley, none who bears my name shall insult a stranger on my
hearth.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Stephen however had stepped forth holding out his small stock of
coin, and saying, &ldquo;Sir, receive for our charges, and let us go
to the tavern we passed anon.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;How now, boy!&nbsp; Said I not ye were my guests?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yea, sir, and thanks; but we can give no cause for being called
beggars nor beggars&rsquo; brats.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What beggary is there in being guests, my young gentlemen?&rdquo;
said the master of the house.&nbsp; &ldquo;If any one were picked up
on the heath, it was I.&nbsp; We owned you for gentlemen of blood and
coat armour, and thy brother there can tell thee that, ye have no right
to put an affront on me, your host, because a rude prentice from a country
town hath not learnt to rule his tongue.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Giles scowled, but the armourer spoke with an authority that imposed
on all, and Stephen submitted, while Ambrose spoke a few words of thanks,
after which the two brothers were conducted by an external stair and
gallery to a guest-chamber, in which to prepare for supper.</p>
<p>The room was small, but luxuriously filled beyond all ideas of the
young foresters, for it was hung with tapestry, representing the history
of Joseph; the bed was curtained, there was a carved chest for clothes,
a table and a ewer and basin of bright brass with the armourer&rsquo;s
mark upon it, a twist in which the letter H and the dragon&rsquo;s tongue
and tail were ingeniously blended.&nbsp; The City was far in advance
of the country in all the arts of life, and only the more magnificent
castles and abbeys, which the boys had never seen, possessed the amount
of comforts to be found in the dwellings of the superior class of Londoners.&nbsp;
Stephen was inclined to look with contempt upon the effeminacy of a
churl merchant.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No churl,&rdquo; returned Ambrose, &ldquo;if manners makyth
man, as we saw at Winchester.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then what do they make of that cowardly clown, his cousin?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Ambrose laughed, but said, &ldquo;Prove we our gentle blood at least
by not brawling with the fellow.&nbsp; Master Headley will soon teach
him to know his place.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That will matter nought to us.&nbsp; To-morrow shall we be
with our uncle Hal.&nbsp; I only wish his lord was not of the ghostly
sort, but perhaps he may prefer me to some great knight&rsquo;s service.&nbsp;
But oh! Ambrose, come and look.&nbsp; See!&nbsp; The fellow they call
Smallbones is come out to the fountain in the middle of the court with
a bucket in each hand.&nbsp; Look!&nbsp; Didst ever see such a giant?&nbsp;
He is as big and brawny as Ascapart at the bar-gate at Southampton.&nbsp;
See! he lifts that big pail full and brimming as though it were an egg
shell.&nbsp; See his arm!&nbsp; &rsquo;Twere good to see him wield a
hammer!&nbsp; I must look into his smithy before going forth to-morrow.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Stephen clenched his fist and examined his muscles ere donning his
best mourning jerkin, and could scarce be persuaded to complete his
toilet, so much was he entertained with the comings and goings in the
court, a little world in itself, like a college quadrangle.&nbsp; The
day&rsquo;s work was over, the forges out, and the smiths were lounging
about at ease, one or two sitting on a bench under a large elm-tree
beside the central well, enjoying each his tankard of ale.&nbsp; A few
more were watching Poppet being combed down, and conversing with the
newly-arrived grooms.&nbsp; One was carrying a little child in his arms,
and a young man and maid sitting on the low wall round the well, seemed
to be carrying on a courtship over the pitcher that stood waiting to
be filled.&nbsp; Two lads were playing at skittles, children were running
up and down the stairs and along the wooden galleries, and men and women
went and came by the entrance gateway between the two effigies of knights
in armour.&nbsp; Some were servants bringing helm or gauntlet for repair,
or taking the like away.&nbsp; Some might be known by their flat caps
to be apprentices, and two substantial burgesses walked in together,
as if to greet Master Headley on his return.&nbsp; Immediately after,
a man-cook appeared with white cap and apron, bearing aloft a covered
dish surrounded by a steamy cloud, followed by other servants bearing
other meats; a big bell began to sound, the younger men and apprentices
gathered together and the brothers descended the stairs, and entered
by the big door into the same large hall where they had been received.&nbsp;
The spacious hearth was full of green boughs, with a beaupot of wild
rose, honeysuckle, clove pinks and gilliflowers; the lower parts of
the walls were hung with tapestry representing the adventures of St.
George; the mullioned windows had their upper squares filled with glass,
bearing the shield of the City of London, that of the Armourers&rsquo;
Company, the rose and portcullis of the King, the pomegranate of Queen
Catharine, and other like devices.&nbsp; Others, belonging to the Lancastrian
kings, adorned the pendants from the handsome open roof and the front
of a gallery for musicians which crossed one end of the hall in the
taste of the times of Henry V. and Whittington.</p>
<p>Far more interesting to the hungry travellers was it that the long
table, running the whole breadth of the apartment, was decked with snowy
linen, trenchers stood ready with horns or tankards beside them, and
loaves of bread at intervals, while the dishes were being placed on
the table.&nbsp; The master and his entire establishment took their
meals together, except the married men, who lived in the quadrangle
with their families.&nbsp; There was no division by the salt-cellar,
as at the tables of the nobles and gentry, but the master, his family
and guests, occupied the centre, with the hearth behind them, where
the choicest of the viands were placed; next after them were the places
of the journeymen according to seniority, then those of the apprentices,
household servants, and stable-men, but the apprentices had to assist
the serving-men in waiting on the master and his party before sitting
down themselves.&nbsp; There was a dignity and regularity about the
whole, which could not fail to impress Stephen and Ambrose with the
weight and importance of a London burgher, warden of the Armourers&rsquo;
Company, and alderman of the Ward of Cheap.&nbsp; There were carved
chairs for himself, his mother, and the guests, also a small Persian
carpet extending from the hearth beyond their seats.&nbsp; This article
filled the two foresters with amazement.&nbsp; To put one&rsquo;s feet
on what ought to be a coverlet!&nbsp; They would not have stepped on
it, had they not been kindly summoned by old Mistress Headley to take
their places among the company, which consisted, besides the family,
of the two citizens who had entered, and of a priest who had likewise
dropped in to welcome Master Headley&rsquo;s return, and had been invited
to stay to supper.&nbsp; Young Giles, as a matter of course, placed
himself amongst them, at which there were black looks and whispers among
the apprentices, and even Mistress Headley wore an air of amazement.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Mother,&rdquo; said the head of the family, speaking loud
enough for all to hear, &ldquo;you will permit our young kinsman to
be placed as our guest this evening.&nbsp; To-morrow he will act as
an apprentice, as we all have done in our time.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I never did so at home!&rdquo; cried Giles, in his loud, hasty
voice.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I trow not,&rdquo; dryly observed one of the guests.</p>
<p>Giles, however, went on muttering while the priest was pronouncing
a Latin grace, and thereupon the same burgess observed, &ldquo;Never
did I see it better proved that folk in the country give their sons
no good breeding.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Have patience with him, good Master Pepper,&rdquo; returned
Mr. Headley.&nbsp; &ldquo;He hath been an only son, greatly cockered
by father, mother, and sisters, but ere long he will learn what is befiting.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Giles glared round, but he met nothing encouraging.&nbsp; Little
Dennet sat with open mouth of astonishment, her grandmother looked shocked,
the household which had been aggrieved by his presumption laughed at
his rebuke, for there was not much delicacy in those days; but something
generous in the gentle blood of Ambrose moved him to some amount of
pity for the lad, who thus suddenly became conscious that the tie he
had thought nominal at Salisbury, a mere preliminary to municipal rank,
was here absolute subjection, and a bondage whence there was no escape.&nbsp;
His was the only face that Giles met which had any friendliness in it,
but no one spoke, for manners imposed silence upon youth at table, except
when spoken to; and there was general hunger enough prevailing to make
Mistress Headley&rsquo;s fat capon the most interesting contemplation
for the present.</p>
<p>The elders conversed, for there was much for Master Headley to hear
of civic affairs that had passed in his absence of two months, also
of all the comings and goings, and it was ascertained that my Lord Archbishop
of York was at his suburban abode, York House, now Whitehall.</p>
<p>It was a very late supper for the times, not beginning till seven
o&rsquo;clock, on account of the travellers; and as soon as it was finished,
and the priest and burghers had taken their leave, Master Headley dismissed
the household to their beds, although daylight was scarcely departed.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER VI.&nbsp; A SUNDAY IN THE CITY</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>&ldquo;The rod of Heaven has touched them all,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The
word from Heaven is spoken:<br />Rise, shine and sing, thou captive
thrall,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Are not thy fetters broken?&rdquo;</p>
<p>KEBLE.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>On Sunday morning, when the young Birkenholts awoke, the whole air
seemed full of bells from hundreds of Church and Minster steeples.&nbsp;
The Dragon Court wore a holiday air, and there was no ring of hammers
at the forges; but the men who stood about were in holiday attire: and
the brothers assumed their best clothes.</p>
<p>Breakfast was not a meal much accounted of.&nbsp; It was reckoned
effeminate to require more than two meals a day, though, just as in
the verdurer&rsquo;s lodge at home, there was a barrel of ale on tap
with drinking horns beside it in the hall, and on a small round table
in the window a loaf of bread, to which city luxury added a cheese,
and a jug containing sack, with some silver cups beside it, and a pitcher
of fair water.&nbsp; Master Headley, with his mother and daughter, was
taking a morsel of these refections, standing, and in out-door garments,
when the brothers appeared at about seven o&rsquo;clock in the morning.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ha! that&rsquo;s well,&rdquo; quoth he, greeting them.&nbsp;
&ldquo;No slugabeds, I see.&nbsp; Will ye come with us to hear mass
at St. Faith&rsquo;s?&rdquo;&nbsp; They agreed, and Master Headley then
told them that if they would tarry till the next day in searching out
their uncle, they could have the company of Tibble Steelman, who had
to see one of the captains of the guard about an alteration of his corslet,
and thus would have every opportunity of facilitating their inquiries
for their uncle.</p>
<p>The mass was an ornate one, though not more so than they were accustomed
to at Beaulieu.&nbsp; Ambrose had his book of devotions, supplied by
the good monks who had brought him up, and old Mrs. Headley carried
something of the same kind; but these did not necessarily follow the
ritual, and neither quiet nor attention was regarded as requisite in
&ldquo;hearing mass.&rdquo;&nbsp; Dennet, unchecked, was exchanging
flowers from her Sunday posy with another little girl, and with hooded
fingers carrying on in all innocence the satirical pantomime of Father
Francis and Sister Catharine; and even Master Headley himself exchanged
remarks with his friends, and returned greetings from burgesses and
their wives while the celebrant priest&rsquo;s voice droned on, and
the choir responded&mdash;the peals of the organ in the Minster above
coming in at inappropriate moments, for there they were in a different
part of High Mass using the Liturgy peculiar to St. Paul&rsquo;s.</p>
<p>Thinking of last week at Beaulieu, Ambrose knelt meantime with his
head buried in his hands, in an absorption of feeling that was not perhaps
wholly devout, but which at any rate looked more like devotion than
the demeanour of any one around.&nbsp; When the <i>Ite missa est</i>
was pronounced, and all rose up, Stephen touched him and he rose, looking
about, bewildered.</p>
<p>&ldquo;So please you, young sir, I can show you another sort of thing
by and by,&rdquo; said in his ear Tibble Steelman, who had come in late,
and marked his attitude.</p>
<p>They went up from St. Faith&rsquo;s in a flood of talk, with all
manner of people welcoming Master Headley after his journey, and thence
came back to dinner which was set out in the hall very soon after their
return from church.&nbsp; Quite guests enough were there on this occasion
to fill all the chairs, and Master Headley intimated to Giles that he
must begin his duties at table as an apprentice, under the tuition of
the senior, a tall young fellow of nineteen, by name Edmund Burgess.&nbsp;
He looked greatly injured and discomfited, above all when he saw his
two travelling companions seated at the table&mdash;though far lower
than the night before; nor would he stir from where he was standing
against the wall to do the slightest service, although Edmund admonished
him sharply that unless he bestirred himself it would be the worse for
him.</p>
<p>When the meal was over, and grace had been said, the boards were
removed from their trestles, and the elders drew round the small table
in the window with a flagon of sack and a plate of wastel bread in their
midst to continue their discussion of weighty Town Council matters.&nbsp;
Every one was free to make holiday, and Edmund Burgess good-naturedly
invited the strangers to come to Mile End, where there was to be shooting
at the butts, and a match at singlestick was to come off between Kit
Smallbones and another giant, who was regarded as the champion of the
brewer&rsquo;s craft.</p>
<p>Stephen was nothing loth, especially if he might take his own crossbow;
but Ambrose never had much turn for these pastimes and was in no mood
for them.&nbsp; The familiar associations of the mass had brought the
grief of orphanhood, homelessness, and uncertainty upon him with the
more force.&nbsp; His spirit yearned after his father, and his heart
was sick for his forest home.&nbsp; Moreover, there was the duty incumbent
on a good son of saying his prayers for the repose of his father&rsquo;s
soul.&nbsp; He hinted as much to Stephen, who, boy-like, answered, &ldquo;Oh,
we&rsquo;ll see to that when we get into my Lord of York&rsquo;s house.&nbsp;
Masses must be plenty there.&nbsp; And I must see Smallbones floor the
brewer.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Ambrose could trust his brother under the care of Edmund Burgess,
and resolved on a double amount of repetitions of the appointed intercessions
for the departed.</p>
<p>He was watching the party of youths set off, all except Giles Headley,
who sulkily refused the invitations, betook himself to a window and
sat drumming on the glass, while Ambrose stood leaning on the dragon
balustrade, with his eyes dreamily following the merry lads out at the
gateway.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You are not for such gear, sir,&rdquo; said a voice at his
ear, and he saw the scathed face of Tibble Steelman beside him.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Never greatly so, Tibble,&rdquo; answered Ambrose.&nbsp; &ldquo;And
my heart is too heavy for it now.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ay, ay, sir.&nbsp; So I thought when I saw you in St. Faith&rsquo;s.&nbsp;
I have known what it was to lose a good father in my time.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Ambrose held out his hand.&nbsp; It was the first really sympathetic
word he had heard since he had left Nurse Joan.</p>
<p>&ldquo;&rsquo;Tis the week&rsquo;s mind of his burial,&rdquo; he
said, half choked with tears.&nbsp; &ldquo;Where shall I find a quiet
church where I may say his <i>De profundis</i> in peace?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Mayhap,&rdquo; returned Tibble, &ldquo;the chapel in the Pardon
churchyard would serve your turn.&nbsp; &rsquo;Tis not greatly resorted
to when mass time is over, when there&rsquo;s no funeral in hand, and
I oft go there to read my book in quiet on a Sunday afternoon.&nbsp;
And then, if &rsquo;tis your will, I will take you to what to my mind
is the best healing for a sore heart.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nurse Joan was wont to say the best for that was a sight of
the true Cross, as she once beheld it at Holy Rood church at Southampton,&rdquo;
said Ambrose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;And so it is, lad, so it is,&rdquo; said Tibble, with a strange
light on his distorted features.</p>
<p>So they went forth together, while Giles again hugged himself in
his doleful conceit, marvelling how a youth of birth and nurture could
walk the streets on a Sunday with a scarecrow such as that!</p>
<p>The hour was still early, there was a whole summer afternoon before
them; and Tibble, seeing how much his young companion was struck with
the grand vista of church towers and spires, gave him their names as
they stood, though coupling them with short dry comments on the way
in which their priests too often perverted them.</p>
<p>The Cheap was then still in great part an open space, where boys
were playing, and a tumbler was attracting many spectators; while the
ballad-singer of yesterday had again a large audience, who laughed loudly
at every coarse jest broken upon mass-priests and friars.</p>
<p>Ambrose was horrified at the stave that met his ears, and asked how
such profanity could be allowed.&nbsp; Tibble shrugged his shoulders,
and cited the old saying, &ldquo;The nearer the church&rdquo;&mdash;adding,
&ldquo;Truth hath a voice, and will out.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But surely this is not the truth?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;&rsquo;Tis mighty like it, sir, though it might be spoken
in a more seemly fashion.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What&rsquo;s this?&rdquo; demanded Ambrose.&nbsp; &ldquo;&rsquo;Tis
a noble house.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That&rsquo;s the Bishop&rsquo;s palace, sir&mdash;a man that
hath much to answer for.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Liveth he so ill a life then?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Not so.&nbsp; He is no scandalous liver, but he would fain
stifle all the voices that call for better things.&nbsp; Ay, you look
back at yon ballad-monger!&nbsp; Great folk despise the like of him,
never guessing at the power there may be in such ribald stuff; while
they would fain silence that which might turn men from their evil ways
while yet there is time.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Tibble muttered this to himself, unheeded by Ambrose, and then presently
crossing the church-yard, where a grave was being filled up, with numerous
idle children around it, he conducted the youth into a curious little
chapel, empty now, but with the Host enthroned above the altar, and
the trestles on which the bier had rested still standing in the narrow
nave.</p>
<p>It was intensely still and cool, a fit place indeed for Ambrose&rsquo;s
filial devotions, while Tibble settled himself on the step, took out
a little black book, and became absorbed.&nbsp; Ambrose&rsquo;s Latin
scholarship enabled him to comprehend the language of the round of devotions
he was rehearsing for the benefit of his father&rsquo;s soul; but there
was much repetition in them, and he had been so trained as to believe
their correct recital was much more important than attention to their
spirit, and thus, while his hands held his rosary, his eyes were fixed
upon the walls where was depicted the Dance of Death.&nbsp; In terrible
repetition, the artist had aimed at depicting every rank or class in
life as alike the prey of the grisly phantom.&nbsp; Triple-crowned pope,
scarlet-hatted cardinal, mitred prelate, priests, monks, and friars
of every degree; emperors, kings, princes, nobles, knights, squires,
yeomen, every sort of trade, soldiers of all kinds, beggars, even thieves
and murderers, and, in like manner, ladies of every degree, from the
queen and the abbess, down to the starving beggar, were each represented
as grappled with, and carried off by the crowned skeleton.&nbsp; There
was no truckling to greatness.&nbsp; The bishop and abbot writhed and
struggled in the grasp of Death, while the miser clutched at his gold,
and if there were some nuns, and some poor ploughmen who willingly clasped
his bony fingers and obeyed his summons joyfully, there were countesses
and prioresses who tried to beat him off, or implored him to wait.&nbsp;
The infant smiled in his arms, but the middle-aged fought against his
scythe.</p>
<p>The contemplation had a most depressing effect on the boy, whose
heart was still sore for his father.&nbsp; After the sudden shock of
such a loss, the monotonous repetition of the snatching away of all
alike, in the midst of their characteristic worldly employments, and
the anguish and hopeless resistance of most of them, struck him to the
heart.&nbsp; He moved between each bead to a fresh group; staring at
it with fixed gaze, while his lips moved in the unconscious hope of
something consoling; till at last, hearing some uncontrollable sobs,
Tibble Steelman rose and found him crouching rather than kneeling before
the figure of an emaciated hermit, who was greeting the summons of the
King of Terrors, with crucifix pressed to his breast, rapt countenance
and outstretched arms, seeing only the Angel who hovered above.&nbsp;
After some minutes of bitter weeping, which choked his utterance, Ambrose,
feeling a friendly hand on his shoulder, exclaimed in a voice broken
by sobs, &ldquo;Oh, tell me, where may I go to become an anchorite!&nbsp;
There&rsquo;s no other safety!&nbsp; I&rsquo;ll give all my portion,
and spend all my time in prayer for my father and the other poor souls
in purgatory.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Two centuries earlier, nay, even one, Ambrose would have been encouraged
to follow out his purpose.&nbsp; As it was, Tibble gave a little dry
cough and said, &ldquo;Come along with me, sir, and I&rsquo;ll show
you another sort of way.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I want no entertainment!&rdquo; said Ambrose, &ldquo;I should
feel only as if he,&rdquo; pointing to the phantom, &ldquo;were at hand,
clutching me with his deadly claw,&rdquo; and he looked over his shoulder
with a shudder.</p>
<p>There was a box by the door to receive alms for masses on behalf
of the souls in purgatory, and here he halted and felt for the pouch
at his girdle, to pour in all the contents; but Steelman said, &ldquo;Hold,
sir, are you free to dispose of your brother&rsquo;s share, you who
are purse-bearer for both?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I would fain hold my brother to the only path of safety.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Again Tibble gave his dry cough, but added, &ldquo;He is not in the
path of safety who bestows that which is not his own but is held in
trust.&nbsp; I were foully to blame if I let this grim portrayal so
work on you as to lead you to beggar not only yourself, but your brother,
with no consent of his.&rdquo;</p>
<p>For Tibble was no impulsive Italian, but a sober-minded Englishman
of sturdy good sense, and Ambrose was reasonable enough to listen and
only drop in a few groats which he knew to be his own.</p>
<p>At the same moment, a church bell was heard, the tone of which Steelman
evidently distinguished from all the others, and he led the way out
of the Pardon churchyard, over the space in front of St. Paul&rsquo;s.&nbsp;
Many persons were taking the same route; citizens in gowns and gold
or silver chains, their wives in tall pointed hats; craftsmen, black-gowned
scholarly men with fur caps, but there was a much more scanty proportion
of priests, monks or friars, than was usual in any popular assemblage.&nbsp;
Many of the better class of women carried folding stools, or had them
carried by their servants, as if they expected to sit and wait.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Is there a procession toward? or a relic to be displayed?&rdquo;
asked Ambrose, trying to recollect whose feast-day it might be.</p>
<p>Tibble screwed up his mouth in an extraordinary smile as he said,
&ldquo;Relic quotha? yea, the soothest relic there be of the Lord and
Master of us all.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Methought the true Cross was always displayed on the High
Altar,&rdquo; said Ambrose, as all turned to a side aisle of the noble
nave.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Rather say hidden,&rdquo; muttered Tibble.&nbsp; &ldquo;Thou
shalt have it displayed, young sir, but neither in wood nor gilded shrine.&nbsp;
See, here he comes who setteth it forth.&rdquo;</p>
<p>From the choir came, attended by half a dozen clergy, a small, pale
man, in the ordinary dress of a priest, with a square cap on his head.&nbsp;
He looked spare, sickly, and wrinkled, but the furrows traced lines
of sweetness, his mouth was wonderfully gentle, and there was a keen
brightness about his clear grey eye.&nbsp; Every one rose and made obeisance
as he passed along to the stone stair leading to a pulpit projecting
from one of the columns.</p>
<p>Ambrose saw what was coming, though he had only twice before heard
preaching.&nbsp; The children of the ante-reformation were not called
upon to hear sermons; and the few exhortations given in Lent to the
monks of Beaulieu were so exclusively for the religious that seculars
were not invited to them.&nbsp; So that Ambrose had only once heard
a weary and heavy discourse there plentifully garnished with Latin;
and once he had stood among the throng at a wake at Millbrook, and heard
a begging friar recommend the purchase of briefs of indulgence and the
daily repetition of the Ave Maria by a series of extraordinary miracles
for the rescue of desperate sinners, related so jocosely as to keep
the crowd in a roar of laughter.&nbsp; He had laughed with the rest,
but he could not imagine his guide, with the stern, grave eyebrows,
writhen features and earnest, ironical tone, covering&mdash;as even
he could detect&mdash;the deepest feeling, enjoying such broad sallies
as tickled the slow merriment of village clowns and forest deer-stealers.</p>
<p>All stood for a moment while the Paternoster was repeated.&nbsp;
Then the owners of stools sat down on them, some leant on adjacent pillars,
others curled themselves on the floor, but most remained on their feet
as unwilling to miss a word, and of these were Tibble Steelman and his
companion.</p>
<p><i>Omnis qui facit peccatum, servus est peccati</i>, followed by
the rendering in English, &ldquo;Whosoever doeth sin is sin&rsquo;s
bond thrall.&rdquo;&nbsp; The words answered well to the ghastly delineations
that seemed stamped on Ambrose&rsquo;s brain and which followed him
about into the nave, so that he felt himself in the grasp of the cruel
fiend, and almost expected to feel the skeleton claw of Death about
to hand him over to torment.&nbsp; He expected the consolation of hearing
that a daily &ldquo;Hail Mary,&rdquo; persevered in through the foulest
life, would obtain that beams should be arrested in their fall, ships
fail to sink, cords to hang, till such confession had been made as should
insure ultimate salvation, after such a proportion of the flames of
purgatory as masses and prayers might not mitigate.</p>
<p>But his attention was soon caught.&nbsp; Sinfulness stood before
him not as the liability to penalty for transgressing an arbitrary rule,
but as a taint to the entire being, mastering the will, perverting the
senses, forging fetters out of habit, so as to be a loathsome horror
paralysing and enchaining the whole being and making it into the likeness
of him who brought sin and death into the world.&nbsp; The horror seemed
to grow on Ambrose, as his boyish faults and errors rushed on his mind,
and he felt pervaded by the contagion of the pestilence, abhorrent even
to himself.&nbsp; But behold, what was he hearing now?&nbsp; &ldquo;The
bond thrall abideth not in the house for ever, but the Son abideth ever.&nbsp;
<i>Si ergo Filius liberavit, ver&egrave; liberi eritis</i>.&rdquo;&nbsp;
&ldquo;If the Son should make you free, then are ye free indeed.&rdquo;&nbsp;
And for the first time was the true liberty of the redeemed soul comprehensibly
proclaimed to the young spirit that had begun to yearn for something
beyond the outside.&nbsp; Light began to shine through the outward ordinances;
the Church; the world, life, and death, were revealed as something absolutely
new; a redeeming, cleansing, sanctifying power was made known, and seemed
to inspire him with a new life, joy, and hope.&nbsp; He was no longer
feeling himself necessarily crushed by the fetters of death, or only
delivered from absolute peril by a mechanism that had lost its heart,
but he could enter into the glorious liberty of the sons of God, in
process of being saved, not in sin but <i>from</i> sin.</p>
<p>It was an era in his life, and Tibble heard him sobbing, but with
very different sobs from those in the Pardon chapel.&nbsp; When it was
over, and the blessing given, Ambrose looked up from the hands which
had covered his face with a new radiance in his eyes, and drew a long
breath.&nbsp; Tibble saw that he was like one in another world, and
gently led him away.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Who is he?&nbsp; What is he?&nbsp; Is he an angel from Heaven?&rdquo;
demanded the boy, a little wildly, as they neared the southern door.</p>
<p>&ldquo;If an angel be a messenger of God, I trow he is one,&rdquo;
said Tibble.&nbsp; &ldquo;But men call him Dr. Colet.&nbsp; He is Dean
of St. Paul&rsquo;s Minster, and dwelleth in the house you see below
there.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And are such words as these to be heard every Sunday?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;On most Sundays doth he preach here in the nave to all sorts
of folk.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I must&mdash;I must hear it again!&rdquo; exclaimed Ambrose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ay, ay,&rdquo; said Tibble, regarding him with a well-pleased
face.&nbsp; &ldquo;You are one with whom it works.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Every Sunday!&rdquo; repeated Ambrose.&nbsp; &ldquo;Why do
not all&mdash;your master and all these,&rdquo; pointing to the holiday
crowds going to and fro&mdash;&ldquo;why do they not all come to listen?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Master doth come by times,&rdquo; said Tibble, in the tone
of irony that was hard to understand.&nbsp; &ldquo;He owneth the dean
as a rare preacher.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Ambrose did not try to understand.&nbsp; He exclaimed again, panting
as if his thoughts were too strong for his words&mdash;&ldquo;Lo you,
that preacher&mdash;dean call ye him?&mdash;putteth a soul into what
hath hitherto been to me but a dead and empty framework.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Tibble held out his hand almost unconsciously, and Ambrose pressed
it.&nbsp; Man and boy, alike they had felt the electric current of that
truth, which, suppressed and ignored among man&rsquo;s inventions, was
coming as a new revelation to many, and was already beginning to convulse
the Church and the world.</p>
<p>Ambrose&rsquo;s mind was made up on one point.&nbsp; Whatever he
did, and wherever he went, he felt the doctrine he had just heard as
needful to him as vital air, and he must be within reach of it.&nbsp;
This, and not the hermit&rsquo;s cell, was what his instinct craved.&nbsp;
He had always been a studious, scholarly boy, supposed to be marked
out for a clerical life, because a book was more to him than a bow,
and he had been easily trained in good habits and practices of devotion;
but all in a childish manner, without going beyond simple receptiveness,
until the experiences of the last week had made a man of him, or more
truly, the Pardon chapel and Dean Colet&rsquo;s sermon had made him
a new being, with the realities of the inner life opened before him.</p>
<p>His present feeling was relief from the hideous load he had felt
while dwelling on the Dance of Death, and therewith general goodwill
to all men, which found its first issue in compassion for Giles Headley,
whom he found on his return seated on the steps&mdash;moody and miserable.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Would that you had been with us,&rdquo; said Ambrose, sitting
down beside him on the step.&nbsp; &ldquo;Never have I heard such words
as to-day.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I would not be seen in the street with that scarecrow,&rdquo;
murmured Giles.&nbsp; &ldquo;If my mother could have guessed that he
was to be set over me, I had never come here.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Surely you knew that he was foreman.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yea, but not that I should be under him&mdash;I whom old Giles
vowed should be as his own son&mdash;I that am to wed yon little brown
moppet, and be master here!&nbsp; So, forsooth,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;now
he treats me like any common low-bred prentice.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay,&rdquo; said Ambrose, &ldquo;an if you were his son, he
would still make you serve.&nbsp; It&rsquo;s the way with all craftsmen&mdash;yea
and with gentlemen&rsquo;s sons also.&nbsp; They must be pages and squires
ere they can be knights.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It never was the way at home.&nbsp; I was only bound prentice
to my father for the name of the thing, that I might have the freedom
of the city, and become head of our house.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But how could you be a wise master without learning the craft?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What are journeymen for?&rdquo; demanded the lad.&nbsp; &ldquo;Had
I known how Giles Headley meant to serve me, he might have gone whistle
for a husband for his wench.&nbsp; I would have ridden in my Lady of
Salisbury&rsquo;s train.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You might have had rougher usage there than here,&rdquo; said
Ambrose.&nbsp; &ldquo;Master Headley lays nothing on you but what he
has himself proved.&nbsp; I would I could see you make the best of so
happy a home.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ay, that&rsquo;s all very well for you, who are certain of
a great man&rsquo;s house.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Would that I were certified that my brother would be as well
off as you, if you did but know it,&rdquo; said Ambrose.&nbsp; &ldquo;Ha!
here come the dishes!&nbsp; &rsquo;Tis supper time come on us unawares,
and Stephen not returned from Mile End!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Punctuality was not, however, exacted on these summer Sunday evenings,
when practice with the bow and other athletic sports were enjoined by
Government, and, moreover, the youths were with so trustworthy a member
of the household as Kit Smallbones.</p>
<p>Sundry City magnates had come to supper with Master Headley, and
whether it were the effect of Ambrose&rsquo;s counsel, or of the example
of a handsome lad who had come with his father, one of the worshipful
guild of Merchant Taylors, Giles did vouchsafe to bestir himself in
waiting, and in consideration of the effort it must have cost him, old
Mrs. Headley and her son did not take notice of his blunders, but only
Dennet fell into a violent fit of laughter, when he presented the stately
alderman with a nutmeg under the impression that it was an overgrown
peppercorn.&nbsp; She suppressed her mirth as well as she could, poor
little thing, for it was a great offence in good manners, but she was
detected, and, only child as she was, the consequence was the being
banished from the table and sent to bed.</p>
<p>But when, after supper was over, Ambrose went out to see if there
were any signs of the return of Stephen and the rest, he found the little
maiden curled up in the gallery with her kitten in her arms.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay!&rdquo; she said, in a spoilt-child tone, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m
not going to bed before my time for laughing at that great oaf!&nbsp;
Nurse Alice says he is to wed me, but I won&rsquo;t have him!&nbsp;
I like the pretty boy who had the good dog and saved father, and I like
you, Master Ambrose.&nbsp; Sit down by me and tell me the story over
again, and we shall see Kit Smallbones come home.&nbsp; I know he&rsquo;ll
have beaten the brewer&rsquo;s fellow.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Before Ambrose had decided whether thus far to abet rebellion, she
jumped up and cried: &ldquo;Oh, I see Kit!&nbsp; He&rsquo;s got my ribbon!&nbsp;
He has won the match!&rdquo;</p>
<p>And down she rushed, quite oblivious of her disgrace, and Ambrose
presently saw her uplifted in Kit Smallbones&rsquo; brawny arms to utter
her congratulations.</p>
<p>Stephen was equally excited.&nbsp; His head was full of Kit Smallbones&rsquo;
exploits, and of the marvels of the sports he had witnessed and joined
in with fair success.&nbsp; He had thought Londoners poor effeminate
creatures, but he found that these youths preparing for the trained
bands understood all sorts of martial exercises far better than any
of his forest acquaintance, save perhaps the hitting of a mark.&nbsp;
He was half wild with a boy&rsquo;s enthusiasm for Kit Smallbones and
Edmund Burgess, and when, after eating the supper that had been reserved
for the late comers, he and his brother repaired to their own chamber,
his tongue ran on in description of the feats he had witnessed and his
hopes of emulating them, since he understood that Archbishop as was
my Lord of York, there was a tilt-yard at York House.&nbsp; Ambrose,
equally full of his new feelings, essayed to make his brother a sharer
in them, but Stephen entirely failed to understand more than that his
book-worm brother had heard something that delighted him in his own
line of scholarship, from which Stephen had happily escaped a year ago!</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER VII.&nbsp; YORK HOUSE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>&ldquo;Then hath he servants five or six score,<br />Some behind
and some before;<br />A marvellous great company<br />Of which are lords
and gentlemen,<br />With many grooms and yeomen<br />And also knaves
among them.&rdquo;</p>
<p><i>Contemporary Poem on Wolsey</i>.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Early were hammers ringing on anvils in the Dragon Court, and all
was activity.&nbsp; Master Headley was giving his orders to Kit Smallbones
before setting forth to take the Duke of Buckingham&rsquo;s commands;
Giles Headley, very much disgusted, was being invested with a leathern
apron, and entrusted to Edmund Burgess to learn those primary arts of
furbishing which, but for his mother&rsquo;s vanity and his father&rsquo;s
weakness, he would have practised four years sooner.&nbsp; Tibble Steelman
was superintending the arrangement of half a dozen corslets, which were
to be carried by three stout porters, under his guidance, to what is
now Whitehall, then the residence of the Archbishop of York, the king&rsquo;s
prime adviser, Thomas Wolsey.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Look you, Tib,&rdquo; said the kind-hearted armourer, &ldquo;if
those lads find not their kinsman, or find him not what they look for,
bring them back hither, I cannot have them cast adrift.&nbsp; They are
good and brave youths, and I owe a life to them.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Tibble nodded entire assent, but when the boys appeared in their
mourning suits, with their bundles on their backs, they were sent back
again to put on their forest green, Master Headley explaining that it
was reckoned ill-omened, if not insulting, to appear before any great
personage in black, unless to enhance some petition directly addressed
to himself.&nbsp; He also bade them leave their fardels behind, as,
if they tarried at York House, these could be easily sent after them.</p>
<p>They obeyed&mdash;even Stephen doing so with more alacrity than he
had hitherto shown to Master Headley&rsquo;s behests; for now that the
time for departure had come, he was really sorry to leave the armourer&rsquo;s
household.&nbsp; Edmund Burgess had been very good-natured to the raw
country lad, and Kit Smallbones was, in his eyes, an Ascapart in strength,
and a Bevis in prowess and kindliness.&nbsp; Mistress Headley too had
been kind to the orphan lads, and these two days had given a feeling
of being at home at the Dragon.&nbsp; When Giles wished them a moody
farewell, and wished he were going with them, Stephen returned, &ldquo;Ah!
you don&rsquo;t know when you are well off.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Little Dennet came running down after them with two pinks in her
hands.&nbsp; &ldquo;Here&rsquo;s a sop-in-wine for a token for each
of you young gentlemen,&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;for you came to help
father, and I would you were going to stay and wed me instead of Giles.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What, both of us, little maid?&rdquo; said Ambrose, laughing,
as he stooped to receive the kiss her rosy lips tendered to him.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Not but what she would have royal example,&rdquo; muttered
Tibble aside.</p>
<p>Dennet put her head on one side, as considering.&nbsp; &ldquo;Nay,
not both; but you are gentle and courteous, and he is brave and gallant&mdash;and
Giles there is moody and glum, and can do nought.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ah! you will see what a gallant fellow Giles can be when thou
hast cured him of his home-sickness by being good to him,&rdquo; said
Ambrose, sorry for the youth in the universal laughter at the child&rsquo;s
plain speaking.</p>
<p>And thus the lads left the Dragon, amid friendly farewells.&nbsp;
Ambrose looked up at the tall spire of St. Paul&rsquo;s with a strong
determination that he would never put himself out of reach of such words
as he had there drunk in, and which were indeed spirit and life to him.</p>
<p>Tibble took them down to the St. Paul&rsquo;s stairs on the river,
where at his whistle a wherry was instantly brought to transport them
to York stairs, only one of the smiths going any further in charge of
the corslets.&nbsp; Very lovely was their voyage in the brilliant summer
morning, as the glittering water reflected in broken ripples church
spire, convent garden, and stately house.&nbsp; Here rows of elm-trees
made a cool walk by the river side, there strawberry beds sloped down
the Strand, and now and then the hooded figures of nuns might be seen
gathering the fruit.&nbsp; There, rose the round church of the Temple,
and the beautiful gardens surrounding the buildings, half monastic,
half military, and already inhabited by lawyers.&nbsp; From a barge
at the Temple stairs a legal personage descended, with a square beard,
and open, benevolent, shrewd face, before whom Tibble removed his cap
with eagerness, saying to Ambrose, &ldquo;Yonder is Master More, a close
friend of the dean&rsquo;s, a good and wise man, and forward in every
good work.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Thus did they arrive at York House.&nbsp; Workmen were busy on some
portions of it, but it was inhabited by the great Archbishop, the king&rsquo;s
chief adviser.&nbsp; The approach of the boat seemed to be instantly
notified, as it drew near the stone steps giving entrance to the gardens,
with an avenue of trees leading up to the principal entrance.</p>
<p>Four or five yeomen ran down the steps, calling out to Tibble that
their corslets had tarried a long time, and that Sir Thomas Drury had
been storming for him to get his tilting armour into order.</p>
<p>Tibble followed the man who had undertaken to conduct him through
a path that led to the offices of the great house, bidding the boys
keep with him, and asking for their uncle Master Harry Randall.</p>
<p>The yeoman shook his head.&nbsp; He knew no such person in the household,
and did not think there ever had been such.&nbsp; Sir Thomas Drury was
found in the stable court, trying the paces of the horse he intended
to use in the approaching joust.&nbsp; &ldquo;Ha! old Wry-mouth,&rdquo;
he cried, &ldquo;welcome at last!&nbsp; I must have my new device damasked
on my shield.&nbsp; Come hither, and I&rsquo;ll show it thee.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Private rooms were seldom enjoyed, even by knights and gentlemen,
in such a household, and Sir Thomas could only conduct Tibble to the
armoury, where numerous suits of armour hung on blocks, presenting the
semblance of armed men.&nbsp; The knight, a good-looking personage,
expatiated much on the device he wished to dedicate to his lady-love,
a pierced heart with a forget-me-not in the midst, and it was not until
the directions were finished that Tibble ventured to mention the inquiry
for Randall.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I wot of no such fellow,&rdquo; returned Sir Thomas, &ldquo;you
had best go to the comptroller, who keeps all the names.&rdquo;&nbsp;
Tibble had to go to this functionary at any rate, to obtain an order
for payment for the corslets he had brought home.&nbsp; Ambrose and
Stephen followed him across an enormous hall, where three long tables
were being laid for dinner.</p>
<p>The comptroller of the household, an esquire of good birth, with
a stiff little ruff round his neck, sat in a sort of office inclosed
by panels at the end of the hall.&nbsp; He made an entry of Tibble&rsquo;s
account in a big book, and sent a message to the cofferer to bring the
amount.&nbsp; Then Tibble again put his question on behalf of the two
young foresters, and the comptroller shook his head.&nbsp; He did not
know the name.&nbsp; &ldquo;Was the gentleman&rdquo; (he chose that
word as he looked at the boys) &ldquo;layman or clerk?&rdquo;&nbsp;
&ldquo;Layman, certainly,&rdquo; said Ambrose, somewhat dismayed to
find how little, on interrogation, he really knew.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Was he a yeoman of the guard, or in attendance on one of my
lord&rsquo;s nobles in waiting?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;We thought he had been a yeoman,&rdquo; said Ambrose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;See,&rdquo; said the comptroller, stimulated by a fee administered
by Tibble, &ldquo;&rsquo;tis just dinner time, and I must go to attend
on my Lord Archbishop; but do you, Tibble, sit down with these striplings
to dinner, and then I will cast my eye over the books, and see if I
can find any such name.&nbsp; What, hast not time?&nbsp; None ever quits
my lord&rsquo;s without breaking his fast.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Tibble had no doubt that his master would be willing that he should
give up his time for this purpose, so he accepted the invitation.&nbsp;
The tables were by this time nearly covered, but all stood waiting,
for there flowed in from the great doorway of the hall a gorgeous train&mdash;first,
a man bearing the double archiepiscopal cross of York, fashioned in
silver, and thick with gems&mdash;then, with lofty mitre enriched with
pearls and jewels, and with flowing violet lace-covered robes came the
sturdy square-faced ruddy prelate, who was then the chief influence
in England, and after him two glittering ranks of priests in square
caps and richly embroidered copes, all in accordant colours.&nbsp; They
were returning, as a yeoman told Tibble, from some great ecclesiastical
ceremony, and dinner would be served instantly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;That for which Ralf Bowyer lives!&rdquo; said a voice close
by, &ldquo;He would fain that the dial&rsquo;s hands were Marie bones,
the face blancmange, wherein the figures should be grapes of Corinth!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Stephen looked round and saw a man close beside him in what he knew
at once to be the garb of a jester.&nbsp; A tall scarlet velvet cap,
with three peaks, bound with gold braid, and each surmounted with a
little gilded bell, crowned his head, a small crimson ridge to indicate
the cock&rsquo;s comb running along the front.&nbsp; His jerkin and
hose were of motley, the left arm and right leg being blue, their opposites,
orange tawny, while the nether stocks and shoes were in like manner
black and scarlet counterchanged.&nbsp; And yet, somehow, whether from
the way of wearing it, or from the effect of the gold embroidery meandering
over all, the effect was not distressing, but more like that of a gorgeous
bird.&nbsp; The figure was tall, lithe, and active, the brown ruddy
face had none of the blank stare of vacant idiocy, but was full of twinkling
merriment, the black eyes laughed gaily, and perhaps only so clearsighted
and shrewd an observer as Tibble would have detected a weakness of purpose
about the mouth.</p>
<p>There was a roar of laughter at the gibe, as indeed there was at
whatever was uttered by the man whose profession was to make mirth.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thou likest thy food well enough thyself, quipsome one,&rdquo;
muttered Ralf.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hast found one who doth not, Ralf?&nbsp; Then should he have
a free gift of my bauble,&rdquo; responded the jester, shaking on high
that badge, surmounted with the golden head of an ass, and jingling
with bells.&nbsp; &ldquo;How now, friend Wry-mouth?&nbsp; &rsquo;Tis
long since thou wert here!&nbsp; This house hath well-nigh been forced
to its ghostly weapons for lack of thy substantial ones.&nbsp; Where
hast thou been?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;At Salisbury, good Merryman.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Have the Wilts men raked the moon yet out of the pond?&nbsp;
Did they lend thee their rake, Tib, that thou hast raked up a couple
of green Forest palmer worms, or be they the sons of the man in the
moon, raked out and all astray?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Mayhap, for we met them with dog and bush,&rdquo; said Tibble,
&ldquo;and they dropped as from the moon to save my poor master from
the robbers on Bagshot heath!&nbsp; Come now, mine honest fellow, aid
me to rake, as thou sayest, this same household.&nbsp; They are come
up from the Forest, to seek out their uncle, one Randall, who they have
heard to be in this mein&eacute;.&nbsp; Knowest thou such a fellow?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;To seek a spider in a stubble-field!&nbsp; Truly he needs
my bauble who sent them on such an errand,&rdquo; said the jester, rather
slowly, as if to take time for consideration.&nbsp; &ldquo;What&rsquo;s
your name, my Forest flies?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Birkenholt, sir,&rdquo; answered Ambrose, &ldquo;but our uncle
is Harry Randall.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Here&rsquo;s fools enow to take away mine office,&rdquo; was
the reply.&nbsp; &ldquo;Here&rsquo;s a couple of lads would leave the
greenwood and the free oaks and beeches, for this stinking, plague-smitten
London.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;We&rsquo;d not have quitted it could we have tarried at home,&rdquo;
began Ambrose; but at that moment there was a sudden commotion, a trampling
of horses was heard outside, a loud imperious voice demanded, &ldquo;Is
my Lord Archbishop within?&rdquo; a whisper ran round, &ldquo;the King,&rdquo;
and there entered the hall with hasty steps, a figure never to be forgotten,
clad in a hunting dress of green velvet embroidered with gold, with
a golden hunting horn slung round his neck.</p>
<p>Henry VIII. was then in the splendid prime of his youth, in his twenty-seventh
year, and in the eyes, not only of his own subjects, but of all others,
the very type of a true king of men.&nbsp; Tall, and as yet of perfect
form for strength, agility, and grace; his features were of the beautiful
straight Plantagenet type, and his complexion of purely fair rosiness,
his large well-opened blue eyes full at once of frankness and keenness,
and the short golden beard that fringed his square chin giving the manly
air that otherwise might have seemed wanting to the feminine tinting
of his regular lineaments.&nbsp; All caps were instantly doffed save
the little bonnet with one drooping feather that covered his short,
curled, yellow hair; and the Earl of Derby, who was at the head of Wolsey&rsquo;s
retainers, made haste, bowing to the ground, to assure him that my Lord
Archbishop was but doffing his robes, and would be with his Grace instantly.&nbsp;
Would his Grace vouchsafe to come on to the privy chamber where the
dinner was spread?</p>
<p>At the same moment Quipsome Hal sprang forward, exclaiming, &ldquo;How
now, brother and namesake?&nbsp; Wherefore this coil?&nbsp; Hath cloth
of gold wearied yet of cloth of frieze?&nbsp; Is she willing to own
her right to this?&rdquo; as he held out his bauble.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Holla, old Blister! art thou there?&rdquo; said the King,
good-humouredly.&nbsp; &ldquo;What! knowest not that we are to have
such a wedding as will be a sight for sore eyes!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sore! that&rsquo;s well said, friend Hal.&nbsp; Thou art making
progress in mine art!&nbsp; Sore be the eyes wherein thou wouldst throw
dust.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Again the King laughed, for every one knew that his sister Mary had
secretly been married to the Duke of Suffolk for the last two months,
and that this public marriage and the tournament that was to follow
were only for the sake of appearances.&nbsp; He laid his hand good-naturedly
on the jester&rsquo;s shoulder as he walked up the hall towards the
Archbishop&rsquo;s private apartments, but the voices of both were loud
pitched, and bits of the further conversation could be picked up.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Weddings are rife in your family,&rdquo; said the jester, &ldquo;none
of you get weary of fitting on the noose.&nbsp; What, thou thyself,
Hal?&nbsp; Ay, thou hast not caught the contagion yet!&nbsp; Now ye
gods forefend!&nbsp; If thou hast the chance, thou&rsquo;lt have it
strong.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Therewith the Archbishop, in his purple robes, appeared in the archway
at the other end of the hall, the King joined him, and still followed
by the jester, they both vanished.&nbsp; It was presently made known
that the King was about to dine there, and that all were to sit down
to eat.&nbsp; The King dined alone with the Archbishop as his host;
the two noblemen who had formed his suite joined the first table in
the higher hall; the knights that of the steward of the household, who
was of knightly degree, and with whom the superior clergy of the household
ate; and the grooms found their places among the vast array of yeomen
and serving-men of all kinds with whom Tibble and his two young companions
had to eat.&nbsp; A week ago, Stephen would have contemned the idea
of being classed with serving-men and grooms, but by this time he was
quite bewildered, and anxious enough to be thankful to keep near a familiar
face on any terms, and to feel as if Tibble were an old friend, though
he had only known him for five days.</p>
<p>Why the King had come had not transpired, but there was a whisper
that despatches from Scotland were concerned in it.&nbsp; The meal was
a lengthy one, but at last the King&rsquo;s horses were ordered, and
presently Henry came forth, with his arm familiarly linked in that of
the Archbishop, whose horse had likewise been made ready that he might
accompany the King back to Westminster.&nbsp; The jester was close at
hand, and as a parting shaft he observed, while the King mounted his
horse, &ldquo;Friend Hal! give my brotherly commendations to our Madge,
and tell her that one who weds Anguish cannot choose but cry out.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Wherewith, affecting to expect a stroke from the King&rsquo;s whip,
he doubled himself up, performed the contortion now called turning a
coachwheel, then, recovering himself, put his hands on his hips and
danced wildly on the steps; while Henry, shaking his whip at him, laughed
at the only too obvious pun, for Anguish was the English version of
Angus, the title of Queen Margaret&rsquo;s second husband, and it was
her complaints that had brought him to his counsellor.</p>
<p>The jester then, much to the annoyance of the two boys, thought proper
to follow them to the office of the comptroller, and as that dignitary
read out from his books the name of every Henry, and of all the varieties
of Ralf and Randolf among the hundred and eighty persons composing the
household, he kept on making comments.&nbsp; &ldquo;Harry Hempseed,
clerk to the kitchen; ay, Hempseed will serve his turn one of these
days.&nbsp; Walter Randall, groom of the chamber; ah, ha! my lads, if
you want a generous uncle who will look after you well, there is your
man!&nbsp; He&rsquo;ll give you the shakings of the napery for largesse,
and when he is in an open-handed mood, will let you lie on the rushes
that have served the hall.&nbsp; Harry of Lambeth, yeoman of the stable.&nbsp;
He will make you free of all the taverns in Eastchepe.&rdquo;</p>
<p>And so on, accompanying each remark with a pantomime mimicry of the
air and gesture of the individual.&nbsp; He showed in a second the contortions
of Harry Weston in drawing the bow, and in another the grimaces of Henry
Hope, the choir man, in producing bass notes, or the swelling majesty
of Randall Porcher, the cross-bearer, till it really seemed as if he
had shown off the humours of at least a third of the enormous household.&nbsp;
Stephen had laughed at first, but as failure after failure occurred,
the antics began to weary even him, and seem unkind and ridiculous as
hope ebbed away, and the appalling idea began to grow on him of being
cast loose on London without a friend or protector.&nbsp; Ambrose felt
almost despairing as he heard in vain the last name.&nbsp; He would
almost have been willing to own Hal the scullion, and his hopes rose
when he heard of Hodge Randolph, the falconer, but alas, that same Hodge
came from Yorkshire.</p>
<p>&ldquo;And mine uncle was from the New Forest in Hampshire,&rdquo;
he said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maybe he went by the name of Shirley,&rdquo; added Stephen,
&ldquo;&rsquo;tis where his home was.&rdquo;</p>
<p>But the comptroller, unwilling to begin a fresh search, replied at
once that the only Shirley in the household was a noble esquire of the
Warwickshire family.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You must e&rsquo;en come back with me, young masters,&rdquo;
said Tibble, &ldquo;and see what my master can do for you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Stay a bit,&rdquo; said the fool.&nbsp; &ldquo;Harry of Shirley!&nbsp;
Harry of Shirley!&nbsp; Methinks I could help you to the man, if so
be as you will deem him worth the finding,&rdquo; he added, suddenly
turning upside down, and looking at them standing on the palms of his
hands, with an indescribable leer of drollery, which in a moment dashed
all the hopes with which they had turned to him.&nbsp; &ldquo;Should
you know this minks of yours?&rdquo; he added.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I think I should,&rdquo; said Ambrose.&nbsp; &ldquo;I remember
best how he used to carry me on his shoulder to cull mistletoe for Christmas.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ah, ha!&nbsp; A proper fellow of his inches now, with yellow
hair?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay,&rdquo; said Ambrose, &ldquo;I mind that his hair was
black, and his eyes as black as sloes&mdash;or as thine own, Master
Jester.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The jester tumbled over into a more extraordinary attitude than before,
while Stephen said&mdash;</p>
<p>&ldquo;John was wont to twit us with being akin to Gipsy Hal.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I mean a man sad and grave as the monks of Beaulieu,&rdquo;
said the jester.</p>
<p>&ldquo;He!&rdquo; they both cried.&nbsp; &ldquo;No, indeed!&nbsp;
He was foremost in all sports.&rdquo;&nbsp; &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; cried
Stephen, &ldquo;mind you not, Ambrose, his teaching us leap-frog, and
aye leaping over one of us himself, with the other in his arms?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ah! sadly changed, sadly changed,&rdquo; said the jester,
standing upright, with a most mournful countenance.&nbsp; &ldquo;Maybe
you&rsquo;d not thank me if I showed him to you, young sirs, that is,
if he be the man.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay! is he in need, or distress?&rdquo; cried the brothers.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Poor Hal!&rdquo; returned the fool, shaking his head with
mournfulness in his voice.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, take us to him, good&mdash;good jester,&rdquo; cried Ambrose.&nbsp;
&ldquo;We are young and strong.&nbsp; We will work for him.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What, a couple of lads like you, that have come to London
seeking for him to befriend you&mdash;deserving well my cap for that
matter.&nbsp; Will ye be guided to him, broken and soured&mdash;no more
gamesome, but a sickly old runagate?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course,&rdquo; cried Ambrose.&nbsp; &ldquo;He is our mother&rsquo;s
brother.&nbsp; We must care for him.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Master Headley will give us work, mayhap,&rdquo; said Stephen,
turning to Tibble.&nbsp; &ldquo;I could clean the furnaces.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ah, ha!&nbsp; I see fools&rsquo; caps must hang thick as beech
masts in the Forest,&rdquo; cried the fool, but his voice was husky,
and he turned suddenly round with his back to them, then cut three or
four extraordinary capers, after which he observed&mdash;&ldquo;Well,
young gentlemen, I will see the man I mean, and if he be the same, and
be willing to own you for his nephews, he will meet you in the Temple
Gardens at six of the clock this evening, close to the rose-bush with
the flowers in my livery&mdash;motley red and white.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But how shall we know him?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;D&rsquo;ye think a pair of green caterpillars like you can&rsquo;t
be marked&mdash;unless indeed the gardener crushes you for blighting
his roses.&rdquo;&nbsp; Wherewith the jester quitted the scene, walking
on his hands, with his legs in the air.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Is he to be trusted?&rdquo; asked Tibble of the comptroller.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Assuredly,&rdquo; was the answer; &ldquo;none hath better
wit than Quipsome Hal, when he chooseth to be in earnest.&nbsp; In very
deed, as I have heard Sir Thomas More say, it needeth a wise man to
be fool to my Lord of York.&rdquo;</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER VIII.&nbsp; QUIPSOME HAL</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>&ldquo;The sweet and bitter fool<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Will presently
appear,<br />The one in motley here<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The other
found out there.&rdquo;</p>
<p>SHAKESPEARE.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>There lay the quiet Temple Gardens, on the Thames bank, cut out in
formal walks, with flowers growing in the beds of the homely kinds beloved
by the English.&nbsp; Musk roses, honeysuckle and virgin&rsquo;s bower,
climbed on the old grey walls; sops-in-wine, bluebottles, bachelor&rsquo;s
buttons, stars of Bethlehem and the like, filled the borders; May thorns
were in full sweet blossom; and near one another were the two rose bushes,
one damask and one white Provence, whence Somerset and Warwick were
said to have plucked their fatal badges; while on the opposite side
of a broad grass-plot was another bush, looked on as a great curiosity
of the best omen, where the roses were streaked with alternate red and
white, in honour, as it were, of the union of York and Lancaster.</p>
<p>By this rose-tree stood the two young Birkenholts.&nbsp; Edmund Burgess
having, by his master&rsquo;s desire, shown them the way, and passed
them in by a word and sign from his master, then retired unseen to a
distance to mark what became of them, they having promised also to return
and report of themselves to Master Headley.</p>
<p>They stood together earnestly watching for the coming of the uncle,
feeling quite uncertain whether to expect a frail old broken man, or
to find themselves absolutely deluded, and made game of by the jester.</p>
<p>The gardens were nearly empty, for most people were sitting over
their supper-tables after the business of the day was over, and only
one or two figures in black gowns paced up and down in conversation.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Come away, Ambrose,&rdquo; said Stephen at last.&nbsp; &ldquo;He
only meant to make fools of us!&nbsp; Come, before he comes to gibe
us for having heeded a moment.&nbsp; Come, I say&mdash;here&rsquo;s
this man coming to ask us what we are doing here.&rdquo;</p>
<p>For a tall, well-made, well-dressed personage in the black or sad
colour of a legal official, looking like a prosperous householder, or
superior artisan, was approaching them, some attendant, as the boys
concluded belonging to the Temple.&nbsp; They expected to be turned
out, and Ambrose in an apologetic tone, began, &ldquo;Sir, we were bidden
to meet a&mdash;a kinsman here.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And even so am I,&rdquo; was the answer, in a grave, quiet
tone, &ldquo;or rather to meet twain.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Ambrose looked up into a pair of dark eyes, and exclaimed &ldquo;Stevie,
Stevie, &rsquo;tis he.&nbsp; &rsquo;Tis uncle Hal.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ay, &rsquo;tis all you&rsquo;re like to have for him,&rdquo;
answered Harry Randall, enfolding each in his embrace.&nbsp; &ldquo;Lad,
how like thou art to my poor sister!&nbsp; And is she indeed gone&mdash;and
your honest father too&mdash;and none left at home but that hunks, little
John?&nbsp; How and when died she?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Two years agone come Lammastide,&rdquo; answered Stephen.&nbsp;
&ldquo;There was a deadly creeping fever and ague through the Forest.&nbsp;
We two sickened, and Ambrose was so like to die that Diggory went to
the abbey for the priest to housel and anneal him, but by the time Father
Simon came he was sound asleep, and soon was whole again.&nbsp; But
before we were on our legs, our blessed mother took the disease, and
she passed away ere many days were over.&nbsp; Then, though poor father
took not that sickness, he never was the same man again, and only twelve
days after last Pasch-tide he was taken with a fit and never spake again.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Stephen was weeping by this time, and his uncle had a hand on his
shoulder, and with tears in his eyes, threw in ejaculations of pity
and affection.&nbsp; Ambrose finished the narrative with a broken voice
indeed, but as one who had more self-command than his brother, perhaps
than his uncle, whose exclamations became bitter and angry as he heard
of the treatment the boys had experienced from their half-brother, who,
as he said, he had always known as a currish mean-spirited churl, but
scarce such as this.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nor do I think he would have been, save for his wife, Maud
Pratt of Hampton,&rdquo; said Ambrose.&nbsp; &ldquo;Nay, truly also,
he deemed that we were only within a day&rsquo;s journey of council
from our uncle Richard at Hyde.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Richard Birkenholt was a sturdy old comrade!&nbsp; Methinks
he would give Master Jack a piece of his mind.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Alack, good uncle, we found him in his dotage, and the bursar
of Hyde made quick work with us, for fear, good Father Shoveller said,
that we were come to look after his corrody.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Shoveller&mdash;what, a Shoveller of Cranbury?&nbsp; How fell
ye in with him?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Ambrose told the adventures of their journey, and Randall exclaimed
&ldquo;By my bau&mdash;I mean by my faith&mdash;if ye have ill-luck
in uncles, ye have had good luck in friends.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No ill-luck in thee, good, kind uncle,&rdquo; said Stephen,
catching at his hand with the sense of comfort that kindred blood gives.</p>
<p>&ldquo;How wottest thou that, child?&nbsp; Did not I&mdash;I mean
did not Merryman tell you, that mayhap ye would not be willing to own
your uncle?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;We deemed he was but jesting,&rdquo; said Stephen.&nbsp; &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo;</p>
<p>For a sudden twinkle in the black eyes, an involuntary twist of the
muscles of the face, were a sudden revelation to him.&nbsp; He clutched
hold of Ambrose with a sudden grasp; Ambrose too looked and recoiled
for a moment, while the colour spread over his face.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, lads.&nbsp; Can you brook the thought!&mdash;Harry Randall
is the poor fool!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Stephen, whose composure had already broken down, burst into tears
again, perhaps mostly at the downfall of all his own expectations and
glorifications of the kinsman about whom he had boasted.&nbsp; Ambrose
only exclaimed &ldquo;O uncle, you must have been hard pressed.&rdquo;&nbsp;
For indeed the grave, almost melancholy man, who stood before them,
regarding them wistfully, had little in common with the lithe tumbler
full of absurdities whom they had left at York House.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Even so, my good lad.&nbsp; Thou art right in that,&rdquo;
said he gravely.&nbsp; &ldquo;Harder than I trust will ever be the lot
of you two, my sweet Moll&rsquo;s sons.&nbsp; She never guessed that
I was come to this.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;O no,&rdquo; said Stephen.&nbsp; &ldquo;She always thought
thou&mdash;thou hadst some high preferment in&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And so I have,&rdquo; said Randall with something of his ordinary
humour.&nbsp; &ldquo;There&rsquo;s no man dares to speak such plain
truth to my lord&mdash;or for that matter to King Harry himself, save
his own Jack-a-Lee&mdash;and he, being a fool of nature&rsquo;s own
making, cannot use his chances, poor rogue!&nbsp; And so the poor lads
came up to London hoping to find a gallant captain who could bring them
to high preferment, and found nought but&mdash;Tom Fool!&nbsp; I could
find it in my heart to weep for them!&nbsp; And so thou mindest clutching
the mistletoe on nunk Hal&rsquo;s shoulder.&nbsp; I warrant it groweth
still on the crooked May bush?&nbsp; And is old Bobbin alive?&rdquo;</p>
<p>They answered his questions, but still as if under a great shock,
and presently he said, as they paced up and down the garden walks, &ldquo;Ay,
I have been sore bestead, and I&rsquo;ll tell you how it came about,
boys, and mayhap ye will pardon the poor fool, who would not own you
sooner, lest ye should come in for mockery ye have not learnt to brook.&rdquo;&nbsp;
There was a sadness and pleading in his tone that touched Ambrose, and
he drew nearer to his uncle, who laid a hand on his shoulder, and presently
the other on that of Stephen, who shrank a little at first, but submitted.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Lads, I need not tell you why I left fair Shirley and the good
greenwood.&nbsp; I was a worse fool then than ever I have been since
I wore the cap and bells, and if all had been brought home to me, it
might have brought your father and mother into trouble&mdash;my sweet
Moll who had done her best for me.&nbsp; I deemed, as you do now, that
the way to fortune was open, but I found no path before me, and I had
tightened my belt many a time, and was not much more than a bag of bones,
when, by chance, I fell in with a company of tumblers and gleemen.&nbsp;
I sang them the old hunting-song, and they said I did it tunably, and,
whereas they saw I could already dance a hornpipe and turn a somersault
passably well, the leader of the troop, old Nat Fire-eater, took me
on, and methinks he did not repent&mdash;nor I neither&mdash;save when
I sprained my foot and had time to lie by and think.&nbsp; We had plenty
to fill our bellies and put on our backs; we had welcome wherever we
went, and the groats and pennies rained into our caps.&nbsp; I was Clown
and Jack Pudding and whatever served their turn, and the very name of
Quipsome Hal drew crowds.&nbsp; Yea, &rsquo;twas a merry life!&nbsp;
Ay, I feel thee wince and shrink, my lad; and so should I have shuddered
when I was of thine age, and hoped to come to better things.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Methinks &rsquo;twere better than this present,&rdquo; said
Stephen rather gruffly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I had my reasons, boy,&rdquo; said Randall, speaking as if
he were pleading his cause with their father and mother rather than
with two such young lads.&nbsp; &ldquo;There was in our company an old
man-at-arms who played the lute and the rebeck, and sang ballads so
long as hand and voice served him, and with him went his grandchild,
a fair and honest little maiden, whom he kept so jealously apart that
&rsquo;twas long ere I knew of her following the company.&nbsp; He had
been a franklin on my Lord of Warwick&rsquo;s lands, and had once been
burnt out by Queen Margaret&rsquo;s men, and just as things looked up
again with him, King Edward&rsquo;s folk ruined all again, and slew
his two sons.&nbsp; When great folk play the fool, small folk pay the
scot, as I din into his Grace&rsquo;s ears whenever I may.&nbsp; A minion
of the Duke of Clarence got the steading, and poor old Martin Fulford
was turned out to shift as best he might.&nbsp; One son he had left,
and with him he went to the Low Countries, where they would have done
well had they not been bitten by faith in the fellow Perkin Warbeck.&nbsp;
You&rsquo;ve heard of him?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yea,&rdquo; said Ambrose; &ldquo;the same who was taken out
of sanctuary at Beaulieu, and borne off to London.&nbsp; Father said
he was marvellous like in the face to all the kings he had ever seen
hunting in the Forest.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I know not; but to the day of his death old Martin swore that
he was a son of King Edward&rsquo;s, and they came home again with the
men the Duchess of Burgundy gave Perkin&mdash;came bag and baggage,
for young Fulford had wedded a fair Flemish wife, poor soul!&nbsp; He
left her with his father nigh to Taunton ere the battle, and he was
never heard of more, but as he was one of the few men who knew how to
fight, belike he was slain.&nbsp; Thus old Martin was left with the
Flemish wife and her little one on his hands, for whose sake he did
what went against him sorely, joined himself to this troop of jugglers
and players, so as to live by the minstrelsy he had learnt in better
days, while his daughter-in-law mended and made for the company and
kept them in smart and shining trim.&nbsp; By the time I fell in with
them his voice was well-nigh gone, and his hand sorely shaking, but
Fire-eating Nat, the master of our troop, was not an ill-natured fellow,
and the glee-women&rsquo;s feet were well used to his rebeck.&nbsp;
Moreover, the Fire-eater had an eye to little Perronel, though her mother
had never let him train her&mdash;scarce let him set an eye on her;
and when Mistress Fulford died, poor soul, of ague, caught when we showed
off before the merry Prior of Worcester, her last words were that Perronel
should never be a glee-maiden.&nbsp; Well, to make an end of my tale,
we had one day a mighty show at Windsor, when the King and Court were
at the castle, and it was whispered to me at the end that my Lord Archbishop&rsquo;s
household needed a jester, and that Quipsome Hal had been thought to
make excellent fooling.&nbsp; I gave thanks at first, but said I would
rather be a free man, not bound to be a greater fool than Dame Nature
made me all the hours of the day.&nbsp; But when I got back to the Garter,
what should I find but that poor old Martin had been stricken with the
dead palsy while he was playing his rebeck, and would never twang a
note more; and there was pretty Perronel weeping over him, and Nat Fire-eater
pledging his word to give the old man bed, board, and all that he could
need, if so be that Perronel should be trained to be one of his glee-maidens,
to dance and tumble and sing.&nbsp; And there was the poor old franklin
shaking his head more than the palsy made it shake already, and trying
to frame his lips to say, &lsquo;rather they both should die.&rsquo;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, uncle, I wot now what thou didst!&rdquo; cried Stephen.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yea, lad, there was nought else to be done.&nbsp; I asked
Master Fulford to give me Perronel, plighting my word that never should
she sing or dance for any one&rsquo;s pleasure save her own and mine,
and letting him know that I came of a worthy family.&nbsp; We were wedded
out of hand by the priest that had been sent for to housel him, and
in our true names.&nbsp; The Fire-eater was fiery enough, and swore
that, wedded or not, I was bound to him, that he would have both of
us, and would not drag about a helpless old man unless he might have
the wench to do his bidding.&nbsp; I verily believe that, but for my
being on the watch and speaking a word to two or three stout yeomen
of the king&rsquo;s guard that chanced to be crushing a pot of sack
at the Garter, he would have played some villainous trick on us.&nbsp;
They gave a hint to my Lord of York&rsquo;s steward, and he came down
and declared that the Archbishop required Quipsome Hal, and would&mdash;of
his grace&mdash;send a purse of nobles to the Fire-eater, wherewith
he was to be off on the spot without more ado, or he might find it the
worse for him, and they, together with mine host&rsquo;s good wife,
took care that the rogue did not carry away Perronel with him, as he
was like to have done.&nbsp; To end my story, here am I, getting showers
of gold coins one day and nought but kicks and gibes the next, while
my good woman keeps house nigh here on the banks of the Thames with
Gaffer Martin.&nbsp; Her Flemish thrift has set her to the washing and
clear-starching of the lawyers&rsquo; ruffs, whereby she makes enough
to supply the defects of my scanty days, or when I have to follow my
lord&rsquo;s grace out of her reach, sweet soul.&nbsp; There&rsquo;s
my tale, nevoys.&nbsp; And now, have ye a hand for Quipsome Hal?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;O uncle!&nbsp; Father would have honoured thee!&rdquo; cried
Stephen.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why didst thou not bring her down to the Forest?&rdquo; said
Ambrose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I conned over the thought,&rdquo; said Randall, &ldquo;but
there was no way of living.&nbsp; I wist not whether the Ranger might
not stir up old tales, and moreover old Martin is ill to move.&nbsp;
We brought him down by boat from Windsor, and he has never quitted the
house since, nor his bed for the last two years.&nbsp; You&rsquo;ll
come and see the housewife?&nbsp; She hath a supper laying out for you,
and on the way we&rsquo;ll speak of what ye are to do, my poor lads.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I&rsquo;d forgotten that,&rdquo; said Stephen.</p>
<p>&ldquo;So had not I,&rdquo; returned his uncle; &ldquo;I fear me
I cannot aid you to preferment as you expected.&nbsp; None know Quipsome
Hal by any name but that of Harry Merryman, and it were not well that
ye should come in there as akin to the poor fool.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Stephen, emphatically.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Your father left you twenty crowns apiece?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ay, but John hath all save four of them.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;For that there&rsquo;s remedy.&nbsp; What saidst thou of the
Cheapside armourer?&nbsp; His fellow, the Wry-mouth, seemed to have
a care of you.&nbsp; Ye made in to the rescue with poor old Spring.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Even so,&rdquo; replied Ambrose, &ldquo;and if Stevie would
brook the thought, I trow that Master Headley would be quite willing
to have him bound as his apprentice.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well said, my good lad!&rdquo; cried Hal.&nbsp; &ldquo;What
sayest thou, Stevie?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I had liefer be a man-at-arms.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That thou couldst only be after being sorely knocked about
as horseboy and as groom.&nbsp; I tried that once, but found it meant
kicks, and oaths, and vile company&mdash;such as I would not have for
thy mother&rsquo;s son, Steve.&nbsp; Headley is a well-reported, God-fearing
man, and will do well by thee.&nbsp; And thou wilt learn the use of
arms as well as handle them.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I like Master Headley and Kit Smallbones well enough,&rdquo;
said Stephen, rather gloomily, &ldquo;and if a gentleman must be a prentice,
weapons are not so bad a craft for him.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Whittington was a gentleman,&rdquo; said Ambrose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am sick of Whittington,&rdquo; muttered Stephen.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nor is he the only one,&rdquo; said Randall; &ldquo;there&rsquo;s
Middleton and Pole&mdash;ay, and many another who have risen from the
flat cap to the open helm, if not to the coronet.&nbsp; Nay, these London
companies have rules against taking any prentice not of gentle blood.&nbsp;
Come in to supper with my good woman, and then I&rsquo;ll go with thee
and hold converse with good Master Headley, and if Master John doth
not send the fee freely, why then I know of them who shall make him
disgorge it.&nbsp; But mark,&rdquo; he added, as he led the way out
of the gardens, &ldquo;not a breath of Quipsome Hal.&nbsp; Down here
they know me as a clerk of my lord&rsquo;s chamber, sad and sober, and
high in his trust, and therein they are not far out.&rdquo;</p>
<p>In truth, though Harry Randall had been a wild and frolicsome youth
in his Hampshire home, the effect of being a professional buffoon had
actually made it a relaxation of effort to him to be grave, quiet, and
slow in movement; and this was perhaps a more effectual disguise than
the dark garments, and the false brown hair, beard, and moustache, with
which he concealed the shorn and shaven condition required of the domestic
jester.&nbsp; Having been a player, he was well able to adapt himself
to his part, and yet Ambrose had considerable doubts whether Tibble
had not suspected his identity from the first, more especially as both
the lads had inherited the same dark eyes from their mother, and Ambrose
for the first time perceived a considerable resemblance between him
and Stephen, not only in feature but in unconscious gesture.</p>
<p>Ambrose was considering whether he had better give his uncle a hint,
lest concealment should excite suspicion; when, niched as it were against
an abutment of the wall of the Temple courts, close to some steps going
down to the Thames, they came upon a tiny house, at whose open door
stood a young woman in the snowiest of caps and aprons over a short
black gown, beneath which were a trim pair of blue hosen and stout shoes;
a suspicion of yellow hair was allowed to appear framing the honest,
fresh, Flemish face, which beamed a good-humoured welcome.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Here they be! here be the poor lads, Pernel mine.&rdquo;&nbsp;
She held out her hand, and offered a round comfortable cheek to each,
saying, &ldquo;Welcome to London, young gentlemen.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Good Mistress Perronel did not look exactly the stuff to make a glee-maiden
of, nor even the beauty for whom to sacrifice everything, even liberty
and respect.&nbsp; She was substantial in form, and broad in face and
mouth, without much nose, and with large almost colourless eyes.&nbsp;
But there was a wonderful look of heartiness and friendliness about
her person and her house; the boys had never in their lives seen anything
so amazingly and spotlessly clean and shining.&nbsp; In a corner stood
an erection like a dark oaken cupboard or wardrobe, but in the middle
was an opening about a yard square through which could be seen the night-capped
face of a white-headed, white-bearded old man, propped against snowy
pillows.&nbsp; To him Randall went at once, saying, &ldquo;So, gaffer,
how goes it?&nbsp; You see I have brought company, my poor sister&rsquo;s
sons&mdash;rest her soul!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Gaffer Martin mumbled something to them incomprehensible, but which
the jester comprehended, for he called them up and named them to him,
and Martin put out a bony hand, and gave them a greeting.&nbsp; Though
his speech and limbs had failed him, his intelligence was evidently
still intact, and there was a tenderly-cared-for look about him, rendering
his condition far less pitiable than that of Richard Birkenholt, who
was so palpably treated as an incumbrance.</p>
<p>The table was already covered with a cloth, and Perronel quickly
placed on it a yellow bowl of excellent beef broth, savoury with vegetables
and pot-herbs, and with meat and dumplings floating in it.&nbsp; A lesser
bowl was provided for each of the company, with horn spoons, and a loaf
of good wheaten bread, and a tankard of excellent ale.&nbsp; Randall
declared that his Perronel made far daintier dishes than my Lord Archbishop&rsquo;s
cook, who went every day in silk and velvet.</p>
<p>He explained to her his views on the armourer, to which she agreed
with all her might, the old gentleman in bed adding something which
the boys began to understand, that there was no worthier nor more honourable
condition than that of an English burgess, specially in the good town
of London, where the kings knew better than to be ever at enmity with
their good towns.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Will the armourer take both of you?&rdquo; asked Mistress
Randall.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay, it was only for Stephen we devised it,&rdquo; said Ambrose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;And what wilt thou do?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I wish to be a scholar,&rdquo; said Ambrose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;A lean trade,&rdquo; quoth the jester; &ldquo;a monk now or
a friar may be a right jolly fellow, but I never yet saw a man who throve
upon books!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I had rather study than thrive,&rdquo; said Ambrose rather
dreamily.</p>
<p>&ldquo;He wotteth not what he saith,&rdquo; cried Stephen.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh ho! so thou art of that sort!&rdquo; rejoined his uncle.&nbsp;
&ldquo;I know them!&nbsp; A crabbed black and white page is meat and
drink to them!&nbsp; There&rsquo;s that Dutch fellow, with a long Latin
name, thin and weazen as never was Dutchman before; they say he has
read all the books in the world, and can talk in all the tongues, and
yet when he and Sir Thomas More and the Dean of St. Paul&rsquo;s get
together at my lord&rsquo;s table one would think they were bidding
for my bauble.&nbsp; Such excellent fooling do they make, that my lord
sits holding his sides.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;The Dean of St. Paul&rsquo;s!&rdquo; said Ambrose, experiencing
a shock.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ay!&nbsp; He&rsquo;s another of your lean scholars, and yet
he was born a wealthy man, son to a Lord Mayor, who, they say, reared
him alone out of a round score of children.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Alack! poor souls,&rdquo; sighed Mistress Randall under her
breath, for, as Ambrose afterwards learnt, her two babes had scarce
seen the light.&nbsp; Her husband, while giving her a look of affection,
went on&mdash;&ldquo;Not that he can keep his wealth.&nbsp; He has bestowed
the most of it on Stepney church, and on the school he hath founded
for poor children, nigh to St. Paul&rsquo;s.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Could I get admittance to that school?&rdquo; exclaimed Ambrose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thou art a big fellow for a school,&rdquo; said his uncle,
looking him over.&nbsp; &ldquo;However, faint heart never won fair lady.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have a letter from the Warden of St. Elizabeth&rsquo;s to
one of the clerks of St. Paul&rsquo;s,&rdquo; added Ambrose.&nbsp; &ldquo;Alworthy
is his name.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That&rsquo;s well.&nbsp; We&rsquo;ll prove that same,&rdquo;
said his uncle.&nbsp; &ldquo;Meantime, if ye have eaten your fill, we
must be on our way to thine armourer, nevoy Stephen, or I shall be called
for.&rdquo;</p>
<p>And after a private colloquy between the husband and wife, Ambrose
was by both of them desired to make the little house his home until
he could find admittance into St. Paul&rsquo;s School, or some other.&nbsp;
He demurred somewhat from a mixture of feelings, in which there was
a certain amount of Stephen&rsquo;s longing for freedom of action, and
likewise a doubt whether he should not thus be a great inconvenience
in the tiny household&mdash;a burden he was resolved not to be.&nbsp;
But his uncle now took a more serious tone.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Look thou, Ambrose, thou art my sister&rsquo;s son, and fool
though I be, thou art bound in duty to me, and I to have charge of thee,
nor will I&mdash;for the sake of thy father and mother&mdash;have thee
lying I know not where, among gulls, and cutpurses, and beguilers of
youth here in this city of London.&nbsp; So, till better befals thee,
and I wot of it, thou must be here no later than curfew, or I will know
the reason why.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And I hope the young gentleman will find it no sore grievance,&rdquo;
said Perronel, so good-humouredly that Ambrose could only protest that
he had feared to be troublesome to her, and promise to bring his bundle
the next day.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER IX.&nbsp; ARMS SPIRITUAL AND TEMPORAL</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>&ldquo;For him was leifer to have at his bedde&rsquo;s hedde<br />Twenty
books clothed in blacke or redde<br />Of Aristotle and his philosophie<br />Than
robes riche or fiddle or psalterie.&rdquo;</p>
<p>CHAUCER.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Master Headley was found spending the summer evening in the bay window
of the hall.&nbsp; Tibble sat on a three-legged stool by him, writing
in a crabbed hand, in a big ledger, and Kit Smallbones towered above
both, holding in his hand a bundle of tally-sticks.&nbsp; By the help
of these, and of that accuracy of memory which writing has destroyed,
he was unfolding, down to the very last farthing, the entire account
of payments and receipts during his master&rsquo;s absence, the debtor
and creditor account being preserved as perfectly as if he had always
had a pen in his huge fingers, and studied book-keeping by double or
single entry.</p>
<p>On the return of the two boys with such an apparently respectable
member of society as the handsome well-dressed personage who accompanied
them, little Dennet, who had been set to sew her sampler on a stool
by her grandmother, under penalty of being sent off to bed if she disturbed
her father, sprang up with a little cry of gladness, and running up
to Ambrose, entreated for the tales of his good greenwood Forest, and
the pucks and pixies, and the girl who daily shared her breakfast with
a snake and said, &ldquo;Eat your own side, Speckleback.&rdquo;&nbsp;
Somehow, on Sunday night she had gathered that Ambrose had a store of
such tales, and she dragged him off to the gallery, there to revel in
them, while his brother remained with her father.</p>
<p>Though Master Stephen had begun by being high and mighty about mechanical
crafts, and thought it a great condescension to consent to be bound
apprentice, yet when once again in the Dragon court, it looked so friendly
and felt so much like a home that he found himself very anxious that
Master Headley should not say that he could take no more apprentices
at present, and that he should be satisfied with the terms uncle Hal
would propose.&nbsp; And oh! suppose Tibble should recognise Quipsome
Hal!</p>
<p>However, Tibble was at this moment entirely engrossed by the accounts,
and his master left him and his big companion to unravel them, while
he himself held speech with his guest at some distance&mdash;sending
for a cup of sack, wherewith to enliven the conversation.</p>
<p>He showed himself quite satisfied with what Randall chose to tell
of himself as a well known &ldquo;housekeeper&rdquo; close to the Temple,
his wife a &ldquo;lavender&rdquo; there, while he himself was attached
to the suite of the Archbishop of York.&nbsp; Here alone was there any
approach to shuffling, for Master Headley was left to suppose that Randall
attended Wolsey in his capacity of king&rsquo;s counsellor, and therefore,
having a house of his own, had not been found in the roll of the domestic
retainers and servants.&nbsp; He did not think of inquiring further,
the more so as Randall was perfectly candid as to his own inferiority
of birth to the Birkenholt family, and the circumstances under which
he had left the Forest.</p>
<p>Master Headley professed to be quite willing to accept Stephen as
an apprentice, with or without a fee; but he agreed with Randall that
it would be much better not to expose him to having it cast in his teeth
that he was accepted out of charity; and Randall undertook to get a
letter so written and conveyed to John Birkenholt that he should not
dare to withhold the needful sum, in earnest of which Master Headley
would accept the two crowns that Stephen had in hand, as soon as the
indentures could be drawn out by one of the many scriveners who lived
about St. Paul&rsquo;s.</p>
<p>This settled, Randall could stay no longer, but he called both nephews
into the court with him.&nbsp; &ldquo;Ye can write a letter?&rdquo;
he said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ay, sure, both of us; but Ambrose is the best scribe,&rdquo;
said Stephen.</p>
<p>&ldquo;One of you had best write then.&nbsp; Let that cur John know
that I have my Lord of York&rsquo;s ear, and there will be no fear but
he will give it.&nbsp; I&rsquo;ll find a safe hand among the clerks,
when the judges ride to hold the assize.&nbsp; Mayhap Ambrose might
also write to the Father at Beaulieu.&nbsp; The thing had best be bruited.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I wished to do so,&rdquo; said Ambrose.&nbsp; &ldquo;It irked
me to have taken no leave of the good Fathers.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Randall then took his leave, having little more than time to return
to York House, where the Archbishop might perchance come home wearied
and chafed from the King, and the jester might be missed if not there
to put him in good humour.</p>
<p>The curfew sounded, and though attention to its notes was not compulsory
by law, it was regarded as the break-up of the evening and the note
of recall in all well-ordered establishments.&nbsp; The apprentices
and journeymen came into the court, among them Giles Headley, who had
been taken out by one of the men to be provided with a working dress,
much to his disgust; the grandmother summoned little Dennet and carried
her off to bed.&nbsp; Stephen and Ambrose bade good-night, but Master
Headley and his two confidential men remained somewhat longer to wind
up their accounts.&nbsp; Doors were not, as a rule, locked within the
court, for though it contained from forty to fifty persons, they were
all regarded as a single family, and it was enough to fasten the heavily
bolted, iron-studded folding doors of the great gateway leading into
Cheapside, the key being brought to the master like that of a castle,
seven minutes, measured by the glass, after the last note of the curfew
in the belfry outside St. Paul&rsquo;s.</p>
<p>The summer twilight, however, lasted long after this time of grace,
and when Tibble had completed his accountant&rsquo;s work, and Smallbones&rsquo;
deep voiced &ldquo;Goodnight, comrade,&rdquo; had resounded over the
court, he beheld a figure rise up from the steps of the gallery, and
Ambrose&rsquo;s voice said: &ldquo;May I speak to thee, Tibble?&nbsp;
I need thy counsel.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Come hither, sir,&rdquo; said the foreman, muttering to himself,
&ldquo;Methought &rsquo;twas working in him!&nbsp; The leaven! the leaven!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Tibble led the way up one of the side stairs into the open gallery,
where he presently opened a door, admitting to a small, though high
chamber, the walls of bare brick, and containing a low bed, a small
table, a three-legged stool, a big chest, and two cupboards, also a
cross over the head of the bed.&nbsp; A private room was a luxury neither
possessed nor desired by most persons of any degree, and only enjoyed
by Tibble in consideration of his great value to his master, his peculiar
tastes, and the injuries he had received.&nbsp; In point of fact, his
fall had been owing to a hasty blow, given in a passion by the master
himself when a young man.&nbsp; Dismay and repentance had made Giles
Headley a cooler and more self-controlled man ever since, and even if
Tibble had not been a superior workman, he might still have been free
to do almost anything he chose.&nbsp; Tibble gave his visitor the stool,
and himself sat down on the chest, saying: &ldquo;So you have found
your uncle, sir.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ay,&rdquo; said Ambrose, pausing in some expectation that
Tibble would mention some suspicion of his identity; but if the foreman
had his ideas on the subject he did not disclose them, and waited for
more communications.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Tibble!&rdquo; said Ambrose, with a long gasp, &ldquo;I must
find means to hear more of him thou tookedst me to on Sunday.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;None ever truly tasted of that well without longing to come
back to it,&rdquo; quoth Tibble.&nbsp; &ldquo;But hath not thy kinsman
done aught for thee?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay,&rdquo; said Ambrose, &ldquo;save to offer me a lodging
with his wife, a good and kindly lavender at the Temple.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Tibble nodded.</p>
<p>&ldquo;So far am I free,&rdquo; said Ambrose, &ldquo;and I am glad
of it.&nbsp; I have a letter here to one of the canons, one Master Alworthy,
but ere I seek him I would know somewhat from thee, Tibble.&nbsp; What
like is he?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I cannot tell, sir,&rdquo; said Tibble.&nbsp; &ldquo;The canons
are rich and many, and a poor smith like me wots little of their fashions.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Is it true,&rdquo; again asked Ambrose, &ldquo;that the Dean&mdash;he
who spake those words yesterday&mdash;hath a school here for young boys?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ay.&nbsp; And a good and mild school it be, bringing them
up in the name and nurture of the Holy Child Jesus, to whom it is dedicated.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then they are taught this same doctrine?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I trow they be.&nbsp; They say the Dean loves them like the
children of his old age, and declares that they shall be made in love
with holy lore by gentleness rather than severity.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Is it likely that this same Alworthy could obtain me entrance
there?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Alack, sir, I fear me thou art too old.&nbsp; I see none but
little lads among them.&nbsp; Didst thou come to London with that intent?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay, for I only wist to-day that there was such a school.&nbsp;
I came with I scarce know what purpose, save to see Stephen safely bestowed,
and then to find some way of learning myself.&nbsp; Moreover, a change
seems to have come on me, as though I had hitherto been walking in a
dream.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Tibble nodded, and Ambrose, sitting there in the dark, was moved
to pour forth all his heart, the experience of many an ardent soul in
those spirit searching days.&nbsp; Growing up happily under the care
of the simple monks of Beaulieu he had never looked beyond their somewhat
mechanical routine, accepted everything implicitly, and gone on acquiring
knowledge with the receptive spirit but dormant thought of studious
boyhood as yet unawakened, thinking that the studious clerical life
to which every one destined him would only be a continuation of the
same, as indeed it had been to his master, Father Simon.&nbsp; Not that
Ambrose expressed this, beyond saying, &ldquo;They are good and holy
men, and I thought all were like them, and fear that was all!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Then came death, for the first time nearly touching and affecting
the youth, and making his soul yearn after further depths, which he
might yet have found in the peace of the good old men, and the holy
rites and doctrine that they preserved; but before there was time for
these things to find their way into the wounds of his spirit, his expulsion
from home had sent him forth to see another side of monkish and clerkly
life.</p>
<p>Father Shoveller, kindly as he was, was a mere yeoman with nothing
spiritual about him; the monks of Hyde were, the younger, gay comrades,
only trying how loosely they could sit to their vows; the elder, churlish
and avaricious; even the Warden of Elizabeth College was little more
than a student.&nbsp; And in London, fresh phases had revealed themselves;
the pomp, state, splendour and luxury of Archbishop Wolsey&rsquo;s house
had been a shock to the lad&rsquo;s ideal of a bishop drawn from the
saintly biographies he had studied at Beaulieu; and he had but to keep
his ears open to hear endless scandals about the mass priests, as they
were called, since they were at this time very unpopular in London,
and in many cases deservedly so.&nbsp; Everything that the boy had hitherto
thought the way of holiness and salvation seemed invaded by evil and
danger, and under the bondage of death, whose terrible dance continued
to haunt him.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I saw it, I saw it;&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;all over those
halls at York House.&nbsp; I seemed to behold the grisly shape standing
behind one and another, as they ate and laughed; and when the Archbishop
and his priests and the King came in it seemed only to make the pageant
complete!&nbsp; Only now and then could I recall those blessed words,
&lsquo;Ye are free indeed.&rsquo;&nbsp; Did he say from the bondage
of death?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yea,&rdquo; said Tibble, &ldquo;into the glorious freedom
of God&rsquo;s children.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thou knowst it.&nbsp; Thou knowst it, Tibble.&nbsp; It seems
to me that life is no life, but living death, without that freedom!&nbsp;
And I <i>must</i> hear of it, and know whether it is mine, yea, and
Stephen&rsquo;s, and all whom I love.&nbsp; O Tibble, I would beg my
bread rather than not have that freedom ever before mine eyes.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hold it fast! hold it fast, dear sir,&rdquo; said Tibble,
holding out his hands with tears in his eyes, and his face working in
a manner that happily Ambrose could not see.</p>
<p>&ldquo;But how&mdash;how?&nbsp; The barefoot friar said that for
an <i>Ave</i> a day, our Blessed Lady will drag us back from purgatory.&nbsp;
I saw her on the wall of her chapel at Winchester saving a robber knight
from the sea, yea and a thief from the gallows; but that is not being
free.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Fond inventions of pardon-mongers,&rdquo; muttered Tibble.</p>
<p>&ldquo;And is one not free when the priest hath assoilsied him?&rdquo;
added Ambrose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;If, and if&mdash;&rdquo; said Tibble.&nbsp; &ldquo;But bone
shall make me trow that shrift in words, without heart-sorrow for sin,
and the Latin heard with no thought of Him that bore the guilt, can
set the sinner free.&nbsp; &rsquo;Tis none other that the Dean sets
forth, ay, and the book that I have here.&nbsp; I thank my God,&rdquo;
he stood up and took off his cap reverently, &ldquo;that He hath opened
the eyes of another!&rdquo;</p>
<p>His tone was such that Ambrose could have believed him some devout
almost inspired hermit rather than the acute skilful artisan he appeared
at other times; and in fact, Tibble Steelman, like many another craftsman
of those days, led a double life, the outer one that of the ordinary
workman, the inner one devoted to those lights that were shining unveiled
and new to many; and especially here in the heart of the City, partly
from the influence of Dean Colet&rsquo;s sermons and catechisings at
St. Paul&rsquo;s, but also from remnants of Lollardism, which had never
been entirely quenched.&nbsp; The ordinary clergy looked at it with
horror, but the intelligent and thoughtful of the burgher and craftsman
classes studied it with a passionate fervour which might have sooner
broken out and in more perilous forms save for the guidance it received
in the truly Catholic and open-spirited public teachings of Colet, in
which he persisted in spite of the opposition of his brother clergy.</p>
<p>Not that as yet the inquirers had in the slightest degree broken
with the system of the Church, or with her old traditions.&nbsp; They
were only beginning to see the light that had been veiled from them,
and to endeavour to clear the fountain from the mire that had fouled
it; and there was as yet no reason to believe that the aspersions continually
made against the mass priests and the friars were more than the chronic
grumblings of Englishmen, who had found the same faults in them for
the last two hundred years.</p>
<p>&ldquo;And what wouldst thou do, young sir?&rdquo; presently inquired
Tibble.</p>
<p>&ldquo;That I came to ask thee, good Tibble.&nbsp; I would work to
the best of my power in any craft so I may hear those words and gain
the key to all I have hitherto learnt, unheeding as one in a dream.&nbsp;
My purpose had been to be a scholar and a clerk, but I must see mine
own way, and know whither I am being carried, ere I can go farther.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Tibble writhed and wriggled himself about in consideration.&nbsp;
&ldquo;I would I wist how to take thee to the Dean himself,&rdquo; he
said, &ldquo;but I am but a poor man, and his doctrine is &lsquo;new
wine in old bottles&rsquo; to the master, though he be a right good
man after his lights.&nbsp; See now, Master Ambrose, meseemeth that
thou hadst best take thy letter first to this same priest.&nbsp; It
may be that he can prefer thee to some post about the minster.&nbsp;
Canst sing?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I could once, but my voice is nought at this present.&nbsp;
If I could but be a servitor at St. Paul&rsquo;s School!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It might be that the will which hath led thee so far hath
that post in store for thee, so bear the letter to Master Alworthy.&nbsp;
And if he fail thee, wouldst thou think scorn of aiding a friend of
mine who worketh a printing-press in Warwick Inner Yard?&nbsp; Thou
wilt find him at his place in Paternoster Row, hard by St. Paul&rsquo;s.&nbsp;
He needeth one who is clerk enough to read the Latin, and the craft
being a new one &rsquo;tis fenced by none of those prentice laws that
would bar the way to thee elsewhere, at thy years.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I should dwell among books!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yea, and holy books, that bear on the one matter dear to the
true heart.&nbsp; Thou might serve Lucas Hansen at the sign of the Winged
Staff till thou hast settled thine heart, and then it may be the way
would be opened to study at Oxford or at Cambridge, so that thou couldst
expound the faith to others.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Good Tibble, kind Tibble, I knew thou couldst aid me!&nbsp;
Wilt thou speak to this Master Hansen for me?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Tibble, however, held that it was more seemly that Ambrose should
first try his fate with Master Alworthy, but in case of this not succeeding,
he promised to write a billet that would secure attention from Lucas
Hansen.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I warn thee, however, that he is Low Dutch,&rdquo; he added,
&ldquo;though he speaketh English well.&rdquo;&nbsp; He would gladly
have gone with the youth, and at any other time might have been sent
by his master, but the whole energies of the Dragon would be taken up
for the next week by preparations for the tilting-match at court, and
Tibble could not be spared for another working hour.</p>
<p>Ambrose, as he rose to bid his friend good-night, could not help
saying that he marvelled that one such as he could turn his mind to
such vanities as the tilt-yard required.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay,&rdquo; said Tibble, &ldquo;&rsquo;twas the craft I was
bred to&mdash;yea, and I have a good master; and the Apostle Paul himself&mdash;as
I&rsquo;ve heard a preacher say&mdash;bade men continue in the state
wherein they were, and not be curious to chop and change.&nbsp; Who
knoweth whether in God&rsquo;s sight, all our wars and policies be no
more than the games of the tilt-yard.&nbsp; Moreover, Paul himself made
these very weapons read as good a sermon as the Dean himself.&nbsp;
Didst never hear of the shield of faith, and helmet of salvation, and
breastplate of righteousness?&nbsp; So, if thou comest to Master Hansen,
and provest worthy of his trust, thou wilt hear more, ay, and maybe
read too thyself, and send forth the good seed to others,&rdquo; he
murmured to himself, as he guided his visitor across the moonlit court
up the stairs to the chamber where Stephen lay fast asleep.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER X.&nbsp; TWO VOCATIONS</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>&ldquo;The smith, a mighty man is he<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;With
large and sinewy hands;<br />And the muscles of his brawny arms<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Are
strong as iron bands.&rdquo;</p>
<p>LONGFELLOW.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Stephen&rsquo;s first thought in the morning was whether the <i>ex
voto</i> effigy of poor Spring was put in hand, while Ambrose thought
of Tibble&rsquo;s promised commendation to the printer.&nbsp; They both,
however, found their affairs must needs wait.&nbsp; Orders for weapons
for the tilting-match had come in so thickly the day before that every
hand must be employed on executing them, and the Dragon court was ringing
again with the clang of hammers and screech of grind-stones.</p>
<p>Stephen, though not yet formally bound, was to enter on his apprentice
life at once; and Ambrose was assured by Master Headley that it was
of no use to repair to any of the dignified clergy of St. Paul&rsquo;s
before mid-day, and that he had better employ the time in writing to
his elder brother respecting the fee.&nbsp; Materials were supplied
to him, and he used them so as to do credit to the monks of Beaulieu,
in spite of little Dennet spending every spare moment in watching his
pen as if he were performing some cabalistic operation.</p>
<p>He was a long time about it.&nbsp; There were two letters to write,
and the wording of thorn needed to be very careful, besides that the
old court hand took more time to frame than the Italian current hand,
and even thus, when dinner-time came, at ten o&rsquo;clock, the household
was astonished to find that he had finished all that regarded Stephen,
though he had left the letters open, until his own venture should have
been made.</p>
<p>Stephen flung himself down beside his brother hot and panting, shaking
his shoulder-blades and declaring that his arms felt ready to drop out.&nbsp;
He had been turning a grindstone ever since six o&rsquo;clock.&nbsp;
The two new apprentices had been set on to sharpening the weapon points
as all that they were capable of, and had been bidden by Smallbones
to turn and hold alternately, but &ldquo;that oaf Giles Headley,&rdquo;
said Stephen, &ldquo;never ground but one lance, and made me go on turning,
threatening to lay the butt about mine ears if I slacked.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;The lazy lubber!&rdquo; cried Ambrose.&nbsp; &ldquo;But did
none see thee, or couldst not call out for redress?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thou art half a wench thyself, Ambrose, to think I&rsquo;d
complain.&nbsp; Besides, he stood on his rights as a master, and he
is a big fellow.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That&rsquo;s true,&rdquo; said Ambrose, &ldquo;and he might
make it the worse for thee.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I would I were as big as he,&rdquo; sighed Stephen, &ldquo;I
would soon show him which was the better man.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Perhaps the grinding match had not been as unobserved as Stephen
fancied, for on returning to work, Smallbones, who presided over all
the rougher parts of the business, claimed them both.&nbsp; He set Stephen
to stand by him, sort out and hand him all the rivets needed for a suit
of proof armour that hung on a frame, while he required Giles to straighten
bars of iron heated to a white heat.&nbsp; Ere long Giles called out
for Stephen to change places, to which Smallbones coolly replied, &ldquo;Turnabout
is the rule here, master.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Even so,&rdquo; replied Giles, &ldquo;and I have been at work
like this long enough, ay, and too long!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thy turn was a matter of three hours this morning,&rdquo;
replied Kit&mdash;not coolly, for nobody was cool in his den, but with
a brevity which provoked a laugh.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I shall see what my cousin the master saith!&rdquo; cried
Giles in great wrath.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ay, that thou wilt,&rdquo; returned Kit, &ldquo;if thou dost
loiter over thy business, and hast not those bars ready when called
for.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He never meant me to be put on work like this, with a hammer
that breaks mine arm.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What! crying out for <i>that</i>!&rdquo; said Edmund Burgess,
who had just come in to ask for a pair of tongs.&nbsp; &ldquo;What wouldst
say to the big hammer that none can wield save Kit himself?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Giles felt there was no redress, and panted on, feeling as if he
were melting away, and with a dumb, wild rage in his heart, that could
get no outlet, for Smallbones was at least as much bigger than he as
he was than Stephen.&nbsp; Tibble was meanwhile busy over the gilding
and enamelling of Buckingham&rsquo;s magnificent plate armour in Italian
fashion, but he had found time to thrust into Ambrose&rsquo;s hand an
exceedingly small and curiously folded billet for Lucas Hansen, the
printer, in case of need.&nbsp; &ldquo;He would be found at the sign
of the Winged Staff, in Paternoster Row,&rdquo; said Tibble, &ldquo;or
if not there himself, there would be his servant who would direct Ambrose
to the place where the Dutch printer lived and worked.&rdquo;&nbsp;
No one was at leisure to show the lad the way, and he set out with a
strange feeling of solitude, as his path began decisively to be away
from that of his brother.</p>
<p>He did not find much difficulty in discovering the quadrangle on
the south side of the minster where the minor canons lived near the
deanery; and the porter, a stout lay brother, pointed out to him the
doorway belonging to Master Alworthy.&nbsp; He knocked, and a young
man with a tonsured head but a bloated face opened it.&nbsp; Ambrose
explained that he had brought a letter from the Warden of St. Elizabeth&rsquo;s
College at Winchester.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Give it here,&rdquo; said the young man.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I would give it to his reverence himself,&rdquo; said Ambrose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;His reverence is taking his after-dinner nap and may not be
disturbed,&rdquo; said the man.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then I will wait,&rdquo; said Ambrose.</p>
<p>The door was shut in his face, but it was the shady side of the court,
and he sat down on a bench and waited.&nbsp; After full an hour the
door was opened, and the canon, a good-natured looking man, in a square
cap, and gown and cassock of the finest cloth, came slowly out.&nbsp;
He had evidently heard nothing of the message, and was taken by surprise
when Ambrose, doffing his cap and bowing low, gave him the greeting
of the Warden of St. Elizabeth&rsquo;s and the letter.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hum!&nbsp; Ha!&nbsp; My good friend&mdash;Fielder&mdash;I
remember him.&nbsp; He was always a scholar.&nbsp; So he hath sent thee
here with his commendations.&nbsp; What should I do with all the idle
country lads that come up to choke London and feed the plague?&nbsp;
Yet stay&mdash;that lurdane Bolt is getting intolerably lazy and insolent,
and methinks he robs me!&nbsp; What canst do, thou stripling?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I can read Latin, sir, and know the Greek alphabeta.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Tush!&nbsp; I want no scholar more than enough to serve my
mass.&nbsp; Canst sing?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Not now; but I hope to do so again.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;When I rid me of Bolt there&mdash;and there&rsquo;s an office
under the sacristan that he might fill as well as another knave&mdash;the
fellow might do for me well enow as a body servant,&rdquo; said Mr.
Alworthy, speaking to himself.&nbsp; &ldquo;He would brush my gowns
and make my bed, and I might perchance trust him with my marketings,
and by and by there might be some office for him when he grew saucy
and idle.&nbsp; I&rsquo;ll prove him on mine old comrade&rsquo;s word.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sir,&rdquo; said Ambrose, respectfully, &ldquo;what I seek
for is occasion for study.&nbsp; I had hoped you could speak to the
Dean, Dr. John Colet, for some post at his school.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Boy,&rdquo; said Alworthy, &ldquo;I thought thee no such fool!&nbsp;
Why crack thy brains with study when I can show thee a surer path to
ease and preferment?&nbsp; But I see thou art too proud to do an old
man a service.&nbsp; Thou writst thyself gentleman, forsooth, and high
blood will not stoop.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Not so, sir,&rdquo; returned Ambrose, &ldquo;I would work
in any way so I could study the humanities, and hear the Dean preach.&nbsp;
Cannot you commend me to his school?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ha!&rdquo; exclaimed the canon, &ldquo;this is your sort,
is it?&nbsp; I&rsquo;ll have nought to do with it!&nbsp; Preaching,
preaching!&nbsp; Every idle child&rsquo;s head is agog on preaching
nowadays!&nbsp; A plague on it!&nbsp; Why can&rsquo;t Master Dean leave
it to the black friars, whose vocation &rsquo;tis, and not cumber us
with his sermons for ever, and set every lazy lad thinking he must needs
run after them?&nbsp; No, no, my good boy, take my advice.&nbsp; Thou
shalt have two good bellyfuls a day, all my cast gowns, and a pair of
shoes by the year, with a groat a month if thou wilt keep mine house,
bring in my meals, and the like, and by and by, so thou art a good lad,
and runst not after these new-fangled preachments which lead but to
heresy, and set folk racking their brains about sin and such trash,
we&rsquo;ll get thee shorn and into minor orders, and who knows what
good preferment thou mayst not win in due time!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sir, I am beholden to you, but my mind is set on study.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What kin art thou to a fool?&rdquo; cried the minor canon,
so startling Ambrose that he had almost answered, and turning to another
ecclesiastic whose siesta seemed to have ended about the same time,
&ldquo;Look at this varlet, Brother Cloudesley!&nbsp; Would you believe
it?&nbsp; He comes to me with a letter from mine old friend, in consideration
of which I offer him that saucy lubber Bolt&rsquo;s place, a gown of
mine own a year, meat and preferment, and, lo you, he tells me all he
wants is to study Greek, forsooth, and hear the Dean&rsquo;s sermons!&rdquo;</p>
<p>The other canon shook his head in dismay at such arrant folly.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Young stripling, be warned,&rdquo; he said.&nbsp; &ldquo;Know
what is good for thee.&nbsp; Greek is the tongue of heresy.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;How may that be, reverend sir,&rdquo; said Ambrose, &ldquo;when
the holy Apostles and the Fathers spake and wrote in the Greek?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Waste not thy time on him, brother,&rdquo; said Mr. Alworthy.&nbsp;
&ldquo;He will find out his error when his pride and his Greek forsooth
have brought him to fire and faggot.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ay! ay!&rdquo; added Cloudesley.&nbsp; &ldquo;The Dean with
his Dutch friend and his sermons, and his new grammar and accidence,
is sowing heretics as thick as groundsel.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Wherewith the two canons of the old school waddled away, arm in arm,
and Bolt put out his head, leered at Ambrose, and bade him shog off,
and not come sneaking after other folk&rsquo;s shoes.</p>
<p>Sooth to say, Ambrose was relieved by his rejection.&nbsp; If he
were not to obtain admission in any capacity to St. Paul&rsquo;s School,
he felt more drawn to Tibble&rsquo;s friend the printer; for the self-seeking
luxurious habits into which so many of the beneficed clergy had fallen
were repulsive to him, and his whole soul thirsted after that new revelation,
as it were, which Colet&rsquo;s sermon had made to him.&nbsp; Yet the
word heresy was terrible and confusing, and a doubt came over him whether
he might not be forsaking the right path, and be lured aside by false
lights.</p>
<p>He would think it out before he committed himself.&nbsp; Where should
he do so in peace?&nbsp; He thought of the great Minster, but the nave
was full of a surging multitude, and there was a loud hum of voices
proceeding from it, which took from him all inclination to find his
way to the quieter and inner portions of the sanctuary.</p>
<p>Then he recollected the little Pardon Church, where he had seen the
<i>Dance of Death</i> on the walls; and crossing the burial-ground he
entered, and, as he expected, found it empty, since the hours for masses
for the dead were now past.&nbsp; He knelt down on a step, repeated
the sext office, in warning for which the bells were chiming all round,
covering his face with his hands, and thinking himself back to Beaulieu;
then, seating himself on a step, leaning against the wall, he tried
to think out whether to give himself up to the leadings of the new light
that had broken on him, or whether to wrench himself from it.&nbsp;
Was this, which seemed to him truth and deliverance, verily the heresy
respecting which rumours had come to horrify the country convents?&nbsp;
If he had only heard of it from Tibble Wry-mouth, he would have doubted,
in spite of its power over him, but he had heard it from a man, wise,
good, and high in place, like Dean Colet.&nbsp; Yet to his further perplexity,
his uncle had spoken of Colet as jesting at Wolsey&rsquo;s table.&nbsp;
What course should he take?&nbsp; Could he bear to turn away from that
which drew his soul so powerfully, and return to the bounds which seem
to him to be grown so narrow, but which he was told were safe?&nbsp;
Now that Stephen was settled, it was open to him to return to St. Elizabeth&rsquo;s
College, but the young soul within him revolted against the repetition
of what had become to him unsatisfying, unless illumined by the brightness
he seemed to have glimpsed at.</p>
<p>But Ambrose had gone through much unwonted fatigue of late, and while
thus musing he fell asleep, with his head against the wall.&nbsp; He
was half wakened by the sound of voices, and presently became aware
that two persons were examining the walls, and comparing the paintings
with some others, which one of them had evidently seen.&nbsp; If he
had known it, it was with the <i>Dance of Death</i> on the bridge of
Lucerne.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I question,&rdquo; said a voice that Ambrose had heard before,
&ldquo;whether these terrors be wholesome for men&rsquo;s souls.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;For priests&rsquo; pouches, they be,&rdquo; said the other,
with something of a foreign accent.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Alack, when shall we see the day when the hope of paradise
and dread of purgatory shall be no longer made the tools of priestly
gain; and hatred of sin taught to these poor folk, instead of servile
dread of punishment.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Have a care, my Colet,&rdquo; answered the yellow bearded
foreigner; &ldquo;thou art already in ill odour with those same men
in authority; and though a Dean&rsquo;s stall be fenced from the episcopal
crook, yet there is a rod at Rome which can reach even thither.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I tell thee, dear Erasmus, thou art too timid; I were well
content to leave house and goods, yea, to go to prison or to death,
could I but bring home to one soul, for which Christ died, the truth
and hope in every one of those prayers and creeds that our poor folk
are taught to patter as a senseless charm.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;These are strange times,&rdquo; returned Erasmus.&nbsp; &ldquo;Methinks
yonder phantom, be he skeleton or angel, will have snatched both of
us away ere we behold the full issue either of thy preachings, or my
Greek Testament, or of our More&rsquo;s Utopian images.&nbsp; Dost thou
not feel as though we were like children who have set some mighty engine
in motion, like the great water-wheels in my native home, which, whirled
by the flowing streams of time and opinion, may break up the whole foundations,
and destroy the oneness of the edifice?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It may be so,&rdquo; returned Colet.&nbsp; &ldquo;What read
we?&nbsp; &lsquo;The net brake&rsquo; even in the Master&rsquo;s sight,
while still afloat on the sea.&nbsp; It was only on the shore that the
hundred and fifty-three, all good and sound, were drawn to His feet.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And,&rdquo; returned Erasmus, &ldquo;I see wherefore thou
hast made thy children at St. Paul&rsquo;s one hundred and fifty and
three.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The two friends were passing out.&nbsp; Their latter speeches had
scarce been understood by Ambrose, even if he heard them, so full was
he of conflicting feelings, now ready to cast himself before their feet,
and entreat the Dean to help him to guidance, now withheld by bashfulness,
unwillingness to interrupt, and ingenuous shame at appearing like an
eavesdropper towards such dignified and venerable personages.&nbsp;
Had he obeyed his first impulse, mayhap his career had been made safer
and easier for him, but it was while shyness chained his limbs and tongue
that the Dean and Erasmus quitted the chapel, and the opportunity of
accosting them had slipped away.</p>
<p>Their half comprehended words had however decided him in the part
he should take, making him sure that Colet was not controverting the
formularies of the Church, but drawing out those meanings which in repetition
by rote were well-nigh forgotten.&nbsp; It was as if his course were
made clear to him.</p>
<p>He was determined to take the means which most readily presented
themselves of hearing Colet; and leaving the chapel, he bent his steps
to the Row which his book-loving eye had already marked.&nbsp; Flanking
the great Cathedral on the north, was the row of small open stalls devoted
to the sale of books, or &ldquo;objects of devotion,&rdquo; all so arranged
that the open portion might be cleared, and the stock-in-trade locked
up if not carried away.&nbsp; Each stall had its own sign, most of them
sacred, such as the Lamb and Flag, the Scallop Shell, or some patron
saint, but classical emblems were oddly intermixed, such as Minerva&rsquo;s
&AElig;gis, Pegasus, and the Lyre of Apollo.&nbsp; The sellers, some
middle-aged men, some lads, stretched out their arms with their wares
to attract the passengers in the street, and did not fail to beset Ambrose.&nbsp;
The more lively looked at his Lincoln green and shouted verses of ballads
at him, fluttering broad sheets with verses on the lamentable fate of
Jane Shore, or Fair Rosamond, the same woodcut doing duty for both ladies,
without mercy to their beauty.&nbsp; The scholastic judged by his face
and step that he was a student, and they flourished at him black-bound
copies of Virgilius Maro, and of Tully&rsquo;s Offices, while others,
hoping that he was an incipient clerk, offered breviaries, missals or
portuaries, with the Use of St. Paul&rsquo;s, or of Sarum, or mayhap
St. Austin&rsquo;s Confessions.&nbsp; He made his way along, with his
eye diligently heedful of the signs, and at last recognised the Winged
Staff, or caduceus of Hermes, over a stall where a couple of boys in
blue caps and gowns and yellow stockings were making a purchase of a
small, grave-looking, elderly but bright cheeked man, whose yellow hair
and beard were getting intermingled with grey.&nbsp; They were evidently
those St. Paul&rsquo;s School boys whom Ambrose envied so much, and
as they finished their bargaining and ran away together, Ambrose advanced
with a salutation, asked if he did not see Master Lucas Hansen, and
gave him the note with the commendations of Tibble Steelman the armourer.</p>
<p>He was answered with a ready nod and &ldquo;yea, yea,&rdquo; as the
old man opened the billet and cast his eyes over it; then scanning Ambrose
from head to foot, said with some amazement, &ldquo;But you are of gentle
blood, young sir.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am,&rdquo; said Ambrose; &ldquo;but gentle blood needs at
times to work for bread, and Tibble let me hope that I might find both
livelihood for the body and for the soul with you, sir.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Is it so?&rdquo; asked the printer, his face lighting up.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Art thou willing to labour and toil, and give up hope of fee
and honour, if so thou mayst win the truth?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Ambrose folded his hands with a gesture of earnestness, and Lucas
Hansen said, &ldquo;Bless thee, my son!&nbsp; Methinks I can aid thee
in thy quest, so thou canst lay aside,&rdquo; and here his voice grew
sharper and more peremptory, &ldquo;all thy gentleman&rsquo;s airs and
follies, and serve&mdash;ay, serve and obey.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I trust so,&rdquo; returned Ambrose; &ldquo;my brother is
even now becoming prentice to Master Giles Headley, and we hope to live
as honest men by the work of our hands and brains.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I forgot that you English herren are not so puffed up with
pride and scorn like our Dutch nobles,&rdquo; returned the printer.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Canst live sparingly, and lie hard, and see that thou keepst
the house clean, not like these English swine?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I hope so,&rdquo; said Ambrose, smiling; &ldquo;but I have
an uncle and aunt, and they would have me lie every night at their house
beside the Temple gardens.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What is thine uncle?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He hath a post in the mein&eacute; of my Lord Archbishop of
York,&rdquo; said Ambrose, blushing and hesitating a little.&nbsp; &ldquo;He
cometh to and fro to his wife, who dwells with her old father, doing
fine lavender&rsquo;s work for the lawyer folk therein.&rdquo;</p>
<p>It was somewhat galling that this should be the most respectable
occupation that could be put forward, but Lucas Hansen was evidently
reassured by it.&nbsp; He next asked whether Ambrose could read Latin,
putting a book into his hand as he did so; Ambrose read and construed
readily, explaining that he had been trained at Beaulieu.</p>
<p>&ldquo;That is well!&rdquo; said the printer; &ldquo;and hast thou
any Greek?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Only the alphabeta,&rdquo; said Ambrose, &ldquo;I made that
out from a book at Beaulieu, but Father Simon knew no more, and there
was nought to study from.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Even so,&rdquo; replied Hansen, &ldquo;but little as thou
knowst &rsquo;tis as much as I can hope for from any who will aid me
in my craft.&nbsp; &rsquo;Tis I that, as thou hast seen, furnish for
the use of the children at the Dean&rsquo;s school of St. Paul&rsquo;s.&nbsp;
The best and foremost scholars of them are grounded in their Greek,
that being the tongue wherein the Holy Gospels were first writ.&nbsp;
Hitherto I have had to get me books for their use from Holland, whither
they are brought from Basle, but I have had sent me from Hamburg a fount
of type of the Greek character, whereby I hope to print at home, the
accidence, and mayhap the <i>Dialogues</i> of Plato, and it might even
be the sacred Gospel itself, which the great Doctor, Master Erasmus,
is even now collating from the best authorities in the universities.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Ambrose&rsquo;s eyes kindled with unmistakable delight.&nbsp; &ldquo;You
have the accidence!&rdquo; he exclaimed.&nbsp; &ldquo;Then could I study
the tongue even while working for you!&nbsp; Sir, I would do my best!&nbsp;
It is the very opportunity I seek.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Fair and softly,&rdquo; said the printer with something of
a smile.&nbsp; &ldquo;Thou art new to cheapening and bargaining, my
fair lad.&nbsp; Thou hast spoken not one word of the wage.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I recked not of that,&rdquo; said Ambrose.&nbsp; &ldquo;&rsquo;Tis
true, I may not burthen mine uncle and aunt, but verily, sir, I would
live on the humblest fare that will keep body and soul together so that
I may have such an opportunity.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;How knowst thou what the opportunity may be?&rdquo; returned
Lucas, drily.&nbsp; &ldquo;Thou art but a babe!&nbsp; Some one should
have a care of thee.&nbsp; If I set thee to stand here all day and cry
what d&rsquo;ye lack? or to carry bales of books twixt this and Warwick
Inner Yard, thou wouldst have no ground to complain.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay, sir,&rdquo; returned Ambrose, &ldquo;I wot that Tibble
Steelman would never send me to one who would not truly give me what
I need.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Tibble Steelman is verily one of the few who are both called
and chosen,&rdquo; replied Lucas, &ldquo;and I think thou art the same
so far as green youth may be judged, since thou art one who will follow
the word into the desert, and never ask for the loaves and fishes.&nbsp;
Nevertheless, I will take none advantage of thy youth and zeal, but
thou shalt first behold what thou shalt have to do for me, and then
if it still likes thee, I will see thy kindred.&nbsp; Hast no father?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Ambrose explained, and at that moment Master Hansen&rsquo;s boy made
his appearance, returning from an errand; the stall was left in his
charge, while the master took Ambrose with him into the precincts of
what had once been the splendid and hospitable mansion of the great
king-maker, Warwick, but was now broken up into endless little tenements
with their courts and streets, though the baronial ornaments and the
arrangement still showed what the place had been.</p>
<p>Entering beneath a wide archway, still bearing the sign of the Bear
and Ragged Staff, Lucas led the way into what must have been one of
the courts of offices, for it was surrounded with buildings and sheds
of different heights and sizes, and had on one side a deep trough of
stone, fed by a series of water-taps, intended for the use of the stables.&nbsp;
The doors of one of these buildings was unlocked by Master Hansen, and
Ambrose found himself in what had once perhaps been part of a stable,
but had been partitioned off from the rest.&nbsp; There were two stalls,
one serving the Dutchman for his living room, the other for his workshop.&nbsp;
In one corner stood a white earthenware stove&mdash;so new a spectacle
to the young forester that he supposed it to be the printing press.&nbsp;
A table, shiny with rubbing, a wooden chair, a couple of stools, a few
vessels, mirrors for brightness, some chests and corner cupboards, a
bed shutting up like a box and likewise highly polished, completed the
furniture, all arranged with the marvellous orderliness and neatness
of the nation.&nbsp; A curtain shut off the opening to the other stall,
where stood a machine with a huge screw, turned by leverage.&nbsp; Boxes
of type and piles of paper surrounded it, and Ambrose stood and looked
at it with a sort of awe-struck wonder and respect as the great fount
of wisdom.&nbsp; Hansen showed him what his work would be, in setting
up type, and by and by correcting after the first proof.&nbsp; The machine
could only print four pages at a time, and for this operation the whole
strength of the establishment was required.&nbsp; Moreover, Master Hansen
bound, as well as printed his books.&nbsp; Ambrose was by no means daunted.&nbsp;
As long as he might read as well as print, and while he had Sundays
at St. Paul&rsquo;s to look to, he asked no more&mdash;except indeed
that his gentle blood stirred at the notion of acting salesman in the
book-stall, and Master Hansen assured him with a smile that Will Wherry,
the other boy, would do that better than either of them, and that he
would be entirely employed here.</p>
<p>The methodical master insisted however on making terms with the boy&rsquo;s
relations; and with some misgivings on Ambrose&rsquo;s part, the two&mdash;since
business hours were almost over&mdash;walked together to the Temple
and to the little house, where Perronel was ironing under her window.</p>
<p>Ambrose need not have doubted.&nbsp; The Dutch blood on either side
was stirred; and the good housewife commanded the little printer&rsquo;s
respect as he looked round on a kitchen as tidy as if it were in his
own country.&nbsp; And the bargain was struck that Ambrose Birkenholt
should serve Master Hansen for his meals and two pence a week, while
he was to sleep at the little house of Mistress Randall, who would keep
his clothes and linen in order.</p>
<p>And thus it was that both Ambrose and Stephen Birkenholt had found
their vocations for the present, and both were fervent in them.&nbsp;
Master Headley pshawed a little when he heard that Ambrose had engaged
himself to a printer and a foreigner; and when he was told it was to
a friend of Tibble&rsquo;s, only shook his head, saying that Tib&rsquo;s
only fault was dabbling in matters of divinity, as if a plain man could
not be saved without them!&nbsp; However, he respected the lad for having
known his own mind and not hung about in idleness, and he had no opinion
of clerks, whether monks or priests.&nbsp; Indeed, the low esteem in
which the clergy as a class were held in London was one of the very
evil signs of the times.&nbsp; Ambrose was invited to dine and sup at
the Dragon court every Sunday and holiday, and he was glad to accept,
since the hospitality was so free, and he thus was able to see his brother
and Tibble; besides that, it prevented him from burthening Mistress
Randall, whom he really liked, though he could not see her husband,
either in his motley or his plain garments, without a shudder of repulsion.</p>
<p>Ambrose found that setting up type had not much more to do with the
study of new books than Stephen&rsquo;s turning the grindstone had with
fighting in the lists; and the mistakes he made in spelling from right
to left, and in confounding the letters, made him despair, and prepare
for any amount of just indignation from his master; but he found on
the contrary that Master Hansen had never had a pupil who made so few
blunders on the first trial, and augured well of him from such a beginning.&nbsp;
Paper was too costly, and pressure too difficult, for many proofs to
be struck off, but Hansen could read and correct his type as it stood,
and assured Ambrose that practice would soon give him the same power;
and the correction was thus completed, when Will Wherry, a big, stout
fellow, came in to dinner&mdash;the stall being left during that time,
as nobody came for books during the dinner-hour, and Hansen, having
an understanding with his next neighbour, by which they took turns to
keep guard against thieves.</p>
<p>The master and the two lads dined together on the contents of a cauldron,
where pease and pork had been simmering together on the stove all the
morning.&nbsp; Their strength was then united to work the press and
strike off a sheet, which the master scanned, finding only one error
in it.&nbsp; It was a portion of Lilly&rsquo;s <i>Grammar</i>, and Ambrose
regarded it with mingled pride and delight, though he longed to go further
into those deeper revelations for the sake of which he had come here.</p>
<p>Master Hansen then left the youths to strike off a couple of hundred
sheets, after which they were to wash the types and re-arrange the letters
in the compartments in order, whilst he returned to the stall.&nbsp;
The customers requiring his personal attention were generally late ones.&nbsp;
When all this was accomplished, and the pot put on again in preparation
for supper, the lads might use the short time that remained as they
would, and Hansen himself showed Ambrose a shelf of books concealed
by a blue curtain, whence he might read.</p>
<p>Will Wherry showed unconcealed amazement that this should be the
taste of his companion.&nbsp; He himself hated the whole business, and
would never have adopted it, but that he had too many brothers for all
to take to the water on the Thames, and their mother was too poor to
apprentice them, and needed the small weekly pay the Dutchman gave him.&nbsp;
He seemed a good-natured, dull fellow, whom no doubt Hansen had hired
for the sake of the strong arms, developed by generations of oarsmen
upon the river.&nbsp; What he specially disliked was that his master
was a foreigner.&nbsp; The whole court swarmed with foreigners, he said,
with the utmost disgust, as if they were noxious insects.&nbsp; They
made provisions dear, and undersold honest men, and he wondered the
Lord Mayor did not see to it and drive them out.&nbsp; He did not <i>so</i>
much object to the Dutch, but the Spaniards&mdash;no words could express
his horror of them.</p>
<p>By and by, Ambrose going out to fetch some water from the conduit,
found standing by it a figure entirely new to him.&nbsp; It was a young
girl of some twelve or fourteen years old, in the round white cap worn
by all of her age and sex; but from beneath it hung down two thick plaits
of the darkest hair he had ever seen, and though the dress was of the
ordinary dark serge with a coloured apron, it was put on with an air
that made it look like some strange and beautiful costume on the slender,
lithe, little form.&nbsp; The vermilion apron was further trimmed with
a narrow border of white, edged again with deep blue, and it chimed
in with the bright coral earrings and necklace.&nbsp; As Ambrose came
forward the creature tried to throw a crimson handkerchief over her
head, and ran into the shelter of another door, but not before Ambrose
had seen a pair of large dark eyes so like those of a terrified fawn
that they seemed to carry him back to the Forest.&nbsp; Going back amazed,
he asked his companion who the girl he had seen could have been.</p>
<p>Will stared.&nbsp; &ldquo;I trow you mean the old blackamoor sword-cutler&rsquo;s
wench.&nbsp; He is one of those pestilent strangers.&nbsp; An &rsquo;Ebrew
Jew who worships Mahound and is too bad for the Spanish folk themselves.&rdquo;</p>
<p>This rather startled Ambrose, though he knew enough to see that the
accusations could not both be true, but he forgot it in the delight,
when Will pronounced the work done, of drawing back the curtain and
feasting his eyes upon the black backs of the books, and the black-letter
brochures that lay by them.&nbsp; There were scarcely thirty, yet he
gloated on them as on an inexhaustible store, while Will, whistling
wonder at his taste, opined that since some one was there to look after
the stove, and the iron pot on it, he might go out and have a turn at
ball with Hob and Martin.</p>
<p>Ambrose was glad to be left to go over his coming feast.&nbsp; There
was Latin, English, and, alas! baffling Dutch.&nbsp; High or Low it
was all the same to him.&nbsp; What excited his curiosity most was the
<i>Enchiridion Militis Christiani</i> of Erasmus&mdash;in Latin of course,
and that he could easily read&mdash;but almost equally exciting was
a Greek and Latin vocabulary; or again, a very thin book in which he
recognised the New Testament in the Vulgate.&nbsp; He had heard chapters
of it read from the graceful stone pulpit overhanging the refectory
at Beaulieu, and, of course, the Gospels and Epistles at mass, but they
had been read with little expression and no attention; and that Sunday&rsquo;s
discourse had filled him with eagerness to look farther; but the mere
reading the titles of the books was pleasure enough for the day, and
his master was at home before he had fixed his mind on anything.&nbsp;
Perhaps this was as well, for Lucas advised him what to begin with,
and how to divide his studies so as to gain a knowledge of the Greek,
his great ambition, and also to read the Scripture.</p>
<p>The master was almost as much delighted as the scholar, and it was
not till the curfew was beginning to sound that Ambrose could tear himself
away.&nbsp; It was still daylight, and the door of the next dwelling
was open.&nbsp; There, sitting on the ground cross-legged, in an attitude
such as Ambrose had never seen, was a magnificent old man, with a huge
long white beard, wearing, indeed, the usual dress of a Londoner of
the lower class, but the gown flowed round him in a grand and patriarchal
manner, corresponding with his noble, somewhat aquiline features; and
behind him Ambrose thought he caught a glimpse of the shy fawn he had
seen in the morning.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XI.&nbsp; AY DI ME GRENADA</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>&ldquo;In sooth it was a thing to weep<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;If
then as now the level plain<br />Beneath was spreading like the deep,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The
broad unruffled main.<br />If like a watch-tower of the sun<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Above,
the Alpuxarras rose,<br />Streaked, when the dying day was done,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&ldquo;With
evening&rsquo;s roseate snows.&rdquo;</p>
<p>ARCHBISHOP TRENCH.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>When Mary Tudor, released by death from her first dreary marriage,
contracted for her brother&rsquo;s pleasure, had appeased his wrath
at her second marriage made to please herself, Henry VIII. was only
too glad to mark his assent by all manner of festivities; and English
chroniclers, instead of recording battles and politics, had only to
write of pageantries and tournaments during the merry May of the year
1515&mdash;a May, be it remembered, which, thanks to the old style,
was at least ten days nearer to Midsummer than our present month.</p>
<p>How the two queens and all their court had gone a-maying on Shooter&rsquo;s
Hill, ladies and horses poetically disguised and labelled with sweet
summer titles, was only a nine days&rsquo; wonder when the Birkenholts
had come to London, but the approaching tournament at Westminster on
the Whitsun holiday was the great excitement to the whole population,
for, with all its faults, the Court of bluff King Hal was thoroughly
genial, and every one, gentle and simple, might participate in his pleasures.</p>
<p>Seats were reserved at the lists for the city dignitaries and their
families, and though old Mistress Headley professed that she ought to
have done with such vanities, she could not forbear from going to see
that her son was not too much encumbered with the care of little Dennet,
and that the child herself ran into no mischief.&nbsp; Master Headley
himself grumbled and sighed, but he put himself into his scarlet gown,
holding that his presence was a befitting attention to the king, glad
to gratify his little daughter, and not without a desire to see how
his workmanship&mdash;good English ware&mdash;held out against &ldquo;mail
and plate of Milan steel,&rdquo; the fine armour brought home from France
by the new Duke of Suffolk.&nbsp; Giles donned his best in the expectation
of sitting in the places of honour as one of the family, and was greatly
disgusted when Kit Smallbones observed, &ldquo;What&rsquo;s all that
bravery for?&nbsp; The tilting match quotha?&nbsp; Ha! ha! my young
springald, if thou see it at all, thou must be content to gaze as thou
canst from the armourers&rsquo; tent, if Tibble there chooses to be
cumbered with a useless lubber like thee.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I always sat with my mother when there were matches at Clarendon,&rdquo;
muttered Giles, who had learnt at least that it was of no use to complain
of Smallbones&rsquo; plain speaking.</p>
<p>&ldquo;If folks cocker malapert lads at Sarum we know better here,&rdquo;
was the answer.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I shall ask the master, my kinsman,&rdquo; returned the youth.</p>
<p>But he got little by his move.&nbsp; Master Headley told him, not
unkindly, for he had some pity for the spoilt lad, that not the Lord
Mayor himself would take his own son with him while yet an apprentice.&nbsp;
Tibble Steelman would indeed go to one of the attendants&rsquo; tents
at the further end of the lists, where repairs to armour and weapons
might be needed, and would take an assistant or two, but who they might
be must depend on his own choice, and if Giles had any desire to go,
he had better don his working dress.</p>
<p>In fact, Tibble meant to take Edmund Burgess and one workman for
use, and one of the new apprentices for pleasure, letting them change
in the middle of the day.&nbsp; The swagger of Giles actually forfeited
for him the first turn, which&mdash;though he was no favourite with
the men&mdash;would have been granted to his elder years and his relationship
to the master; but on his overbearing demand to enter the boat which
was to carry down a little anvil and charcoal furnace, with a few tools,
rivets, nails, and horse-shoes, Tibble coolly returned that he needed
no such gay birds; but if Giles chose to be ready in his leathern coat
when Stephen Birkenholt came home at midday, mayhap he might change
with him.</p>
<p>Stephen went joyously in the plainest of attire, though Tibble in
fur cap, grimy jerkin, and leathern apron was no elegant steersman;
and Edmund, who was at the age of youthful foppery, shrugged his shoulders
a little, and disguised the garments of the smithy with his best flat
cap and newest mantle.</p>
<p>They kept in the wake of the handsome barge which Master Headley
shared with his friend and brother alderman, Master Hope the draper,
whose young wife, in a beautiful black velvet hood and shining blue
satin kirtle, was evidently petting Dennet to her heart&rsquo;s content,
though the little damsel never lost an opportunity of nodding to her
friends in the plainer barge in the rear.</p>
<p>The Tudor tilting matches cost no lives, and seldom broke bones.&nbsp;
They were chiefly opportunities for the display of brilliant enamelled
and gilt armour, at the very acme of cumbrous magnificence; and of equally
gorgeous embroidery spread out over the vast expanse provided by elephantine
Flemish horses.&nbsp; Even if the weapons had not been purposely blunted,
and if the champions had really desired to slay one another, they would
have found the task very difficult, as in effect they did in the actual
game of war.&nbsp; But the spectacle was a splendid one, and all the
apparatus was ready in the armourers&rsquo; tent, marked by St. George
and the Dragon.&nbsp; Tibble ensconced himself in the innermost corner
with a &ldquo;tractate,&rdquo; borrowed from his friend Lucas, and sent
the apprentices to gaze their fill at the rapidly filling circles of
seats.&nbsp; They saw King Harry, resplendent in gilded armour&mdash;&ldquo;from
their own anvil, true English steel,&rdquo; said Edmund, proudly&mdash;hand
to her seat his sister the bride, one of the most beautiful women then
in existence, with a lovely and delicate bloom on her fair face and
exquisite Plantagenet features.&nbsp; No more royally handsome creatures
could the world have offered than that brother and sister, and the English
world appreciated them and made the lists ring with applause at the
fair lady who had disdained foreign princes to wed her true love, an
honest Englishman.</p>
<p>He&mdash;the cloth of frieze&mdash;in blue Milanese armour, made
to look as classical as possible, and with clasps and medals engraven
from antique gems&mdash;handed in Queen Katharine, whose dark but glowing
Spanish complexion made a striking contrast to the dazzling fairness
of her young sister-in-law.&nbsp; Near them sat a stout burly figure
in episcopal purple, and at his feet there was a form which nearly took
away all Stephen&rsquo;s pleasure for the time.&nbsp; For it was in
motley, and he could hear the bells jingle, while the hot blood rose
in his cheeks in the dread lest Burgess should detect the connection,
or recognise in the jester the grave personage who had come to negotiate
with Mr. Headley for his indentures, or worse still, that the fool should
see and claim him.</p>
<p>However, Quipsome Hal seemed to be exchanging drolleries with the
young dowager of France, who, sooth to say, giggled in a very unqueenly
manner at jokes which made the grave Spanish-born queen draw up her
stately head, and converse with a lady on her other hand&mdash;an equally
stately lady, somewhat older, with the straight Plantagenet features,
and by her side a handsome boy, who, though only eight or nine years
was tonsured, and had a little scholar&rsquo;s gown.&nbsp; &ldquo;That,&rdquo;
said Edmund, &ldquo;is my Lady Countess of Salisbury, of whom Giles
Headley prates so much.&rdquo;</p>
<p>A tournament, which was merely a game between gorgeously equipped
princes and nobles, afforded little scope for adventure worthy of record,
though it gave great diversion to the spectators.&nbsp; Stephen gazed
like one fascinated at the gay panoply of horse and man with the huge
plumes on the heads of both, as they rushed against one another, and
he shared with Edmund the triumph when the lance from their armoury
held good, the vexation if it were shivered.&nbsp; All would have been
perfect but for the sight of his uncle, playing off his drolleries in
a manner that gave him a sense of personal degradation.</p>
<p>To escape from the sight almost consoled him when, in the pause after
the first courses had been run, Tibble told him and Burgess to return,
and send Headley and another workman with a fresh bundle of lances for
the afternoon&rsquo;s tilting.&nbsp; Stephen further hoped to find his
brother at the Dragon court, as it was one of those holidays that set
every one free, and separation began to make the brothers value their
meetings.</p>
<p>But Ambrose was not at the Dragon court, and when Stephen went in
quest of him to the Temple, Perronel had not seen him since the early
morning, but she said he seemed so much bitten with the little old man&rsquo;s
scholarship that she had small doubt that he would be found poring over
a book in Warwick Inner Yard.</p>
<p>Thither therefore did Stephen repair.&nbsp; The place was nearly
deserted, for the inhabitants were mostly either artisans or that far
too numerous race who lived on the doles of convents, on the alms of
churchgoers, and the largesses scattered among the people on public
occasions, and these were for the most part pursuing their vocation
both of gazing and looking out for gain among the spectators outside
the lists.&nbsp; The door that Stephen had been shown as that of Ambrose&rsquo;s
master was, however, partly open, and close beside it sat in the sun
a figure that amazed him.&nbsp; On a small mat or rug, with a black
and yellow handkerchief over her head, and little scarlet legs crossed
under a blue dress, all lighted up by the gay May sun, there slept the
little dark, glowing maiden, with her head best as it leant against
the wall, her rosy lips half open, her long black plaits on her shoulders.</p>
<p>Stepping up to the half-open door, whence he heard a voice reading,
his astonishment was increased.&nbsp; At the table were his brother
and his master, Ambrose with a black book in hand, Lucas Hansen with
some papers, and on the ground was seated a venerable, white-bearded
old man, something between Stephen&rsquo;s notions of an apostle and
of a magician, though the latter idea predominated at sight of a long
parchment scroll covered with characters such as belonged to no alphabet
that he had ever dreamt of.&nbsp; What were they doing to his brother?&nbsp;
He was absolutely in an enchanter&rsquo;s den.&nbsp; Was it a pixy at
the door, guarding it?&nbsp; &ldquo;Ambrose!&rdquo; he cried aloud.</p>
<p>Everybody started.&nbsp; Ambrose sprang to his feet, exclaiming,
&ldquo;Stephen!&rdquo;&nbsp; The pixy gave a little scream and jumped
up, flying to the old man, who quietly rolled up his scroll.</p>
<p>Lucas rose up as Ambrose spoke.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thy brother?&rdquo; said he.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yea&mdash;come in search of me,&rdquo; said Ambrose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thou hadst best go forth with him,&rdquo; said Lucas.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It is not well that youth should study over long,&rdquo; said
the old man.&nbsp; &ldquo;Thou hast aided us well, but do thou now unbend
the bow.&nbsp; Peace be with thee, my son.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Ambrose complied, but scarcely willingly, and the instant they had
made a few steps from the door, Stephen exclaimed in dismay, &ldquo;Who&mdash;what
was it?&nbsp; Have they bewitched thee, Ambrose?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Ambrose laughed merrily.&nbsp; &ldquo;Not so.&nbsp; It is holy lore
that those good men are reading.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay now, Ambrose.&nbsp; Stand still&mdash;if thou canst, poor
fellow,&rdquo; he muttered, and then made the sign of the cross three
times over his brother, who stood smiling, and said, &ldquo;Art satisfied
Stevie?&nbsp; Or wilt have me rehearse my <i>Credo</i>?&rdquo;&nbsp;
Which he did, Stephen listening critically, and drawing a long breath
as he recognised each word, pronounced without a shudder at the critical
points.&nbsp; &ldquo;Thou art safe so far,&rdquo; said Stephen.&nbsp;
&ldquo;But sure he is a wizard.&nbsp; I even beheld his familiar spirit&mdash;in
a fair shape doubtless&mdash;like a pixy!&nbsp; Be not deceived, brother.&nbsp;
Sorcery reads backwards&mdash;and I saw him so read from that scroll
of his.&nbsp; Laughest thou!&nbsp; Nay! what shall I do to free thee?&nbsp;
Enter here!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Stephen dragged his brother, still laughing, into the porch of the
nearest church, and deluged him with holy water with such good will,
that Ambrose, putting up his hands to shield his eyes, exclaimed, &ldquo;Come
now, have done with this folly, Stephen&mdash;though it makes me laugh
to think of thy scared looks, and poor little Aldonza being taken for
a familiar spirit.&rdquo;&nbsp; And Ambrose laughed as he had not laughed
for weeks.</p>
<p>&ldquo;But what is it, then?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;The old man is of thy calling, or something like it, Stephen,
being that he maketh and tempereth sword-blades after the prime Damascene
or Toledo fashion, and the familiar spirit is his little daughter.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Stephen did not however look mollified.&nbsp; &ldquo;Swordblades!&nbsp;
None have a right to make them save our craft.&nbsp; This is one of
the rascaille Spaniards who have poured into the city under favour of
the queen to spoil and ruin the lawful trade.&nbsp; Though could you
but have seen, Ambrose, how our tough English ashwood in King Harry&rsquo;s
hand&mdash;from our own armoury too&mdash;made all go down before it,
you would never uphold strangers and their false wares that <i>can</i>
only get the better by sorcery.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;How thou dost harp upon sorcery!&rdquo; exclaimed Ambrose.&nbsp;
&ldquo;I must tell thee the good old man&rsquo;s story as &rsquo;twas
told to me, and then wilt thou own that he is as good a Christian as
ourselves&mdash;ay, or better&mdash;and hath little cause to love the
Spaniards.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Come on, then,&rdquo; said Stephen.&nbsp; &ldquo;Methought
if we went towards Westminster we might yet get where we could see the
lists.&nbsp; Such a rare show, Ambrose, to see the King in English armour,
ay, and Master Headley&rsquo;s, every inch of it, glittering in the
sun, so that one could scarce brook the dazzling, on his horse like
a rock shattering all that came against him!&nbsp; I warrant you the
lances cracked and shivered like faggots under old Purkis&rsquo;s bill-hook.&nbsp;
And that you should liefer pore over crabbed monkish stuff with yonder
old men!&nbsp; My life on it, there must be some spell!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No more than of old, when I was ever for book and thou for
bow,&rdquo; said Ambrose; &ldquo;but I&rsquo;ll make thee rueful for
old Michael yet.&nbsp; Hast heard tell of the Moors in Spain?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Moors&mdash;blackamoors who worship Mahound and Termagant.&nbsp;
I saw a blackamoor last week behind his master, a merchant of Genoa,
in Paul&rsquo;s Walk.&nbsp; He looked like the devils in the Miracle
Play at Christ Church, with blubber lips and wool for hair.&nbsp; I
marvelled that he did not writhe and flee when he came within the Minster,
but Ned Burgess said he was a christened man.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Moors be not all black, neither be they all worshippers of
Mahound,&rdquo; replied Ambrose.</p>
<p>However, as Ambrose&rsquo;s information, though a few degrees more
correct and intelligent than his brother&rsquo;s, was not complete,
it will be better not to give the history of Lucas&rsquo;s strange visitors
in his words.</p>
<p>They belonged to the race of Saracen Arabs who had brought the arts
of life to such perfection in Southern Spain, but who had received the
general appellation of Moors from those Africans who were continually
reinforcing them, and, bringing a certain Puritan strictness of Mohammedanism
with them, had done much towards destroying the highest cultivation
among them before the Spanish kingdoms became united, and finally triumphed
over them.&nbsp; During the long interval of two centuries, while Castille
was occupied by internal wars, and Aragon by Italian conquests, there
had been little aggression on the Moorish borderland, and a good deal
of friendly intercourse both in the way of traffic and of courtesy,
nor had the bitter persecution and distrust of new converts then set
in, which followed the entire conquest of Granada.&nbsp; Thus, when
Ronda was one of the first Moorish cities to surrender, a great merchant
of the unrivalled sword-blades whose secret had been brought from Damascus,
had, with all his family, been accepted gladly when he declared himself
ready to submit and receive baptism.&nbsp; Miguel Abenali was one of
the sons, and though his conversion had at first been mere compliance
with his father&rsquo;s will and the family interests, he had become
sufficiently convinced of Christian truth not to take part with his
own people in the final struggle.&nbsp; Still, however, the inbred abhorrence
of idolatry had influenced his manner of worship, and when, after half
a life-time, Granada had fallen, and the Inquisition had begun to take
cognisance of new Christians from among the Moors as well as the Jews,
there were not lacking spies to report the absence of all sacred images
or symbols from the house of the wealthy merchant, and that neither
he nor any of his family had been seen kneeling before the shrine of
Nuestra Se&ntilde;ora.&nbsp; The sons of Abenali did indeed feel strongly
the power of the national reaction, and revolted from the religion which
they saw cruelly enforced on their conquered countrymen.&nbsp; The Moor
had been viewed as a gallant enemy, the Morisco was only a being to
be distrusted and persecuted; and the efforts of the good Bishop of
Granada, who had caused the Psalms, Gospels, and large portions of the
Breviary to be translated into Arabic, were frustrated by the zeal of
those who imagined that heresy lurked in the vernacular, and perhaps
that objections to popular practices might be strengthened.</p>
<p>By order of Cardinal Ximenes, these Arabic versions were taken away
and burnt; but Miguel Abenali had secured his own copy, and it was what
he there learnt that withheld him from flying to his countrymen and
resuming their faith when he found that the Christianity he had professed
for forty years was no longer a protection to him.&nbsp; Having known
the true Christ in the Gospel, he could not turn back to Mohammed, even
though Christians persecuted in the Name they so little understood.</p>
<p>The crisis came in 1507, when Ximenes, apparently impelled by the
dread that simulated conformity should corrupt the Church, quickened
the persecution of the doubtful &ldquo;Nuevos Cristianos,&rdquo; and
the Abenali family, who had made themselves loved and respected, received
warning that they had been denounced, and that their only hope lay in
flight.</p>
<p>The two sons, high-spirited young men, on whom religion had far less
hold than national feeling, fled to the Alpuxarra Mountains, and renouncing
the faith of the persecutors, joined their countrymen in their gallant
and desperate warfare.&nbsp; Their mother, who had long been dead, had
never been more than an outward Christian; but the second wife of Abenali
shared his belief and devotion with the intelligence and force of character
sometimes found among the Moorish ladies of Spain.&nbsp; She and her
little ones fled with him in disguise to Cadiz, with the precious Arabic
Scriptures rolled round their waists, and took shelter with an English
merchant, who had had dealings in sword-blades with Se&ntilde;or Miguel,
and had been entertained by him in his beautiful Saracenic house at
Ronda with Eastern hospitality.&nbsp; This he requited by giving them
the opportunity of sailing for England in a vessel laden with Xeres
sack; but the misery of the voyage across the Bay of Biscay in a ship
fit for nothing but wine, was excessive, and creatures reared in the
lovely climate and refined luxury of the land of the palm and orange,
exhausted too already by the toils of the mountain journey, were incapable
of enduring it, and Abenali&rsquo;s brave wife and one of her children
were left beneath the waves of the Atlantic.&nbsp; With the one little
girl left to him, he arrived in London, and the recommendation of his
Cadiz friend obtained for him work from a dealer in foreign weapons,
who was not unwilling to procure them nearer home.&nbsp; Happily for
him, Moorish masters, however rich, were always required to be proficients
in their own trade; and thus Miguel, or Michael as he was known in England,
was able to maintain himself and his child by the fabrication of blades
that no one could distinguish from those of Damascus.&nbsp; Their perfection
was a work of infinite skill, labour, and industry, but they were so
costly, that their price, and an occasional job of inlaying gold in
other metal, sufficed to maintain the old man and his little daughter.&nbsp;
The armourers themselves were sometimes forced to have recourse to him,
though unwillingly, for he was looked on with distrust and dislike as
an interloper of foreign birth, belonging to no guild.&nbsp; A Biscayan
or Castillian of the oldest Christian blood incurred exactly the same
obloquy from the mass of London craftsmen and apprentices, and Lucas
himself had small measure of favour, though Dutchmen were less alien
to the English mind than Spaniards, and his trade did not lead to so
much rivalry and competition.</p>
<p>As much of this as Ambrose knew or understood he told to Stephen,
who listened in a good deal of bewilderment, understanding very little,
but with a strong instinct that his brother&rsquo;s love of learning
was leading him into dangerous company.&nbsp; And what were they doing
on this fine May holiday, when every one ought to be out enjoying themselves?</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, if thou wilt know,&rdquo; said Ambrose, pushed hard,
&ldquo;there is one Master William Tindal, who hath been doing part
of the blessed Evangel into English, and for better certainty of its
correctness, Master Michael was comparing it with his Arabic version,
while I overlooked the Latin.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;O Ambrose, thou wilt surely run into trouble.&nbsp; Know you
not how nurse Joan used to tell us of the burning of the Lollard books?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay, nay, Stevie, this is no heresy.&nbsp; &rsquo;Tis such
work as the great scholar, Master Erasmus, is busied on&mdash;ay, and
he is loved and honoured by both the Archbishops and the King&rsquo;s
grace!&nbsp; Ask Tibble Steelman what he thinks thereof.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Tibble Steelman would think nought of a beggarly stranger
calling himself a sword cutler, and practising the craft without prenticeship
or license,&rdquo; said Stephen, swelling with indignation.&nbsp; &ldquo;Come
on, Ambrose, and sweep the cobwebs from thy brain.&nbsp; If we cannot
get into our own tent again, we can mingle with the outskirts, and learn
how the day is going, and how our lances and breastplates have stood
where the knaves&rsquo; at the Eagle have gone like reeds and egg-shells&mdash;just
as I threw George Bates, the prentice at the Eagle yesterday, in a wrestling
match at the butts with the trick old Diggory taught me.&rdquo;</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XII.&nbsp; A KING IN A QUAGMIRE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;For my pastance<br />Hunt, sing, and dance,<br />My
heart is set<br />All godly sport<br />To my comfort.<br />Who shall
me let?</p>
<p>THE KING&rsquo;S BALADE, <i>attributed to Henry VIII.</i></p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Life was a rough, hearty thing in the early sixteenth century, strangely
divided between thought and folly, hardship and splendour, misery and
merriment, toil and sport.</p>
<p>The youths in the armourer&rsquo;s household had experienced little
of this as yet in their country life, but in London they could not but
soon begin to taste both sides of the matter.&nbsp; Master Headley himself
was a good deal taken up with city affairs, and left the details of
his business to Tibble Steelman and Kit Smallbones, though he might
always appear on the scene, and he had a wonderful knowledge of what
was going on.</p>
<p>The breaking-in and training of the two new country lads was entirely
left to them and to Edmund Burgess.&nbsp; Giles soon found that complaints
were of no avail, and only made matters harder for him, and that Tibble
Steelman and Kit Smallbones had no notion of favouring their master&rsquo;s
cousin.</p>
<p>Poor fellow, he was very miserable in those first weeks.&nbsp; The
actual toil, to which he was an absolute novice, though nominally three
years an apprentice, made his hands raw, and his joints full of aches,
while his groans met with nothing but laughter; and he recognised with
great displeasure, that more was laid on him than on Stephen Birkenholt.&nbsp;
This was partly in consideration of Stephen&rsquo;s youth, partly of
his ready zeal and cheerfulness.&nbsp; His hands might be sore too,
but he was rather proud of it than otherwise, and his hero worship of
Kit Smallbones made him run on errands, tug at the bellows staff, or
fetch whatever was called for with a bright alacrity that won the foremen&rsquo;s
hearts, and it was noted that he who was really a gentleman, had none
of the airs that Giles Headley showed.</p>
<p>Giles began by some amount of bullying, by way of slaking his wrath
at the preference shown for one whom he continued to style a beggarly
brat picked up on the heath; but Stephen was good-humoured, and accustomed
to give and take, and they both found their level, as well in the Dragon
court as among the world outside, where the London prentices were a
strong and redoubtable body, with rude, not to say cruel, rites of initiation
among themselves, plenty of rivalries and enmities between house and
house, guild and guild, but a united, not to say ferocious, <i>esprit
de corps</i> against every one else.&nbsp; Fisticuffs and wrestlings
were the amenities that passed between them, though always with a love
of fair play so long as no cowardice, or what was looked on as such,
was shown, for there was no mercy for the weak or weakly.&nbsp; Such
had better betake themselves at once to the cloister, or life was made
intolerable by constant jeers, blows, baiting and huntings, often, it
must be owned, absolutely brutal.</p>
<p>Stephen and Giles had however passed through this ordeal.&nbsp; The
letter to John Birkenholt had been despatched by a trusty clerk riding
with the Judges of Assize, whom Mistress Perronel knew might be safely
trusted, and who actually brought back a letter which might have emanated
from the most affectionate of brothers, giving his authority for the
binding Stephen apprentice to the worshipful Master Giles Headley, and
sending the remainder of the boy&rsquo;s portion.</p>
<p>Stephen was thereupon regularly bound apprentice to Master Headley.&nbsp;
It was a solemn affair, which took place in the Armourer&rsquo;s Hall
in Coleman Street, before sundry witnesses.&nbsp; Harry Randall, in
his soberest garb and demeanour, acted as guardian to his nephew, and
presented him, clad in the regulation prentice garb&mdash;&ldquo;flat
round cap, close-cut hair, narrow falling bands, coarse side coat, close
hose, cloth stockings,&rdquo; coat with the badge of the Armourers&rsquo;
Company, and Master Headley&rsquo;s own dragon&rsquo;s tail on the sleeve,
to which was added a blue cloak marked in like manner.&nbsp; The instructions
to apprentices were rehearsed, beginning, &ldquo;Ye shall constantly
and devoutly on your knees every day serve God, morning and evening&rdquo;&mdash;pledging
him to &ldquo;avoid evil company, to make speedy return when sent on
his master&rsquo;s business, to be fair, gentle and lowly in speech
and carriage with all men,&rdquo; and the like.</p>
<p>Mutual promises were interchanged between him and his master, Stephen
on his knees; the indentures were signed, for Quipsome Hal could with
much ado produce an autograph signature, though his penmanship went
no further, and the occasion was celebrated by a great dinner of the
whole craft at the Armourers&rsquo; Hall, to which the principal craftsmen
who had been apprentices, such as Tibble Steelman and Kit Smallbones,
were invited, sitting at a lower table, while the masters had the higher
one on the da&iuml;s, and a third was reserved for the apprentices after
they should have waited on their masters&mdash;in fact it was an imitation
of the orders of chivalry, knights, squires, and pages, and the gradation
of rank was as strictly observed as by the nobility.&nbsp; Giles, considering
the feast to be entirely in his honour, though the transfer of his indentures
had been made at Salisbury, endeavoured to come out in some of his bravery,
but was admonished that such presumption might be punished, the first
time, at his master&rsquo;s discretion, the second time, by a whipping
at the Hall of his Company, and the third time by six months being added
to the term of his apprenticeship.</p>
<p>Master Randall was entertained in the place of honour, where he comported
himself with great gravity, though he could not resist alarming Stephen
with an occasional wink or gesture as the boy approached in the course
of the duties of waiting at the upper board&mdash;a splendid sight with
cups and flagons of gold and silver, with venison and capons and all
that a City banquet could command before the invention of the turtle.</p>
<p>There was drinking of toasts, and among the foremost was that of
Wolsey, who had freshly received his nomination of cardinal, and whose
hat was on its way from Rome&mdash;and here the jester could not help
betraying his knowledge of the domestic policy of the household, and
telling the company how it had become known that the scarlet hat was
actually on the way, but in a &ldquo;varlet&rsquo;s budget&mdash;a mere
Italian common knave, no better than myself,&rdquo; quoth Quipsome Hal,
whereat his nephew trembled standing behind his chair, forgetting that
the decorous solid man in the sad-coloured gown and well-crimped ruff,
neatest of Perronel&rsquo;s performances, was no such base comparison
for any varlet.&nbsp; Hal went on to describe, however, how my Lord
of York had instantly sent to stay the messenger on his handing at Dover,
and equip him with all manner of costly silks by way of apparel, and
with attendants, such as might do justice to his freight, &ldquo;that
so,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;men may not rate it but as a scarlet cock&rsquo;s
comb, since all men be but fools, and the sole question is, who among
them hath wit enough to live by his folly.&rdquo;&nbsp; Therewith he
gave a wink that so disconcerted Stephen as nearly to cause an upset
of the bowl of perfumed water that he was bringing for the washing of
hands.</p>
<p>Master Headley, however, suspected nothing, and invited the grave
Master Randall to attend the domestic festival on the presentation of
poor Spring&rsquo;s effigy at the shrine of St. Julian.&nbsp; This was
to take place early in the morning of the 14th of September, Holy Cross
Day, the last holiday in the year that had any of the glory of summer
about it, and on which the apprentices claimed a prescriptive right
to go out nutting in St. John&rsquo;s Wood, and to carry home their
spoil to the lasses of their acquaintance.</p>
<p>Tibble Steelman had completed the figure in bronze, with a silver
collar and chain, not quite without protest that the sum had better
have been bestowed in alms.&nbsp; But from his master&rsquo;s point
of view this would have been giving to a pack of lying beggars and thieves
what was due to the holy saint; no one save Tibble, who could do and
say what he chose, could have ventured on a word of remonstrance on
such a subject; and as the full tide of iconoclasm, consequent on the
discovery of the original wording of the second commandment, had not
yet set in, Tibble had no more conscientious scruple against making
the figure, than in moulding a little straight-tailed lion for Lord
Harry Percy&rsquo;s helmet.</p>
<p>So the party in early morning heard their mass, and then, repairing
to St. Julian&rsquo;s pillar, while the rising sun came peeping through
the low eastern window of the vaulted Church of St. Faith, Master Headley
on his knees gave thanks for his preservation, and then put forward
his little daughter, holding on her joined hands the figure of poor
Spring, couchant, and beautifully modelled in bronze with all Tibble&rsquo;s
best skill.</p>
<p>Hal Randall and Ambrose had both come up from the little home where
Perronel presided, for the hour was too early for the jester&rsquo;s
absence to be remarked in the luxurious household of the Cardinal elect,
and he even came to break his fast afterwards at the Dragon court, and
held such interesting discourse with old Dame Headley on the farthingales
and coifs of Queen Katharine and her ladies, that she pronounced him
a man wondrous wise and understanding, and declared Stephen happy in
the possession of such a kinsman.</p>
<p>&ldquo;And whither away now, youngsters?&rdquo; he said, as he rose
from table.</p>
<p>&ldquo;To St. John&rsquo;s Wood!&nbsp; The good greenwood, uncle,&rdquo;
said Ambrose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thou too, Ambrose?&rdquo; said Stephen joyfully.&nbsp; &ldquo;For
once away from thine ink and thy books!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ay,&rdquo; said Ambrose, &ldquo;mine heart warms to the woodlands
once more.&nbsp; Uncle, would that thou couldst come.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Would that I could, boy!&nbsp; We three would show these lads
of Cockayne what three foresters know of wood craft!&nbsp; But it may
not be.&nbsp; Were I once there the old blood might stir again and I
might bring you into trouble, and ye have not two faces under one hood
as I have!&nbsp; So fare ye well, I wish you many a bagful of nuts!&rdquo;</p>
<p>The four months of city life, albeit the City was little bigger than
our moderate sized country towns, and far from being an unbroken mass
of houses, had yet made the two young foresters delighted to enjoy a
day of thorough country in one another&rsquo;s society.&nbsp; Little
Dennet longed to go with them, but the prentice world was far too rude
for little maidens to be trusted in it, and her father held out hopes
of going one of these days to High Park as he called it, while Edmund
and Stephen promised her all their nuts, and as many blackberries as
could be held in their flat caps.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Giles has promised me none,&rdquo; said Dennet, with a pouting
lip, &ldquo;nor Ambrose.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why sure, little mistress, thou&rsquo;lt have enough to crack
thy teeth on!&rdquo; said Edmund Burgess.</p>
<p>&ldquo;They <i>ought</i> to bring theirs to me,&rdquo; returned the
little heiress of the Dragon court with an air of offended dignity that
might have suited the heiress of the kingdom.</p>
<p>Giles, who looked on Dennet as a kind of needful appendage to the
Dragon, a piece of property of his own, about whom he need take no trouble,
merely laughed and said, &ldquo;Want must be thy master then.&rdquo;&nbsp;
But Ambrose treated her petulance in another fashion.&nbsp; &ldquo;Look
here, pretty mistress,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;there dwells by me a poor
little maid nigh about thine age, who never goeth further out than to
St. Paul&rsquo;s minster, nor plucketh flower, nor hath sweet cake,
nor manchet bread, nor sugar-stick, nay, and scarce ever saw English
hazel-nut nor blackberry.&nbsp; &rsquo;Tis for her that I want to gather
them.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Is she thy master&rsquo;s daughter?&rdquo; demanded Dennet,
who could admit the claims of another princess.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay, my master hath no children, but she dwelleth near him.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I will send her some, and likewise of mine own comfits and
cakes,&rdquo; said Mistress Dennet.&nbsp; &ldquo;Only thou must bring
all to me first.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Ambrose laughed and said, &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a bargain then, little
mistress?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I keep my word,&rdquo; returned Dennet marching away, while
Ambrose obeyed a summons from good-natured Mistress Headley to have
his wallet filled with bread and cheese like those of her own prentices.</p>
<p>Off went the lads under the guidance of Edmund Burgess, meeting parties
of their own kind at every turn, soon leaving behind them the City bounds,
as they passed under New Gate, and by and by skirting the fields of
the great Carthusian monastery, or Charter House, with the burial-ground
given by Sir Walter Manny at the time of the Black Death.&nbsp; Beyond
came marshy ground through which they had to pick their way carefully,
over stepping-stones&mdash;this being no other than what is now the
Regent&rsquo;s Park, not yet in any degree drained by the New River,
but all quaking ground, overgrown with rough grass and marsh-plants,
through which Stephen and Ambrose bounded by the help of stout poles
with feet and eyes well used to bogs, and knowing where to look for
a safe footing, while many a flat-capped London lad floundered about
and sank over his yellow ankles or left his shoes behind him, while
lapwings shrieked pee-wheet, and almost flapped him with their broad
wings, and moorhens dived in the dark pools, and wild ducks rose in
long families.</p>
<p>Stephen was able to turn the laugh against his chief adversary and
rival, George Bates of the Eagle, who proposed seeking for the lapwing&rsquo;s
nest in hopes of a dainty dish of plovers&rsquo; eggs; being too great
a cockney to remember that in September the contents of the eggs were
probably flying over the heather, as well able to shift for themselves
as their parents.</p>
<p>Above all things the London prentices were pugnacious, but as every
one joined in the laugh against George, and he was, besides, stuck fast
on a quaking tussock of grass, afraid to proceed or advance, he could
not have his revenge.&nbsp; And when the slough was passed, and the
slight rise leading to the copse of St. John&rsquo;s Wood was attained,
behold, it was found to be in possession of the lower sort of lads,
the black guard as they were called.&nbsp; They were of course quite
as ready to fight with the prentices as the prentices were with them,
and a battle royal took place, all along the front of the hazel bushes&mdash;in
which Stephen of the Dragon and George of the Eagle fought side by side.&nbsp;
Sticks and fists were the weapons, and there were no very severe casualties
before the prentices, being the larger number as well as the stouter
and better fed, had routed their adversaries, and driven them off towards
Harrow.</p>
<p>There was crackling of boughs and filling of bags, and cracking of
nuts, and wild cries in pursuit of startled hare or rabbit, and though
Ambrose and Stephen indignantly repelled the idea of St. John&rsquo;s
Wood being named in the same day with their native forest, it is doubtful
whether they had ever enjoyed themselves more; until just as they were
about to turn homeward, whether moved by his hostility to Stephen, or
by envy at the capful of juicy blackberries, carefully covered with
green leaves, George Bates, rushing up from behind, shouted out &ldquo;Here&rsquo;s
a skulker!&nbsp; Here&rsquo;s one of the black guard!&nbsp; Off to thy
fellows, varlet!&rdquo; at the same time dealing a dexterous blow under
the cap, which sent the blackberries up into Ambrose&rsquo;s face.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Ha! ha!&rdquo; shouted the ill-conditioned fellow.&nbsp; &ldquo;So
much for a knave that serves rascally strangers!&nbsp; Here! hand over
that bag of nuts!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Ambrose was no fighter, but in defence of the bag that was to purchase
a treat for little Aldonza, he clenched his fists, and bade George Bates
come and take them if he would.&nbsp; The quiet scholarly boy was, however,
no match for the young armourer, and made but poor reply to the buffets
of his adversary, who had hold of the bag, and was nearly choking him
with the string round his neck.</p>
<p>However, Stephen had already missed his brother, and turning round,
shouted out that the villain Bates was mauling him, and rushed back,
falling on Ambrose&rsquo;s assailant with a sudden well-directed pounding
that made him hastily turn about, with cries of &ldquo;Two against one!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Not at all,&rdquo; said Stephen.&nbsp; &ldquo;Stand by, Ambrose;
I&rsquo;ll give the coward his deserts.&rdquo;</p>
<p>In fact, though the boys were nearly of a size, George somewhat the
biggest, Stephen&rsquo;s country activity, and perhaps the higher spirit
of his gentle blood, generally gave him the advantage, and on this occasion
he soon reduced Bates to roar for mercy.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thou must purchase it!&rdquo; said Stephen.&nbsp; &ldquo;Thy
bag of nuts, in return for the berries thou hast wasted!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Peaceable Ambrose would have remonstrated, but Stephen was implacable.&nbsp;
He cut the string, and captured the bag, then with a parting kick bade
Bates go after his comrades, for his Eagle was nought but a thieving
kite.</p>
<p>Bates made off pretty quickly, but the two brothers tarried a little
to see how much damage the blackberries had suffered, and to repair
the losses as they descended into the bog by gathering some choice dewberries.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I marvel these fine fellows &rsquo;scaped our company,&rdquo;
said Stephen presently.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Are we in the right track, thinkst thou?&nbsp; Here is a pool
I marked not before,&rdquo; said Ambrose anxiously.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay, we can&rsquo;t be far astray while we see St. Paul&rsquo;s
spire and the Tower full before us,&rdquo; said Stephen.&nbsp; &ldquo;Plainer
marks than we had at home.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That may be.&nbsp; Only where is the safe footing?&rdquo;
said Ambrose.&nbsp; &ldquo;I wish we had not lost sight of the others!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Pish! what good are a pack of City lubbers!&rdquo; returned
Stephen.&nbsp; &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t we know a quagmire when we see one,
better than they do?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hark, they are shouting for us.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Not they!&nbsp; That&rsquo;s a falconer&rsquo;s call.&nbsp;
There&rsquo;s another whistle!&nbsp; See, there&rsquo;s the hawk.&nbsp;
She&rsquo;s going down the wind, as I&rsquo;m alive,&rdquo; and Stephen
began to bound wildly along, making all the sounds and calls by which
falcons were recalled, and holding up as a lure a lapwing which he had
knocked down.&nbsp; Ambrose, by no means so confident in bog-trotting
as his brother, stood still to await him, hearing the calls and shouts
of the falconer coming nearer, and presently seeing a figure, flying
by the help of a pole over the pools and dykes that here made some attempt
at draining the waste.&nbsp; Suddenly, in mid career over one of these
broad ditches, there was a collapse, and a lusty shout for help as the
form disappeared.&nbsp; Ambrose instantly perceived what had happened,
the leaping pole had broken to the downfall of its owner.&nbsp; Forgetting
all his doubts as to bogholes and morasses, he grasped his own pole,
and sprang from tussock to tussock, till he had reached the bank of
the ditch or water-course in which the unfortunate sportsman was floundering.&nbsp;
He was a large, powerful man, but this was of no avail, for the slough
afforded no foothold.&nbsp; The further side was a steep built up of
sods, the nearer sloped down gradually, and though it was not apparently
very deep, the efforts of the victim to struggle out had done nothing
but churn up a mass of black muddy water in which he sank deeper every
moment, and it was already nearly to his shoulders when with a cry of
joy, half choked however, by the mud, he cried, &ldquo;Ha! my good lad!&nbsp;
Are there any more of ye?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Not nigh, I fear,&rdquo; said Ambrose, beholding with some
dismay the breadth of the shoulders which were all that appeared above
the turbid water.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Soh!&nbsp; Lie down, boy, behind that bunch of osier.&nbsp;
Hold out thy pole.&nbsp; Let me see thine hands.&nbsp; Thou art but
a straw, but, our Lady be my speed!&nbsp; Now hangs England on a pair
of wrists!&rdquo;</p>
<p>There was a great struggle, an absolute effort for life, and but
for the osier stump Ambrose would certainly have been dragged into the
water, when the man had worked along the pole, and grasping his hands,
pulled himself upwards.&nbsp; Happily the sides of the dyke became harder
higher up, and did not instantly yield to the pressure of his knees,
and by the time Ambrose&rsquo;s hands and shoulders felt nearly wrenched
from their sockets, the stem of the osier had been attained, and in
another minute, the rescued man, bareheaded, plastered with mud, and
streaming with water, sat by him on the bank, panting, gasping, and
trying to gather breath and clear his throat from the mud he had swallowed.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thanks, good lad, well done,&rdquo; he articulated.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Those fellows! where are they?&rdquo;&nbsp; And feeling in his
bosom, he brought out a gold whistle suspended by a chain.&nbsp; &ldquo;Blow
it,&rdquo; he said, taking off the chain, &ldquo;my mouth is too full
of slime.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Ambrose blew a loud shrill call, but it seemed to reach no one but
Stephen, whom he presently saw dashing towards them.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Here is my brother coming, sir,&rdquo; he said, as he gave
his endeavours to help the stranger to free himself from the mud that
clung to him, and which was in some places thick enough to be scraped
off with a knife.&nbsp; He kept up a continual interchange of exclamations
at his plight, whistles and shouts for his people, and imprecations
on their tardiness, until Stephen was near enough to show that the hawk
had been recovered, and then he joyfully called out, &ldquo;Ha! hast
thou got her?&nbsp; Why, flat-caps as ye are, ye put all my fellows
to shame!&nbsp; How now, thou errant bird, dost know thy master, or
take him for a mud wall?&nbsp; Kite that thou art, to have led me such
a dance!&nbsp; And what&rsquo;s your name, my brave lads?&nbsp; Ye must
have been bred to wood-craft.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Ambrose explained both their parentage and their present occupation,
but was apparently heeded but little.&nbsp; &ldquo;Wot ye how to get
out of this quagmire?&rdquo; was the question.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I never was here before, sir,&rdquo; said Stephen; &ldquo;but
yonder lies the Tower, and if we keep along by this dyke, it must lead
us out somewhere.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well said, boy, I must be moving, or the mud will dry on me,
and I shall stand here as though I were turned to stone by the Gorgon&rsquo;s
head!&nbsp; So have with thee!&nbsp; Go on first, master hawk-tamer.&nbsp;
What will bear thee will bear me!&rdquo;</p>
<p>There was an imperative tone about him that surprised the brothers,
and Ambrose looking at him from head to foot, felt sure that it was
some great man at the least, whom it had been his hap to rescue.&nbsp;
Indeed, he began to have further suspicions when they came to a pool
of clearer water, beyond which was firmer ground, and the stranger with
an exclamation of joy, borrowed Stephen&rsquo;s cap, and, scooping up
the water with it, washed his face and head, disclosing the golden hair
and beard, fair complexion, and handsome square face he had seen more
than once before.</p>
<p>He whispered to Stephen &ldquo;&rsquo;Tis the King!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ha! ha!&rdquo; laughed Henry, &ldquo;hast found him out, lads?&nbsp;
Well, it may not be the worse for ye.&nbsp; Pity thou shouldst not be
in the Forest still, my young falconer, but we know our good city of
London to well to break thy indentures.&nbsp; And thou&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>He was turning to Ambrose when further shouts were heard.&nbsp; The
King hallooed, and bade the boys do so, and in a few moments more they
were surrounded by the rest of the hawking party, full of dismay at
the king&rsquo;s condition, and deprecating his anger for having lost
him.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yea,&rdquo; said Henry; &ldquo;an it had not been for this
good lad, ye would never have heard more of the majesty of England!&nbsp;
Swallowed in a quagmire had made a new end for a king, and ye would
have to brook the little Scot.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The gentlemen who had come up were profuse in lamentations.&nbsp;
A horse was brought up for the king&rsquo;s use, and he prepared to
mount, being in haste to get into dry clothes.&nbsp; He turned round,
however, to the boys, and said, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll not forget you, my
lads.&nbsp; Keep that!&rdquo; he added, as Ambrose, on his knee, would
have given him back the whistle, &ldquo;&rsquo;tis a token that maybe
will serve thee, for I shall know it again.&nbsp; And thou, my black-eyed
lad&mdash;My purse, Howard!&rdquo;</p>
<p>He handed the purse to Stephen&mdash;a velvet hag richly wrought
with gold, and containing ten gold angels, besides smaller money&mdash;bidding
them divide, like good brothers as he saw they were, and then galloped
off with his train.</p>
<p>Twilight was coming on, but following in the direction of the riders,
the boys were soon on the Islington road.&nbsp; The New Gate was shut
by the time they reached it, and their explanation that they were belated
after a nutting expedition would not have served them, had not Stephen
produced the sum of twopence which softened the surliness of the guard.</p>
<p>It was already dark, and though curfew had not yet sounded, preparations
were making for lighting the watch-fires in the open spaces and throwing
chains across the streets, but the little door in the Dragon court was
open, and Ambrose went in with his brother to deliver up his nuts to
Dennet and claim her promise of sending a share to Aldonza.</p>
<p>They found their uncle in his sober array sitting by Master Headley,
who was rating Edmund and Giles for having lost sight of them, the latter
excusing himself by grumbling out that he could not be marking all Stephen&rsquo;s
brawls with George Bates.</p>
<p>When the two wanderers appeared, relief took the form of anger, and
there were sharp demands why they had loitered.&nbsp; Their story was
listened to with many exclamations: Dennet jumped for joy, her grandmother
advised that the angels should be consigned to her own safe keeping,
and when Master Headley heard of Henry&rsquo;s scruples about the indentures,
he declared that it was a rare wise king who knew that an honest craft
was better than court favour.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yet mayhap he might do something for thee, friend Ambrose,&rdquo;
added the armourer.&nbsp; &ldquo;Commend thee to some post in his chapel
royal, or put thee into some college, since such is thy turn.&nbsp;
How sayst thou, Master Randall, shall he send in this same token, and
make his petition?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;If a foo&mdash;if a plain man may be heard where the wise
hath spoken,&rdquo; said Randall, &ldquo;he had best abstain.&nbsp;
Kings love not to be minded of mishaps, and our Hal&rsquo;s humour is
not to be reckoned on!&nbsp; Lay up the toy in case of need, but an
thou claim overmuch he may mind thee in a fashion not to thy taste.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sure our King is of a more generous mould!&rdquo; exclaimed
Mrs. Headley.</p>
<p>&ldquo;He is like other men, good mistress, just as you know how
to have him, and he is scarce like to be willing to be minded of the
taste of mire, or of floundering like a hog in a salt marsh.&nbsp; Ha!
ha!&rdquo; and Quipsome Hal went off into such a laugh as might have
betrayed his identity to any one more accustomed to the grimaces of
his professional character, but which only infected the others with
the same contagious merriment.&nbsp; &ldquo;Come thou home now,&rdquo;
he said to Ambrose; &ldquo;my good woman hath been in a mortal fright
about thee, and would have me come out to seek after thee.&nbsp; Such
are the women folk, Master Headley.&nbsp; Let them have but a lad to
look after, and they&rsquo;ll bleat after him like an old ewe that has
lost her lamb.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Ambrose only stayed for Dennet to divide the spoil, and though the
blackberries had all been lost or crushed, the little maiden kept her
promise generously, and filled the bag not only with nuts but with three
red-checked apples, and a handful of comfits, for the poor little maid
who never tasted fruit or sweets.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XIII.&nbsp; A LONDON HOLIDAY</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>&ldquo;Up then spoke the apprentices tall<br />Living in London,
one and all.&rdquo;</p>
<p><i>Old Ballad.</i></p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Another of the many holidays of the Londoners was enjoyed on the
occasion of the installation of Thomas Wolsey as Cardinal of St. Cecilia,
and Papal Legate.</p>
<p>A whole assembly of prelates and &ldquo;lusty gallant gentlemen&rdquo;
rode out to Blackheath to meet the Roman envoy, who, robed in full splendour,
with St. Peter&rsquo;s keys embroidered on back and breast and on the
housings of his mule, appeared at the head of a gallant train in the
papal liveries, two of whom carried the gilded pillars, the insignia
of office, and two more, a scarlet and gold-covered box or casket containing
the Cardinal&rsquo;s hat.&nbsp; Probably no such reception of the dignity
was ever prepared elsewhere, and all was calculated to give magnificent
ideas of the office of Cardinal and of the power of the Pope to those
who had not been let into the secret that the messenger had been met
at Dover; and thus magnificently fitted out to satisfy the requirements
of the butcher&rsquo;s son of Ipswich, and of one of the most ostentatious
of courts.</p>
<p>Old Gaffer Martin Fulford had muttered in his bed that such pomp
had not been the way in the time of the true old royal blood, and that
display had come in with the upstart slips of the Red Rose&mdash;as
he still chose to style the Tudors; and he maundered away about the
beauty and affability of Edward IV. till nobody could understand him,
and Perronel only threw in her &ldquo;ay, grandad,&rdquo; or &ldquo;yea,
gaffer,&rdquo; when she thought it was expected of her.</p>
<p>Ambrose had an unfailing appetite for the sermons of Dean Colet,
who was to preach on this occasion in Westminster Abbey, and his uncle
had given him counsel how to obtain standing ground there, entering
before the procession.&nbsp; He was alone, his friends Tibble and Lucas
both had that part of the Lollard temper which loathed the pride and
wealth of the great political clergy, and in spite of their admiration
for the Dean they could not quite forgive his taking part in the pomp
of such a rare show.</p>
<p>But Ambrose&rsquo;s devotion to the Dean, to say nothing of youthful
curiosity, outweighed all those scruples, and as he listened, he was
carried along by the curious sermon in which the preacher likened the
orders of the hierarchy below to that of the nine orders of the Angels,
making the rank of Cardinal correspond to that of the Seraphim, aglow
with love.&nbsp; Of that holy flame, the scarlet robes were the type
to the spiritualised mind of Colet, while others saw in them only the
relic of the imperial purple of old Rome; and some beheld them as the
token that Wolsey was one step nearer the supreme height that he coveted
so earnestly.&nbsp; But the great and successful man found himself personally
addressed, bidden not to be puffed up with his own greatness, and stringently
reminded of the highest Example of humility, shown that he that exalteth
himself shall be abased, and he that humbleth himself be exalted.&nbsp;
The preacher concluded with a strong personal exhortation to do righteousness
and justice alike to rich and poor, joined with truth and mercy, setting
God always before him.</p>
<p>The sermon ended, Wolsey knelt at the altar, and Archbishop Wareham,
who, like his immediate predecessors, held legatine authority, performed
the act of investiture, placing the scarlet hat with its many hoops
and tassels on his brother primate&rsquo;s head, after which a magnificent
<i>Te Deum</i> rang through the beautiful church, and the procession
of prelates, peers, and ecclesiastics of all ranks in their richest
array formed to escort the new Cardinal to banquet at his palace with
the King and Queen.</p>
<p>Ambrose, stationed by a column, let the throng rush, tumble, and
jostle one another to behold the show, till the Abbey was nearly empty,
while he tried to work out the perplexing question whether all this
pomp and splendour were truly for the glory of God, or whether it were
a delusion for the temptation of men&rsquo;s souls.&nbsp; It was a debate
on which his old and his new guides seemed to him at issue, and he was
drawn in both directions&mdash;now by the beauty, order, and deep symbolism
of the Catholic ritual, now by the spirituality and earnestness of the
men among whom he lived.&nbsp; At one moment the worldly pomp, the mechanical
and irreverent worship, and the gross and vicious habits of many of
the clergy repelled him; at another the reverence and conservatism of
his nature held him fast.</p>
<p>Presently he felt a hand on his shoulder, and started, &ldquo;Lost
in a stud, as we say at home, boy,&rdquo; said the jester, resplendent
in a bran new motley suit.&nbsp; &ldquo;Wilt come in to the banquet?&nbsp;
&rsquo;Tis open house, and I can find thee a seat without disclosing
the kinship that sits so sore on thy brother.&nbsp; Where is he?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have not seen him this day.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That did I,&rdquo; returned Randall, &ldquo;as I rode by on
mine ass.&nbsp; He was ruffling it so lustily that I could not but give
him a wink, the which my gentleman could by no means stomach!&nbsp;
Poor lad!&nbsp; Yet there be times, Ambrose, when I feel in sooth that
mine office is the only honourable one, since who besides can speak
truth?&nbsp; I love my lord; he is a kind, open-handed master, and there&rsquo;s
none I would so willingly serve, whether by jest or earnest, but what
is he but that which I oft call him in joke&mdash;the greater fool than
I, selling peace and ease, truth and hope, this life and the next, for
yonder scarlet hat, which is after all of no more worth than this jingling
head-gear of mine.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Deafening the spiritual ears far more, it may be,&rdquo; said
Ambrose, &ldquo;since <i>humiles exallaverint</i>.&rdquo;</p>
<p>It was no small shock that there, in the midst of the nave, the answer
was a bound, like a ball, almost as high as the capital of the column
by which they stood.&nbsp; &ldquo;There&rsquo;s exaltation!&rdquo; said
Randall in a low voice, and Ambrose perceived that some strangers were
in sight.&nbsp; &ldquo;Come, seek thy brother out, boy, and bring him
to the banquet.&nbsp; I&rsquo;ll speak a word to Peter Porter, and he&rsquo;ll
let you in.&nbsp; There&rsquo;ll be plenty of fooling all the afternoon,
before my namesake King Hal, who can afford to be an honester man in
his fooling than any about him, and whose laugh at a hearty jest is
goodly to hear.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Ambrose thanked him and undertook the quest.&nbsp; They parted at
the great west door of the Abbey, where, by way of vindicating his own
character for buffoonery, Randall exclaimed, &ldquo;Where be mine ass?&rdquo;
and not seeing the animal, immediately declared, &ldquo;There he is!&rdquo;
and at the same time sprang upon the back and shoulders of a gaping
and astonished clown who was gazing at the rear of the procession.</p>
<p>The crowd applauded with shouts of coarse laughter, but a man, who
seemed to belong to the victim, broke in with an angry oath, and &ldquo;How
now, sir?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I cry you mercy,&rdquo; quoth the jester; &ldquo;&rsquo;twas
mine own ass I sought, and if I have fallen on thine, I will but ride
him to York House and then restore him.&nbsp; So ho! good jackass,&rdquo;
crossing his ankles on the poor fellow&rsquo;s chest so that he could
not be shaken off.</p>
<p>The comrade lifted a cudgel, but there was a general cry of &ldquo;My
Lord Cardinal&rsquo;s jester, lay not a finger on him!&rdquo;</p>
<p>But Harry Randall was not one to brook immunity on the score of his
master&rsquo;s greatness.&nbsp; In another second he was on his feet,
had wrested the staff from the hands of his astounded beast of burden,
flourished it round his head after the most approved manner of Shirley
champions at Lyndhurst fair, and called to his adversary to &ldquo;come
on.&rdquo;</p>
<p>It did not take many rounds before Hal&rsquo;s dexterity had floored
his adversary, and the shouts of &ldquo;Well struck, merry fool!&rdquo;&nbsp;
&ldquo;Well played, Quipsome Hal!&rdquo; were rising high when the Abbot
of Westminster&rsquo;s yeomen were seen making way through the throng,
which fell back in terror on either side as they came to seize on the
brawlers in their sacred precincts.</p>
<p>But here again my Lord Cardinal&rsquo;s fool was a privileged person,
and no one laid a hand on him, though his blood being up, he would,
spite of his gay attire, have enjoyed a fight on equal terms.&nbsp;
His quadruped donkey was brought up to him amid general applause, but
when he looked round for Ambrose, the boy had disappeared.</p>
<p>The better and finer the nature that displayed itself in Randall,
the more painful was the sight of his buffooneries to his nephew, and
at the first leap, Ambrose had hurried away in confusion.&nbsp; He sought
his brother here, there, everywhere, and at last came to the conclusion
that Stephen must have gone home to dinner.&nbsp; He walked quickly
across the fields separating Westminster from the City of London, hoping
to reach Cheapside before the lads of the Dragon should have gone out
again; but just as he was near St. Paul&rsquo;s, coming round Amen Corner,
he heard the sounds of a fray.&nbsp; &ldquo;Have at the country lubbers!&nbsp;
Away with the moonrakers!&nbsp; Flat-caps, come on!&rdquo;&nbsp; &ldquo;Hey!
lads of the Eagle!&nbsp; Down with the Dragons!&nbsp; Adders Snakes&mdash;s-s
s-s-s!&rdquo;</p>
<p>There was a kicking, struggling mass of blue backs and yellow legs
before him, from out of which came &ldquo;Yah!&nbsp; Down with the Eagles!&nbsp;
Cowards!&nbsp; Kites!&nbsp; Cockneys!&rdquo;&nbsp; There were plenty
of boys, men, women with children in their arms hallooing on, &ldquo;Well
done, Eagle!&rdquo;&nbsp; &ldquo;Go it, Dragon!&rdquo;</p>
<p>The word Dragon filled the quiet Ambrose with hot impulse to defend
his brother.&nbsp; All his gentle, scholarly habits gave way before
that cry, and a shout that he took to be Stephen&rsquo;s voice in the
midst of the <i>m&ecirc;l&eacute;e.</i></p>
<p>He was fairly carried out of himself, and doubling his fists, fell
on the back of the nearest boys, intending to break through to his brother,
and he found an unexpected ally.&nbsp; Will Wherry&rsquo;s voice called
out, &ldquo;Have with you, comrade!&rdquo;&mdash;and a pair of hands
and arms considerably stouter and more used to fighting than his own,
began to pommel right and left with such good will that they soon broke
through to the aid of their friends; and not before it was time, for
Stephen, Giles, and Edmund, with their backs against the wall, were
defending themselves with all their might against tremendous odds; and
just as the new allies reached them, a sharp stone struck Giles in the
eye, and levelled him with the ground, his head striking against the
wall.&nbsp; Whether it were from alarm at his fall, or at the unexpected
attack in the rear, or probably from both causes, the assailants dispersed
in all directions without waiting to perceive how slender the succouring
force really was.</p>
<p>Edmund and Stephen were raising up the unlucky Giles, who lay quite
insensible, with blood pouring from his eye.&nbsp; Ambrose tried to
wipe it away, and there were anxious doubts whether the eye itself were
safe.&nbsp; They were some way from home, and Giles was the biggest
and heaviest of them all.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Would that Kit Smallbones were here!&rdquo; said Stephen,
preparing to take the feet, while Edmund took the shoulders.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Look here,&rdquo; said Will Wherry, pulling Ambrose&rsquo;s
sleeve, &ldquo;our yard is much nearer, and the old Moor, Master Michael,
is safe to know what to do for him.&nbsp; That sort of cattle always
are leeches.&nbsp; He wiled the pain from my thumb when &rsquo;twas
crushed in our printing press.&nbsp; Mayhap if he put some salve to
him, he might get home on his own feet.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Edmund listened.&nbsp; &ldquo;There&rsquo;s reason in that,&rdquo;
he said.&nbsp; &ldquo;Dost know this leech, Ambrose?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I know him well.&nbsp; He is a good old man, and wondrous
wise.&nbsp; Nay, no black arts; but he saith his folk had great skill
in herbs and the like, and though he be no physician by trade, he hath
much of their lore.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Have with thee, then,&rdquo; returned Edmund, &ldquo;the rather
that Giles is no small weight, and the guard might come on us ere we
reached the Dragon.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Or those cowardly rogues of the Eagle might set on us again,&rdquo;
added Stephen; and as they went on their way to Warwick Inner Yard,
he explained that the cause of the encounter had been that Giles had
thought fit to prank himself in his father&rsquo;s silver chain, and
thus George Bates, always owing the Dragon a grudge, and rendered specially
malicious since the encounter on Holy Rood Day, had raised the cry against
him, and caused all the flat-caps around to make a rush at the gaud
as lawful prey.</p>
<p>&ldquo;&rsquo;Tis clean against prentice statutes to wear one, is
it not?&rdquo; asked Ambrose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ay,&rdquo; returned Stephen; &ldquo;yet none of us but would
stand up for our own comrade against those meddling fellows of the Eagle.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But,&rdquo; added Edmund, &ldquo;we must beware the guard,
for if they looked into the cause of the fray, our master might be called
on to give Giles a whipping in the Company&rsquo;s hall, this being
a second offence of going abroad in these vanities.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Ambrose went on before to prepare Miguel Abenali, and entreat his
good offices, explaining that the youth&rsquo;s master, who was also
his kinsman, would be sure to give handsome payment for any good offices
to him.&nbsp; He scarcely got out half the words; the grand old Arab
waved his hand and said, &ldquo;When the wounded is laid before the
tent of Ben Ali, where is the question of recompense?&nbsp; Peace be
with thee, my son!&nbsp; Bring him hither.&nbsp; Aldonza, lay the carpet
yonder, and the cushions beneath the window, where I may have light
to look to his hurt.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Therewith he murmured a few words in an unknown tongue, which, as
Ambrose understood, were an invocation to the God of Abraham to bless
his endeavours to heal the stranger youth, but which happily were spoken
before the arrival of the others, who would certainly have believed
them an incantation.</p>
<p>The carpet though worn threadbare, was a beautiful old Moorish rug,
once glowing with brilliancy, and still rich in colouring, and the cushion
was of thick damask faded to a strange pale green.&nbsp; All in that
double-stalled partition, once belonging to the great earl&rsquo;s war-horses,
was scrupulously clean, for the Christian Moor had retained some of
the peculiar virtues born of Mohammedanism and of high civilisation.&nbsp;
The apprentice lads tramped in much as if they had been entering a wizard&rsquo;s
cave, though Stephen had taken care to assure Edmund of his application
of the test of holy water.</p>
<p>Following the old man&rsquo;s directions, Edmund and Stephen deposited
their burden on the rug.&nbsp; Aldonza brought some warm water, and
Abenali washed and examined the wound, Aldonza standing by and handing
him whatever he needed, now and then assisting with her slender brown
hands in a manner astonishing to the youths, who stood by anxious and
helpless, white their companion began to show signs of returning life.</p>
<p>Abenali pronounced that the stone had missed the eyeball, but the
cut and bruise were such as to require constant bathing, and the blow
on the head was the more serious matter, for when the patient tried
to raise himself he instantly became sick and giddy, so that it would
be wise to leave him where he was.&nbsp; This was much against the will
of Edmund Burgess, who shared all the prejudices of the English prentice
against the foreigner&mdash;perhaps a wizard and rival in trade; but
there was no help for it, and he could only insist that Stephen should
mount guard over the bed until he had reported to his master, and returned
with his orders.&nbsp; Therewith he departed, with such elaborate thanks
and courtesies to the host, as betrayed a little alarm in the tall apprentice,
who feared not quarter-staff, nor wrestler, and had even dauntlessly
confronted the masters of his guild!</p>
<p>Stephen, sooth to say, was not very much at ease; everything around
had such a strange un-English aspect, and he imploringly muttered, &ldquo;Bide
with me, Am!&rdquo; to which his brother willingly assented, being quite
as comfortable in Master Michael&rsquo;s abode as by his aunt&rsquo;s
own hearth.</p>
<p>Giles meanwhile lay quiet, and then, as his senses became less confused,
and he could open one eye, he looked dreamily about him, and presently
began to demand where he was, and what had befallen him, grasping at
the hand of Ambrose as if to hold fast by something familiar; but he
still seemed too much dazed to enter into the explanation, and presently
murmured something about thirst.&nbsp; Aldonza came softly up with a
cup of something cool.&nbsp; He looked very hard at her, and when Ambrose
would have taken it from her hand to give it to him, he said, &ldquo;Nay!&nbsp;
<i>She</i>!&rdquo;</p>
<p>And <i>she</i>, with a sweet smile in her soft, dark, shady eyes,
and on her full lips, held the cup to his lips far more daintily and
dexterously than either of his boy companions could have done; then
when he moaned and said his head and eye pained him, the white-bearded
elder came and bathed his brow with the soft sponge.&nbsp; It seemed
all to pass before him like a dream, and it was not much otherwise with
his unhurt companions, especially Stephen, who followed with wonder
the movements made by the slippered feet of father and daughter upon
the mats which covered the stone flooring of the old stable.&nbsp; The
mats were only of English rushes and flags, and had been woven by Abenali
and the child; but loose rushes strewing the floor were accounted a
luxury in the Forest, and even at the Dragon court the upper end of
the hall alone had any covering.&nbsp; Then the water was heated, and
all such other operations carried on over a curious round vessel placed
over charcoal; the window and the door had dark heavy curtains; and
a matted partition cut off the further stall, no doubt to serve as Aldonza&rsquo;s
chamber.&nbsp; Stephen looked about for something to assure him that
the place belonged to no wizard enchanter, and was glad to detect a
large white cross on the wall, with a holy-water stoup beneath it, but
of images there were none.</p>
<p>It seemed to him a long time before Master Headley&rsquo;s ruddy
face, full of anxiety, appeared at the door.</p>
<p>Blows were, of course, no uncommon matter; perhaps so long as no
permanent injury was inflicted, the master-armourer had no objection
to anything that might knock the folly out of his troublesome young
inmate; but Edmund had made him uneasy for the youth&rsquo;s eye, and
still more so about the quarters he was in, and he had brought a mattress
and a couple of men to carry the patient home, as well as Steelman,
his prime minister, to advise him.</p>
<p>He had left all these outside, however, and advanced, civilly and
condescendingly thanking the sword-cutler, in perfect ignorance that
the man who stood before him had been born to a home that was an absolute
palace compared with the Dragon court.&nbsp; The two men were a curious
contrast.&nbsp; There stood the Englishman with his sturdy form inclining,
with age, to corpulence, his broad honest face telling of many a civic
banquet, and his short stubbly brown grizzled heard; his whole air giving
a sense of worshipful authority and weight; and opposite to him the
sparely made, dark, thin, aquiline-faced, white-bearded Moor, a far
smaller man in stature, yet with a patriarchal dignity, refinement,
and grace in port and countenance, belonging as it were to another sphere.</p>
<p>Speaking English perfectly, though with a foreign accent, Abenali
informed Master Headley that his young kinsman would by Heaven&rsquo;s
blessing soon recover without injury to the eye, though perhaps a scar
might remain.</p>
<p>Mr. Headley thanked him heartily for his care, and said that he had
brought men to carry the youth home, if he could not walk; and then
he went up to the couch with a hearty &ldquo;How now, Giles?&nbsp; So
thou hast had hard measure to knock the foolery out of thee, my poor
lad.&nbsp; But come, we&rsquo;ll have thee home, and my mother will
see to thee.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I cannot walk,&rdquo; said Giles, heavily, hardly raising
his eyes, and when he was told that two of the men waited to bear him
home, he only entreated to be let alone.&nbsp; Somewhat sharply, Mr.
Headley ordered him to sit up and make ready, but when he tried to do
so, he sank back with a return of sickness and dizziness.</p>
<p>Abenali thereupon intreated that he might be left for that night,
and stepping out into the court so as to be unheard by the patient,
explained that the brain had had a shock, and that perfect quiet for
some hours to come was the only way to avert a serious illness, possibly
dangerous.&nbsp; Master Headley did not like the alternative at all,
and was a good deal perplexed.&nbsp; He beckoned to Tibble Steelman,
who had all this time been talking to Lucas Hansen, and now came up
prepared with his testimony that this Michael was a good man and true,
a godly one to boot, who had been wealthy in his own land and was a
rare artificer in his own craft.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Though he hath no license to practise it here,&rdquo; threw
in Master Headley, <i>sotto voce</i>; but he accepted the assurance
that Michael was a good Christian, and, with his daughter, regularly
went to mass; and since better might not be, he reluctantly consented
to leave Giles under his treatment, on Lucas reiterating the assurance
that he need have no fears of magic or foul play of any sort.&nbsp;
He then took the purse that hung at his girdle, and declared that Master
Michael (the title of courtesy was wrung from him by the stately appearance
of the old man) must be at no charges for his cousin.</p>
<p>But Abenali with a grace that removed all air of offence from his
manner, returned thanks for the intention, but declared that it never
was the custom of the sons of Ali to receive reward for the hospitality
they exercised to the stranger within their gates.&nbsp; And so it was
that Master Headley, a good deal puzzled, had to leave his apprentice
under the roof of the old sword-cutler for the night at least.</p>
<p>&ldquo;&rsquo;Tis passing strange,&rdquo; said he, as he walked back;
&ldquo;I know not what my mother will say, but I wish all may be right.&nbsp;
I feel&mdash;I feel as if I had left the lad Giles with Abraham under
the oak tree, as we saw him in the miracle play!&rdquo;</p>
<p>This description did not satisfy Mrs. Headley, indeed she feared
that her son was likewise bewitched; and when, the next morning, Stephen,
who had been sent to inquire for the patient, reported him better, but
still unable to be moved, since he could not lift his head without sickness,
she became very anxious.&nbsp; Giles was transformed in her estimate
from a cross-grained slip to poor Robin Headley&rsquo;s boy, the only
son of a widow, and nothing would content her but to make her son conduct
her to Warwick Inner Yard to inspect matters, and carry thither a precious
relic warranted proof against all sorcery.</p>
<p>It was with great trepidation that the good old dame ventured, but
the result was that she was fairly subdued by Abenali&rsquo;s patriarchal
dignity.&nbsp; She had never seen any manners to equal his, not <i>even</i>
when King Edward the Fourth had come to her father&rsquo;s house at
the Barbican, chucked her under the chin, and called her a dainty duck!</p>
<p>It was Aldonza, however, who specially touched her feelings.&nbsp;
Such a sweet little wench, with the air of being bred in a kingly or
knightly court, to be living there close to the very dregs of the city
was a scandal and a danger&mdash;speaking so prettily too, and knowing
how to treat her elders.&nbsp; She would be a good example for Dennet,
who, sooth to say, was getting too old for spoilt-child sauciness to
be always pleasing, while as to Giles, he could not be in better quarters.&nbsp;
Mrs. Headley, well used to the dressing of the burns and bruises incurred
in the weapon smiths&rsquo; business, could not but confess that his
eye had been dealt with as skilfully as she could have done it herself.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XIV.&nbsp; THE KNIGHT OF THE BADGER</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>&ldquo;I am a gentleman of a company.&rdquo;</p>
<p>SHAKESPEARE.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Giles Headley&rsquo;s accident must have amounted to concussion of
the brain, for though he was able to return to the Dragon in a couple
of days, and the cut over his eye was healing fast, he was weak and
shaken, and did not for several weeks recover his usual health.&nbsp;
The noise and heat of the smithy were distressing to him, and there
was no choice but to let him lie on settles, sun himself on the steps,
and attempt no work.</p>
<p>It had tamed him a good deal.&nbsp; Smallbones said the letting out
of malapert blood was wholesome, and others thought him still under
a spell; but he seemed to have parted with much of his arrogance, either
because he had not spirits for self-assertion, or because something
of the grand eastern courtesy of Abenali had impressed him.&nbsp; For
intercourse with the Morisco had by no means ceased.&nbsp; Giles went,
as long as the injury required it, to have the hurt dressed, and loitered
in the Inner Yard a long time every day, often securing some small dainty
for Aldonza&mdash;an apple, a honey cake, a bit of marchpane, a dried
plum, or a comfit.&nbsp; One day he took her a couple of oranges.&nbsp;
To his surprise, as he entered, Abenali looked up with a strange light
in his eyes, and exclaimed, &ldquo;My son! thy scent is to my nostrils
as the court of my father&rsquo;s house!&rdquo; Then, as he beheld the
orange, he clasped his hands, took it in them, and held it to his breast,
pouring out a chant in an unknown tongue, while the tears flowed down
his cheeks.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Father, father!&rdquo; Aldonza cried, terrified, while Giles
marvelled whether the orange worked on him like a spell.&nbsp; But he
perceived their amazement, and spoke again in English, &ldquo;I thank
thee, my son!&nbsp; Thou hast borne me back for a moment to the fountain
in my father&rsquo;s house, where ye grow, ye trees of the unfading
leaf, the spotless blossom, and golden fruit!&nbsp; Ah Ronda!&nbsp;
Ronda!&nbsp; Land of the sunshine, the deep blue sky, and snow-topped
hills!&nbsp; Land where are the graves of my father and mother!&nbsp;
How pines and sickens the heart of the exile for thee!&nbsp; O happy
they who died beneath the sword or flame, for they knew not the lonely
home-longing of the exile.&nbsp; Ah! ye golden fruits!&nbsp; One fragrant
breath of thee is as a waft of the joys of my youth!&nbsp; Are ye foretastes
of the fruits of Paradise, the true home to which I may yet come, though
I may never, never see the towers and hills of Ronda more?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Giles knew not what to make of this outburst.&nbsp; He kept it to
himself as too strange to be told.&nbsp; The heads of the family were
willing that he should carry these trifles to the young child of the
man who would accept no reward for his hospitality.&nbsp; Indeed, Master
Headley spent much consideration on how to recompense the care bestowed
on his kinsman.</p>
<p>Giles suggested that Master Michael had just finished the most beautiful
sword blade he had ever seen, and had not yet got a purchaser for it;
it was far superior to the sword Tibble had just completed for my Lord
of Surrey.&nbsp; Thereat the whole court broke into an outcry; that
any workman should be supposed to turn out any kind of work surpassing
Steelman&rsquo;s was rank heresy, and Master Headley bluntly told Giles
that he knew not what he was talking of!&nbsp; He might perhaps purchase
the blade by way of courtesy and return of kindness, but&mdash;good
English workmanship for him!</p>
<p>However, Giles was allowed to go and ask the price of the blade,
and bring it to be looked at.&nbsp; When he returned to the court he
found, in front of the building where finished suits were kept for display,
a tall, thin, wiry, elderly man, deeply bronzed, and with a scar on
his brow.&nbsp; Master Headley and Tibble were both in attendance, Tib
measuring the stranger, and Stephen, who was standing at a respectful
distance, gave Giles the information that this was the famous Captain
of Free-lances, Sir John Fulford, who had fought in all the wars in
Italy, and was going to fight in them again, but wanted a suit of &ldquo;our
harness.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The information was hardly needed, for Sir John, in a voice loud
enough to lead his men to the battle-field, and with all manner of strong
asseverations in all sorts of languages, was explaining the dints and
blows that had befallen the mail he had had from Master Headley eighteen
years ago, when he was but a squire; how his helmet had endured tough
blows, and saved his head at Novara, but had been crushed like an egg
shell by a stone from the walls at Barletta, which had nearly been his
own destruction: and how that which he at present wore (beautifully
chased and in a classical form) was taken from a dead Italian Count
on the field of Ravenna, but always sat amiss on him; and how he had
broken his good sword upon one of the rascally Swiss only a couple of
months ago at Marignano.&nbsp; Having likewise disabled his right arm,
and being well off through the payment of some ransoms, he had come
home partly to look after his family, and partly to provide himself
with a full suit of English harness, his present suit being a patchwork
of relics of numerous battle-fields.&nbsp; Only one thing he desired,
a true Spanish sword, not only Toledo or Bilboa in name, but nature.&nbsp;
He had seen execution done by the weapons of the soldiers of the Great
Captain, and been witness to the endurance of their metal, and this
made him demand whether Master Headley could provide him with the like.</p>
<p>Giles took the moment for stepping forward and putting Abenali&rsquo;s
work into the master&rsquo;s hand.&nbsp; The Condottiere was in raptures.&nbsp;
He pronounced it as perfect a weapon as Gonzalo de Cordova himself could
possess; showed off its temper and his own dexterity by piercing and
cutting up an old cuirass, and invited the bystanders to let him put
it to further proof by letting him slice through an apple placed on
the open palm of the hand.</p>
<p>Giles&rsquo;s friendship could not carry him so far as to make the
venture; Kit Smallbones observed that he had a wife and children, and
could not afford to risk his good right hand on a wandering soldier&rsquo;s
bravado; Edmund was heard saying, &ldquo;Nay, nay, Steve, don&rsquo;t
be such a fool,&rdquo; but Stephen was declaring he would not have the
fellow say that English lads hung back from what rogues of France and
Italy would dare.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No danger for him who winceth not,&rdquo; said the knight.</p>
<p>Master Headley, a very peaceful citizen in his composition in spite
of his trade, was much inclined to forbid Stephen from the experiment,
but he refrained, ashamed and unwilling to daunt a high spirit; and
half the household, eager for the excitement, rushed to the kitchen
in quest of apples, and brought out all the women to behold, and add
a clamour of remonstrance.&nbsp; Sir John, however, insisted that they
should all be ordered back again.&nbsp; &ldquo;Not that the noise and
clamour of women folk makes any odds to me,&rdquo; said the grim old
warrior, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve seen too many towns taken for that, but it
might make the lad queasy, and cost him a thumb or so.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Of course this renewed the dismay and excitement, and both Tibble
and his master entreated Stephen to give up the undertaking if he felt
the least misgiving as to his own steadiness, arguing that they should
not think him any more a craven than they did Kit Smallbones or Edmund
Burgess.&nbsp; But Stephen&rsquo;s mind was made up, his spirit was
high, and he was resolved to go through with it.</p>
<p>He held out his open hand, a rosy-checked apple was carefully laid
on it.&nbsp; The sword flashed through the air&mdash;divided in half
the apple which remained on Stephen&rsquo;s palm.&nbsp; There was a
sharp shriek from a window, drowned in the acclamations of the whole
court, while the Captain patted Stephen on the shoulder, exclaiming,
&ldquo;Well done, my lad.&nbsp; There&rsquo;s the making of a tall fellow
in thee!&nbsp; If ever thou art weary of making weapons and wouldst
use them instead, seek out John Fulford, of the Badger troop, and thou
shalt have a welcome.&nbsp; Our name is the Badger, because there&rsquo;s
no troop like us for digging out mines beneath the walls.&rdquo;</p>
<p>A few months ago such an invitation would have been bliss to Stephen.&nbsp;
Now he was bound in all honour and duty to his master, and could only
thank the knight of the Badger, and cast a regretful eye at him, as
he drank a cup of wine, and flung a bag of gold and silver, supplemented
by a heavy chain, to Master Headley, who prudently declined working
for Free Companions, unless he were paid beforehand; and, at the knight&rsquo;s
request, took charge of a sufficient amount to pay his fare back again
to the Continent.&nbsp; Then mounting a tall, lean, bony horse, the
knight said he should call for his armour on returning from Somerset,
and rode off, while Stephen found himself exalted as a hero in the eyes
of his companions for an act common enough at feats of arms among modern
cavalry, but quite new to the London flat-caps.&nbsp; The only sufferer
was little Dennet, who had burst into an agony of crying at the sight,
needed that Stephen should spread out both hands before her, and show
her the divided apple, before she would believe that his thumb was in
its right place, and at night screamed out in her sleep that the ill-favoured
man was cutting off Stephen&rsquo;s hands.</p>
<p>The sword was left behind by Sir John in order that it might be fitted
with a scabbard and belt worthy of it; and on examination, Master Headley
and Tibble both confessed that they could produce nothing equal to it
in workmanship, though Kit looked with contempt at the slight weapon
of deep blue steel, with lines meandering on it like a watered silk,
and the upper part inlaid with gold wire in exquisite arabesque patterns.&nbsp;
He called it a mere toy, and muttered something about sorcery, and men
who had been in foreign parts not thinking honest weight of English
steel good enough for them.</p>
<p>Master Headley would not trust one of the boys with the good silver
coins that had been paid as the price of the sword&mdash;French crowns
and Milanese ducats, with a few Venetian gold bezants&mdash;but he bade
them go as guards to Tibble, for it was always a perilous thing to carry
a sum of money through the London streets.&nbsp; Tibble was not an unwilling
messenger.&nbsp; He knew Master Michael to be somewhat of his own way
of thinking, and he was a naturally large-minded man who could appreciate
skill higher than his own without jealousy.&nbsp; Indeed, he and his
master held a private consultation on the mode of establishing a connection
with Michael and profiting by his ability.</p>
<p>To have lodged him at the Dragon court and made him part of the establishment
might have seemed the most obvious way, but the dogged English hatred
and contempt of foreigners would have rendered this impossible, even
if Abenali himself would have consented to give up his comparative seclusion
and live in a crowd and turmoil.</p>
<p>But he was thankful to receive and execute orders from Master Headley,
since so certain a connection would secure Aldonza from privation such
as the child had sometimes had to endure in the winter; when, though
the abstemious Eastern nature needed little food, there was great suffering
from cold and lack of fuel.&nbsp; And Tibble moreover asked questions
and begged for instructions in some of the secrets of the art.&nbsp;
It was an effort to such a prime artificer as Steelman to ask instruction
from any man, especially a foreigner, but Tibble had a nature of no
common order, and set perfection far above class prejudice; and moreover,
he felt Abenali to be one of those men who had their inner eyes devotedly
fixed on the truth, though little knowing where the quest would lead
them.</p>
<p>On his side Abenali underwent a struggle.&nbsp; &ldquo;Woe is me!&rdquo;
he said.&nbsp; &ldquo;Wottest thou, my son, that the secrets of the
sword of light and swiftness are the heritage that Abdallah Ben Ali
brought from Damascus in the hundred and fifty-third year of the flight
of him whom once I termed the prophet; nor have they departed from our
house, but have been handed on from father to son.&nbsp; And shall they
be used in the wars of the stranger and the Christian?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I feared it might be thus,&rdquo; said Tibble.</p>
<p>&ldquo;And yet,&rdquo; went on the old man, as if not hearing him,
&ldquo;wherefore should I guard the secret any longer?&nbsp; My sons?&nbsp;
Where are they?&nbsp; They brooked not the scorn and hatred of the Castillian
which poisoned to them the new faith.&nbsp; They cast in their lot with
their own people, and that their bones may lie bleaching on the mountains
is the best lot that can have befallen the children of my youth and
hope.&nbsp; The house of Miguel Abenali is desolate and childless, save
for the little maiden who sits by my hearth in the land of my exile!&nbsp;
Why should I guard it longer for him who may wed her, and whom I may
never behold?&nbsp; The will of Heaven be done!&nbsp; Young man, if
I bestow this knowledge on thee, wilt thou swear to be as a father to
my daughter, and to care for her as thine own?&rdquo;</p>
<p>It was a good while since Tibble had been called a young man, and
as he listened to the flowing Eastern periods in their foreign enunciation,
he was for a moment afraid that the price of the secret was that he
should become the old Moor&rsquo;s son-in-law!&nbsp; His seared and
scarred youth had precluded marriage, and he entertained the low opinion
of women frequent in men of superior intellect among the uneducated.&nbsp;
Besides, the possibilities of giving umbrage to Church authorities were
dawning on him, and he was not willing to form any domestic ties, so
that in every way such a proposition would have been unwelcome to him.&nbsp;
But he had no objection to pledge himself to fatherly guardianship of
the pretty child in case of a need that might never arise.&nbsp; So
he gave the promise, and became a pupil of Abenali, visiting Warwick
Inner Yard with his master&rsquo;s consent whenever he could be spared,
while the workmanship at the Dragon began to profit thereby.</p>
<p>The jealousy of the Eagle was proportionately increased.&nbsp; Alderman
Itillyeo, the head of the Eagle, was friendly enough to Mr. Headley,
but it was undeniable that they were the rival armourers of London,
dividing the favours of the Court equally between them, and the bitterness
of the emulation increased the lower it went in the establishment.&nbsp;
The prentices especially could hardly meet without gibes and sneers,
if nothing worse, and Stephen&rsquo;s exploit had a peculiar flavour
because it was averred that no one at the Eagle would have done the
like.</p>
<p>But it was not till the Sunday that Ambrose chanced to hear of the
feat, at which he turned quite pale, but he was prouder of it than any
one else, and although he rejoiced that he had not seen it performed,
he did not fail to boast of it at home, though Perronel began by declaring
that she did not care for the mad pranks of roistering prentices; but
presently she paused, as she stirred her grandfather&rsquo;s evening
posset, and said, &ldquo;What saidst thou was the strange soldier&rsquo;s
name?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Fulford&mdash;Sir John Fulford&rdquo; said Ambrose.&nbsp;
&ldquo;What?&nbsp; I thought not of it, is not that Gaffer&rsquo;s name?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Fulford, yea!&nbsp; Mayhap&mdash;&rdquo; and Perronel sat
down and gave an odd sort of laugh of agitation&mdash;&ldquo;mayhap
&rsquo;tis mine own father.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Shouldst thou know him, good aunt?&rdquo; cried Ambrose, much
excited.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Scarce,&rdquo; she said.&nbsp; &ldquo;I was not seven years
old when he went to the wars&mdash;if so be he lived through the battle&mdash;and
he reeked little of me, being but a maid.&nbsp; I feared him greatly
and so did my mother.&nbsp; &rsquo;Twas happier with only Gaffer!&nbsp;
Where saidst thou he was gone?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Ambrose could not tell, but he undertook to bring Stephen to answer
all queries on the subject.&nbsp; His replies that the Captain was gone
in quest of his family to Somersetshire settled the matter, since there
had been old Martin Fulford&rsquo;s abode, and there John Fulford had
parted with his wife and father.&nbsp; They did not, however, tell the
old man of the possibility of his son&rsquo;s being at home, he had
little memory, and was easily thrown into a state of agitation; besides,
it was a doubtful matter how the Condottiere would feel as to the present
fortunes of the family.&nbsp; Stephen was to look out for his return
in quest of his suit of armour, inform him of his father&rsquo;s being
alive, and show him the way to the little house by the Temple Gardens;
but Perronel gave the strictest injunctions that her husband&rsquo;s
profession should not be explained.&nbsp; It would be quite enough to
say that he was of the Lord Cardinal&rsquo;s household.</p>
<p>Stephen watched, but the armour was finished and Christmas passed
by before anything was seen of the Captain.&nbsp; At last, however,
he did descend on the Dragon court, looking so dilapidated that Mr.
Headley rejoiced in the having received payment beforehand.&nbsp; He
was louder voiced and fuller of strange oaths than ever, and in the
utmost haste, for he had heard tidings that &ldquo;there was to be a
lusty game between the Emperor and the Italians, and he must have his
share.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Stephen made his way up to speak to him, and was received with &ldquo;Ha,
my gallant lad!&nbsp; Art weary of hammer and anvil?&nbsp; Wouldst be
a brave Badger, slip thine indentures, and hear helm and lance ring
in good earnest?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Not so, sir,&rdquo; said Stephen, &ldquo;but I have been bidden
to ask if thou hast found thy father?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What&rsquo;s that to thee, stripling?&nbsp; When thou hast
cut thy wisdom teeth, thou&rsquo;lt know old fathers be not so easy
found.&nbsp; &rsquo;Twas a wild goose chase, and I wot not what moved
me to run after it.&nbsp; I met jolly comrades enough, bumpkins that
could drink with an honest soldier when they saw him, but not one that
ever heard the name of Fulford.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sir,&rdquo; said Stephen, &ldquo;I know an old man named Fulford.&nbsp;
His granddaughter is my uncle&rsquo;s wife, and they dwell by the Temple.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The intelligence seemed more startling and less gratifying than Stephen
had expected.&nbsp; Sir John demanded whether they were poor, and declared
that he had better have heard of them when his purse was fuller.&nbsp;
He had supposed that his wife had given him up and found a fresh mate,
and when he heard of her death, he made an exclamation which might be
pity, but had in it something of relief.&nbsp; He showed more interest
about his old father; but as to his daughter, if she had been a lad
now, a&rsquo; might have been a stout comrade by this time, ready to
do the Badger credit.&nbsp; Yea, his poor Kate was a good lass, but
she was only a Flemish woman and hadn&rsquo;t the sense to rear aught
but a whining little wench, who was of no good except to turn fools&rsquo;
heads, and she was wedded and past all that by this time.</p>
<p>Stephen explained that she was wedded to one of the Lord Cardinal&rsquo;s
mein&eacute;.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ho!&rdquo; said the Condottiere, pausing, &ldquo;be that the
butcher&rsquo;s boy that is pouring out his gold to buy scarlet hats,
if not the three crowns.&nbsp; &rsquo;Tis no bad household wherein to
have a footing.&nbsp; Saidst thou I should find my wench and the old
Gaffer there?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Stephen had to explain, somewhat to the disappointment of the Captain,
who had, as it appeared, in the company of three or four more adventurous
spirits like himself, taken a passage in a vessel lying off Gravesend,
and had only turned aside to take up his new armour and his deposit
of passage-money.&nbsp; He demurred a little, he had little time to
spare, and though, of course, he could take boat at the Temple Stairs,
and drop down the river, he observed that it would have been a very
different thing to go home to the old man when he first came back with
a pouch full of ransoms and plunder, whereas now he had barely enough
to carry him to the place of meeting with his Badgers.&nbsp; And there
was the wench too&mdash;he had fairly forgotten her name.&nbsp; Women
were like she wolves for greed when they had a brood of whelps.</p>
<p>Stephen satisfied him that there was no danger on that score, and
heard him muttering, that it was no harm to secure a safe harbour in
case a man hadn&rsquo;t the luck to be knocked on the head ere he grew
too old to trail a pike.&nbsp; And he would fain see the old man.</p>
<p>So permission was asked for Stephen to show the way to Master Randall&rsquo;s,
and granted somewhat reluctantly, Master Headley saying, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll
have thee back within an hour, Stephen Birkenholt, and look thou dost
not let thy brain be set afire with this fellow&rsquo;s windy talk of
battles and sieges, and deeds only fit for pagans and wolves.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ay!&rdquo; said Tibble, perhaps with a memory of the old fable,
&ldquo;better be the trusty mastiff than the wolf.&rdquo;</p>
<p>And like the wolf twitting the mastiff with his chain, the soldier
was no sooner outside the door of the Dragon court before he began to
express his wonder how a lad of mettle could put up with a flat cap,
a blue gown, and the being at the beck and call of a greasy burgher,
when a bold, handsome young knave like him might have the world before
him and his stout pike.</p>
<p>Stephen was flattered, but scarcely tempted.&nbsp; The hard selfishness
and want of affection of the Condottiere shocked him, while he looked
about, hoping some of his acquaintance would see him in company with
this tall figure clanking in shining armour, and with a knightly helmet
and gilt spurs.&nbsp; The armour, new and brilliant, concealed the worn
and shabby leathern dress beneath, and gave the tall, spare figure a
greater breadth, diminishing the look of a hungry wolf which Sir John
Fulford&rsquo;s aspect suggested.&nbsp; However, as he passed some of
the wealthier stalls, where the apprentices, seeing the martial figure,
shouted, &ldquo;What d&rsquo;ye lack, sir knight?&rdquo; and offered
silk and velvet robes and mantles, gay sword knots, or even rich chains,
under all the clamour, Stephen heard him swearing by St. George what
a place this would be for a sack, if his Badgers were behind him.</p>
<p>&ldquo;If that poor craven of a Warbeck had had a spark of valour
in him,&rdquo; quoth he, as he passed a stall gay with bright tankards
and flagons, &ldquo;we would have rattled some of that shining gear
about the lazy citizens&rsquo; ears!&nbsp; He, jolly King Edward&rsquo;s
son!&nbsp; I&rsquo;ll never give faith to it!&nbsp; To turn his back
when there was such a booty to be had for the plundering.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He might not have found it so easy.&nbsp; Our trainbands are
sturdy enough,&rdquo; said Stephen, whose <i>esprit de corps</i> was
this time on the Londoners&rsquo; side, but the knight of the Badger
snapped his fingers, and said, &ldquo;So much for your burgher trainbands!&nbsp;
All they be good for with their show of fight is to give honest landsknechts
a good reason to fall on to the plunder, if so be one is hampered by
a squeamish prince.&nbsp; But grammercy to St. George, there be not
many of that sort after they he once fleshed!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Perhaps a year ago, when fresh from the Forest, Stephen might have
been more captivated by the notion of adventure and conquest.&nbsp;
Now that he had his place in the community and looked on a civic position
with wholesome ambition, Fulford&rsquo;s longings for havoc in these
peaceful streets made his blood run cold.&nbsp; He was glad when they
reached their destination, and he saw Perronel with bare arms, taking
in some linen cuffs and bands from a line across to the opposite wall.&nbsp;
He could only call out, &ldquo;Good naunt, here he be!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Perronel turned round, the colour rising in her cheeks, with an obeisance,
but trembling a good deal.&nbsp; &ldquo;How now, wench?&nbsp; Thou art
grown a buxom dame.&nbsp; Thou makst an old man of me,&rdquo; said the
soldier with a laugh.&nbsp; &ldquo;Where&rsquo;s my father?&nbsp; I
have not the turning of a cup to stay, for I&rsquo;m come home poor
as a cat in a plundered town, and am off to the wars again; but hearing
that the old man was nigh at hand, I came this way to see him, and let
thee know thou art a knight&rsquo;s daughter.&nbsp; Thou art indifferent
comely, girl, what&rsquo;s thy name? but not the peer of thy mother
when I wooed her as one of the bonny lasses of Bruges.&rdquo;</p>
<p>He gave a kind of embrace, while she gave a kind of gasp of &ldquo;Welcome,
sir,&rdquo; and glanced somewhat reproachfully at Stephen for not having
given her more warning.&nbsp; The cause of her dismay was plain as the
Captain, giving her no time to precede him, strode into the little chamber,
where Hal Randall, without his false beard or hair, and in his parti-coloured
hose, was seated by the cupboard-like bed, assisting old Martin Fulford
to take his midday meal.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Be this thine husband, girl?&nbsp; Ha! ha!&nbsp; He&rsquo;s
more like a jolly friar come in to make thee merry when the good man
is out!&rdquo; exclaimed the visitor, laughing loudly at his own rude
jest; but heeding little either Hal&rsquo;s appearance or his reply,
as he caught the old man&rsquo;s bewildered eyes, and heard his efforts
to utter his name.</p>
<p>For eighteen years had altered John Fulford less than either his
father or his daughter, and old Martin recognised him instantly, and
held out the only arm he could use, while the knight, softened, touched,
and really feeling more natural affection than Stephen had given him
credit for, dropped on his knee, breaking into indistinct mutterings
with rough but hearty greetings, regretting that he had not found his
father sooner, when his pouch was full, lamenting the change in him,
declaring that he must hurry away now, but promising to come back with
sacks of Italian ducats to provide for the old man.</p>
<p>Those who could interpret the imperfect utterance, now further choked
by tears and agitation, knew that there was a medley of broken rejoicings,
blessings, and weepings, in the midst of which the soldier, glad perhaps
to end a scene where he became increasingly awkward and embarrassed,
started up, hastily kissed the old man on each of his withered cheeks,
gave another kiss to his daughter, threw her two Venetian ducats, bidding
her spend them for the old man, and he would bring a pouchful more next
time, and striding to the door, bade Stephen call a boat to take him
down to Gravesend.</p>
<p>Randall, who had in the meantime donned his sober black gown in the
inner chamber, together with a dark hood, accompanied his newly found
father-in-law down the river, and Stephen would fain have gone too,
but for the injunction to return within the hour.</p>
<p>Perronel had hurried back to her grandfather&rsquo;s side to endeavour
to compose him after the shock of gladness.&nbsp; But it had been too
much for his enfeebled powers.&nbsp; Another stroke came on before the
day was over, and in two or three days more old Martin Fulford was laid
to rest, and his son&rsquo;s ducats were expended on masses for his
soul&rsquo;s welfare.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XV.&nbsp; HEAVE HALF A BRICK AT HIM</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>&ldquo;For strangers then did so increase,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;By
reason of King Henry&rsquo;s queen,<br />And privileged in many a place<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;To
dwell, as was in London seen.<br />Poor tradesmen had small dealing
then<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And who but strangers bore the bell,<br />Which
was a grief to Englishmen<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;To see them here in
London dwell.&rdquo;</p>
<p><i>Ill May Day, by</i> CHURCHILL, a <i>Contemporary Poet.</i></p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Time passed on, and Edmund Burgess, who had been sent from York to
learn the perfection of his craft, completed his term and returned to
his home, much regretted in the Dragon court, where his good humour
and good sense had generally kept the peace, both within and without.</p>
<p>Giles Headley was now the eldest prentice.&nbsp; He was in every
way greatly improved, thoroughly accepting his position, and showing
himself quite ready both to learn and to work; but he had not the will
or the power of avoiding disputes with outsiders, or turning them aside
with a merry jest; and rivalries and quarrels with the armoury at the
Eagle began to increase.&nbsp; The Dragon, no doubt, turned out finer
workmanship, and this the Eagle alleged was wholly owing to nefarious
traffic with the old Spanish or Moorish sorcerer in Warwick Inner Yard,
a thing unworthy of honest Englishmen.&nbsp; This made Giles furious,
and the cry never failed to end in a fight, in which Stephen supported
the cause of the one house, and George Bates and his comrades of the
other.</p>
<p>It was the same with even the archery at Mile End, where the butts
were erected, and the youth contended with the long bow, which was still
considered as the safeguard of England.&nbsp; King Henry often looked
in on these matches, and did honour to the winners.&nbsp; One match
there was in especial, on Mothering Sunday, when the champions of each
guild shot against one another at such a range that it needed a keen
eye to see the popinjay&mdash;a stuffed bird at which they shot.</p>
<p>Stephen was one of these, his forest lore having always given him
an advantage over many of the others.&nbsp; He even was one of the last
three who were to finish the sport by shooting against one another.&nbsp;
One was a butcher named Barlow.&nbsp; The other was a Walloon, the best
shot among six hundred foreigners of various nations, all of whom, though
with little encouragement, joined in the national sport on these pleasant
spring afternoons.&nbsp; The first contest threw out the Walloon, at
which there were cries of ecstasy; now the trial was between Barlow
and Stephen, and in this final effort, the distance of the pole to which
the popinjay was fastened was so much increased that strength of arm
told as much as accuracy of aim, and Stephen&rsquo;s seventeen years&rsquo;
old muscles could not, after so long a strain, cope with those of Ralph
Barlow, a butcher of full thirty years old.&nbsp; His wrist and arm
began to shake with weariness, and only one of his three last arrows
went straight to the mark, while Barlow was as steady as ever, and never
once failed.&nbsp; Stephen was bitterly disappointed, his eyes filled
with tears, and he flung himself down on the turf feeling as if the
shouts of &ldquo;A Barlow! a Barlow!&rdquo; which were led by the jovial
voice of King Harry himself, were all exulting over him.</p>
<p>Barlow was led up to the king, who hailed him &ldquo;King of Shoreditch,&rdquo;
a title borne by the champion archer ever after, so long as bowmanship
in earnest lasted.&nbsp; A tankard which the king filled with silver
pieces was his prize, but Henry did not forget No. 2.&nbsp; &ldquo;Where&rsquo;s
the other fellow?&rdquo; he said.&nbsp; &ldquo;He was but a stripling,
and to my mind, his feat was a greater marvel than that of a stalwart
fellow like Barlow.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Half a dozen of the spectators, among them the cardinal&rsquo;s jester,
hurried in search of Stephen, who was roused from his fit of weariness
and disappointment by a shake of the shoulder as his uncle jingled his
bells in his ears, and exclaimed, &ldquo;How now, here I own a cousin!&rdquo;&nbsp;
Stephen sat up and stared with angry, astonished eyes, but only met
a laugh.&nbsp; &ldquo;Ay, ay, &rsquo;tis but striplings and fools that
have tears to spend for such as this!&nbsp; Up, boy!&nbsp; Dye hear?&nbsp;
The other Hal is asking for thee.&rdquo;</p>
<p>And Stephen, hastily brushing away his tears, and holding his flat
cap in his hand, was marshalled across the mead, hot, shy, and indignant,
as the jester mopped and mowed, and cut all sorts of antics before him,
turning round to observe in an encouraging voice, &ldquo;Pluck up a
heart, man!&nbsp; One would think Hal was going to cut oft thine head!&rdquo;&nbsp;
And then, on arriving where the king sat on his horse, &ldquo;Here he
is, Hal, such as he is come humbly to crave thy gracious pardon for
hitting the mark no better!&nbsp; He&rsquo;ll mend his ways, good my
lord, if your grace will pardon him this time.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ay, marry, and that will I,&rdquo; said the king.&nbsp; &ldquo;The
springald bids fair to be King of Shoreditch by the time the other fellow
abdicates.&nbsp; How old art thou, my lad?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Seventeen, an it please your grace,&rdquo; said Stephen, in
the gruff voice of his age.</p>
<p>&ldquo;And thy name?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Stephen Birkenholt, my liege,&rdquo; and he wondered whether
he would be recognised; but Henry only said&mdash;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Methinks I&rsquo;ve seen those sloe-black eyes before.&nbsp;
Or is it only that the lad is thy very marrow, quipsome one?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;The which,&rdquo; returned the jester, gravely, while Stephen
tingled all over with dismay, &ldquo;may account for the tears the lad
was wasting at not having the thews of the fellow double his age!&nbsp;
But I envy him not!&nbsp; Not I!&nbsp; He&rsquo;ll never have wit for
mine office, but will come in second there likewise.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I dare be sworn he will,&rdquo; said the king.&nbsp; &ldquo;Here,
take this, my good lad, and prank thee in it when thou art out of thy
time, and goest a-hunting in Epping!&rdquo;</p>
<p>It was a handsome belt with a broad silver clasp, engraven with the
Tudor rose and portcullis; and Stephen bowed low and made his acknowledgments
as best he might.</p>
<p>He was hailed with rapturous acclamations by his own contemporaries,
who held that he had saved the credit of the English prentice world,
and insisted on carrying him enthroned on their shoulders back to Cheapside,
in emulation of the journeymen and all the butcher kind, who were thus
bearing home the King of Shoreditch.</p>
<p>Shouts, halloos, whistles, every jubilant noise that youth and boyhood
could invent, were the triumphant music of Stephen on his surging and
uneasy throne, as he was shifted from one bearer to another when each
in turn grew tired of his weight.&nbsp; Just, however, as they were
nearing their own neighbourhood, a counter cry broke out, &ldquo;Witchcraft!&nbsp;
His arrows are bewitched by the old Spanish sorcerer!&nbsp; Down with
Dragons and Wizards!&rdquo;&nbsp; And a handful of mud came full in
the face of the enthroned lad, aimed no doubt by George Bates.&nbsp;
There was a yell and rush of rage, but the enemy was in numbers too
small to attempt resistance, and dashed off before their pursuers, only
pausing at safe corners to shout Parthian darts of &ldquo;Wizards!&rdquo;&nbsp;
&ldquo;Magic!&rdquo;&nbsp; &ldquo;Sorcerers!&rdquo;&nbsp; &ldquo;Heretics!&rdquo;</p>
<p>There was nothing to be done but to collect again, and escort Stephen,
who had wiped the mud off his face, to the Dragon court, where Dennet
danced on the steps for joy, and Master Headley, not a little gratified,
promised Stephen a supper for a dozen of his particular friends at Armourers&rsquo;
Hall on the ensuing Easter Sunday.</p>
<p>Of course Stephen went in search of his brother, all the more eagerly
because he was conscious that they had of late drifted apart a good
deal.&nbsp; Ambrose was more and more absorbed by the studies to which
Lucas Hansen led him, and took less and less interest in his brother&rsquo;s
pursuits.&nbsp; He did indeed come to the Sunday&rsquo;s dinner according
to the regular custom, but the moment it was permissible to leave the
board he was away with Tibble Steelman to meet friends of Lucas, and
pursue studies, as if, Stephen thought, he had not enough of books as
it was.&nbsp; When Dean Colet preached or catechised in St. Paul&rsquo;s
in the afternoon they both attended and listened, but that good man
was in failing health, and his wise discourses were less frequent.</p>
<p>Where they were at other times, Stephen did not know, and hardly
cared, except that he had a general dislike to, and jealousy of, anything
that took his brother&rsquo;s sympathy away from him.&nbsp; Moreover
Ambrose&rsquo;s face was thinner and paler, he had a strange absorbed
look, and often even when they were together seemed hardly to attend
to what his brother was saying.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I will make him come,&rdquo; said Stephen to himself, as he
went with swinging gait towards Warwick Inner Yard, where, sure enough,
he found Ambrose sitting at the door, frowning over some black letter
which looked most uninviting in the eyes of the apprentice, and he fell
upon his brother with half angry, half merry reproofs for wasting the
fine spring afternoon over such studies.</p>
<p>Ambrose looked up with a dreamy smile and greeted his brother; but
all the time Stephen was narrating the history of the match (and he
<i>did</i> tell the fate of each individual arrow of his own or Barlow&rsquo;s)
his eyes were wandering back to the crabbed page in his hand, and when
Stephen impatiently wound up his history with the invitation to supper
on Easter Sunday, the reply was, &ldquo;Nay, brother, thanks, but that
I cannot do.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Cannot!&rdquo; exclaimed Stephen.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay, there are other matters in hand that go deeper.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yea, I know whatever concerns musty books goes deeper with
thee than thy brother,&rdquo; replied Stephen, turning away much mortified.</p>
<p>Ambrose&rsquo;s warm nature was awakened.&nbsp; He held his brother
by the arm and declared himself anything but indifferent to him, but
he owned that he did not love noise and revelry, above all on Sunday.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thou art addling thy brains with preachings!&rdquo; said Stephen.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Pray Heaven they make not a heretic of thee.&nbsp; But thou mightest
for once have come to mine own feast.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Ambrose, much perplexed and grieved at thus vexing his brother, declared
that he would have done so with all his heart, but that this very Easter
Sunday there was coming a friend of Master Hansen&rsquo;s from Holland;
who was to tell them much of the teaching in Germany, which was so enlightening
men&rsquo;s eyes.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yea, truly, making heretics of them, Mistress Headley saith,&rdquo;
returned Stephen.&nbsp; &ldquo;O Ambrose, if thou wilt run after these
books and parchments, canst not do it in right fashion, among holy monks,
as of old?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Holy monks!&rdquo; repeated Ambrose.&nbsp; &ldquo;Holy monks!&nbsp;
Where be they?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Stephen stared at him.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hear uncle Hal talk of monks whom he sees at my Lord Cardinal&rsquo;s
table!&nbsp; What holiness is there among them?&nbsp; Men, that have
vowed to renounce all worldly and carnal things flaunt like peacocks
and revel like swine&mdash;my Lord Cardinal with his silver pillars
foremost of them!&nbsp; He poor and mortified!&nbsp; &rsquo;Tis verily
as our uncle saith, he plays the least false and shameful part there!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ambrose, Ambrose, thou wilt be distraught, poring over these
matters that were never meant for lads like us!&nbsp; Do but come and
drive them out for once with mirth and good fellowship.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I tell thee, Stephen, what thou callest mirth and good fellowship
do but drive the pain in deeper.&nbsp; Sin and guilt be everywhere.&nbsp;
I seem to see the devils putting foul words on the tongue and ill deeds
in the hands of myself and all around me, that they may accuse us before
God.&nbsp; No, Stephen, I cannot, cannot come, I must go where I can
hear of a better way.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay,&rdquo; said Stephen, &ldquo;what better way can there
be than to be shriven&mdash;clean shriven&mdash;and then houselled,
as I was ere Lent, and trust to be again on next Low Sunday morn?&nbsp;
That&rsquo;s enough for a plain lad.&rdquo;&nbsp; He crossed himself
reverently, &ldquo;Mine own Lord pardoneth and cometh to me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>But the two minds, one simple and practical, the other sensitive
and speculative, did not move in the same atmosphere, and could not
understand one another.&nbsp; Ambrose was in the condition of excitement
and bewilderment produced by the first stirrings of the Reformation
upon enthusiastic minds.&nbsp; He had studied the Vulgate, made out
something of the Greek Testament, read all fragments of the Fathers
that came in his way, and also all the controversial &ldquo;tractates,&rdquo;
Latin or Dutch, that he could meet with, and attended many a secret
conference between Lucas and his friends, when men, coming from Holland
or Germany, communicated accounts of the lectures and sermons of Dr.
Martin Luther, which already were becoming widely known.</p>
<p>He was wretched under the continual tossings of his mind.&nbsp; Was
the entire existing system a vast delusion, blinding the eyes and destroying
the souls of those who trusted to it; and was the only safety in the
one point of faith that Luther pressed on all, and ought all that he
had hitherto revered to crumble down to let that alone be upheld?&nbsp;
Whatever he had once loved and honoured at times seemed to him a lie,
while at others real affection and veneration, and dread of sacrilege,
made him shudder at himself and his own doubts!&nbsp; It was his one
thought, and he passionately sought after all those secret conferences
which did but feed the flame that consumed him.</p>
<p>The elder men who were with him were not thus agitated.&nbsp; Lucas&rsquo;s
convictions had not long been fixed.&nbsp; He did not court observation
nor do anything unnecessarily to bring persecution on himself, but he
quietly and secretly acted as an agent in dispersing the Lollard books
and those of Erasmus, and lived in the conviction that there would one
day be a great crash, believing himself to be doing his part by undermining
the structure, and working on undoubtingly.&nbsp; Abenali was not aggressive.&nbsp;
In fact, though he was reckoned among Lucas&rsquo;s party, because of
his abstinence from all cult of saints or images, and the persecution
he had suffered, he did not join in their general opinions, and held
aloof from their meetings.&nbsp; And Tibble Steelman, as has been before
said, lived two lives, and that as foreman at the Dragon court, being
habitual to him, and requiring much thought and exertion, the speculations
of the reformers were to him more like an intellectual relaxation than
the business of life.&nbsp; He took them as a modern artisan would in
this day read his newspaper, and attend his club meeting.</p>
<p>Ambrose, however, had the enthusiastic practicalness of youth.&nbsp;
On that which he fully believed, he must act, and what did he fully
believe?</p>
<p>Boy as he was&mdash;scarcely yet eighteen&mdash;the toils and sports
that delighted his brother seemed to him like toys amusing infants on
the verge of an abyss, and he spent his leisure either in searching
in the Vulgate for something to give him absolute direction, or in going
in search of preachers, for, with the stirring of men&rsquo;s minds,
sermons were becoming more frequent.</p>
<p>There was much talk just now of the preaching of one Doctor Beale,
to whom all the tradesmen, journeymen, and apprentices were resorting,
even those who were of no special religious tendencies.&nbsp; Ambrose
went on Easter Tuesday to hear him preach at St. Mary&rsquo;s Spitall.&nbsp;
The place was crowded with artificers, and Beale began by telling them
that he had &ldquo;a pitiful bill,&rdquo; meaning a letter, brought
to him declaring how aliens and strangers were coming in to inhabit
the City and suburbs, to eat the bread from poor fatherless children,
and take the living from all artificers and the intercourse from merchants,
whereby poverty was so much increased that each bewaileth the misery
of others.&nbsp; Presently coming to his text, &ldquo;<i>C&oelig;lum
c&oelig;li Domini, terram autem dedit filiis hominis</i>&rdquo; (the
Heaven of Heavens is the Lord&rsquo;s, the earth hath He given to the
children of men), the doctor inculcated that England was given to Englishmen,
and that as birds would defend their nests, so ought Englishmen to defend
themselves, <i>and to hurt and grieve aliens for the common weal</i>!&nbsp;
The corollary a good deal resembled that of &ldquo;hate thine enemy&rdquo;
which was foisted by &ldquo;them of the old time&rdquo; upon &ldquo;thou
shalt love thy neighbour.&rdquo;&nbsp; And the doctor went on upon the
text, &ldquo;<i>Pugna pro patri&acirc;</i>,&rdquo; to demonstrate that
fighting for one&rsquo;s country meant rising upon and expelling all
the strangers who dwelt and traded within it.&nbsp; Many of these foreigners
were from the Hanse towns which had special commercial privileges, there
were also numerous Venetians and Genoese, French and Spaniards, the
last of whom were, above all, the objects of dislike.&nbsp; Their imports
of silks, cloth of gold, stamped leather, wine and oil, and their superior
skill in many handicrafts, had put English wares out of fashion; and
their exports of wool, tin, and lead excited equal jealousy, which Dr.
Beale, instigated as was well known by a broker named John Lincoln,
was thus stirring up into fierce passion.&nbsp; His sermon was talked
of all over London; blacker looks than ever were directed at the aliens,
stones and dirt were thrown at them, and even Ambrose, as he walked
along the street, was reviled as the Dutchkin&rsquo;s knave.&nbsp; The
insults became each day more daring and outrageous.&nbsp; George Bates
and a skinner&rsquo;s apprentice named Studley were caught in the act
of tripping up a portly old Flanderkin and forthwith sent to Newgate,
and there were other arrests, which did but inflame the smouldering
rage of the mob.&nbsp; Some of the wealthier foreigners, taking warning
by the signs of danger, left the City, for there could be no doubt that
the whole of London and the suburbs were in a combustible condition
of discontent, needing only a spark to set it alight.</p>
<p>It was just about this time that a disreputable clerk&mdash;a lewd
priest, as Hall calls him&mdash;a hanger-on of the house of Howard,
was guilty of an insult to a citizen&rsquo;s wife as she was quietly
walking home through the Cheap.&nbsp; Her husband and brother, who were
nearer at hand than he guessed, avenged the outrage with such good wills
that this disgrace to the priesthood was left dead on the ground.&nbsp;
When such things happened, and discourses like Beale&rsquo;s were heard,
it was not surprising that Ambrose&rsquo;s faith in the clergy as guides
received severe shocks.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XVI.&nbsp; MAY EVE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>&ldquo;The rich, the poor, the old, the young,<br />Beyond the seas
though born and bred,<br />By prentices they suffered wrong,<br />When
armed thus, they gather&rsquo;d head.&rdquo;</p>
<p><i>Ill May Day</i>.</p>
<p>May Eve had come, and little Dennet Headley was full of plans for
going out early with her young playfellows to the meadow to gather May
dew in the early morning, but her grandmother, who was in bed under
a heavy attack of rheumatism, did not like the reports brought to her,
and deferred her consent to the expedition.</p>
<p>In the afternoon there were tidings that the Lord Mayor, Sir Thomas
Rest had been sent for to my Lord Cardinal, who just at this time, during
the building at York House, was lodging in his house close to Temple
Bar.&nbsp; Some hours later a message came to Master Alderman Headley
to meet the Lord Mayor and the rest of the Council at the Guildhall.&nbsp;
He shook himself into his scarlet gown, and went off, puffing and blowing,
and bidding Giles and Stephen take heed that they kept close, and ran
into no mischief.</p>
<p>But they agreed, and Kit Smallbones with them, that there could be
no harm in going into the open space of Cheapside and playing out a
match with bucklers between Giles and Wat Ball, a draper&rsquo;s prentice
who had challenged him.&nbsp; The bucklers were huge shields, and the
weapons were wooden swords.&nbsp; It was an exciting sport, and brought
out all the youths of Cheapside in the summer evening, bawling out encouragement,
and laying wagers on either side.&nbsp; The curfew rang, but there were
special privileges on May Eve, and the game went on louder than ever.</p>
<p>There was far too much noise for any one to hear the town crier,
who went along jingling his bell, and shouting, &ldquo;O yes!&nbsp;
O yes!&nbsp; O yes!&nbsp; By order of the Lord Mayor and Council, no
householder shall allow any one of his household to be abroad beyond
his gate between the hours of nine o&rsquo;clock at night and seven
in the morning,&rdquo; or if any of the outermost heard it, as did Ambrose
who was on his way home to his night quarters, they were too much excited
not to turn a deaf ear to it.</p>
<p>Suddenly, however, just as Giles was preparing for a master-stroke,
he was seized roughly by the shoulder and bidden to give over.&nbsp;
He looked round.&nbsp; It was an alderman, not his master, but Sir John
Mundy, an unpopular, harsh man.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Wherefore?&rdquo; demanded Giles.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thou shalt know,&rdquo; said the alderman, seizing his arm
to drag him to the Counter prison, but Giles resisted.&nbsp; Wat Ball
struck at Sir John&rsquo;s arm with his wooden sword, and as the alderman
shouted for the watch and city-guard, the lads on their side raised
their cry, &ldquo;Prentices and Clubs!&nbsp; Flat-caps and Clubs!&rdquo;&nbsp;
Master Headley, struggling along, met his colleague, with his gown torn
into shreds from his back, among a host of wildly yelling lads, and
panting, &ldquo;Help, help, brother Headley!&rdquo;&nbsp; With great
difficulty the two aldermen reached the door of the Dragon, whence Smallbones
sallied out to rescue them, and dragged them in.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The boys!&mdash;the boys!&rdquo; was Master Headley&rsquo;s
first cry, but he might as well have tried to detach two particular
waves from a surging ocean as his own especial boys from the multitude
on that wild evening.&nbsp; There was no moon, and the twilight still
prevailed, but it was dark enough to make the confusion greater, as
the cries swelled and numbers flowed into the open space of Cheapside.&nbsp;
In the words of Hall, the chronicler, &ldquo;Out came serving-men, and
watermen, and courtiers, and by XI of the chock there were VI or VII
hundreds in Cheap.&nbsp; And out of Pawle&rsquo;s Churchyard came III
hundred which wist not of the others.&rdquo;&nbsp; For the most part
all was invoked in the semi-darkness of the summer night, but here and
there light came from an upper window on some boyish face, perhaps full
of mischief, perhaps somewhat bewildered and appalled.&nbsp; Here and
there were torches, which cast a red glare round them, but whose smoke
blurred everything, and seemed to render the darkness deeper.</p>
<p>Perhaps if the tumult had only been of the apprentices, provoked
by Alderman Mundy&rsquo;s interference, they would soon have dispersed,
but the throng was pervaded by men with much deeper design, and a cry
arose&mdash;no one knew from whence&mdash;that they would break into
Newgate and set free Studley and Bates.</p>
<p>By this time the torrent of young manhood was quite irresistible
by any force that had yet been opposed to it.&nbsp; The Mayor and Sheriffs
stood at the Guildhall, and read the royal proclamation by the light
of a wax candle, held in the trembling hand of one of the clerks; but
no one heard or heeded them, and the uproar was increased as the doors
of Newgate fell, and all the felons rushed out to join the rioters.</p>
<p>At the same time another shout rose, &ldquo;Down with the aliens!&rdquo;
and there was a general rush towards St. Martin&rsquo;s gate, in which
direction many lived.&nbsp; There was, however, a pause here, for Sir
Thomas More, Recorder of London, stood in the way before St. Martin&rsquo;s
gate, and with his full sweet voice began calling out and entreating
the lads to go home, before any heads were broken more than could be
mended again.&nbsp; He was always a favourite, and his good humour seemed
to be making some impression, when, either from the determination of
the more evil disposed, or because the inhabitants of St. Martin&rsquo;s
Lane were beginning to pour down hot water, stones, and brickbats on
the dense mass of heads below them, a fresh access of fury seized upon
the mob.&nbsp; Yells of &ldquo;Down with the strangers!&rdquo; echoed
through the narrow streets, drowning Sir Thomas&rsquo;s voice.&nbsp;
A lawyer who stood with him was knocked down and much hurt, the doors
were battered down, and the household stuff thrown from the windows.&nbsp;
Here, Ambrose, who had hitherto been pushed helplessly about, and knocked
hither and thither, was driven up against Giles, and, to avoid falling
and being trampled down, clutched hold of him breathless and panting.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thou here!&rdquo; exclaimed Giles.&nbsp; &ldquo;Who would
have thought of sober Ambrose in the midst of the fray?&rdquo;&nbsp;
See here, Stevie!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Poor old Ambrose!&rdquo; cried Stephen, &ldquo;keep close
to us!&nbsp; We&rsquo;ll see no harm comes to thee.&nbsp; &rsquo;Tis
hot work, eh?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, Stephen! could I but get out of the throng to warn my
master and Master Michael!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Those words seemed to strike Giles Headley.&nbsp; He might have cared
little for the fate of the old printer, but as he heard the screams
of the women in the houses around, he exclaimed, &ldquo;Ay! there&rsquo;s
the old man and the little maid!&nbsp; We will have her to the Dragon!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Or to mine aunt&rsquo;s,&rdquo; said Ambrose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Have with thee then,&rdquo; said Giles: &ldquo;Take his other
arm, Steve;&rdquo; and locking their arms together the three fought
and forced their way from among the plunderers in St. Martin&rsquo;s
with no worse mishap than a shower of hot water, which did not hurt
them much through their stout woollen coats.&nbsp; They came at last
to a place where they could breathe, and stood still a moment to recover
from the struggle, and vituperate the hot water.</p>
<p>Then they heard fresh howls and yells in front as well as behind.</p>
<p>&ldquo;They are at it everywhere,&rdquo; exclaimed Stephen.&nbsp;
&ldquo;I hear them somewhere out by Cornhill.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ay, where the Frenchmen live that calender worsted,&rdquo;
returned Giles.&nbsp; &ldquo;Come on; who knows how it is with the old
man and little maid?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;There&rsquo;s a sort in our court that are ready for aught,&rdquo;
said Ambrose.</p>
<p>On they hurried in the darkness, which was now at the very deepest
of the night; now and then a torch was borne across the street, and
most of the houses had lights in the upper windows, for few Londoners
slept on that strange night.&nbsp; The stained glass of the windows
of the Churches beamed in bright colours from the Altar lights seen
through them, but the lads made slower progress than they wished, for
the streets were never easy to walk in the dark, and twice they came
on mobs assailing houses, from the windows of one of which, French shoes
and boots were being hailed down.&nbsp; Things were moderately quiet
around St. Paul&rsquo;s, but as they came into Warwick Lane they heard
fresh shouts and wild cries, and at the archway heading to the inner
yard they could see that there was a huge bonfire in the midst of the
court&mdash;of what composed they could not see for the howling figures
that exulted round it.</p>
<p>&ldquo;George Bates, the villain!&rdquo; cried Stephen, as his enemy
in exulting ferocious delight was revealed for a moment throwing a book
on the fire, and shouting, &ldquo;Hurrah! there&rsquo;s for the old
sorcerer, there&rsquo;s for the heretics!&rdquo;</p>
<p>That instant Giles was flying on Bates, and Stephen, with equal,
if not greater fury, at one of his comrades; but Ambrose dashed through
the outskirts of the wildly screaming and shouting fellows, many of
whom were the miscreant population of the mews, to the black yawning
doorway of his master.&nbsp; He saw only a fellow staggering out with
the screw of the press to feed the flame, and hurried on in the din
to call &ldquo;Master, art thou there?&rdquo;</p>
<p>There was no answer, and he moved on to the next door, calling again
softly, while all the spoilers seemed absorbed in the fire and the combat.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Master Michael!&nbsp; &rsquo;Tis I, Ambrose!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Here, my son,&rdquo; cautiously answered a voice he knew for
Lucas Hansen&rsquo;s.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, master! master!&rdquo; was his low, heart-stricken cry,
as by the leaping light of a flame he saw the pale face of the old printer,
who drew him in.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yea! &rsquo;tis ruin, my son,&rdquo; said Lucas.&nbsp; &ldquo;And
would that that were the worst.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The light flashed and flickered through the broken window so that
Ambrose saw that the hangings had been torn down and everything wrecked,
and a low sound as of stifled weeping directed his eyes to a corner
where Aldonza sat with her father&rsquo;s head on her lap.&nbsp; &ldquo;Lives
he?&nbsp; Is he greatly hurt?&rdquo; asked Ambrose, awe-stricken.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The life is yet in him, but I fear me greatly it is passing
fast,&rdquo; said Lucas, in a low voice.&nbsp; &ldquo;One of those lads
smote him on the back with a club, and struck him down at the poor maid&rsquo;s
feet, nor hath he moved since.&nbsp; It was that one young Headley is
fighting with,&rdquo; he added.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Bates! ah!&nbsp; Would that we had come sooner!&nbsp; What!
more of this work&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>For just then a tremendous outcry broke forth, and there was a rush
and panic among those who had been leaping round the fire just before.&nbsp;
&ldquo;The guard!&mdash;the King&rsquo;s men!&rdquo; was the sound they
presently distinguished.&nbsp; They could hear rough abusive voices,
shrieks and trampling of feet.&nbsp; A few seconds more and all was
still, only the fire remained, and in the stillness the suppressed sobs
and moans of Aldonza were heard.</p>
<p>&ldquo;A light!&nbsp; Fetch a light from the fire!&rdquo; said Lucas.</p>
<p>Ambrose ran out.&nbsp; The flame was lessening, but he could see
the dark bindings, and the blackened pages of the books he loved so
well.&nbsp; A corner of a page of St. Augustine&rsquo;s Confessions
was turned towards him and lay on a singed fragment of Aldonza&rsquo;s
embroidered curtain, while a little red flame was licking the spiral
folds of the screw, trying, as it were, to gather energy to do more
than blacken it.&nbsp; Ambrose could have wept over it at any other
moment, but now he could only catch up a brand&mdash;it was the leg
of his master&rsquo;s carved chair&mdash;and run back with it.&nbsp;
Lucas ventured to light a lamp, and they could then see the old man&rsquo;s
face pale, but calm and still, with his long white beard flowing over
his breast.&nbsp; There was no blood, no look of pain, only a set look
about the eyes; and Aldonza cried &ldquo;Oh, father, thou art better!&nbsp;
Speak to me!&nbsp; Let Master Lucas lift thee up!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay, my child.&nbsp; I cannot move hand or foot.&nbsp; Let
me be thus till the Angel of Death come for me.&nbsp; He is very near.&rdquo;&nbsp;
He spoke in short sentences.&nbsp; &ldquo;Water&mdash;nay&mdash;no pain,&rdquo;
he added then, and Ambrose ran for some water in the first battered
fragment of a tin pot he could find.&nbsp; They bathed his face and
he gathered strength after a time to say &ldquo;A priest!&mdash;oh for
a priest to shrive and housel me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I will find one,&rdquo; said Ambrose, speeding out into the
court over fragments of the beautiful work for which Abenali was hated,
and over the torn, half-burnt leaves of the beloved store of Lucas.&nbsp;
The fire had died down, but morning twilight was beginning to dawn,
and all was perfectly still after the recent tumult, though for a moment
or two Ambrose heard some distant cries.</p>
<p>Where should he go?&nbsp; Priests indeed were plentiful, but both
his friends were in bad odour with the ordinary ones.&nbsp; Lucas had
avoided both the Lenten shrift and Easter Communion, and what Miguel
might have done, Ambrose was uncertain.&nbsp; Some young priests had
actually been among the foremost in sacking the dwellings of the unfortunate
foreigners, and Ambrose was quite uncertain whether he might not fall
on one of that stamp&mdash;or on one who might vex the old man&rsquo;s
soul&mdash;perhaps deny him the Sacraments altogether.&nbsp; As he saw
the pale lighted windows of St. Paul&rsquo;s, it struck him to see whether
any one were within.&nbsp; The light might be only from some of the
tapers burning perpetually, but the pale light in the north-east, the
morning chill, and the clock striking three, reminded him that it must
be the hour of Prime, and he said to himself, &ldquo;Sure, if a priest
be worshipping at this hour, he will be a good and merciful man.&nbsp;
I can but try.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The door of the transept yielded to his hand.&nbsp; He came forward,
lighted through the darkness by the gleam of the candles, which cast
a huge and awful shadow from the crucifix of the rood-screen upon the
pavement.&nbsp; Before it knelt a black figure in prayer.&nbsp; Ambrose
advanced in some awe and doubt how to break in on these devotions, but
the priest had heard his step, rose and said, &ldquo;What is it, my
son?&nbsp; Dost thou seek sanctuary after these sad doings?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay, reverend sir,&rdquo; said Ambrose.&nbsp;  &ldquo;&rsquo;Tis
a priest for a dying man I seek;&rdquo; and in reply to the instant
question, where it was, he explained in haste who the sufferer was,
and how he had received a fatal blow, and was begging for the Sacraments.&nbsp;
&ldquo;And oh, sir!&rdquo; he added, &ldquo;he is a holy and God-fearing
man, if ever one lived, and hath been cruelly and foully entreated by
jealous and wicked folk, who hated him for his skill and industry.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Alack for the unhappy lads; and alack for those who egged
them on,&rdquo; said the priest.&nbsp; &ldquo;Truly they knew not what
they did.&nbsp; I will come with thee, my good youth.&nbsp; Thou hast
not been one of them?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, truly sir, save that I was carried along and could not
break from the throng.&nbsp; I work for Lucas Hansen, the Dutch printer,
whom they have likewise plundered in their savage rage.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;&rsquo;Tis well.&nbsp; Thou canst then bear this,&rdquo; said
the priest, taking a thick wax candle.&nbsp; Then reverently advancing
to the Altar, whence he took the pyx, or gold case in which the Host
was reserved, he lighted the candle, which he gave, together with his
stole, to the youth to bear before him.</p>
<p>Then, when the light fell full on his features, Ambrose with a strange
thrill of joy and trust perceived that it was no other than Dean Colet,
who had here been praying against the fury of the people.&nbsp; He was
very thankful, feeling intuitively that there was no fear but that Abenali
would be understood, and for his own part, the very contact with the
man whom he revered seemed to calm and soothe him, though on that solemn
errand no word could be spoken.&nbsp; Ambrose went on slowly before,
his dark head uncovered, the priestly stole hanging over his arm, his
hands holding aloft the tall candle of virgin wax, while the Dean followed
closely with feeble steps, looking frail and worn, but with a grave,
sweet solemnity on his face.&nbsp; It was a perfectly still morning,
and as they slowly paced along, the flame burnt steadily with little
flickering, while the pure, delicately-coloured sky overhead was becoming
every moment lighter, and only the larger stars were visible.&nbsp;
The houses were absolutely still, and the only person they met, a lad
creeping homewards after the fray, fell on his knees bareheaded as he
perceived their errand.&nbsp; Once or twice again sounds came up from
the city beneath, like shrieks or wailing breaking strangely on that
fair peaceful May morn; but still that pair went on till Ambrose had
guided the Dean to the yard, where, except that the daylight was revealing
more and more of the wreck around, all was as he had left it.&nbsp;
Aldonza, poor child, with her black hair hanging loose like a veil,
for she had been startled from her bed, still sat on the ground making
her lap a pillow for the white-bearded head, nobler and more venerable
than ever.&nbsp; On it lay, in the absolute immobility produced by the
paralysing blow, the fine features already in the solemn grandeur of
death, and only the movement of the lips under the white flowing beard
and of the dark eyes showing life.</p>
<p>Dean Colet said afterwards that he felt as if he had been called
to the death-bed of Israel, or of Barzillai the Gileadite, especially
when the old man, in the Oriental phraseology he had never entirely
lost, said, &ldquo;I thank Thee, my God, and the God of my fathers,
that Thou hast granted me that which I had prayed for.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The Dutch printer was already slightly known to the Dean, having
sold him many books.&nbsp; A few words were exchanged with him, but
it was plain that the dying man could not be moved, and that his confession
must he made on the lap of the young girl.&nbsp; Colet knelt over him
so as to be able to hear, while Lucas and Ambrose withdraw, but were
soon called back for the remainder of the service for the dying.&nbsp;
The old man&rsquo;s face showed perfect peace.&nbsp; All worldly thought
and care seemed to have been crushed out of him by the blow, and he
did not even appear to think of the unprotected state of his daughter,
although he blessed her with solemn fervour immediately after receiving
the Viaticum&mdash;then lay murmuring to himself sentences which Ambrose,
who had learnt much from him, knew to be from his Arabic breviary about
palm-branches, and the twelve manner of fruits of the Tree of Life.</p>
<p>It was a strange scene&mdash;the grand, calm, patriarchal old man,
so peaceful on his dark-haired daughter&rsquo;s lap in the midst of
the shattered home in the old feudal stable.&nbsp; All were silent a
while in awe, but the Dean was the first to move and speak, calling
Lucas forward to ask sundry questions of him.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Is there no good woman,&rdquo; he asked, &ldquo;who could
be with this poor child and take her home, when her father shall have
passed away?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Mine uncle&rsquo;s wife, sir,&rdquo; said Ambrose, a little
doubtfully.&nbsp; &ldquo;I trow she would come&mdash;since I can certify
her that your reverence holds him for a holy man.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I had thy word for it,&rdquo; said the Dean.&nbsp; &ldquo;Ah!
reply not, my son, I see well how it may be with you here.&nbsp; But
tell those who will take the word of John Colet that never did I mark
the passing away of one who had borne more for the true holy Catholic
faith, nor held it more to his soul&rsquo;s comfort.&rdquo;</p>
<p>For the Dean, a man of vivid intelligence, knew enough of the Moresco
persecutions to be able to gather from the words of Lucas and Ambrose,
and the confession of the old man himself, a far more correct estimate
of Abenali&rsquo;s sufferings, and constancy to the truth, than any
of the more homebred wits could have divined.&nbsp; He knew, too, that
his own orthodoxy was so called in question by the narrower and more
unspiritual section of the clergy that only the appreciative friendship
of the King and the Cardinal kept him securely in his position.</p>
<p>Ambrose sped away, knowing that Perronel would be quite satisfied.&nbsp;
He was sure of her ready compassion and good-will, but she had so often
bewailed his running after learning and possibly heretical doctrine,
that he had doubted whether she would readily respond to a summons,
on his own authority alone, to one looked on with so much suspicion
as Master Michael.&nbsp; Colet intimated his intention of remaining
a little longer to pray with the dying man, and further wrote a few
words on his tablets, telling Ambrose to leave them with one of the
porters at his house as he went past St. Paul&rsquo;s.</p>
<p>It was broad daylight now, a lovely May morning, such as generally
called forth the maidens, small and great, to the meadows to rub their
fresh cheeks with the silvery dew, and to bring home kingcups, cuckoo
flowers, blue bottles, and cowslips for the Maypoles that were to be
decked.&nbsp; But all was silent now, not a house was open, the rising
sun made the eastern windows of the churches a blaze of light, and from
the west door of St. Paul&rsquo;s the city beneath seemed sleeping,
only a wreath or two of smoke rising.&nbsp; Ambrose found the porter
looking out for his master in much perturbation.&nbsp; He groaned as
he looked at the tablets, and heard where the Dean was, and said that
came of being a saint on earth.&nbsp; It would be the death of him ere
long!&nbsp; What would old Mistress Colet, his mother, say?&nbsp; He
would have detained the youth with his inquiries, but Ambrose said he
had to speed down to the Temple on an errand from the Dean, and hurried
away.&nbsp; All Ludgate Hill was now quiet, every house closed, but
here and there lay torn shreds of garments, or household vessels.</p>
<p>As he reached Fleet Street, however, there was a sound of horses&rsquo;
feet, and a body of men-at-arms with helmets glancing in the sun were
seen.&nbsp; There was a cry, &ldquo;There&rsquo;s one!&nbsp; That&rsquo;s
one of the lewd younglings!&nbsp; At him!&rdquo;</p>
<p>And Ambrose to his horror and surprise saw two horsemen begin to
gallop towards him, as if to ride him down.&nbsp; Happily he was close
to a narrow archway leading to an alley down which no war-horse could
possibly make its way, and dashing into it and round a corner, he eluded
his pursuers, and reached the bank of the river, whence, being by this
time experienced in the by-ways of London, he could easily reach Perronel&rsquo;s
house.</p>
<p>She was standing at her door looking out anxiously, and as she saw
him she threw up her hands in thanksgiving to our Lady that here he
was at last, and then turned to scold him.&nbsp; &ldquo;O lad, lad,
what a night thou hast given me!&nbsp; I trusted at least that thou
hadst wit to keep out of a fray and to let the poor aliens alone, thou
that art always running after yonder old Spaniard.&nbsp; Hey! what now?&nbsp;
Did they fall on him!&nbsp; Fie!&nbsp; Shame on them!&mdash;a harmless
old man like that.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yea, good aunt, and what is more, they have slain him, I fear
me, outright.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Amidst many a &ldquo;good lack&rdquo; and exclamation of pity and
indignation from Perronel, Ambrose told his tale of that strange night,
and entreated her to come with him to do what was possible for Abenali
and his daughter.&nbsp; She hesitated a little; her kind heart was touched,
but she hardly liked to leave her house, in case her husband should
come in, as he generally contrived to do in the early morning, now that
the Cardinal&rsquo;s household was lodged so near her.&nbsp; Sheltered
as she was by the buildings of the Temple, she had heard little or nothing
of the noise of the riot, though she had been alarmed at her nephew&rsquo;s
absence, and an officious neighbour had run in to tell her first that
the prentice lads were up and sacking the houses of the strangers, and
next that the Tower was firing on them, and the Lord Mayor&rsquo;s guard
and the gentlemen of the Inns of Court were up in arms to put them down.&nbsp;
She said several times, &ldquo;Poor soul!&rdquo; and &ldquo;Yea, it
were a shame to leave her to the old Dutchkin,&rdquo; but with true
Flemish deliberation she continued her household arrangements, and insisted
that the bowl of broth, which she set on the table, should be partaken
of by herself and Ambrose before she would stir a step.&nbsp; &ldquo;Not
eat!&nbsp; Now out on thee, lad! what good dost thou think thou or I
can do if we come in faint and famished, where there&rsquo;s neither
bite nor sup to be had?&nbsp; As for me, not a foot will I budge, till
I have seen thee empty that bowl.&nbsp; So to it, my lad!&nbsp; Thou
hast been afoot all night, and lookst so grimed and ill-favoured a varlet
that no man would think thou camest from an honest wife&rsquo;s house.&nbsp;
Wash thee at the pail!&nbsp; Get thee into thy chamber and put on clean
garments, or I&rsquo;ll not walk the street with thee!&nbsp; &rsquo;Tis
not safe&mdash;thou wilt be put in ward for one of the rioters.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Everybody who entered that little house obeyed Mistress Randall,
and Ambrose submitted, knowing it vain to resist, and remembering the
pursuit he had recently escaped; yet the very refreshment of food and
cleanliness revealed to him how stiff and weary were his limbs, though
he was in no mood for rest.&nbsp; His uncle appeared at the door just
as he had hoped Perronel was ready.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ah! there&rsquo;s one of you whole and safe!&rdquo; he exclaimed.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Where is the other?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Stephen?&rdquo; exclaimed Ambrose.&nbsp; &ldquo;I saw him
last in Warwick Inner Yard.&rdquo;&nbsp; And in a few words he explained.&nbsp;
Hal Randall shook his head.&nbsp; &ldquo;May all be well,&rdquo; he
exclaimed, and then he told how Sir Thomas Parr had come at midnight
and roused the Cardinal&rsquo;s household with tidings that all the
rabble of London were up, plundering and murdering all who came in their
way, and that he had then ridden on to Richmond to the King with the
news.&nbsp; The Cardinal had put his house into a state of defence,
not knowing against whom the riot might be directed&mdash;and the jester
had not been awakened till too late to get out to send after his wife,
besides which, by that time, intelligence had come in that the attack
was directed entirely on the French and Spanish merchants and artificers
in distant parts of the city and suburbs, and was only conducted by
lads with no better weapons than sticks, so that the Temple and its
precincts were in no danger at all.</p>
<p>The mob had dispersed of its own accord by about three or four o&rsquo;clock,
but by that hour the Mayor had got together a force, the Gentlemen of
the Inns of Court and the Yeomen of the Tower were up in arms, and the
Earl of Shrewsbury had come in with a troop of horse.&nbsp; They had
met the rioters, and had driven them in herds like sheep to the different
prisons, after which Lord Shrewsbury had come to report to the Cardinal
that all was quiet, and the jester having gathered as much intelligence
as he could, had contrived to slip into the garments that concealed
his motley, and to reach home.&nbsp; He gave ready consent to Perronel&rsquo;s
going to the aid of the sufferers in Warwick Inner Yard, especially
at the summons of the Dean of St. Paul&rsquo;s, and even to her bringing
home the little wench.&nbsp; Indeed, he would escort her thither himself
for he was very anxious about Stephen, and Ambrose was so dismayed by
the account he gave as to reproach himself extremely for having parted
company with his brother, and never having so much as thought of him
as in peril, while absorbed in care for Abenali.&nbsp; So the three
set out together, when no doubt the sober, solid appearance which Randall&rsquo;s
double suit of apparel and black gown gave him, together with his wife&rsquo;s
matronly and respectable look, were no small protection to Ambrose,
for men-at-arms were prowling about the streets, looking hungry to pick
up straggling victims, and one actually stopped Randall to interrogate
him as to who the youth was, and what was his errand.</p>
<p>Before St. Paul&rsquo;s they parted, the husband and wife going towards
Warwick Inner Yard, whither Ambrose, fleeter of foot, would follow,
so soon as he had ascertained at the Dragon court whether Stephen was
at home.</p>
<p>Alas! at the gate he was hailed with the inquiry whether he had seen
his brother or Giles.&nbsp; The whole yard was disorganised, no work
going on.&nbsp; The lads had not been seen all night, and the master
himself had in the midst of his displeasure and anxiety been summoned
to the Guildhall.&nbsp; The last that was known was Giles&rsquo;s rescue,
and the assault on Alderman Mundy.&nbsp; Smallbones and Steelman had
both gone in different directions to search for the two apprentices,
and Dennet, who had flown down unheeded and unchecked at the first hope
of news, pulled Ambrose by the sleeve, and exclaimed, &ldquo;Oh! Ambrose,
Ambrose! they can never hurt them!&nbsp; They can never do any harm
to our lads, can they?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Ambrose hoped for the same security, but in his dismay, could only
hurry after his uncle and aunt.</p>
<p>He found the former at the door of the old stable&mdash;whence issued
wild screams and cries.&nbsp; Several priests and attendants were there
now, and the kind Dean with Lucas was trying to induce Aldonza to relax
the grasp with which she embraced the body, whence a few moments before
the brave and constant spirit had departed.&nbsp; Her black hair hanging
over like a veil, she held the inanimate head to her bosom, sobbing
and shrieking with the violence of her Eastern nature.&nbsp; The priest
who had been sent for to take care of the corpse, and bear it to the
mortuary of the Minster, wanted to move her by force; but the Dean insisted
on one more gentle experiment, and beckoned to the kindly woman, whom
he saw advancing with eyes full of tears.&nbsp; Perronel knelt down
by her, persevered when the poor girl stretched out her hand to beat
her off, crying, &ldquo;Off! go!&nbsp; Leave me my father!&nbsp; O father,
father, joy of my life! my one only hope and stay, leave me not!&nbsp;
Wake! wake, speak to thy child, O my father!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Though the child had never seen or heard of Eastern wailings over
the dead, yet hereditary nature prompted her to the lamentations that
scandalised the priests and even Lucas, who broke in with &ldquo;Fie,
maid, thou mournest as one who hath no hope.&rdquo;&nbsp; But Dr. Colet
still signed to them to have patience, and Perronel somehow contrived
to draw the girl&rsquo;s head on her breast and give her a motherly
kiss, such as the poor child had never felt since she, when almost a
babe, had been lifted from her dying mother&rsquo;s side in the dark
stifling hold of the vessel in the Bay of Biscay.&nbsp; And in sheer
surprise and sense of being soothed she ceased her cries, listened to
the tender whispers and persuasions about holy men who would care for
her father, and his wishes that she should be a good maid&mdash;till
at last she yielded, let her hands be loosed, allowed Perronel to lift
the venerable head from her knee, and close the eyes&mdash;then to gather
her in her arms, and lead her to the door, taking her, under Ambrose&rsquo;s
guidance, into Lucas&rsquo;s abode, which was as utterly and mournfully
dismantled as their own, but where Perronel, accustomed in her wandering
days to all sorts of contrivances, managed to bind up the streaming
hair, and, by the help of her own cloak, to bring the poor girl into
a state in which she could be led through the streets.</p>
<p>The Dean meantime had bidden Lucas to take shelter at his own house,
and the old Dutchman had given a sort of doubtful acceptance.</p>
<p>Ambrose, meanwhile, half distracted about his brother, craved counsel
of the jester where to seek him.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XVII.&nbsp; ILL MAY DAY</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>&ldquo;With two and two together tied,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Through
Temple Bar and Strand they go,<br />To Westminster, there to be tried,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;With
ropes about their necks also.&rdquo;</p>
<p><i>Ill May Day.</i></p>
<p>And where was Stephen?&nbsp; Crouching, wretched with hunger, cold,
weariness, blows, and what was far worse, sense of humiliation and disgrace,
and terror for the future, in a corner of the yard of Newgate&mdash;whither
the whole set of lads, surprised in Warwick Inner Court by the law students
of the Inns of Court, had been driven like so many cattle, at the sword&rsquo;s
point, with no attention or perception that he and Giles had been struggling
<i>against</i> the spoilers.</p>
<p>Yet this fact made them all the more forlorn.&nbsp; The others, some
forty in number, their companions in misfortune, included most of the
Barbican prentices, who were of the Eagle faction, special enemies alike
to Abenali and to the Dragon, and these held aloof from Headley and
Birkenholt, nay, reviled them for the attack which they declared had
caused the general capture.</p>
<p>The two lads of the Dragon had, in no measured terms, denounced the
cruelty to the poor old inoffensive man, and were denounced in their
turn as friends of the sorcerer.&nbsp; But all were too much exhausted
by the night&rsquo;s work to have spirit for more than a snarling encounter
of words, and the only effect was that Giles and Stephen were left isolated
in their misery outside the shelter of the handsome arched gateway under
which the others congregated.</p>
<p>Newgate had been rebuilt by Whittington out of pity to poor prisoners
and captives.&nbsp; It must have been unspeakably dreadful before, for
the foulness of the narrow paved court, shut in by strong walls, was
something terrible.&nbsp; Tired, spent, and aching all over, and with
boyish callousness to dirt, still Giles and Stephen hesitated to sit
down, and when at last they could stand no longer, they rested, leaning
against one another.&nbsp; Stephen tried to keep up hope by declaring
that his master would soon get them released, and Giles alternated between
despair, and declarations that he would have justice on those who so
treated his father&rsquo;s son.&nbsp; They dropped asleep&mdash;first
one and then the other&mdash;from sheer exhaustion, waking from time
to time to realise that it was no dream, and to feel all the colder
and more camped.</p>
<p>By and by there were voices at the gate.&nbsp; Friends were there
asking after their own Will, or John, or Thomas, as the case might be.&nbsp;
The jailer opened a little wicket-window in the heavy door, and, no
doubt for a consideration, passed in food to certain lads whom he called
out, but it did not always reach its destination.&nbsp; It was often
torn away as by hungry wolves.&nbsp; For though the felons had been
let out, when the doors were opened; the new prisoners were not by any
means all apprentices.&nbsp; There were watermen, husbandmen, beggars,
thieves, among them, attracted by the scent of plunder; and even some
of the elder lads had no scruple in snatching the morsel from the younger
ones.</p>
<p>Poor little Jasper Hope, a mischievous little curly-headed idle fellow,
only thirteen, just apprenticed to his brother the draper, and rushing
about with the other youths in the pride of his flat cap, was one of
the sufferers.&nbsp; A servant had been at the door, promising that
his brother would speedily have him released, and handing in bread and
meat, of which he was instantly robbed by George Bates and three or
four more big fellows, and sent away reeling and sobbing, under a heavy
blow, with all the mischief and play knocked out of him.&nbsp; Stephen
and Giles called &ldquo;Shame!&rdquo; but were unheeded, and they could
only draw the little fellow up to them, and assure him that his brother
would soon come for him.</p>
<p>The next call at the gate was Headley and Birkenholt&mdash;&ldquo;Master
Headley&rsquo;s prentices&mdash;Be they here?&rdquo;</p>
<p>And at their answer, not only the window, but the door in the gate
was opened, and stooping low to enter, Kit Smallbones came in, and not
empty-handed.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ay, ay, youngsters,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I knew how it would
be, by what I saw elsewhere, so I came with a fee to open locks.&nbsp;
How came ye to get into such plight as this?&nbsp; And poor little Hope
too!&nbsp; A fine pass when they put babes in jail.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I&rsquo;m prenticed!&rdquo; said Jasper, though in a very
weak little voice.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Have you had bite or sup?&rdquo; asked Kit.</p>
<p>And on their reply, telling how those who had had supplies from home
had been treated, Smallbones observed, &ldquo;Let them try it,&rdquo;
and stood, at all his breadth, guarding the two youths and little Jasper,
as they ate, Stephen at first with difficulty, in the faintness and
foulness of the place, but then ravenously.&nbsp; Smallbones lectured
them on their folly all the time, and made them give an account of the
night.&nbsp; He said their master was at the Guildhall taking counsel
with the Lord Mayor, and there were reports that it would go hard with
the rioters, for murder and plunder had been done in many places, and
he especially looked at Giles with pity, and asked how he came to embroil
himself with Master Mundy?&nbsp; Still his good-natured face cheered
them, and he promised further supplies.&nbsp; He also relieved Stephen&rsquo;s
mind about his brother, telling of his inquiry at the Dragon in the
morning.&nbsp; All that day the condition of such of the prisoners as
had well-to-do friends was improving.&nbsp; Fathers, brothers, masters,
and servants, came in quest of them, bringing food and bedding, and
by exorbitant fees to the jailers obtained for them shelter in the gloomy
cells.&nbsp; Mothers could not come, for a proclamation had gone out
that none were to babble, and men were to keep their wives at home.&nbsp;
And though there were more material comforts, prospects were very gloomy.&nbsp;
Ambrose came when Kit Smallbones returned with what Mrs. Headley had
sent the captives.&nbsp; He looked sad and dazed, and clung to his brother,
but said very little, except that they ought to be locked up together,
and he really would have been left in Newgate, if Kit had not laid a
great hand on his shoulder and almost forced him away.</p>
<p>Master Headley himself arrived with Master Hope in the afternoon.&nbsp;
Jasper sprang to his brother, crying, &ldquo;Simon!&nbsp; Simon! you
are come to take me out of this dismal, evil place?&rdquo;&nbsp; But
Master Hope&mdash;a tall, handsome, grave young man, who had often been
much disturbed by his little brother&rsquo;s pranks&mdash;could only
shake his head with tears in his eyes, and, sitting down on the roll
of bedding, take him on his knee and try to console him with the hope
of liberty in a few days.</p>
<p>He had tried to obtain the boy&rsquo;s release on the plea of his
extreme youth, but the authorities were hotly exasperated, and would
hear of no mercy.&nbsp; The whole of the rioters were to be tried three
days hence, and there was no doubt that some would be made an example
of, the only question was, how many?</p>
<p>Master Headley closely interrogated his own two lads, and was evidently
sorely anxious about his namesake, who, he feared, might be recognised
by Alderman Mundy and brought forward as a ringleader of the disturbance;
nor did he feel at all secure that the plea that he had no enmity to
the foreigners, but had actually tried to defend Lucas and Abenali,
would be attended to for a moment, though Lucas Hansen had promised
to bear witness of it.&nbsp; Giles looked perfectly stunned at the time,
unable to take in the idea, but at night Stephen was wakened on the
pallet that they shared with little Jasper, by hearing him weeping and
sobbing for his mother at Salisbury.</p>
<p>Time lagged on till the 4th of May.&nbsp; Some of the poor boys whiled
away their time with dreary games in the yard, sometimes wrestling,
but more often gambling with the dice, that one or two happened to possess,
for the dinners that were provided for the wealthier, sometimes even
betting on what the sentences would be, and who would be hanged, or
who escape.</p>
<p>Poor lads, they did not, for the most part, realise their real danger,
but Stephen was more and more beset with home-sick longing for the glades
and thickets of his native forest, and would keep little Jasper and
even Giles for an hour together telling of the woodland adventures of
those happy times, shutting his eyes to the grim stone walls, and trying
to think himself among the beeches, hollies, cherries, and hawthorns,
shining in the May sun!&nbsp; Giles and he were chose friends now, and
with little Jasper, said their Paters and Aves together, that they might
be delivered from their trouble.&nbsp; At last, on the 4th, the whole
of the prisoners were summoned roughly into the court, where harsh-hooking
men-at-arms proceeded to bind them together in pairs to be marched through
the streets to the Guildhall.&nbsp; Giles and Stephen would naturally
have been put together, but poor little Jasper cried out so lamentably,
when he was about to be bound to a stranger, that Stephen stepped forward
in his stead, begging that the boy might go with Giles.&nbsp; The soldier
made a contemptuous sound, but consented, and Stephen found that his
companion in misfortune, whose left elbow was tied to his right was
George Bates.</p>
<p>The two lads looked at each other in a strange, rueful manner, and
Stephen said, &ldquo;Shake hands, comrade.&nbsp; If we are to die, let
us bear no ill-will.&rdquo;</p>
<p>George gave a cold, limp, trembling hand.&nbsp; He looked wretched,
subdued, tearful, and nearly starved, for he had no kinsfolk at hand,
and his master was too angry with him, and too much afraid of compromising
himself, to have sent him any supplies.&nbsp; Stephen tried to unbutton
his own pouch, but not succeeding with his left hand, bade George try
with his right.&nbsp; &ldquo;There&rsquo;s a cake of bread there,&rdquo;
he said.&nbsp; &ldquo;Eat that, and thou&rsquo;lt be able better to
stand up like a man, come what will.&rdquo;</p>
<p>George devoured it eagerly.&nbsp; &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; he said, in a
stronger voice, &ldquo;Stephen Birkenholt, thou art an honest fellow.&nbsp;
I did thee wrong.&nbsp; If ever we get out of this plight!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Here they were ordered to march, and in a long and doleful procession
they set forth.&nbsp; The streets were lined with men-at-arms, for all
the affections and sympathies of the people were with the unfortunate
boys, and a rescue was apprehended.</p>
<p>In point of fact, the Lord Mayor and aldermen were afraid of the
King&rsquo;s supposing them to have organised the assault on their rivals,
and each was therefore desirous to show severity to any one&rsquo;s
apprentices save his own; while the nobility were afraid of contumacy
on the part of the citizens, and were resolved to crush down every rioter
among them, so that they had filled the city with their armed retainers.&nbsp;
Fathers and mothers, masters and dames, sisters and fellow prentices,
found their doors closely guarded, and could only look with tearful,
anxious eyes, at the processions of poor youths, many of them mere children,
who were driven from each of the jails to the Guildhall.&nbsp; There
when all collected the entire number amounted to two hundred and seventy-eight,
though a certain proportion of these were grown men, priests, wherrymen
and beggars, who had joined the rabble in search of plunder.</p>
<p>It did not look well for them that the Duke of Norfolk and his son,
the Earl of Surrey, were joined in the commission with the Lord Mayor.&nbsp;
The upper end of the great hall was filled with aldermen in their robes
and chains, with the sheriffs of London and the whole imposing array,
and the Lord Mayor with the Duke sat enthroned above them in truly awful
dignity.&nbsp; The Duke was a hard and pitiless man, and bore the City
a bitter grudge for the death of his retainer, the priest killed in
Cheapside, and in spite of all his poetical fame, it may be feared that
the Earl of Surrey was not of much more merciful mood, while their men-at-arms
spoke savagely of hanging, slaughtering, or setting the City on fire.</p>
<p>The arraignment was very long, as there were so large a number of
names to be read, and, to the horror of all, it was not for a mere riot,
but for high treason.&nbsp; The King, it was declared, being in amity
with all Christian princes, it was high treason to break the truce and
league by attacking their subjects resident in England.&nbsp; The terrible
punishment of the traitor would thus be the doom of all concerned, and
in the temper of the Howards and their retainers, there was little hope
of mercy, nor, in times like those, was there even much prospect that,
out of such large numbers, some might escape.</p>
<p>A few were more especially cited, fourteen in number, among them
George Bates, Walter Ball, and Giles Headley, who had certainly given
cause for the beginning of the affray.&nbsp; There was no attempt to
defend George Bates, who seemed to be stunned and bewildered beyond
the power of speaking or even of understanding, but as Giles cast his
eyes round in wild, terrified appeal, Master Headley rose up in his
alderman&rsquo;s gown, and prayed leave to be heard in his defence,
as he had witnesses to bring in his favour.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Is he thy son, good Armourer Headley?&rdquo; demanded the
Duke of Norfolk, who held the work of the Dragon court in high esteem.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay, my Lord Duke, but he is in the place of one, my near
kinsman and godson, and so soon as his time be up, bound to wed my only
child!&nbsp; I pray you to hear his cause, ere cutting off the heir
of an old and honourable house.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Norfolk and his sons murmured something about the Headley skill in
armour, and the Lord Mayor was willing enough for mercy, but Sir John
Mundy here rose: &ldquo;My Lord Duke, this is the very young man who
was first to lay hands on me!&nbsp; Yea, my lords and sirs, ye have
already heard how their rude sport, contrary to proclamation, was the
cause of the tumult.&nbsp; When I would have bidden them go home, the
one brawler asks me insolently, &lsquo;Wherefore?&rsquo; the other smote
me with his sword, whereupon the whole rascaille set on me, and as Master
Alderman Headley can testify, I scarce reached his house alive.&nbsp;
I ask should favour overcome justice, and a ringleader, who hath assaulted
the person of an alderman, find favour above others?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I ask not for favour,&rdquo; returned Headley, &ldquo;only
that witnesses be heard on his behalf, ere he be condemned.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Headley, as a favourite with the Duke, prevailed to have permission
to call his witnesses; Christopher Smallbones, who had actually rescued
Alderman Mundy from the mob, and helped him into the Dragon court, could
testify that the proclamation had been entirely unheard in the din of
the youths looking on at the game.&nbsp; And this was followed up by
Lucas Hansen declaring that so far from having attacked or plundered
him and the others in Warwick Inner Yard, the two, Giles Headley and
Stephen Birkenholt, had come to their defence, and fallen on those who
were burning their goods.</p>
<p>On this a discussion followed between the authorities seated at the
upper end of the hall.&nbsp; The poor anxious watchers below could only
guess by the gestures what was being agitated as to their fate, and
Stephen was feeling it sorely hard that Giles should be pleaded for
as the master&rsquo;s kinsman, and he left to so cruel a fate, no one
saying a word for him but unheeded Lucas.&nbsp; Finally, without giving
of judgment, the whole of the miserable prisoners, who had been standing
without food for hours, were marched back, still tied, to their several
prisons, while their guards pointed out the gibbets where they were
to suffer the next day.</p>
<p>Master Headley was not quite so regardless of his younger apprentice
as Stephen imagined.&nbsp; There was a sort of little council held in
his hall when he returned&mdash;sad, dispirited, almost hopeless&mdash;to
find Hal Randall anxiously awaiting him.&nbsp; The alderman said he
durst not plead for Stephen, lest he should lose both by asking too
much, and his young kinsman had the first right, besides being in the
most peril as having been singled out by name; whereas Stephen might
escape with the multitude if there were any mercy.&nbsp; He added that
the Duke of Norfolk was certainly inclined to save one who knew the
secret of Spanish sword-blades; but that he was fiercely resolved to
be revenged for the murder of his lewd priest in Cheapside, and that
Sir John Mundy was equally determined that Giles should not escape.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What am I to say to his mother?&nbsp; Have I brought him from
her for this?&rdquo; mourned Master Headley.&nbsp; &ldquo;Ay, and Master
Randall, I grieve as much for thy nephew, who to my mind hath done nought
amiss.&nbsp; A brave lad!&nbsp; A good lad, who hath saved mine own
life.&nbsp; Would that I could do aught for him!&nbsp; It is a shame!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Father,&rdquo; said Dennet, who had crept to the back of his
chair, &ldquo;the King would save him!&nbsp; Mind you the golden whistle
that the grandame keepeth?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;The maid hath hit it!&rdquo; exclaimed Randall.&nbsp; &ldquo;Master
alderman!&nbsp; Let me but have the little wench and the whistle to-morrow
morn, and it is done.&nbsp; How sayest thou, pretty mistress?&nbsp;
Wilt thou go with me and ask thy cousin&rsquo;s life, and poor Stephen&rsquo;s,
of the King?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;With all my heart, sir,&rdquo; said Dennet, coming to him
with outstretched hands.&nbsp; &ldquo;Oh! sir, canst thou save them?&nbsp;
I have been vowing all I could think of to our Lady and the saints,
and now they are going to grant it!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Tarry a little,&rdquo; said the alderman.&nbsp; &ldquo;I must
know more of this.&nbsp; Where wouldst thou take my child?&nbsp; How
obtain access to the King&rsquo;s Grace?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Worshipful sir, trust me,&rdquo; said Randall.&nbsp; &ldquo;Thou
know&rsquo;st I am sworn servant to my Lord Cardinal, and that his folk
are as free of the Court as the King&rsquo;s own servants.&nbsp; If
thine own folk will take us up the river to Richmond, and there wait
for us while I lead the maid to the King, I can well-nigh swear to thee
that she will prevail.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The alderman looked greatly distressed.&nbsp; Ambrose threw himself
on his knees before him, and in an agony entreated him to consent, assuring
him that Master Randall could do what he promised.&nbsp; The alderman
was much perplexed.&nbsp; He knew that his mother, who was confined
to her bed by rheumatism, would be shocked at the idea.&nbsp; He longed
to accompany his daughter himself, but for him to be absent from the
sitting of the court might be fatal to Giles, and he could not bear
to lose any chance for the poor youths.</p>
<p>Meantime an interrogative glance and a nod had passed between Tibble
and Randall, and when the alderman looked towards the former, always
his prime minister, the answer was, &ldquo;Sir, meseemeth that it were
well to do as Master Randall counselleth.&nbsp; I will go with Mistress
Dennet, if such be your will.&nbsp; The lives of two such youths as
our prentices may not lightly be thrown away, while by God&rsquo;s providence
there is any means of striving to save them.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Consent then was given, and it was further arranged that Dennet and
her escort should be ready at the early hour of half-past four, so as
to elude the guards who were placed in the streets; and also because
King Henry in the summer went very early to mass, and then to some out-of-door
sport.&nbsp; Randall said he would have taken his own good woman to
have the care of the little mistress, but that the poor little orphan
Spanish wench had wept herself so sick, that she could not be left to
a stranger.</p>
<p>Master Headley himself brought the child by back streets to the river,
and thence down to the Temple stairs, accompanied by Tibble Steelman,
and a maid-servant on whose presence her grandmother had insisted.&nbsp;
Dennet had hardly slept all night for excitement and perturbation, and
she looked very white, small, and insignificant for her thirteen years,
when Randall and Ambrose met her, and placed her carefully in the barge
which was to take them to Richmond.&nbsp; It was somewhat fresh in the
very early morning, and no one was surprised that Master Randall wore
a large dark cloak as they rowed up the river.&nbsp; There was very
little speech between the passengers; Dennet sat between Ambrose and
Tibble.&nbsp; They kept their heads bowed.&nbsp; Ambrose&rsquo;s brow
was on one hand, his elbow on his knee, but he spared the other to hold
Dennet.&nbsp; He had been longing for the old assurance he would once
have had, that to vow himself to a life of hard service in a convent
would be the way to win his brother&rsquo;s life; but he had ceased
to be able to feel that such bargains were the right course, or that
a convent necessarily afforded sure way of service, and he never felt
mere insecure of the way and means to prayer than in this hour of anguished
supplication.</p>
<p>When they came beyond the City, within sight of the trees of Sheen,
as Richmond was still often called, Randall insisted that Dennet should
eat some of the bread and meat that Tibble had brought in a wallet for
her.&nbsp; &ldquo;She must look her best,&rdquo; he said aside to the
foreman.&nbsp; &ldquo;I would that she were either more of a babe or
better favoured!&nbsp; Our Hal hath a tender heart for a babe and an
eye for a buxom lass.&rdquo;</p>
<p>He bade the maid trim up the child&rsquo;s cap and make the best
of her array, and presently reached some stairs leading up to the park.&nbsp;
There he let Ambrose lift her out of the boat.&nbsp; The maid would
fain have followed, but he prevented this, and when she spoke of her
mistress having bidden her follow wherever the child went, Tibble interfered,
telling her that his master&rsquo;s orders were that Master Randall
should do with her as he thought meet.&nbsp; Tibble himself followed
until they reached a thicket entirely concealing them from the river.&nbsp;
Halting here, Randall, with his nephew&rsquo;s help, divested himself
of his long gown and cloak, his beard and wig, produced cockscomb and
bauble from his pouch, and stood before the astonished eyes of Dennet
as the jester!</p>
<p>She recoiled upon Tibble with a little cry, &ldquo;Oh, why should
he make sport of us?&nbsp; Why disguise himself?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Listen, pretty mistress,&rdquo; said Randall.&nbsp; &ldquo;&rsquo;Tis
no disguise, Tibble there can tell you, or my nephew.&nbsp; My disguise
lies there,&rdquo; pointing to his sober raiment.&nbsp; &ldquo;Thus
only can I bring thee to the King&rsquo;s presence!&nbsp; Didst think
it was jest?&nbsp; Nay, verily, I am as bound to try to save my sweet
Stevie&rsquo;s life, my sister&rsquo;s own gallant son, as thou canst
be to plead for thy betrothed.&rdquo;&nbsp; Dennet winced.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ay, Mistress Dennet,&rdquo; said Tibble, &ldquo;thou mayst
trust him, spite of his garb, and &rsquo;tis the sole hope.&nbsp; He
could only thus bring thee in.&nbsp; Go thou on, and the lad and I will
fall to our prayers.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Dennet&rsquo;s bosom heaved, but she looked up in the jesters dark
eyes, saw the tears in them, made an effort, put her hand in his, and
said, &ldquo;I will go with him.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Hal led her away, and they saw Tibble and Ambrose both fall on their
knees behind the hawthorn bush, to speed them with their prayers, while
all the joyous birds singing their carols around seemed to protest against
the cruel captivity and dreadful doom of the young gladsome spirits
pent up in the City prisons.</p>
<p>One full gush of a thrush&rsquo;s song in especial made Dennet&rsquo;s
eyes overflow, which the jester perceived and said, &ldquo;Nay, sweet
maid, no tears.&nbsp; Kings brook not to be approached with blubbered
faces.&nbsp; I marvel not that it seems hard to thee to go along with
such as I, but let me be what I will outside, mine heart is heavy enough,
and thou wilt learn sooner or later, that fools are not the only folk
who needs must smile when they have a load within.&rdquo;</p>
<p>And then, as much to distract her thoughts and prevent tears as to
reassure her, he told her what he had before told his nephews of the
inducements that had made him Wolsey&rsquo;s jester, and impressed on
her the forms of address.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thou&rsquo;lt hear me make free with him, but that&rsquo;s
part of mine office, like the kitten I&rsquo;ve seen tickling the mane
of the lion in the Tower.&nbsp; Thou must say, &lsquo;An it please your
Grace,&rsquo; and thou needst not speak of his rolling in the mire,
thou wottest, or it may anger him.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The girl showed that her confidence became warmer by keeping nearer
to his side, and presently she said, &ldquo;I must beg for Stephen first,
for &rsquo;tis his whistle.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Blessings on thee, fair wench, for that, yet seest thou, &rsquo;tis
the other springald who is in the greater peril, and he is closer to
thy father and to thee.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He fled, when Stephen made in to the rescue of my father,&rdquo;
said Dennet.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The saints grant we may so work with the King that he may
spare them both,&rdquo; ejaculated Randall.</p>
<p>By this time the strange pair were reaching the precincts of the
great dwelling-house, where about the wide-open door loitered gentlemen,
grooms, lacqueys, and attendants of all kinds.&nbsp; Randall reconnoitred.</p>
<p>&ldquo;An we go up among all these,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;they might
make their sport of us both, so that we might have time.&nbsp; Let us
see whether the little garden postern be open.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Henry VIII. had no fears of his people, and kept his dwellings more
accessible than were the castles of many a subject.&nbsp; The door in
the wall proved to be open, and with an exclamation of joy, Randall
pointed out two figures, one in a white silken doublet and hose, with
a short crimson cloak over his shoulder, the other in scarlet and purple
robes, pacing the walk under the wall&mdash;Henry&rsquo;s way of holding
a cabinet council with his prime minister on a summer&rsquo;s morning.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Come on, mistress, put a brave face on it!&rdquo; the jester
encouraged the girl, as he led her forward, while the king, catching
sight of them, exclaimed, &ldquo;Ha! there&rsquo;s old Patch.&nbsp;
What doth he there?&rdquo;</p>
<p>But the Cardinal, impatient of interruption, spoke imperiously, &ldquo;What
dost thou here, Merriman?&nbsp; Away, this is no time for thy fooleries
and frolics.&rdquo;</p>
<p>But the King, with some pleasure in teasing, and some of the enjoyment
of a schoolboy at a break in his tasks, called out, &ldquo;Nay, come
hither, quipsome one!&nbsp; What new puppet hast brought hither to play
off on us?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yea, brother Hal,&rdquo; said the jester, &ldquo;I have brought
one to let thee know how Tom of Norfolk and his crew are playing the
fool in the Guildhall, and to ask who will be the fool to let them wreak
their spite on the best blood in London, and leave a sore that will
take many a day to heal.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;How is this, my Lord Cardinal?&rdquo; said Henry; &ldquo;I
bade them make an example of a few worthless hinds, such as might teach
the lusty burghers to hold their lads in bounds and prove to our neighbours
that their churlishness was by no consent of ours.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I trow,&rdquo; returned the Cardinal, &ldquo;that one of these
same hinds is a boon companion of the fool&rsquo;s&mdash;<i>hinc ill&aelig;
lachrym&aelig;</i>, and a speech that would have befitted a wise man&rsquo;s
mouth.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;There is work that may well make even a fool grave, friend
Thomas,&rdquo; replied the jester.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay, but what hath this little wench to say?&rdquo; asked
the King, looking down on the child from under his plumed cap with a
face set in golden hair, the fairest and sweetest, as it seemed to her,
that she had ever seen, as he smiled upon her.&nbsp; &ldquo;Methinks
she is too small to be thy love.&nbsp; Speak out, little one.&nbsp;
I love little maids, I have one of mine own.&nbsp; Hast thou a brother
among these misguided lads?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Not so, an please your Grace,&rdquo; said Dennet, who fortunately
was not in the least shy, and was still too young for a maiden&rsquo;s
shamefastness.&nbsp; &ldquo;He is to be my betrothed.&nbsp; I would
say, one of them is, but the other&mdash;he saved my father&rsquo;s
life once.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The latter words were lost in the laughter of the King and Cardinal
at the unblushing avowal of the small, prim-faced maiden.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh ho!&nbsp; So &rsquo;tis a case of true love, whereto a
King&rsquo;s face must needs show grace.&nbsp; Who art thou, fair suppliant,
and who may this swain of thine be?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am Dennet Headley, so please your Grace; my father is Giles
Headley the armourer, Alderman of Cheap Ward,&rdquo; said Dennet, doing
her part bravely, though puzzled by the King&rsquo;s tone of banter;
&ldquo;and see here, your Grace!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ha! the hawk&rsquo;s whistle that Archduke Philip gave me!&nbsp;
What of that?&nbsp; I gave it&mdash;ay, I gave it to a youth that came
to mine aid, and reclaimed a falcon for me!&nbsp; Is&rsquo;t he, child?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, sir, &rsquo;tis he who came in second at the butts, next
to Barlow, &rsquo;tis Stephen Birkenholt!&nbsp; And he did nought!&nbsp;
They bore no ill-will to strangers!&nbsp; No, they were falling on the
wicked fellows who had robbed and slain good old Master Michael, who
taught our folk to make the only real true Damascus blades welded in
England.&nbsp; But the lawyers of the Inns of Court fell on them all
alike, and have driven them off to Newgate, and poor little Jasper Hope
too.&nbsp; And Alderman Mundy bears ill-will to Giles.&nbsp; And the
cruel Duke of Norfolk and his men swear they&rsquo;ll have vengeance
on the Cheap, and there&rsquo;ll be hanging and quartering this very
morn.&nbsp; Oh! your Grace, your Grace, save our lads! for Stephen saved
my father.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thy tongue wags fast, little one,&rdquo; said the King, good-naturedly,
&ldquo;with thy Stephen and thy Giles.&nbsp; Is this same Stephen, the
knight of the whistle and the bow, thy betrothed, and Giles thy brother?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay, your Grace,&rdquo; said Dennet, hanging her head, &ldquo;Giles
Headley is my betrothed&mdash;that is, when his time is served, he will
be&mdash;father sets great store by him, for he is the only one of our
name to keep up the armoury, and he has a mother, Sir, a mother at Salisbury.&nbsp;
But oh, Sir, Sir!&nbsp; Stephen is so good and brave a had!&nbsp; He
made in to save father from the robbers, and he draws the best bow in
Cheapside, and he can grave steel as well as Tibble himself, and this
is the whistle your Grace wots of.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Henry listened with an amused smile that grew broader as Dennet&rsquo;s
voice all unconsciously became infinitely more animated and earnest,
when she began to plead Stephen&rsquo;s cause.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, well, sweetheart,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I trow thou
must have the twain of them, though,&rdquo; he added to the Cardinal,
who smiled broadly, &ldquo;it might perchance be more for the maid&rsquo;s
peace than she wots of now, were we to leave this same knight of the
whistle to be strung up at once, ere she have found her heart; but in
sooth that I cannot do, owing well nigh a life to him and his brother.&nbsp;
Moreover, we may not have old Headley&rsquo;s skill in weapons lost!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Dennet held her hands close clasped while these words were spoken
apart.&nbsp; She felt as if her hope, half granted, were being snatched
from her, as another actor appeared on the scene, a gentleman in a lawyer&rsquo;s
gown, and square cap, which he doffed as he advanced and put his knee
to the ground before the King, who greeted him with &ldquo;Save you,
good Sir Thomas, a fair morning to you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;They told me your Grace was in Council with my Lord Cardinal,&rdquo;
said Sir Thomas More; &ldquo;but seeing that there was likewise this
merry company, I durst venture to thrust in, since my business is urgent.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Dennet here forgot court manners enough to cry out, &ldquo;O your
Grace! your Grace, be pleased for pity&rsquo;s sake to let me have the
pardon for them first, or they&rsquo;ll be hanged and dead.&nbsp; I
saw the gallows in Cheapside, and when they are dead, what good will
your Grace&rsquo;s mercy do them?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I see,&rdquo; said Sir Thomas.&nbsp; &ldquo;This little maid&rsquo;s
errand jumps with mine own, which was to tell your Grace that unless
there be speedy commands to the Howards to hold their hands, there will
be wailing like that of Egypt in the City.&nbsp; The poor boys, who
were but shouting and brawling after the nature of mettled youth&mdash;the
most with nought of malice&mdash;are penned up like sheep for the slaughter&mdash;ay,
and worse than sheep, for we quarter not our mutton alive, whereas these
poor younglings&mdash;babes of thirteen, some of them&mdash;be indicted
for high treason!&nbsp; Will the parents, shut in from coming to them
by my Lord of Norfolk&rsquo;s men, ever forget their agonies, I ask
your Grace?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Henry&rsquo;s face grew red with passion.&nbsp; &ldquo;If Norfolk
thinks to act the King, and turn the city into a shambles,&rdquo;&mdash;with
a mighty oath&mdash;&ldquo;he shall abye it.&nbsp; Here, Lord Cardinal&mdash;more,
let the free pardon be drawn up for the two lads.&nbsp; And we will
ourselves write to the Lord Mayor and to Norfolk that though they may
work their will on the movers of the riot&mdash;that pestilent Lincoln
and his sort&mdash;not a prentice lad shall be touched till our pleasure
be known.&nbsp; There now, child, thou hast won the lives of thy lads,
as thou callest them.&nbsp; Wilt thou rue the day, I marvel?&nbsp; Why
cannot some of their mothers pluck up spirit and beg them off as thou
hast done?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yea,&rdquo; said Wolsey.&nbsp; &ldquo;That were the right
course.&nbsp; If the Queen were moved to pray your Grace to pity the
striplings then could the Spaniards make no plaint of too much clemency
being shown.&rdquo;</p>
<p>They were all this time getting nearer the palace, and being now
at a door opening into the hall, Henry turned round.&nbsp; &ldquo;There,
pretty maid, spread the tidings among thy gossips, that they have a
tender-hearted Queen, and a gracious King.&nbsp; The Lord Cardinal will
presently give thee the pardon for both thy lads, and by and by thou
wilt know whether thou thankest me for it!&rdquo;&nbsp; Then putting
his hand under her chin, he turned up her face to him, kissed her on
each cheek, and touched his feathered cap to the others, saying, &ldquo;See
that my bidding be done,&rdquo; and disappeared.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It must be prompt, if it be to save any marked for death this
morn,&rdquo; More in a how voice observed to the Cardinal.&nbsp; &ldquo;Lord
Edmund Howard is keen as a blood-hound on his vengeance.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Wolsey was far from being a cruel man, and besides, there was a natural
antagonism between him and the old nobility, and he liked and valued
his fool, to whom he turned, saying, &ldquo;And what stake hast thou
in this, sirrah?&nbsp; Is&rsquo;t all pure charity?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I&rsquo;m scarce such a fool as that, Cousin Red Hat,&rdquo;
replied Randall, rallying his powers.&nbsp; &ldquo;I leave that to Mr.
More here, whom we all know to be a good fool spoilt.&nbsp; But I&rsquo;ll
make a clean breast of it.&nbsp; This same Stephen is my sister&rsquo;s
son, an orphan lad of good birth and breeding&mdash;whom, my lord, I
would die to save.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thou shalt have the pardon instantly, Merriman,&rdquo; said
the Cardinal, and beckoning to one of the attendants who clustered round
the door, he gave orders that a clerk should instantly, and very briefly,
make out the form.&nbsp; Sir Thomas More, hearing the name of Headley,
added that for him indeed the need of haste was great, since he was
one of the fourteen sentenced to die that morning.</p>
<p>Quipsome Hal was interrogated as to how he had come, and the Cardinal
and Sir Thomas agreed that the river would be as speedy a way of returning
as by land; but they decided that a King&rsquo;s pursuivant should accompany
him, otherwise there would be no chance of forcing his way in time through
the streets, guarded by the Howard retainers.</p>
<p>As rapidly as was in the nature of a high officer&rsquo;s clerk to
produce a dozen lines, the precious document was indicted, and it was
carried at last to Dennet, bearing Henry&rsquo;s signature and seal.&nbsp;
She held it to her bosom, while, accompanied by the pursuivant, who&mdash;happily
for them&mdash;was interested in one of the unfortunate fourteen, and
therefore did not wait to stand on his dignity, they hurried across
to the place where they had left the barge&mdash;Tibble and Ambrose
joining them on the way.&nbsp; Stephen was safe.&nbsp; Of his life there
could be no doubt, and Ambrose almost repented of feeling his heart
so light while Giles&rsquo;s fate hung upon their speed.</p>
<p>The oars were plied with hearty good-will, but the barge was somewhat
heavy, and by and by coming to a landing-place where two watermen had
a much smaller and lighter boat, the pursuivant advised that he should
go forward with the more necessary persons, leaving the others to follow.&nbsp;
After a few words, the light weights of Tibble and Dennet prevailed
in their favour, and they shot forward in the little boat.</p>
<p>They passed the Temple&mdash;on to the stairs nearest Cheapside&mdash;up
the street.&nbsp; There was an awful stillness, only broken by heavy
knells sounding at intervals from the churches.&nbsp; The back streets
were thronged by a trembling, weeping people, who all eagerly made way
for the pursuivant, as he called &ldquo;Make way, good people&mdash;a
pardon!&rdquo;</p>
<p>They saw the broader space of Cheapside.&nbsp; Horsemen in armour
guarded it, but they too opened a passage for the pursuivant.&nbsp;
There was to be seen above the people&rsquo;s heads a scaffold.&nbsp;
A fire burnt on it&mdash;the gallows and noosed rope hung above.</p>
<p>A figure was mounting the ladder.&nbsp; A boy!&nbsp; Oh, Heavens!
would it be too late?&nbsp; Who was it?&nbsp; They were still too far
off to see.&nbsp; They might only be cruelly holding out hope to one
of the doomed.</p>
<p>The pursuivant shouted aloud&mdash;&ldquo;In the King&rsquo;s name,
Hold!&rdquo;&nbsp; He lifted Dennet on his shoulder, and bade her wave
her parchment.&nbsp; An overpowering roar arose.&nbsp; &ldquo;A pardon!
a pardon!&nbsp; God save the King!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Every hand seemed to be forwarding the pursuivant and the child,
and it was Giles Headley, who, loosed from the hold of the executioner,
stared wildly about him, like one distraught.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XVIII.&nbsp; PARDON</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>&ldquo;What if;&rsquo; quoth she, &lsquo;by Spanish blood<br />Have
London&rsquo;s stately streets been wet,<br />Yet will I seek this country&rsquo;s
good<br />And pardon for these young men get.&rsquo;&rdquo;</p>
<p>CHURCHILL.</p>
<p>The night and morning had been terrible to the poor boys, who only
had begun to understand what awaited them.&nbsp; The fourteen selected
had little hope, and indeed a priest came in early morning to hear the
confessions of Giles Headley and George Bates, the only two who were
in Newgate.</p>
<p>George Bates was of the stolid, heavy disposition that seems armed
by outward indifference, or mayhap pride.&nbsp; He knew that his case
was hopeless, and he would not thaw even to the priest.&nbsp; But Giles
had been quite unmanned, and when he found that for the doleful procession
to the Guildhall he was to be coupled with George Bates, instead of
either of his room-fellows, he flung himself on Stephen&rsquo;s neck,
sobbing out messages for his mother, and entreaties that, if Stephen
survived, he would be good to Aldonza.&nbsp; &ldquo;For you will wed
Dennet, and&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>There the jailers roughly ordered him to hold his peace, and dragged
him off to be pinioned to his fellow-sufferer.&nbsp; Stephen was not
called till some minutes later, and had not seen him since.&nbsp; He
himself was of course overshadowed by the awful gloom of apprehension
for himself, and pity for his comrades, and he was grieved at not having
seen or heard of his brother or master, but he had a very present care
in Jasper, who was sickening in the prison atmosphere, and when fastened
to his arm, seemed hardly able to walk.&nbsp; Leashed as they were,
Stephen could only help him by holding the free hand, and when they
came to the hall, supporting him as much as possible, as they stood
in the miserable throng during the conclusion of the formalities, which
ended by the horrible sentence of the traitor being pronounced on the
whole two hundred and seventy-eight.&nbsp; Poor little Jasper woke for
an interval from the sense of present discomfort to hear it, he seemed
to stiffen all over with the shock of horror, and then hung a dead weight
on Stephen&rsquo;s arm.&nbsp; It would have dragged him down, but there
was no room to fall, and the wretchedness of the lad against whom he
staggered found vent in a surly imprecation, which was lost among the
cries and the entreaties of some of the others.&nbsp; The London magistracy
were some of them in tears, but the indictment for high treason removed
the poor lads from their jurisdiction to that of the Earl Marshal, and
thus they could do nothing to save the fourteen foremost victims.&nbsp;
The others were again driven out of the hall to return to their prisons;
the nearest pair of lads doing their best to help Stephen drag his burthen
along.&nbsp; In the halt outside, to arrange the sad processions, one
of the guards, of milder mood, cut the cord that bound the lifeless
weight to Stephen, and permitted the child to be laid on the stones
of the court, his collar unbuttoned, and water to be brought.&nbsp;
Jasper was just reviving when the word came to march, but still he could
not stand, and Stephen was therefore permitted the free use of his arms,
in order to carry the poor little fellow.&nbsp; Thirteen years made
a considerable load for seventeen, though Stephen&rsquo;s arms were
exercised in the smithy, and it was a sore pull from the Guildhall.&nbsp;
Jasper presently recovered enough to walk with a good deal of support.&nbsp;
When he was laid on the bed he fell unto an exhausted sleep, while Stephen
kneeling, as the strokes of the knell smote on his ear, prayed&mdash;as
he had never prayed before&mdash;for his comrade, for his enemy, and
for all the unhappy boys who were being led to their death wherever
the outrages had been committed.</p>
<p>Once indeed there was a strange sound coming across that of the knell.&nbsp;
It almost sounded like an acclamation of joy.&nbsp; Could people be
so cruel, thought Stephen, as to mock poor Giles&rsquo;s agonies?&nbsp;
There were the knells still sounding.&nbsp; How long he did not know,
for a beneficent drowsiness stole over him as he knelt, and he was only
awakened, at the same time as Jasper, by the opening of his door.</p>
<p>He looked up to see three figures&mdash;his brother, his uncle, his
master.&nbsp; Were they come to take leave of him?&nbsp; But the one
conviction that their faces beamed with joy was all that he could gather,
for little Jasper sprang up with a scream of terror, &ldquo;Stephen,
Stephen, save me!&nbsp; They will cut out my heart,&rdquo; and clung
trembling to his breast, with arms round his neck.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Poor child! poor child!&rdquo; sighed Master Headley.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Would that I brought him the same tidings as to thee!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Is it so?&rdquo; asked Stephen, reading confirmation as he
looked from the one to the other.&nbsp; Though he was unable to rise
under the weight of the boy, life and light were coming to his eye,
while Ambrose clasped his hand tightly, chocked by the swelling of his
heart in almost an agony of joy and thankfulness.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yea, my good lad,&rdquo; said the alderman.&nbsp; &ldquo;Thy
good kinsman took my little wench to bear to the King the token he gave
thee.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And Giles?&rdquo; Stephen asked, &ldquo;and the rest?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Giles is safe.&nbsp; For the rest&mdash;may God have mercy
on their souls.&rdquo;</p>
<p>These words passed while Stephen rocked Jasper backwards and forwards,
his face hidden on his neck.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Come home,&rdquo; added Master Headley.&nbsp; &ldquo;My little
Dennet and Giles cannot yet rejoice till thou art with them.&nbsp; Giles
would have come himself, but he is sorely shaken, and could scarce stand.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Jasper caught the words, and loosing his friend&rsquo;s neck, looked
up.&nbsp; &ldquo;Oh! are we going home?&nbsp; Come, Stephen.&nbsp; Where&rsquo;s
brother Simon?&nbsp; I want my good sister!&nbsp; I want nurse!&nbsp;
Oh! take me home!&rdquo;&nbsp; For as he tried to sit up, he fell back
sick and dizzy on the bed.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Alack! alack!&rdquo; mourned Master Headley; and the jester,
muttering that it was not the little wench&rsquo;s fault, turned to
the window, and burst into tears.&nbsp; Stephen understood it all, and
though he felt a passionate longing for freedom, he considered in one
moment whether there were any one of his fellow prisoners to whom Jasper
could be left, or who would be of the least comfort to him, but could
find no one, and resolved to cling to him as once to old Spring.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sir,&rdquo; he said, as he rose to his master, &ldquo;I fear
me he is very sick.&nbsp; Will they&mdash;will your worship give me
licence to bide with him till this ends?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thou art a good-hearted lad,&rdquo; said the alderman with
a hand on his shoulder.&nbsp; &ldquo;There is no further danger of life
to the prentice lads.&nbsp; The King hath sent to forbid all further
dealing with them, and hath bidden my little maid to set it about that
if their mothers beg them grace from good Queen Katherine, they shall
have it.&nbsp; But this poor child!&nbsp; He can scarce be left.&nbsp;
His brother will take it well of thee if thou wilt stay with him till
some tendance can be had.&nbsp; We can see to that.&nbsp; Thanks be
to St. George and our good King, this good City is our own again!&rdquo;</p>
<p>The alderman turned away, and Ambrose and Stephen exchanged a passionate
embrace, feeling what it was to be still left to one another.&nbsp;
The jester too shook his nephew&rsquo;s hand, saying, &ldquo;Boy, boy,
the blessing of such as I is scarce worth the having, but I would thy
mother could see thee this day.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Stephen was left with these words and his brother&rsquo;s look to
bear him through a trying time.</p>
<p>For the &ldquo;Captain of Newgate&rdquo; was an autocrat, who looked
on his captives as compulsory lodgers, out of whom he was entitled to
wring as much as possible&mdash;as indeed he had no other salary, nor
means of maintaining his underlings, a state of things which lasted
for two hundred years longer, until the days of James Oglethorpe and
John Howard.&nbsp; Even in the rare cases of acquittals, the prisoner
could not be released till he had paid his fees, and that Giles Headley
should have been borne off from the scaffold itself in debt to him was
an invasion of his privileges, which did not dispose him to be favourable
to any one connected with that affair; and he liked to show his power
and dignity even to an alderman.</p>
<p>He was found sitting in a comfortable tapestried chamber, handsomely
dressed in orange and brown, and with a smooth sleek countenance and
the appearance of a good-natured substantial citizen.</p>
<p>He only half rose from his big carved chair, and touched without
removing his cap, to greet the alderman, as he observed, without the
accustomed prefix of your worship&mdash;&ldquo;So, you are come about
your prentice&rsquo;s fees and dues.&nbsp; By St. Peter of the Fetters,
&rsquo;tis an irksome matter to have such a troop of idle, mischievous,
dainty striplings thrust on one, giving more trouble, and making more
call and outcry than twice as many honest thieves and pickpurses.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Be assured, sir, they will scarce trouble you longer than
they can help,&rdquo; said Master Headley.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yea, the Duke and my Lord Edmund are making brief work of
them,&rdquo; quoth the jailer.&nbsp; &ldquo;Ha!&rdquo; with an oath,
&ldquo;what&rsquo;s that?&nbsp; Nought will daunt those lads till the
hangman is at their throats.&rdquo;</p>
<p>For it was a real hurrah that reached his ears.&nbsp; The jester
had got all the boys round him in the court, and was bidding them keep
up a good heart, for their lives were safe, and their mothers would
beg them off.&nbsp; Their shouts did not tend to increase the captain&rsquo;s
good humour, and though he certainly would not have let out Alderman
Headley&rsquo;s remaining apprentice without his fee, he made as great
a favour of permission, and charged as exorbitantly, for a pardoned
man to remain within his domains as if they had been the most costly
and delightful hostel in the kingdom.</p>
<p>Master Hope, who presently arrived, had to pay a high fee for leave
to bring Master Todd, the barber-surgeon, with him to see his brother;
but though he offered a mark a day (a huge amount at that time) the
captain was obdurate in refusing to allow the patient to be attended
by his own old nurse, declaring that it was contrary to discipline,
and (what probably affected him much more) one such woman could cause
more trouble than a dozen felons.&nbsp; No doubt it was true, for she
would have insisted on moderate cleanliness and comfort.&nbsp; No other
attendant whom Mr. Hope could find would endure the disgrace, the discomfort,
and alarm of a residence in Newgate for Jasper&rsquo;s sake; so that
the drapers gratitude to Stephen Birkenholt, for voluntarily sharing
the little fellow&rsquo;s captivity, was great, and he gave payment
to one or two of the officials to secure the two lads being civilly
treated, and that the provisions sent in reached them duly.</p>
<p>Jasper did not in general seem very ill by day, only heavy, listless
and dull, unable to eat, too giddy to sit up, and unable to help crying
like a babe, if Stephen left him for a moment; but he never fell asleep
without all the horror and dread of the sentence coming over him.&nbsp;
Like all the boys in London, he had gazed at executions with the sort
of curiosity that leads rustic lads to run to see pigs killed, and now
the details came over him in semi-delirium, as acted out on himself,
and he shrieked and struggled in an anguish which was only mitigated
by Stephen&rsquo;s reassurances, caresses, even scoldings.&nbsp; The
other youths, relieved from the apprehension of death, agreed to regard
their detention as a holiday, and not being squeamish, turned the yard
into a playground, and there they certainly made uproar, and played
pranks, enough to justify the preference of the captain for full grown
criminals.&nbsp; But Stephen could not join them, for Jasper would not
spare him for an instant, and he himself, though at first sorely missing
employment and exercise, was growing drowsy and heavy limbed in his
cramped life and the evil atmosphere, even the sick longings for liberty
were gradually passing away from him, so that sometimes he felt as if
he had lived here for ages and known no other life, though no sooner
did he lie down to rest, and shut his eyes, than the trees and green
glades of the New Forest rose before him, with all the hollies shining
in the summer light, or the gorse making a sheet of gold.</p>
<p>The time was not in reality so very long.&nbsp; On the 7th of May,
John Lincoln, the broker, who had incited Canon Peale to preach against
the foreigners, was led forth with several others of the real promoters
of the riot to the centre of Cheapside, where Lincoln was put death,
but orders were brought to respite the rest; and, at the same time,
all the armed men were withdrawn, the City began to breathe, and the
women who had been kept within doors to go abroad again.</p>
<p>The Recorder of London and several aldermen were to meet the King
at his manor at Greenwich.&nbsp; This was the mothers&rsquo; opportunity.&nbsp;
The civic dignitaries rode in mourning robes, but the wives and mothers,
sweethearts and sisters, every woman who had a youth&rsquo;s life at
stake, came together, took boat, and went down the river, a strange
fleet of barges, all containing white caps, and black gowns and hoods,
for all were clad in the most correct and humble citizen&rsquo;s costume.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Never was such a sight,&rdquo; said Jester Randall, who had
taken care to secure a view, and who had come with his report to the
Dragon court.&nbsp; &ldquo;It might have been Ash Wednesday for the
look of them, when they landed and got into order.&nbsp; One would think
every prentice lad had got at least three mothers, and four or five
aunts and sisters!&nbsp; I trow, verily, that half of them came to look
on at the other half, and get a sight of Greenwich and the three queens.&nbsp;
However, be that as it might, not one of them but knew how to open the
sluices.&nbsp; Queen Katharine noted well what was coming, and she and
the Queens of Scotland and France sat in the great chamber with the
doors open.&nbsp; And immediately there&rsquo;s a knock at the door,
and so soon as the usher opens it, in they come, three and three, every
good wife of them with her napkin to her eyes, and working away with
her sobs.&nbsp; Then Mistress Todd, the barber-surgeon&rsquo;s wife,
she spoke for all, being thought to have the more courtly tongue, having
been tirewoman to Queen Mary ere she went to France.&nbsp; Verily her
husband must have penned the speech for her&mdash;for it began right
scholarly, and flowery, with a likening of themselves to the mothers
of Bethlehem (lusty innocents theirs, I trow!), but ere long the good
woman faltered and forgot her part, and broke out &lsquo;Oh! madam,
you that are a mother yourself, for the sake of your own sweet babe,
give us back our sons.&rsquo; And therewith they all fell on their knees,
weeping and wringing their hands, and crying out, &lsquo;Mercy, mercy!&nbsp;
For our Blessed Lady&rsquo;s sake, have pity on our children!&rsquo;
till the good Queen, with the tears running down her cheeks for very
ruth, told them that the power was not in her hands, but the will was
for them and their poor sons, and that she would strive so to plead
for them with the King as to win their freedom.&nbsp; Meantime, there
were the aldermen watching for the King in his chamber of presence,
till forth he came, when all fell on their knees, and the Recorder spake
for them, casting all the blame on the vain and light persons who had
made that enormity.&nbsp; Thereupon what does our Hal but make himself
as stern as though he meant to string them all up in a line.&nbsp; &lsquo;Ye
ought to wail and be sorry,&rsquo; said he, &lsquo;whereas ye say that
substantial persons were not concerned, it appeareth to the contrary.&nbsp;
You did wink at the matter,&rsquo; quoth he, &lsquo;and at this time
we will grant you neither favour nor good-will.&rsquo;&nbsp; However,
none who knew Hal&rsquo;s eye but could tell that &rsquo;twas all very
excellent fooling, when he bade them get to the Cardinal.&nbsp; Therewith,
in came the three queens, hand in hand, with tears in their eyes, so
as they might have been the three queens that bore away King Arthur,
and down they went on their knees, and cried aloud &lsquo;Dear sir,
we who are mothers ourselves, beseech you to set the hearts at ease
of all the poor mothers who are mourning for their sons.&rsquo;&nbsp;
Whereupon, the door being opened, came in so piteous a sound of wailing
and lamentation as our Harry&rsquo;s name must have been Herod to withstand!&nbsp;
&lsquo;Stand up, Kate,&rsquo; said he, &lsquo;stand up, sisters, and
hark in your ear.&nbsp; Not a hair of the silly lads shall be touched,
but they must bide lock and key long enough to teach them and their
masters to keep better ward.&rsquo;&nbsp; And then when the queens came
back with the good tidings, such a storm of blessings was never heard,
laughings and cryings, and the like, for verily some of the women seemed
as distraught for joy as ever they had been for grief and fear.&nbsp;
Moreover, Mistress Todd being instructed of her husband, led up Mistress
Hope to Queen Mary, and told her the tale of how her husband&rsquo;s
little brother, a mere babe, lay sick in prison&mdash;a mere babe, a
suckling as it were&mdash;and was like to die there, unless the sooner
delivered, and how our Steve was fool enough to tarry with the poor
child, pardoned though he be.&nbsp; Then the good lady wept again, and
&lsquo;Good woman,&rsquo; saith she to Mistress Hope, &lsquo;the King
will set thy brother free anon.&nbsp; His wrath is not with babes, nor
with lads like this other of whom thou speakest.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;So off was she to the King again, and though he and his master
pished and pshawed, and said if one and another were to be set free
privily in this sort, there would be none to come and beg for mercy
as a warming to all malapert youngsters to keep within bounds, &lsquo;Nay,
verily,&rsquo; quoth I, seeing the moment for shooting a fool&rsquo;s
bolt among them, &lsquo;methinks Master Death will have been a pick-lock
before you are ready for them, and then who will stand to cry mercy?&rsquo;</p>
<p>The narrative was broken off short by a cry of jubilee in the court.&nbsp;
Workmen, boys, and all were thronging together, Kit Smallbones&rsquo;
head towering in the midst.&nbsp; Vehement welcomes seemed in progress.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Stephen!&nbsp; Stephen!&rdquo; shouted Dennet, and flew out of
the hall and down the steps.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The lad himself!&rdquo; exclaimed the jester, leaping down
after her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Stephen, the good boy!&rdquo; said Master Headley, descending
more slowly, but not less joyfully.</p>
<p>Yes, Stephen himself it was, who had quietly walked into the court.&nbsp;
Master Hope and Master Todd had brought the order for Jasper&rsquo;s
release, had paid the captain&rsquo;s exorbitant fees for both, and,
while the sick boy was carried home in a litter, Stephen had entered
the Dragon court through the gates, as if he were coming home from an
errand; though the moment he was recognised by the little four-year
old Smallbones, there had been a general rush and shout of ecstatic
welcome, led by Giles Headley, who fairly threw himself on Stephen&rsquo;s
neck, as they met like comrades after a desperate battle.&nbsp; Not
one was there who did not claim a grasp of the boy&rsquo;s hand, and
who did not pour out welcomes and greetings, while in the midst, the
released captive looked, to say the truth, very spiritless, faded, dusty,
nay dirty.&nbsp; The court seemed spinning round with him, and the loud
welcomes roared in his ears.&nbsp; He was glad that Dennet took one
hand, and Giles the other, declaring that he must be led to the grandmother
instantly.</p>
<p>He muttered something about being in too foul trim to go near her,
but Dennet held him fast, and he was too dizzy to make much resistance.&nbsp;
Old Mrs. Headley was better again, though not able to do much but sit
by the fire kept burning to drive away the plague which was always smouldering
in London.</p>
<p>She held out her hands to Stephen, as he knelt down by her.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Take an old woman&rsquo;s blessing, my good youth,&rdquo; she
said.&nbsp; &ldquo;Right glad am I to see thee once more.&nbsp; Thou
wilt not be the worse for the pains thou hast spent on the little lad,
though they have tried thee sorely.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Stephen, becoming somewhat less dazed, tried to fulfil his long cherished
intention of thanking Dennet for her intercession, but the instant he
tried to speak, to his dismay and indignation, tears choked his voice,
and he could do nothing but weep, as if, thought he, his manhood had
been left behind in the jail.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Vex not thyself,&rdquo; said the old dame, as she saw him
struggling with his sobs.&nbsp; &ldquo;Thou art worn out&mdash;Giles
here was not half his own man when he came out, nor is he yet.&nbsp;
Nay, beset him not, children.&nbsp; He should go to his chamber, change
these garments, and rest ere supper-time.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Stephen was fain to obey, only murmuring an inquiry for his brother,
to which his uncle responded that if Ambrose were at home, the tidings
would send him to the Dragon instantly; but he was much with his old
master, who was preparing to leave England, his work here being ruined.</p>
<p>The jester then took leave, accepting conditionally an invitation
to supper.&nbsp; Master Headley, Smallbones, and Tibble now knew who
he was, but the secret was kept from all the rest of the household,
lest Stephen should be twitted with the connection.</p>
<p>Cold water was not much affected by the citizens of London, but smiths&rsquo;
and armourers&rsquo; work entailed a freer use of it than less grimy
trades; and a bath and Sunday garments made Stephen more like himself,
though still he felt so weary and depressed that he missed the buoyant
joy of release to which he had been looking forward.</p>
<p>He was sitting on the steps, leaning against the rail, so much tired
that he hoped none of his comrades would notice that he had come out,
when Ambrose hurried into the court, having just heard tidings of his
freedom, and was at his side at once.&nbsp; The two brothers sat together,
leaning against one another as if they had all that they could wish
or long for.&nbsp; They had not met for more than a week, for Ambrose&rsquo;s
finances had not availed to fee the turnkeys to give him entrance.</p>
<p>&ldquo;And what art thou doing, Ambrose?&rdquo; asked Stephen, rousing
a little from his lethargy.&nbsp; &ldquo;Methought I heard mine uncle
say thine occupation was gone?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Even so,&rdquo; replied Ambrose.&nbsp; &ldquo;Master Lucas
will sail in a week&rsquo;s time to join his brother at Rotterdam, bearing
with him what he hath been able to save out of the havoc.&nbsp; I wot
not if I shall ever see the good man more.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am glad thou dost not go with him,&rdquo; said Stephen,
with a hand on his brother&rsquo;s leather-covered knee.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I would not put seas between us,&rdquo; returned Ambrose.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Moreover, though I grieve to lose my good master, who hath been
so scurvily entreated here, yet, Stephen, this trouble and turmoil hath
brought me that which I longed for above all, even to have speech with
the Dean of St. Paul&rsquo;s.&rdquo;</p>
<p>He then told Stephen how he had brought Dean Colet to administer
the last rites to Abenali, and how that good man had bidden Lucas to
take shelter at the Deanery, in the desolation of his own abode.&nbsp;
This had led to conversation between the Dean and the printer; Lucas,
who distrusted all ecclesiastics, would accept no patronage.&nbsp; He
had a little hoard, buried in the corner of his stall, which would suffice
to carry him to his native home and he wanted no more; but he had spoken
of Ambrose, and the Dean was quite ready to be interested in the youth
who had led him to Abenali.</p>
<p>&ldquo;He had me to his privy chamber,&rdquo; said Ambrose, &ldquo;and
spake to me as no man hath yet spoken&mdash;no, not even Tibble.&nbsp;
He let me utter all my mind, nay, I never wist before even what mine
own thoughts were till he set them before me&mdash;as it were in a mirror.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thou wast ever in a harl,&rdquo; said Stephen, drowsily using
the Hampshire word for whirl or entanglement.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yea.&nbsp; On the one side stood all that I had ever believed
or learnt before I came hither of the one true and glorious Mother-Church
to whom the Blessed Lord had committed the keys of His kingdom, through
His holy martyrs and priests to give us the blessed host and lead us
in the way of salvation.&nbsp; And on the other side, I cannot but see
the lewd and sinful and worldly lives of the most part, and hear the
lies whereby they amass wealth and turn men from the spirit of truth
and holiness to delude them into believing that wilful sin can be committed
without harm, and that purchase of a parchment is as good as repentance.&nbsp;
That do I see and hear.&nbsp; And therewith my master Lucas and Dan
Tindall, and those of the new light, declare that all has been false
even from the very outset, and that all the pomp and beauty is but Satan&rsquo;s
bait, and that to believe in Christ alone is all that needs to justify
us, casting all the rest aside.&nbsp; All seemed a mist, and I was swayed
hither and thither till the more I read and thought, the greater was
the fog.&nbsp; And this&mdash;I know not whether I told it to yonder
good and holy doctor, or whether he knew it, for his eyes seemed to
see into me, and he told me that he had felt and thought much the same.&nbsp;
But on that one great truth, that faith in the Passion is salvation,
is the Church built, though sinful men have hidden it by their errors
and lies as befell before among the Israelites, whose law, like ours,
was divine.&nbsp; Whatever is entrusted to man, he said, will become
stained, soiled, and twisted, though the power of the Holy Spirit will
strive to renew it.&nbsp; And such an outpouring of cleansing and renewing
power is, he saith, abroad in our day.&nbsp; When he was a young man,
this good father, so he said, hoped great things, and did his best to
set forth the truth, both at Oxford and here, as indeed he hath ever
done, he and the good Doctor Erasmus striving to turn men&rsquo;s eyes
back to the simplicity of God&rsquo;s Word rather than to the arguments
and deductions of the schoolmen.&nbsp; And for the abuses of evil priests
that have sprung up, my Lord Cardinal sought the Legatine Commission
from our holy father at Rome to deal with them.&nbsp; But Dr. Colet
saith that there are other forces at work, and he doubteth greatly whether
this same cleansing can be done without some great and terrible rending
and upheaving, that may even split the Church as it were asunder&mdash;since
judgment surely awaiteth such as will not be reformed.&nbsp; But, quoth
he, &lsquo;our Mother-Church is God&rsquo;s own Church and I will abide
by her to the end, as the means of oneness with my Lord and Head, and
do thou the same, my son, for thou art like to be more sorely tried
than will a frail old elder like me, who would fain say his <i>Nunc
Dimittis</i>, if such be the Lord&rsquo;s will, ere the foundations
be cast down.&rsquo;&rdquo;</p>
<p>Ambrose had gone on rehearsing all these words with the absorption
of one to whom they were everything, till it occurred to him to wonder
that Stephen had listened to so much with patience and assent, and then,
looking at the position of head and hands, he perceived that his brother
was asleep, and came to a sudden halt.&nbsp; This roused Stephen to
say, &ldquo;Eh?&nbsp; What?&nbsp; The Dean, will he do aught for thee?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yea,&rdquo; said Ambrose, recollecting that there was little
use in returning to the perplexities which Stephen could not enter into.&nbsp;
&ldquo;He deemed that in this mood of mine, yea, and as matters now
be at the universities, I had best not as yet study there for the priesthood.&nbsp;
But he said he would commend me to a friend whose life would better
show me how the new gives life to the old than any man he wots of.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;One of thy old doctors in barnacles, I trow,&rdquo; said Stephen.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay, verily.&nbsp; We saw him t&rsquo;other night perilling
his life to stop the poor crazy prentices, and save the foreigners.&nbsp;
Dennet and our uncle saw him pleading for them with the King.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What!&nbsp; Sir Thomas More?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ay, no other.&nbsp; He needs a clerk for his law matters,
and the Dean said he would speak of me to him.&nbsp; He is to sup at
the Deanery to-morrow, and I am to be in waiting to see him.&nbsp; I
shall go with a lighter heart now that thou art beyond the clutches
of the captain of Newgate.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Speak no more of that!&rdquo; said Stephen, with a shudder.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Would that I could forget it!&rdquo;</p>
<p>In truth Stephen&rsquo;s health had suffered enough to change the
bold, high-spirited, active had, so that he hardly knew himself.&nbsp;
He was quite incapable of work all the next day, and Mistress Headley
began to dread that he had brought home jail fever, and insisted on
his being inspected by the barber-surgeon, Todd, who proceeded to bleed
the patient, in order, as he said, to carry off the humours contracted
in the prison.&nbsp; He had done the same by Jasper Hope, and by Giles,
but he followed the treatment up with better counsel, namely, that the
lads should all be sent out of the City to some farm where they might
eat curds and whey, until their strength should be restored.&nbsp; Thus
they would be out of reach of the sweating sickness which was already
in some of the purlieus of St. Katharine&rsquo;s Docks, and must be
specially dangerous in their lowered condition.</p>
<p>Master Hope came in just after this counsel had been given.&nbsp;
He had a sister married to the host of a large prosperous inn near Windsor,
and he proposed to send not only Jasper but Stephen thither, feeling
how great a debt of gratitude he owed to the lad.&nbsp; Remembering
well the good young Mistress Streatfield, and knowing that the Antelope
was a large old house of excellent repute, where she often lodged persons
of quality attending on the court or needing country air, Master Headley
added Giles to the party at his own expense, and wished also to send
Dennet for greater security, only neither her grandmother nor Mrs. Hope
could leave home.</p>
<p>It ended, however, in Perronel Randall being asked to take charge
of the whole party, including Aldonza.&nbsp; That little damsel had
been in a manner confided to her both by the Dean of St. Paul&rsquo;s
and by Tibble Steelman&mdash;and indeed the motherly woman, after nursing
and soothing her through her first despair at the loss of her father,
was already loving her heartily, and was glad to give her a place in
the home which Ambrose was leaving on being made an attendant on Sir
Thomas More.</p>
<p>For the interview at the Deanery was satisfactory.&nbsp; The young
man, after a good supper, enlivened by the sweet singing of some chosen
pupils of St. Paul&rsquo;s school, was called up to where the Dean sat,
and with him, the man of the peculiarly sweet countenance, with the
noble and deep expression, yet withal, something both tender and humorous
in it.</p>
<p>They made him tell his whole life, and asked many questions about
Abenali, specially about the fragment of Arabic scroll which had been
clutched in his hand even as he lay dying.&nbsp; They much regretted
never having known of his existence till too late.&nbsp; &ldquo;Jewels
lie before the unheeding!&rdquo; said More.&nbsp; Then Ambrose was called
on to show a specimen of his own penmanship, and to write from Sir Thomas&rsquo;s
dictation in English and in Latin.&nbsp; The result was that he was
engaged to act as one of the clerks Sir Thomas employed in his occupations
alike as lawyer, statesman, and scholar.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Methinks I have seen thy face before,&rdquo; said Sir Thomas,
looking keenly at him.&nbsp; &ldquo;I have beheld those black eyes,
though with a different favour.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Ambrose blushed deeply.&nbsp; &ldquo;Sir, it is but honest to tell
you that my mother&rsquo;s brother is jester to my Lord Cardinal.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Quipsome Hal Merriman!&nbsp; Patch as the King calleth him!&rdquo;
exclaimed Sir Thomas.&nbsp; &ldquo;A man I have ever thought wore the
motley rather from excess, than infirmity, of wit.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay, sir, so please you, it was his good heart that made him
a jester,&rdquo; said Ambrose, explaining the story of Randall and his
Perronel in a few words, which touched the friends a good deal, and
the Dean remembered that she was in charge of the little Moresco girl.&nbsp;
He lost nothing by dealing thus openly with his new master, who promised
to keep his secret for him, then gave him handsel of his salary, and
bade him collect his possessions, and come to take up his abode in the
house of the More family at Chelsea.</p>
<p>He would still often see his brother in the intervals of attending
Sir Thomas to the courts of law, but the chief present care was to get
the boys into purer air, both to expedite their recovery and to ensure
them against being dragged into the penitential company who were to
ask for their lives on the 22nd of May, consisting of such of the prisoners
who could still stand or go&mdash;for jail-fever was making havoc among
them, and some of the better-conditioned had been released by private
interest.&nbsp; The remainder, not more than half of the original two
hundred and seventy-eight, were stripped to their shirts, had halters
hung round their necks, and then, roped together as before, were driven
through the streets to Westminster, where the King sat enthroned.&nbsp;
There, looking utterly miserable, they fell on their knees before him,
and received his pardon for their misdemeanours.&nbsp; They returned
to their masters, and so ended that Ill May-day, which was the longer
remembered because one Churchill, a ballad-monger in St. Paul&rsquo;s
Churchyard, indited a poem on it, wherein he swelled the number of prentices
to two thousand, and of the victims to two hundred.&nbsp; Will Wherry,
who escaped from among the prisoners very forlorn, was recommended by
Ambrose to the work of a carter at the Dragon, which he much preferred
to printing.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XIX.&nbsp; AT THE ANTELOPE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>&ldquo;Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Full
many a sprightly race,<br />Disporting on thy margent green,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The
paths of pleasure trace.&rdquo;<br />&mdash;GRAY</p>
<p>Master Hope took all the guests by boat to Windsor, and very soon
the little party at the Antelope was in a state of such perfect felicity
as became a proverb with them all their lives afterwards.&nbsp; It was
an inn wherein to take one&rsquo;s ease, a large hostel full of accommodation
for man and horse, with a big tapestried room of entertainment below,
where meals were taken, with an oriel window with a view of the Round
Tower, and above it a still more charming one, known as the Red Rose,
because one of the Dukes of Somerset had been wont to lodge there.&nbsp;
The walls were tapestried with the story of St. Genoveva of Brabant,
fresh and new on Mrs. Streatfield&rsquo;s marriage; there was a huge
bed with green curtains of that dame&rsquo;s own work, where one might
have said</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>&ldquo;Above, below, the rose of snow,<br />Twined with her blushing
foe we spread.&rdquo;</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>so as to avoid all offence.&nbsp; There was also a cupboard or sideboard
of the choicer plate belonging to the establishment, and another awmry
containing appliances for chess and backgammon, likewise two large chairs,
several stools, and numerous chests.</p>
<p>This apartment was given up to Mistress Randall and the two girls,
subject however to the chance of turning out for any very distinguished
guests.&nbsp; The big bed held all three, and the chamber was likewise
their sitting-room, though they took their meals down stairs, and joined
the party in the common room in the evening whenever they were not out
of doors, unless there were guests whom Perronel did not think desirable
company for her charges.&nbsp; Stephen and Giles were quartered in a
small room known as the Feathers, smelling so sweet of lavender and
woodruff that Stephen declared it carried him back to the Forest.&nbsp;
Mrs. Streatfield would have taken Jasper to tend among her children,
but the boy could not bear to be without Stephen, and his brother advised
her to let it be so, and not try to make a babe of him again.</p>
<p>The guest-chamber below stairs opened at one end into the innyard,
a quadrangle surrounded with stables, outhouses, and offices, with a
gallery running round to give access to the chambers above, where, when
the Court was at Windsor, two or three great men&rsquo;s trains of retainers
might be crowded together.</p>
<p>One door, however, in the side of the guest-chamber had steps down
to an orchard, full of apple and pear trees in their glory of pink bud
and white blossom, borders of roses, gillyflowers, and lilies of the
valley running along under the grey walls.&nbsp; There was a broad space
of grass near the houses, whence could be seen the Round Tower of the
Castle looking down in protection, while the background of the view
was filled up with a mass of the foliage of Windsor forest, in the spring
tints.</p>
<p>Stephen never thought of its being beautiful, but he revelled in
the refreshment of anything so like home, and he had nothing to wish
for but his brother, and after all he was too contented and happy even
to miss him much.</p>
<p>Master Streatfield was an elderly man, fat and easygoing, to whom
talking seemed rather a trouble than otherwise, though he was very good-natured.&nbsp;
His wife was a merry, lively, active woman, who had been handed over
to him by her father like a piece of Flanders cambric, but who never
seemed to regret her position, managed men and maids, farm and guests,
kept perfect order without seeming to do so, and made great friends
with Perronel, never guessing that she had been one of the strolling
company, who, nine or ten years before, had been refused admission to
the Antelope, then crowded with my Lord of Oxford&rsquo;s followers.</p>
<p>At first, it was enough for the prentices to spend most of their
time in lying about on the grass under the trees.&nbsp; Giles, who was
in the best condition, exerted himself so far as to try to learn chess
from Aldonza, who seemed to be a proficient in the game, and even defeated
the good-natured burly parson who came every evening to the Antelope,
to imbibe slowly a tankard of ale, and hear any news there stirring.</p>
<p>She and Giles were content to spend hours over her instructions in
chess on that pleasant balcony in the shade of the house.&nbsp; Though
really only a year older than Dennet Headley, she looked much more,
and was so in all her ways.&nbsp; It never occurred to her to run childishly
wild with delight in the garden and orchard as did Dennet, who, with
little five-years-old Will Streatfield for her guide and playfellow,
rushed about hither and thither, making acquaintance with hens and chickens,
geese and goslings, seeing cows and goats milked, watching butter churned,
bringing all manner of animal and vegetable curiosities to Stephen to
be named and explained, and enjoying his delight in them, a delight
which after the first few days became more and more vigorous.</p>
<p>By and by there was punting and fishing on the river, strawberry
gathering in the park, explorations of the forest, expeditions of all
sorts and kinds, Jasper being soon likewise well enough to share in
them.&nbsp; The boys and girls were in a kind of fairy hand under Perronel&rsquo;s
kind wing, the wandering habits of whose girlhood made the freedom of
the country far more congenial to her than it would have been to any
regular Londoner.</p>
<p>Stephen was the great oracle, of course, as to the deer respectfully
peeped at in the park, or the squirrels, the hares and rabbits, in the
forest, and the inhabitants of the stream above or below.&nbsp; It was
he who secured and tamed the memorials of their visit&mdash;two starlings
for Dennet and Aldonza.&nbsp; The birds were to be taught to speak,
and to do wonders of all kinds, but Aldonza&rsquo;s bird was found one
morning dead, and Giles consoled her by the promise of something much
bigger, and that would talk much better.&nbsp; Two days after he brought
her a young jackdaw.&nbsp; Aldonza clasped her hands and admired its
glossy back and queer blue eye, and was in transports when it uttered
something between &ldquo;Jack&rdquo; and &ldquo;good lack.&rdquo;&nbsp;
But Dennet looked in scorn at it, and said, &ldquo;That&rsquo;s a bird
tamed already.&nbsp; He didn&rsquo;t catch it.&nbsp; He only bought
it!&nbsp; I would have none such!&nbsp; An ugsome great thieving bird!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay now, Mistress Dennet,&rdquo; argued Perronel.&nbsp; &ldquo;Thou
hast thy bird, and Alice has lost hers.&nbsp; It is not meet to grudge
it to her.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I!&nbsp; Grudge it to her!&rdquo; said Dennet, with a toss
of the head.&nbsp; &ldquo;I grudge her nought from Giles Headley, so
long as I have my Goldspot that Stephen climbed the wall for, his very
self.&rdquo;</p>
<p>And Dennet turned majestically away with her bird&mdash;Goldspot
only in the future&mdash;perched on her finger; while Perronel shook
her head bodingly.</p>
<p>But they were all children still, and Aldonza was of a nature that
was slow to take offence, while it was quite true that Dennet had been
free from jealousy of the jackdaw, and only triumphant in Stephen&rsquo;s
prowess and her own starling.</p>
<p>The great pleasure of all was a grand stag-hunt, got up for the diversion
of the French ambassadors, who had come to treat for the espousals of
the infant Princess Mary with the baby &ldquo;Dolphyne.&rdquo;&nbsp;
Probably these illustrious personages did not get half the pleasure
out of it that the Antelope party had.&nbsp; Were they not, by special
management of a yeoman pricker who had recognised in Stephen a kindred
spirit, and had a strong admiration for Mistress Randall, placed where
there was the best possible view of hunters, horses, and hounds, lords
and ladies, King and ambassadors, in their gorgeous hunting trim?&nbsp;
Did not Stephen, as a true verdurer&rsquo;s son, interpret every note
on the horn, and predict just what was going to happen, to the edification
of all his hearers?&nbsp; And when the final rush took place, did not
the prentices, with their gowns rolled up, dart off headlong in pursuit?&nbsp;
Dennet entertained some hope that Stephen would again catch some runaway
steed, or come to the King&rsquo;s rescue in some way or other, but
such chances did not happen every day.&nbsp; Nay, Stephen did not even
follow up the chase to the death, but left Giles to do that, turning
back forsooth because that little Jasper thought fit to get tired and
out of breath, and could not find his way back alone.&nbsp; Dennet was
quite angry with Stephen and turned her back on him, when Giles came
in all glorious, at having followed up staunchly all day, having seen
the fate of the poor stag, and having even beheld the King politely
hand the knife to Monsieur de Montmorency to give the first stroke to
the quarry!</p>
<p>That was the last exploit.&nbsp; There was to be a great tilting
match in honour of the betrothal, and Master Alderman Headley wanted
his apprentices back again, and having been satisfied by a laborious
letter from Dennet, sent per carrier, that they were in good health,
despatched orders by the same means, that they were to hire horses at
the Antelope and return&mdash;Jasper coming back at the same time, though
his aunt would fain have kept him longer.</p>
<p>Women on a journey almost always rode double, and the arrangement
came under debate.&nbsp; Perronel, well accustomed to horse, ass, or
foot, undertook to ride behind the child, as she called Jasper, who&mdash;as
a born Londoner&mdash;knew nothing of horses, though both the other
prentices did.&nbsp; Giles, who, in right of his name, kindred, and
expectations, always held himself a sort of master, declared that &ldquo;it
was more fitting that Stephen should ride before Mistiness Dennet.&rdquo;&nbsp;
And to this none of the party made any objection, except that Perronel
privately observed to him that she should have thought he would have
preferred the company of his betrothed.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I shall have quite enough of her by and by,&rdquo; returned
Giles; then adding, &ldquo;She is a good little wench, but it is more
for her honour that her father&rsquo;s servant should ride before her.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Perronel held her tongue, and they rode merrily back to London, and
astonished their several homes by the growth and healthful looks of
the young people.&nbsp; Even Giles was grown, though he did not like
to be told so, and was cherishing the down on his chin.&nbsp; But the
most rapid development had been in Aldonza, or Alice, as Perronel insisted
on calling her to suit the ears of her neighbours.&nbsp; The girl was
just reaching the borderland of maidenhood, which came all the sooner
to one of southern birth and extraction, when the great change took
her from being her father&rsquo;s childish darling to be Perronel&rsquo;s
companion and assistant.&nbsp; She had lain down on that fatal May Eve
a child, she rose in the little house by the Temple Gardens, a maiden,
and a very lovely one, with delicate, refined, beautifully cut features
of a slightly aquiline cast, a bloom on her soft brunette cheek, splendid
dark liquid eyes shaded by long black lashes, under brows as regular
and well arched as her Eastern cousins could have made them artificially,
magnificent black hair, that could hardly be contained in the close
white cap, and a lithe beautiful figure on which the plainest dress
sat with an Eastern grace.&nbsp; Perronel&rsquo;s neighbours did not
admire her.&nbsp; They were not sure whether she were most Saracen,
gipsy, or Jew.&nbsp; In fact, she was as like Rachel at the well as
her father had been to a patriarch, and her descent was of the purest
Saracen lineage, but a Christian Saracen was an anomaly the London mind
could not comprehend, and her presence in the family tended to cast
suspicion that Master Randall himself, with his gipsy eyes, and mysterious
comings and goings, must have some strange connections.&nbsp; For this,
however, Perronel cared little.&nbsp; She had made her own way for many
years past, and had won respect and affection by many good offices to
her neighbours, one of whom had taken her laundry work in her absence.</p>
<p>Aldonza was by no means indocile or incapable.&nbsp; She shared in
Perronel&rsquo;s work without reluctance, making good use of her slender,
dainty brown fingers, whether in cooking, household work, washing, ironing,
plaiting, making or mending the stiff lawn collars and cuffs in which
her hostess&rsquo;s business lay.&nbsp; There was nothing that she would
not do when asked, or when she saw that it would save trouble to good
mother Perronel, of whom she was very fond, and she seemed serene and
contented, never wanting to go abroad; but she was very silent, and
Perronel declared herself never to have seen any living woman so perfectly
satisfied to do nothing.&nbsp; The good dame herself was industrious,
not only from thrift but from taste, and if not busy in her vocation
or in household business, was either using her distaff or her needle,
or chatting with her neighbours&mdash;often doing both at once; but
though Aldonza could spin, sew, and embroider admirably, and would do
so at the least request from her hostess, it was always a sort of task,
and she never seemed so happy as when seated on the floor, with her
dark eyes dreamily fixed on the narrow window, where hung her jackdaw&rsquo;s
cage, and the beads of her rosary passing through her fingers.&nbsp;
At first Mistress Randall thought she was praying, but by and by came
to the conviction that most of the time &ldquo;the wench was bemused.&rdquo;&nbsp;
There was nothing to complain of in one so perfectly gentle and obedient,
and withal, modest and devout; but the good woman, after having for
some time given her the benefit of the supposition that she was grieving
for her father, began to wonder at such want of activity and animation,
and to think that on the whole Jack was the more talkative companion.</p>
<p>Aldonza had certainly not taught him the phrases he was so fond of
repeating.&nbsp; Giles Headley had undertaken his education, and made
it a reason for stealing down to the Temple many an evening after work
was done, declaring that birds never learnt so well as after dark.&nbsp;
Moreover, he had possessed himself of a chess board, and insisted that
Aldonza should carry on her instructions in the game; he brought her
all his Holy Cross Day gain of nuts, and he used all his blandishments
to persuade Mrs. Randall to come and see the shooting at the popinjay,
at Mile End.</p>
<p>All this made the good woman uneasy.&nbsp; Her husband was away,
for the dread of sweating sickness had driven the Court from London,
and she could only take counsel with Tibble Steelman.&nbsp; It was Hallowmas
Eve, and Giles had been the bearer of an urgent invitation from Dennet
to her friend Aldonza to come and join the diversions of the evening.&nbsp;
There was a large number of young folk in the hall&mdash;Jasper Hope
among them&mdash;mostly contemporaries of Dennet, and almost children,
all keen upon the sports of the evening, namely, a sort of indoor quintain,
where the revolving beam was decorated with a lighted candle at one
end, and at the other an apple to be caught at by the players with their
mouths, their hands being tied behind them.</p>
<p>Under all the uproarious merriment that each attempt occasioned,
Tibble was about to steal off to his own chamber and his beloved books,
when, as he backed out of the group of spectators, he was arrested by
Mistress Randall, who had made her way into the rear of the party at
the same time.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Can I have a word with you, privily, Master Steelman?&rdquo;
she asked.</p>
<p>Unwillingly he muttered, &ldquo;Yea, so please you;&rdquo; and they
retreated to a window at the dark end of the hall, where Perronel began&mdash;&ldquo;The
alderman&rsquo;s daughter is contracted to young Giles, her kinsman,
is she not?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Not as yet in form, but by the will of the parents,&rdquo;
returned Tibble, impatiently, as he thought of the half-hour&rsquo;s
reading which he was sacrificing to woman&rsquo;s gossip.</p>
<p>&ldquo;An it be so,&rdquo; returned Perronel, &ldquo;I would fain&mdash;were
I Master Headley&mdash;that he spent not so many nights in gazing at
mine Alice.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Forbid him the house, good dame.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Easier spoken than done,&rdquo; returned Perronel.&nbsp; &ldquo;Moreover,
&rsquo;tis better to let the matter, such as it is, be open in my sight
than to teach them to run after one another stealthily, whereby worse
might ensue.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Have they spoken then to one another?&rdquo; asked Tibble,
beginning to take alarm.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I trow not.&nbsp; I deem they know not yet what draweth them
together.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Pish, they are mere babes!&rdquo; quoth Tib, hoping he might
cast it off his mind.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Look!&rdquo; said Perronel; and as they stood on the somewhat
elevated floor of the bay window, they could look over the heads of
the other spectators to the seats where the young girls sat.</p>
<p>Aldonza&rsquo;s beautiful and peculiar contour of head and face rose
among the round chubby English faces like a jessamine among daisies,
and at that moment she was undertaking, with an exquisite smile, the
care of the gown that Giles laid at her feet, ere making his venture.</p>
<p>&ldquo;There!&rdquo; said Perronel.&nbsp; &ldquo;Mark that look on
her face!&nbsp; I never see it save for that same youngster.&nbsp; The
children are simple and guileless thus far, it may be.&nbsp; I dare
be sworn that she is, but they wot not where they will be led on.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You are right, dame; you know best, no doubt,&rdquo; said
Tib, in helpless perplexity.&nbsp; &ldquo;I wot nothing of such gear.&nbsp;
What would you do?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Have the maid wedded at once, ere any harm come of it,&rdquo;
returned Perronel promptly.&nbsp; &ldquo;She will make a good wife&mdash;there
will be no complaining of her tongue, and she is well instructed in
all good housewifery.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;To whom then would you give her?&rdquo; asked Tibble.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ay, that&rsquo;s the question.&nbsp; Comely and good she is,
but she is outlandish, and I fear me &rsquo;twould take a handsome portion
to get her dark skin and Moorish blood o&rsquo;erlooked.&nbsp; Nor hath
she aught, poor maid, save yonder gold and pearl earrings, and a cross
of gold that she says her father bade her never part with.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I pledged my word to her father,&rdquo; said Tibble, &ldquo;that
I would have a care of her.&nbsp; I have not cared to hoard, having
none to come after me, but if a matter of twenty or five-and-twenty
marks would avail&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Wherefore not take her yourself?&rdquo; said Perronel, as
he stood aghast.&nbsp; &ldquo;She is a maid of sweet obedient conditions,
trained by a scholar even like yourself.&nbsp; She would make your chamber
fair and comfortable, and tend you dutifully.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Whisht, good woman.&nbsp; &rsquo;Tis too dark to see, or you
could not speak of wedlock to such as I.&nbsp; Think of the poor maid!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That is all folly!&nbsp; She would soon know you for a better
husband than one of those young feather-pates, who have no care but
of themselves.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay, mistress,&rdquo; said Tibble, gravely, &ldquo;your advice
will not serve here.&nbsp; To bring that fair young wench hither, to
this very court, mind you, with a mate loathly to behold as I be, and
with the lad there ever before her, would be verily to give place to
the devil.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But you are the best sword-cutler in London.&nbsp; You could
make a living without service.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am bound by too many years of faithful kindness to quit
my master or my home at the Dragon,&rdquo; said Tibble.&nbsp; &ldquo;Nay,
that will not serve, good friend.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then what can be done?&rdquo; asked Perronel, somewhat in
despair.&nbsp; &ldquo;There are the young sparks at the Temple.&nbsp;
One or two of them are already beginning to cast eyes at her, so that
I dare not let her help me carry home my basket, far less go alone.&nbsp;
&rsquo;Tis not the wench&rsquo;s fault.&nbsp; She shrinks from men&rsquo;s
eyes more than any maid I ever saw, but if she bide long with me, I
wot not what may come of it.&nbsp; There be rufflers there who would
not stick to carry her off!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Tibble stood considering, and presently said, &ldquo;Mayhap the Dean
might aid thee in this matter.&nbsp; He is free of hand and kind of
heart, and belike he would dower the maid, and find an honest man to
wed her.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Perronel thought well of the suggestion, and decided that after the
mass on All Soul&rsquo;s Day, and the general visiting of the graves
of kindred, she would send Aldonza home with Dennet, whom they were
sure to meet in the Pardon Churchyard, since her mother, as well as
Abenali and Martin Fulford lay there; and herself endeavour to see Dean
Colet, who was sure to be at home, as he was hardly recovered from an
attack of the prevalent disorder.</p>
<p>Then Tibble escaped, and Perronel drew near to the party round the
fire, where the divination of the burning of nuts was going on, but
not successfully, since no pair hitherto put in would keep together.&nbsp;
However, the next contribution was a snail, which had been captured
on the wall, and was solemnly set to crawl on the hearth by Dennet,
&ldquo;to see whether it would trace a G or an H.&rdquo;</p>
<p>However, the creature proved sullen or sleepy, and no jogging of
hands, no enticing, would induce it to crawl an inch, and the alderman,
taking his daughter on his knee, declared that it was a wise beast,
who knew her hap was fixed.&nbsp; Moreover, it was time for the rere
supper, for the serving-men with the lanterns would be coming for the
young folk.</p>
<p>London entertainments for women or young people had to finish very
early unless they had a strong escort to go home with, for the streets
were far from safe after dark.&nbsp; Giles&rsquo;s great desire to convoy
her home, added to Perronel&rsquo;s determination, and on All Souls&rsquo;
Day, while knells were ringing from every church in London, she roused
Aldonza from her weeping devotions at her father&rsquo;s grave, and
led her to Dennet, who had just finished her round of prayers at the
grave of the mother she had never known, under the protection of her
nurse, and two or three of the servants.&nbsp; The child, who had thought
little of her mother, while her grandmother was alert and supplied the
tenderness and care she needed, was beginning to yearn after counsel
and sympathy, and to wonder, as she told her beads, what might have
been, had that mother lived.&nbsp; She took Aldonza&rsquo;s hand, and
the two girls threaded their way out of the crowded churchyard together,
while Perronel betook herself to the Deanery of St. Paul&rsquo;s.</p>
<p>Good Colet was always accessible to the meanest, but he had been
very ill, and the porter had some doubts about troubling him respecting
the substantial young matron whose trim cap and bodice, and full petticoats,
showed no tokens of distress.&nbsp; However, when she begged him to
take in her message, that she prayed the Dean to listen to her touching
the child of the old man who was slain on May Eve, he consented; and
she was at once admitted to an inner chamber, where Colet, wrapped in
a gown lined with lambskin, sat by the fire, looking so wan and feeble
that it went to the good woman&rsquo;s heart and she began by an apology
for troubling him.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Heed not that, good dame,&rdquo; said the Dean, courteously,
&ldquo;but sit thee down and let me hear of the poor child.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ah, reverend sir, would that she were still a child&mdash;&rdquo;
and Perronel proceeded to tell her difficulties, adding, that if the
Dean could of his goodness promise one of the dowries which were yearly
given to poor maidens of good character, she would inquire among her
gossips for some one to marry the girl.&nbsp; She secretly hoped he
would take the hint, and immediately portion Aldonza himself, perhaps
likewise find the husband.&nbsp; And she was disappointed that he only
promised to consider the matter and let her hear from him.&nbsp; She
went back and told Tibble that his device was nought, an old scholar
with one foot in the grave knew less of women than even he did!</p>
<p>However it was only four days later, that, as Mrs. Randall was hanging
out her collars to dry, there came up to her from the Temple stairs
a figure whom for a moment she hardly knew, so different was the long,
black garb, and short gown of the lawyer&rsquo;s clerk from the shabby
old green suit that all her endeavours had not been able to save from
many a stain of printer&rsquo;s ink.&nbsp; It was only as he exclaimed,
&ldquo;Good aunt, I am fain to see thee here!&rdquo; that she answered,
&ldquo;What, thou, Ambrose!&nbsp; What a fine fellow thou art!&nbsp;
Truly I knew not thou wast of such good mien!&nbsp; Thou thrivest at
Chelsea!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Who would not thrive there?&rdquo; said Ambrose.&nbsp; &ldquo;Nay,
aunt, tarry a little, I have a message for thee that I would fain give
before we go in to Aldonza.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;From his reverence the Dean?&nbsp; Hath he bethought himself
of her?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ay, that hath he done,&rdquo; said Ambrose.&nbsp; &ldquo;He
is not the man to halt when good may be done.&nbsp; What doth he do,
since it seems thou hadst speech of him, but send for Sir Thomas More,
then sitting at Westminster, to come and see him as soon as the Court
brake up, and I attended my master.&nbsp; They held council together,
and by and by they sent for me to ask me of what conditions and breeding
the maid was, and what I knew of her father?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Will they wed her to thee?&nbsp; That were rarely good, so
they gave thee some good office!&rdquo; cried his aunt.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay, nay,&rdquo; said Ambrose.&nbsp; &ldquo;I have much to
learn and understand ere I think of a wife&mdash;if ever.&nbsp; Nay!&nbsp;
But when they had heard all I could tell them, they looked at one another,
and the Dean said, &lsquo;The maid is no doubt of high blood in her
own land&mdash;scarce a mate for a London butcher or currier.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;It were matching an Arab mare with a costard monger&rsquo;s
colt,&rsquo; said my master, &lsquo;or Angelica with Ralph Roisterdoister.&rsquo;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I&rsquo;d like to know what were better for the poor outlandish
maid than to give her to some honest man,&rdquo; put in Perronel.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The end of it was,&rdquo; said Ambrose, &ldquo;that Sir Thomas
said he was to be at the palace the next day, and he would strive to
move the Queen to take her countrywoman into her service.&nbsp; Yea,
and so he did, but though Queen Katharine was moved by hearing of a
fatherless maid of Spain, and at first spake of taking her to wait on
herself, yet when she heard the maid&rsquo;s name, and that she was
of Moorish blood, she would none of her.&nbsp; She said that heresy
lurked in them all, and though Sir Thomas offered that the Dean or the
Queen&rsquo;s own chaplain should question her on the faith, it was
all lost labour.&nbsp; I heard him tell the Dean as much, and thus it
is that they bade me come for thee, and for the maid, take boat, and
bring you down to Chelsea, where Sir Thomas will let her be bred up
to wait on his little daughters till he can see what best may be done
for her.&nbsp; I trow his spirit was moved by the Queen&rsquo;s hardness!&nbsp;
I heard the Dean mutter, &lsquo;<i>Et venient ab Oriente et Occidente</i>.&rsquo;&rdquo;</p>
<p>Perronel hooked alarmed.&nbsp; &ldquo;The Queen deemed her heretic
in grain!&nbsp; Ah!&nbsp; She is a good wench, and of kind conditions.&nbsp;
I would have no ill befall her, but I am glad to be rid of her.&nbsp;
Sir Thomas&mdash;he is a wise man, ay, and a married man, with maidens
of his own, and he may have more wit in the business than the rest of
his kind.&nbsp; Be the matter instant?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Methinks Sir Thomas would have it so, since this being a holy
day, the courts be not sitting, and he is himself at home, so that he
can present the maid to his lady.&nbsp; And that makes no small odds.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yea, but what the lady is makes the greater odds to the maid,
I trow,&rdquo; said Perronel anxiously.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Fear not on that score.&nbsp; Dame Alice More is of kindly
conditions, and will be good to any whom her lord commends to her; and
as to the young ladies, never saw I any so sweet or so wise as the two
elder ones, specially Mistress Margaret.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well-a-day!&nbsp; What must be must!&rdquo; philosophically
observed Perronel.&nbsp; &ldquo;Now I have my wish, I could mourn over
it.&nbsp; I am loth to part with the wench; and my man, when he comes
home, will make an outcry for his pretty Ally; but &rsquo;tis best so.&nbsp;
Come, Alice, girl, bestir thyself.&nbsp; Here&rsquo;s preferment for
thee.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Aldonza raised her great soft eyes in slow wonder, and when she had
heard what was to befall her, declared that she wanted no advancement,
and wished only to remain with mother Perronel.&nbsp; Nay, she clung
to the kind woman, beseeching that she might not be sent away from the
only motherly tenderness she had ever known, and declaring that she
would work all day and all night rather than leave her; but the more
reluctance she showed, the more determined was Perronel, and she could
not but submit to her fate, only adding one more entreaty that she might
take her jackdaw, which was now a spruce grey-headed bird.&nbsp; Perronel
said it would be presumption in a waiting-woman, but Ambrose declared
that at Chelsea there were all manner of beasts and birds, beloved by
the children and by their father himself, and that he believed the daw
would be welcome.&nbsp; At any rate, if the lady of the house objected
to it, it could return with Mistress Randall.</p>
<p>Perronel hurried the few preparations, being afraid that Giles might
take advantage of the holiday to appear on the scene, and presently
Aldonza was seated in the boat, making no more lamentations after she
found that her fate was inevitable, but sitting silent, with downcast
head, now and then brushing away a stray tear as it stole down under
her long eyelashes.</p>
<p>Meantime Ambrose, hoping to raise her spirits, talked to his aunt
of the friendly ease and kindliness of the new home, where he was evidently
as thoroughly happy as it was in his nature to be.&nbsp; He was much,
in the position of a barrister&rsquo;s clerk, superior to that of the
mere servants, but inferior to the young gentlemen of larger means,
though not perhaps of better birth, who had studied law regularly, and
aspired to offices or to legal practice.</p>
<p>But though Ambrose was ranked with the three or four other clerks,
his functions had more relation to Sir Thomas&rsquo;s literary and diplomatic
avocations than his legal ones.&nbsp; From Lucas Hansen he had learnt
Dutch and French, and he was thus available for copying and translating
foreign correspondence.&nbsp; His knowledge of Latin and smattering
of Greek enabled him to be employed in copying into a book some of the
inestimable letters of Erasmus which arrived from time to time, and
Sir Thomas promoted his desire to improve himself, and had requested
Mr. Clements, the tutor of the children of the house, to give him weekly
lessons in Latin and Greek.</p>
<p>Sir Thomas had himself pointed out to him books calculated to settle
his mind on the truth and catholicity of the Church, and had warned
him against meddling with the fiery controversial tracts which, smuggled
in often through Lucas&rsquo;s means, had set his mind in commotion.&nbsp;
And for the present at least beneath the shadow of the great man&rsquo;s
intelligent devotion, Ambrose&rsquo;s restless spirit was tranquil.</p>
<p>Of course, he did not explain his state of mind to his aunt, but
she gathered enough to be well content, and tried to encourage Aldonza,
when at length they landed near Chelsea Church, and Ambrose led the
way to an extensive pleasaunce or park, full of elms and oaks, whose
yellow leaves were floating like golden rain in the sunshine.</p>
<p>Presently children&rsquo;s voices guided them to a large chestnut
tree.&nbsp; &ldquo;Lo you now, I hear Mistress Meg&rsquo;s voice, and
where she is, his honour will ever be,&rdquo; said Ambrose.</p>
<p>And sure enough, among a group of five girls and one boy, all between
fourteen and nine years old, was the great lawyer, knocking down the
chestnuts with a long pole, while the young ones flew about picking
up the burrs from the grass, exclaiming joyously when they found a full
one.</p>
<p>Ambrose explained that of the young ladies, one was Mistress Middleton,
Lady More&rsquo;s daughter by a former marriage, another a kinswoman.&nbsp;
Perronel was for passing by unnoticed; but Ambrose knew better; and
Sir Thomas, leaning on the pole, called out, &ldquo;Ha, my Birkenholt,
a forester born, knowst thou any mode of bringing down yonder chestnuts,
which being the least within reach, seem in course the meetest of all.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I would I were my brother, your honour,&rdquo; said Ambrose,
&ldquo;then would I climb the thee.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thou shouldst bring him one of these days,&rdquo; said Sir
Thomas.&nbsp; &ldquo;But thou hast instead brought in a fair maid.&nbsp;
See, Meg, yonder is the poor young girl who lost her father on Ill May
day.&nbsp; Lead her on and make her good cheer, while I speak to this
good dame.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Margaret More, a slender, dark-eyed girl of thirteen, went forward
with a peculiar gentle grace to the stranger, saying, &ldquo;Welcome,
sweet maid!&nbsp; I hope we shall make thee happy,&rdquo; and seeing
the mournful countenance, she not only took Aldonza&rsquo;s hand, but
kissed her cheek.</p>
<p>Sir Thomas had exchanged a word or two with Perronel, when there
was a cry from the younger children, who had detected the wicker cage
which Perronel was trying to keep in the background.</p>
<p>&ldquo;A daw! a daw!&rdquo; was the cry.&nbsp; &ldquo;Is&rsquo;t
for us?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, mistress,&rdquo; faltered Aldonza, &ldquo;&rsquo;tis mine&mdash;there
was one who tamed it for me, and I promised ever to keep it, but if
the good knight and lady forbid it, we will send it back.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay now, John, Cicely,&rdquo; was Margaret saying, &ldquo;&rsquo;tis
her own bird!&nbsp; Wot ye not our father will let us take nought of
them that come to him?&nbsp; Yea, Al-don-za&mdash;is not that thy name?&mdash;I
am sure my father will have thee keep it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>She led up Aldonza, making the request for her.&nbsp; Sir Thomas
smiled.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Keep thy bird?&nbsp; Nay, that thou shalt.&nbsp; Look at him,
Meg, is he not in fit livery for a lawyer&rsquo;s house?&nbsp; Mark
his trim legs, sable doublet and hose, and grey hood&mdash;and see,
he hath the very eye of a councillor seeking for suits, as he looketh
at the chestnuts John holdeth to him.&nbsp; I warrant he hath a tongue
likewise.&nbsp; Canst plead for thy dinner, bird?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I love Giles!&rdquo; uttered the black beak, to the confusion
and indignation of Perronel.</p>
<p>The perverse bird had heard Giles often dictate this avowal, but
had entirely refused to repeat it, till, stimulated by the new surroundings,
it had for the first time uttered it.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ah! thou foolish daw!&nbsp; Crow that thou art!&nbsp; Had
I known thou hadst such a word in thy beak, I&rsquo;d have wrung thy
neck sooner than have brought thee,&rdquo; muttered Perronel.&nbsp;
&ldquo;I had best take thee home without more ado.&rdquo;</p>
<p>It was too late, however, the children were delighted, and perfectly
willing that Aldonza should own the bird, so they might hear it speak,
and thus the introduction was over.&nbsp; Aldonza and her daw were conveyed
to Dame Alice More, a stout, good-tempered woman, who had too many dependents
about her house to concern herself greatly about the introduction of
another.</p>
<p>And thus Aldonza was installed in the long, low, two-storied red
house which was to be her place of home-like service.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XX.&nbsp; CLOTH OF GOLD ON THE SEAMY SIDE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&ldquo;Then you lost<br />The
view of earthly glory: men might say<br />Till this time pomp was single;
but now married<br />To one above itself.&rdquo;&mdash;SHAKESPEARE.</p>
<p>If Giles Headley murmured at Aldonza&rsquo;s removal, it was only
to Perronel, and that discreet woman kept it to herself.</p>
<p>In the summer of 1519 he was out of his apprenticeship, and though
Dennet was only fifteen, it was not uncommon for brides to be even younger.&nbsp;
However, the autumn of that year was signalised by a fresh outbreak
of the sweating sickness, apparently a sort of influenza, and no festivities
could be thought of.&nbsp; The King and Queen kept at a safe distance
from London, and escaped, so did the inmates of the pleasant house at
Chelsea; but the Cardinal, who, as Lord Chancellor, could not entirely
absent himself from Westminster, was four times attacked by it, and
Dean Colet, a far less robust man, had it three times, and sank at last
under it.&nbsp; Sir Thomas More went to see his beloved old friend,
and knowing Ambrose&rsquo;s devotion, let the young man be his attendant.&nbsp;
Nor could those who saw the good man ever forget his peaceful farewells,
grieving only for the old mother who had lived with him in the Deanery,
and in the ninetieth year of her age, thus was bereaved of the last
of her twenty-one children.&nbsp; For himself, he was thankful to be
taken away from the evil times he already beheld threatening his beloved
St. Paul&rsquo;s, as well as the entire Church both in England and abroad;
looking back with a sad sweet smile to the happy Oxford days, when he,
with More and Erasmus,</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>&ldquo;Strained the watchful eye<br />If chance the golden hours
were nigh<br />By youthful hope seen gleaming round her walls.&rdquo;</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>&ldquo;But,&rdquo; said he, as he laid his hand in blessing for the
last time on Ambrose&rsquo;s head, &ldquo;let men say what they will,
do thou cling fast to the Church, nor let thyself be swept away.&nbsp;
There are sure promises to her, and grace is with her to purify herself,
even though it be obscured for a time.&nbsp; Be not of little faith,
but believe that Christ is with us in the ship, though He seem to be
asleep.&rdquo;</p>
<p>He spoke as much to his friend as to the youth, and there can be
no doubt that this consideration was the restraining force with many
who have been stigmatised as half-hearted Reformers, because though
they loved truth, they feared to lose unity.</p>
<p>He was a great loss at that especial time, as a restraining power,
trusted by the innovators, and a personal friend both of King and Cardinal,
and his preaching and catechising were sorely missed at St. Paul&rsquo;s.</p>
<p>Tibble Steelman, though thinking he did not go far enough, deplored
him deeply; but Tibble himself was laid by for many days.&nbsp; The
epidemic went through the Dragon court, though some had it lightly,
and only two young children actually died of it.&nbsp; It laid a heavy
hand on Tibble, and as his distaste for women rendered his den almost
inaccessible to Bet Smallbones, who looked after most of the patients,
Stephen Birkenholt, whose nursing capacities had been developed in Newgate,
spent his spare hours in attending him, sat with him in the evenings,
slept on a pallet by his side, carried him his meals and often administered
them, and finally pulled him through the illness and its effects, which
left him much broken and never likely to be the same man again.</p>
<p>Old Mistress Headley, who was already failing, did not have the actual
disease severely, but she never again left her bed, and died just after
Christmas, sinking slowly away with little pain, and her memory having
failed from the first.</p>
<p>Household affairs had thus shipped so gradually into Dennet&rsquo;s
hands that no change of government was perceptible, except that the
keys hung at the maiden&rsquo;s girdle.&nbsp; She had grown out of the
child during this winter of trouble, and was here, there, and everywhere,
the busy nurse and housewife, seldom pausing to laugh or play except
with her father, and now and then to chat with her old friend and playfellow,
Kit Smallbones.&nbsp; Her childish freedom of manner had given way to
grave discretion, not to say primness, in her behaviour to her father&rsquo;s
guests, and even the apprentices.&nbsp; It was, of course, the unconscious
reaction of the maidenly spirit, aware that she had nothing but her
own modesty to protect her.&nbsp; She was on a small scale, with no
pretensions to beauty, but with a fresh, honest, sensible young face,
a clear skin, and dark eyes that could be very merry when she would
let them, and her whole air and dress were trimness itself, with an
inclination to the choicest materials permitted to an alderman&rsquo;s
daughter.</p>
<p>Things were going on so smoothly that the alderman was taken by surprise
when all the good wives around began to press on him that it was incumbent
on him to lose no time in marrying his daughter to her cousin, if not
before Lent, yet certainly in the Easter holidays.</p>
<p>Dennet looked very grave thereon.&nbsp; Was it not over soon after
the loss of the good grandmother?&nbsp; And when her father said, as
the gossips had told him, that she and Giles need only walk quietly
down some morning to St Faith&rsquo;s and plight their troth, she broke
out into her girlish wilful manner, &ldquo;Would she be married at all
without a merry wedding?&nbsp; No, indeed!&nbsp; She would not have
the thing done in a corner!&nbsp; What was the use of her being wedded,
and having to consort with the tedious old wives instead of the merry
wrenches?&nbsp; Could she not guide the house, and rule the maids, and
get in the stores, and hinder waste, and make the pasties, and brew
the possets?&nbsp; Had her father found the crust hard, or missed his
roasted crab, or had any one blamed her for want of discretion?&nbsp;
Nay, as to that, she was like to be more discreet as she was, with only
her good old father to please, than with a husband to plague her.&rdquo;</p>
<p>On the other hand, Giles&rsquo;s demeanour was rather that of one
prepared for the inevitable than that of an eager bridegroom; and when
orders began to pour in for accoutrements of unrivalled magnificence
for the King and the gentlemen who were to accompany him to Ardres,
there to meet the young King of France just after Whitsuntide, Dennet
was the first to assure her father that there would be no time to think
of weddings till all this was over, especially as some of the establishment
would have to be in attendance to repair casualties at the jousts.</p>
<p>At this juncture there arrived on business Master Tiptoff, husband
to Giles&rsquo;s sister, bringing greetings from Mrs. Headley at Salisbury,
and inquiries whether the wedding was to take place at Whitsuntide,
in which case she would hasten to be present, and to take charge of
the household, for which her dear daughter was far too young.&nbsp;
Master Tiptoff showed a suspicious alacrity in undertaking the forwarding
of his mother-in-law and her stuff.</p>
<p>The faces of Master Headley and Tib Steelman were a sight, both having
seen only too much of what the housewifery at Salisbury had been.&nbsp;
The alderman decided on the spot that there could be no marriage till
after the journey to France, since Giles was certainly to go upon it;
and lest Mrs. Headley should be starting on her journey, he said he
should despatch a special messenger to stay her.&nbsp; Giles, who had
of course been longing for the splendid pageant, cheered up into great
amiability, and volunteered to write to his mother, that she had best
not think of coming, till he sent word to her that matters were forward.&nbsp;
Even thus, Master Headley was somewhat insecure.&nbsp; He thought the
dame quite capable of coming and taking possession of his house in his
absence, and therefore resolved upon staying at home to garrison it;
but there was then the further difficulty that Tibble was in no condition
to take his place on the journey.&nbsp; If the rheumatism seized his
right arm, as it had done in the winter, he would be unable to drive
a rivet, and there would be every danger of it, high summer though it
were; for though the party would carry their own tent and bedding, the
knights and gentlemen would be certain to take all the best places,
and they might be driven into a damp corner.&nbsp; Indeed it was not
impossible that their tent itself might be seized, for many a noble
or his attendants might think that beggarly artisans had no right to
comforts which he had been too improvident to afford, especially if
the alderman himself were absent.</p>
<p>Not only did Master Headley really love his trusty foreman too well
to expose him to such chances, but Tibble knew too well that there were
brutal young men to whom his contorted-visage would be an incitement
to contempt and outrage, and that if racked with rheumatism, he would
only be an incumbrance.&nbsp; There was nothing for it but to put Kit
Smallbones at the head of the party.&nbsp; His imposing presence would
keep off wanton insults, but on the other hand, he had not the moral
weight of authority possessed by Tibble, and though far from being a
drunkard, he was not proof against a carouse, especially when out of
reach of his Bet and of his master, and he was not by any means Tib&rsquo;s
equal in fine and delicate workmanship.&nbsp; But on the other hand,
Tib pronounced that Stephen Birkenholt was already well skilled in chasing
metal and the difficult art of restoring inlaid work, and he showed
some black and silver armour, that was in hand for the King, which fully
bore out his words.</p>
<p>&ldquo;And thou thinkst Kit can rule the lads!&rdquo; said the alderman,
scarce willingly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;One of them at least can rule himself,&rdquo; said Tibble.&nbsp;
&ldquo;They have both been far more discreet since the fright they got
on Ill May day; and, as for Stephen, he hath seemed to me to have no
eyes nor thought save for his work of late.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have marked him,&rdquo; said the master, &ldquo;and have
marvelled what ailed the lad.&nbsp; His merry temper hath left him.&nbsp;
I never hear him singing to keep time with his hammer, nor keeping the
court in a roar with his gibes.&nbsp; I trust he is not running after
the new doctrine of the hawkers and pedlars.&nbsp; His brother was inclined
that way.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;There be worse folk than they, your worship,&rdquo; protested
Tib, but he did not pursue their defence, only adding, &ldquo;but &rsquo;tis
not that which ails young Stephen.&nbsp; I would it were!&rdquo; he
sighed to himself, inaudibly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said the good-natured alderman, &ldquo;it may
be he misseth his brother.&nbsp; The boys will care for this raree-show
more than thou or I, Tib!&nbsp; We&rsquo;ve seen enough of them in our
day, though verily they say this is to surpass all that ever were beheld!&rdquo;</p>
<p>The question of who was to go had not been hitherto decided, and
Giles and Stephen were both so excited at being chosen that all low
spirits and moodiness were dispelled, and the work which went on almost
all night was merrily got through.&nbsp; The Dragon court was in a perpetual
commotion with knights, squires, and grooms, coming in with orders for
new armour, or for old to be furbished, and the tent-makers, lorimers,
mercers, and tailors had their hands equally full.&nbsp; These lengthening
mornings heard the hammer ringing at sunrise, and in the final rush,
Smallbones never went to bed at all.&nbsp; He said he should make it
up in the waggon on the way to Dover.&nbsp; Some hinted that he preferred
the clang of his hammer to the good advice his Bet lavished on him at
every leisure moment to forewarn him against French wine-pots.</p>
<p>The alderman might be content with the party he sent forth, for Kit
had hardly his equal in size, strength, and good humour.&nbsp; Giles
had developed into a tall, comely young man, who had got rid of his
country slouch, and whose tall figure, light locks, and ruddy cheeks
looked well in the new suit which gratified his love of finery, sober-hued
as it needs must be.&nbsp; Stephen was still bound to the old prentice
garb, though it could not conceal his good mien, the bright sparkling
dark eyes, crisp black hair, healthy brown skin, and lithe active figure.&nbsp;
Giles had a stout roadster to ride on, the others were to travel in
their own waggon, furnished with four powerful horses, which, if possible,
they were to take to Calais, so as to be independent of hiring.&nbsp;
Their needments, clothes, and tools, were packed in the waggon, with
store of lances, and other appliances of the tourney.&nbsp; A carter
and Will Wherry, who was selected as being supposed to be conversant
with foreign tongues, were to attend on them; Smallbones, as senior
journeyman, had the control of the party, and Giles had sufficiently
learnt subordination not to be likely to give himself dangerous airs
of mastership.</p>
<p>Dennet was astir early to see them off, and she had a little gift
for each.&nbsp; She began with her oldest friend.&nbsp; &ldquo;See here,
Kit,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;here&rsquo;s a wallet to hold thy nails
and rivets.&nbsp; What wilt thou say to me for such a piece of stitchery?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Say, pretty mistress?&nbsp; Why this!&rdquo; quoth the giant,
and he picked her up by the slim waist in his great hands, and kissed
her on the forehead.&nbsp; He had done the like many a time nine or
ten years ago, and though Master Headley laughed, Dennet was not one
bit embarrassed, and turned to the next traveller.&nbsp; &ldquo;Thou
art no more a prentice, Giles, and canst wear this in thy bonnet,&rdquo;
she said, holding out to him a short silver chain and medal of St. George
and the Dragon.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thanks, gentle maid,&rdquo; said Giles, taking the handsome
gift a little sheepishly.&nbsp; &ldquo;My bonnet will make a fair show,&rdquo;
and he bent down as she stood on the step, and saluted her lips, then
began eagerly fastening the chain round his cap, as one delighted with
the ornament.</p>
<p>Stephen was some distance off.&nbsp; He had turned aside when she
spoke to Giles, and was asking of Tibble last instructions about the
restoration of enamel, when he felt a touch on his arm, and saw Dennet
standing by him.&nbsp; She looked up in his face, and held up a crimson
silken purse, with S. B embroidered on it with a wreath of oak and holly
leaves.</p>
<p>With the air that ever showed his gentle blood, Stephen put a knee
to the ground, and kissed the fingers that held it to him, whereupon
Dennet, a sudden burning blush overspreading her face under her little
pointed hood, turned suddenly round and ran into the house.&nbsp; She
was out again on the steps when the waggon finally got under weigh,
and as her eyes met Stephen&rsquo;s, he doffed his flat cap with one
hand, and laid the other on his heart, so that she knew where her purse
had taken up its abode.</p>
<p>Of the Field of the Cloth of Gold not much need be said.&nbsp; To
the end of the lives of the spectators, it was a tale of wonder.&nbsp;
Indeed without that, the very sight of the pavilions was a marvel in
itself, the blue dome of Francis spangled in imitation of the sky, with
sun, moon, and stars; and the feudal castle of Henry, a three months&rsquo;
work, each surrounded with tents of every colour and pattern which fancy
could devise, with the owners&rsquo; banners or pennons floating from
the summits, and every creature, man, and horse, within the enchanted
precincts, equally gorgeous.&nbsp; It was the brightest and the last
full display of magnificent pseudo chivalry, and to Stephen&rsquo;s
dazzled eye, seeing it beneath the slant rays of the setting sun of
June, it was a fairy tale come to life.&nbsp; Hal Randall, who was in
attendance on the Cardinal, declared that it was a mere surfeit of jewels
and gold and silver, and that a frieze jerkin or leathern coat was an
absolute refreshment to the sight.&nbsp; He therefore spent all the
time he was off duty in the forge far in the rear, where Smallbones
and his party had very little but hard work, mending, whetting, furbishing,
and even changing devices.&nbsp; Those six days of tilting when &ldquo;every
man that stood, showed like a mine,&rdquo; kept the armourers in full
occupation night and day, and only now and then could the youths try
to make their way to some spot whence they could see the tournament.</p>
<p>Smallbones was more excited by the report of fountains of good red
and white wines of all sorts, flowing perpetually in the court of King
Henry&rsquo;s splended mock castle; but fortunately one gulp was enough
for an English palate nurtured on ale and mead, and he was disgusted
at the heaps of country folk, men-at-arms, beggars and vagabonds of
all kinds, who swilled the liquor continually, and, in loathsome contrast
to the external splendours, lay wallowing on the ground so thickly that
it was sometimes hardly possible to move without treading on them.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I stumbled over a dozen,&rdquo; said the jester, as he strolled
into the little staked inclosure that the Dragon party had arranged
round their tent for the prosecution of their labours, which were too
important to all the champions not to be respected.&nbsp; &ldquo;Lance
and sword have not laid so many low in the lists as have the doughty
Baron Burgundy and the heady knight Messire Sherris Sack.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Villain Verjuice and Varlet Vinegar is what Kit there calls
them,&rdquo; said Stephen, looking up from the work he was carrying
on over a pan of glowing charcoal.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yea,&rdquo; said Smallbones, intermitting his noisy operations,
&ldquo;and the more of swine be they that gorge themselves on it.&nbsp;
I told Jack and Hob that &rsquo;twould be shame for English folk to
drown themselves like French frogs or Flemish hogs.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hogs!&rdquo; returned Randall.&nbsp; &ldquo;A decent Hampshire
hog would scorn to be lodged as many a knight and squire and lady too
is now, pigging it in styes and hovels and haylofts by night, and pranking
it by day with the best!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sooth enough,&rdquo; said Smallbones.&nbsp; &ldquo;Yea, we
have had two knights and their squires beseeching us for leave to sleep
under our waggon!&nbsp; Not an angel had they got among the four of
them either, having all their year&rsquo;s income on their backs, and
more too.&nbsp; I trow they and their heirs will have good cause to
remember this same Field of Gold.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And what be&rsquo;st thou doing, nevvy?&rdquo; asked the jester.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Thy trade seems as brisk as though red blood were flowing instead
of red wine.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am doing my part towards making the King into Hercules,&rdquo;
said Stephen, &ldquo;though verily the tailor hath more part therein
than we have; but he must needs have a breastplate of scales of gold,
and that by to-morrow&rsquo;s morn.&nbsp; As Ambrose would say, &lsquo;if
he will be a pagan god, he should have what&rsquo;s-his-name, the smith
of the gods, to work for him.&rsquo;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I heard of that freak,&rdquo; said the jester.&nbsp; &ldquo;There
be a dozen tailors and all the Queen&rsquo;s tirewomen frizzling up
a good piece of cloth of gold for the lion&rsquo;s mane, covering a
club with green damask with pricks, cutting out green velvet and gummed
silk for his garland!&nbsp; In sooth, these graces have left me so far
behind in foolery that I have not a jest left in my pouch!&nbsp; So
here I be, while my Lord Cardinal is shut up with Madame d&rsquo;Angoul&ecirc;me
in the castle&mdash;the real old castle, mind you&mdash;doing the work,
leaving the kings and queens to do their own fooling.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Have you spoken with the French King, Hal?&rdquo; asked Smallbones,
who had become a great crony of his, since the anxieties of May Eve.</p>
<p>&ldquo;So far as I may when I have no French, and he no English!&nbsp;
He is a comely fellow, with a blithe tongue and a merry eye, I warrant
you a chanticleer who will lose nought for lack of crowing.&nbsp; He&rsquo;ll
crow louder than ever now he hath given our Harry a fall.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No! hath he?&rdquo; and Giles, Stephen, and Smallbones, all
suspended their work to listen in concern.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ay marry, hath he!&nbsp; The two took it into their royal
noddles to try a fall, and wrestled together on the grass, when by some
ill hap, this same Francis tripped up our Harry, so that he was on the
sward for a moment.&nbsp; He was up again forthwith, and in full heart
for another round, when all the Frenchmen burst in gabbling; and, though
their King was willing to play the match out fairly, they wouldn&rsquo;t
let him, and my Lord Cardinal said something about making ill blood,
whereat our King laughed and was content to leave it.&nbsp; As I told
him, we have given the French falls enough to let them make much of
this one.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I hope he will yet give the mounseer a good shaking,&rdquo;
muttered Smallbones.</p>
<p>&ldquo;How now, Will!&nbsp; Who&rsquo;s that at the door?&nbsp; We
are on his grace&rsquo;s work and can touch none other man&rsquo;s were
it the King of France himself, or his Constable, who is finer still.&rdquo;</p>
<p>By way of expressing &ldquo;No admittance except on business,&rdquo;
Smallbones kept Will Wherry in charge of the door of his little territory,
which having a mud wall on two sides, and a broad brook with quaking
banks on a third, had been easily fenced on the fourth, so as to protect
tent, waggon, horses, and work from the incursions of idlers.&nbsp;
Will however answered, &ldquo;The gentleman saith he hath kindred here.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ay!&rdquo; and there pushed in, past the lad a tall, lean
form, with a gay but soiled short cloak over one shoulder, a suit of
worn buff, a cap garnished with a dilapidated black and yellow feather,
and a pair of gilt spurs.&nbsp; &ldquo;If this be as they told me, where
Armourer Headley&rsquo;s folk lodge&mdash;I have here a sort of a cousin.&nbsp;
Yea, yonder&rsquo;s the brave lad who had no qualms at the flash of
a good Toledo in a knight&rsquo;s fist.&nbsp; How now, my nevvy!&nbsp;
Is not my daughter&rsquo;s nevvy&mdash;mine?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Save your knighthood!&rdquo; said Smallbones.&nbsp; &ldquo;Who
would have looked to see you here, Sir John?&nbsp; Methought you were
in the Emperor&rsquo;s service!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;A stout man-at-arms is of all services,&rdquo; returned Fulford.&nbsp;
&ldquo;I&rsquo;m here with half Flanders to see this mighty show, and
pick up a few more lusty Badgers at this encounter of old comrades.&nbsp;
Is old Headley here?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay, he is safe at home, where I would I were,&rdquo; sighed
Kit.</p>
<p>&ldquo;And you are my young master his nephew, who knew where to
purvey me of good steel,&rdquo; added Fulford, shaking Giles&rsquo;s
hand.&nbsp; &ldquo;You are fain, doubtless, you youngsters, to be forth
without the old man.&nbsp; Ha! and you&rsquo;ve no lack of merry company.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Harry Randall&rsquo;s first impulse had been to look to the right
and left for the means of avoiding this encounter, but there was no
escape; and he was moreover in most fantastic motley, arrayed in one
of the many suits provided for the occasion.&nbsp; It was in imitation
of a parrot, brilliant grass-green velvet, touched here and there with
scarlet, yellow, or blue.&nbsp; He had been only half disguised on the
occasion of Fulford&rsquo;s visit to his wife, and he perceived the
start of recognition in the eyes of the Condottiere, so that he knew
it would be vain to try to conceal his identity.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You sought Stephen Birkenholt,&rdquo; he said.&nbsp; &ldquo;And
you&rsquo;ve lit on something nearer, if so be you&rsquo;ll acknowledge
the paraquito that your Perronel hath mated with.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The Condottiere burst into a roar of laughter so violent that he
had to lean against the mud wall, and hold his sides.&nbsp; &ldquo;Ha,
ha! that I should be father-in-law to a fool!&rdquo; and then he set
off again.&nbsp; &ldquo;That the sober, dainty little wench should have
wedded a fool!&nbsp; Ha! ha! ha!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sir,&rdquo; cried Stephen hotly, &ldquo;I would have you to
know that mine uncle here, Master Harry Randall, is a yeoman of good
birth, and that he undertook his present part to support your own father
and child!&nbsp; Methinks you are the last who should jeer at and insult
him!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Stephen is right,&rdquo; said Giles.&nbsp; &ldquo;This is
my kinsman&rsquo;s tent, and no man shall say a word against Master
Harry Randall therein.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well crowed, my young London gamebirds,&rdquo; returned Fulford,
coolly.&nbsp; &ldquo;I meant no disrespect to the gentleman in green.&nbsp;
Nay, I am mightily beholden to him for acting his part out and taking
on himself that would scarce befit a gentleman of a company&mdash;<i>impedimenta</i>,
as we used to say in the grammar school.&nbsp; How does the old man?&mdash;I
must find some token to send him.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He is beyond the reach of all tokens from you save prayers
and masses,&rdquo; returned Randall, gravely.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ay?&nbsp; You say not so?&nbsp; Old gaffer dead?&rdquo;&nbsp;
And when the soldier was told how the feeble thread of life had been
snapped by the shock of joy on his coming, a fit of compunction and
sorrow seized him.&nbsp; He covered his face with his hands and wept
with a loudness of grief that surprised and touched his hearers; and
presently began to bemoan himself that he had hardly a mark in his purse
to pay for a mass; but therewith he proceeded to erect before him the
cross hilt of poor Abenali&rsquo;s sword, and to vow thereupon that
the first spoil and the first ransom, that it should please the saints
to send him, should be entirely spent in masses for the soul of Martin
Fulford.&nbsp; This tribute apparently stilled both grief and remorse,
for looking up at the grotesque figure of Randall, he said, &ldquo;Methought
they told me, master son, that you were in the right quarters for beads
and masses and all that gear&mdash;a varlet of Master Butcher-Cardinal&rsquo;s,
or the like&mdash;but mayhap &rsquo;twas part of your fooling.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Not so,&rdquo; replied Randall.&nbsp; &ldquo;&rsquo;Tis to
the Cardinal that I belong,&rdquo; holding out his sleeve, where the
scarlet hat was neatly worked, &ldquo;and I&rsquo;ll brook no word against
his honour.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ho! ho!&nbsp; Maybe you looked to have the hat on your own
head,&rdquo; quoth Fulford, waxing familiar, &ldquo;if your master comes
to be Pope after his own reckoning.&nbsp; Why, I&rsquo;ve known a Cardinal
get the scarlet because an ape had danced on the roof with him in his
arms!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You forget!&nbsp; I&rsquo;m a wedded man,&rdquo; said Randall,
who certainly, in private life, had much less of the buffoon about him
than his father-in-law.</p>
<p>&ldquo;<i>Impedimentum</i> again,&rdquo; whistled the knight.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Put a halter round her neck, and sell her for a pot of beer.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I&rsquo;d rather put a halter round my own neck for good and
all,&rdquo; said Hal, his face reddening; but among other accomplishments
of his position, he had learnt to keep his temper, however indignant
he felt.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well&mdash;she&rsquo;s a knight&rsquo;s daughter, and preferments
will be plenty.&nbsp; Thou&rsquo;lt make me captain of the Pope&rsquo;s
guard, fair son&mdash;there&rsquo;s no post I should like better.&nbsp;
Or I might put up with an Italian earldom or the like.&nbsp; Honour
would befit me quite as well as that old fellow, Prosper Colonna; and
the Badgers would well become the Pope&rsquo;s scarlet and yellow liveries.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The Badgers, it appeared, were in camp not far from Gravelines, whence
the Emperor was watching the conference between his uncle-in-law and
his chief enemy; and thence Fulford, who had a good many French acquaintance,
having once served under Francis I., had come over to see the sport.&nbsp;
Moreover, he contrived to attach himself to the armourer&rsquo;s party,
in a manner that either Alderman Headley himself, or Tibble Steelman,
would effectually have prevented; but which Kit Smallbones had not sufficient
moral weight to hinder, even if he had had a greater dislike to being
treated as a boon companion by a knight who had seen the world, could
appreciate good ale, and tell all manner of tales of his experiences.</p>
<p>So the odd sort of kindred that the captain chose to claim with Stephen
Birkenholt was allowed, and in right of it, he was permitted to sleep
in the waggon; and thereupon his big raw-boned charger was found sharing
the fodder of the plump broad-backed cart horses, while he himself,
whenever sport was not going forward for him, or work for the armourers,
sat discussing with Kit the merits or demerits of the liquors of all
nations, either in their own yard or in some of the numerous drinking
booths that had sprung up around.</p>
<p>To no one was this arrangement so distasteful as to Quipsome Hal,
who felt himself in some sort the occasion of the intrusion, and yet
was quite unable to prevent it, while everything he said was treated
as a joke by his unwelcome father-in-law.&nbsp; It was a coarse time,
and Wolsey&rsquo;s was not a refined or spiritual establishment, but
it was decorous, and Randall had such an affection and respect for the
innocence of his sister&rsquo;s young son, that he could not bear to
have him exposed to the company of one habituated to the licentiousness
of the mercenary soldier.&nbsp; At first the jester hoped to remove
the lads from the danger, for the brief remainder of their stay, by
making double exertion to obtain places for them at any diversion which
might be going on when their day&rsquo;s work was ended, and of these,
of course, there was a wide choice, subordinate to the magnificent masquing
of kings and queens.&nbsp; On the last midsummer evening, while their
majesties were taking leave of one another, a company of strolling players
were exhibiting in an extemporary theatre, and here Hal incited both
the youths to obtain seats.&nbsp; The drama was on one of the ordinary
and frequent topics of that, as of all other times, and the dumb show
and gestures were far more effective than the words, so that even those
who did not understand the language of the comedians, who seemed to
be Italians, could enter into it, especially as it was interspersed
with very expressive songs.</p>
<p>An old baron insists on betrothing his daughter and heiress to her
kinsman freshly knighted.&nbsp; She is reluctant, weeps, and is threatened,
singing afterwards her despair (of course she really was a black-eyed
boy).&nbsp; That song was followed by a still more despairing one from
the baron&rsquo;s squire, and a tender interview between them followed.</p>
<p>Then came discovery, the baron descending as a thunderbolt, the banishment
of the squire, the lady driven at last to wed the young knight, her
weeping and bewailing herself under his ill-treatment, which extended
to pulling her about by the hair, the return of the lover, notified
by a song behind the scenes, a dangerously affectionate meeting, interrupted
by the husband, a fierce clashing of swords, mutual slaughter by the
two gentlemen, and the lady dying of grief on the top of her lover.</p>
<p>Such was the argument of this tragedy, which Giles Headley pronounced
to be very dreary pastime, indeed he was amusing himself with an exchange
of comfits with a youth who sat next him all the time&mdash;for he had
found Stephen utterly deaf to aught but the tragedy, following every
gesture with eager eyes, lips quivering, and eyes filling at the strains
of the love songs, though they were in their native Italian, of which
he understood not a word.&nbsp; He rose up with a heavy groan when all
was over, as if not yet disenchanted, and hardly answered when his uncle
spoke to him afterwards.&nbsp; It was to ask whether the Dragon party
were to return at once to London, or to accompany the Court to Gravelines,
where, it had just been announced, the King intended to pay a visit
to his nephew, the Emperor.</p>
<p>Neither Stephen nor Giles knew, but when they reached their own quarters
they found that Smallbones had received an intimation that there might
be jousts, and that the offices of the armourers would be required.&nbsp;
He was very busy packing up his tools, but loudly hilarious, and Sir
John Fulford, with a flask of wine beside him, was swaggering and shouting
orders to the men as though he were the head of the expedition.</p>
<p>Revelations come in strange ways.&nbsp; Perhaps that Italian play
might be called Galeotto to Stephen Birkenholt.&nbsp; It affected him
all the more because he was not distracted by the dialogue, but was
only powerfully touched by the music, and, in the gestures of the lovers,
felt all the force of sympathy.&nbsp; It was to him like a kind of prophetic
mirror, revealing to him the true meaning of all he had ever felt for
Dennet Headley, and of his vexation and impatience at seeing her bestowed
upon a dull and indifferent lout like her kinsman, who not only was
not good enough for her, but did not even love her, or accept her as
anything but his title to the Dragon court.&nbsp; He now thrilled and
tingled from head to foot with the perceptions that all this meant love&mdash;love
to Dennet; and in every act of the drama he beheld only himself, Giles,
and Dennet.&nbsp; Watching at first with a sweet fascination, his feelings
changed, now to strong yearning, now to hot wrath, and then to horror
and dismay.&nbsp; In his troubled sleep after the spectacle, he identified
himself with the lover, sang, wooed, and struggled in his person, woke
with a start of relief, to find Giles snoring safely beside him, and
the watch-dog on his chest instead of an expiring lady.&nbsp; He had
not made unholy love to sweet Dennet, nor imperilled her good name,
nor slain his comrade.&nbsp; Nor was she yet wedded to that oaf, Giles!&nbsp;
But she would be in a few weeks, and then!&nbsp; How was he to brook
the sight, chained as he was to the Dragon court&mdash;see Giles lord
it over her, and all of them, see her missing the love that was burning
for her elsewhere.&nbsp; Stephen lost his boyhood on that evening, and,
though force of habit kept him like himself outwardly, he never was
alone, without feeling dazed, and torn in every direction at once.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXI.&nbsp; SWORD OR SMITHY</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>&ldquo;Darest thou be so valiant as to play the coward with thy indenture,
and to show it a fair pair of heels and run from it?&rdquo;</p>
<p>SHAKESPEARE.</p>
<p>Tidings came forth on the parting from the French King that the English
Court was about to move to Gravelines to pay a visit to the Emperor
and his aunt, the Duchess of Savoy.&nbsp; As it was hoped that jousts
might make part of the entertainment, the attendance of the Dragon party
was required.&nbsp; Giles was unfeignedly delighted at this extension
of holiday, Stephen felt that it deferred the day&mdash;would it be
of strange joy or pain?&mdash;of standing face to face with Dennet;
and even Kit had come to tolerate foreign parts more with Sir John Fulford
to show him the way to the best Flemish ale!</p>
<p>The knight took upon himself the conduct of the Dragons.&nbsp; He
understood how to lead them by routes where all provisions and ale had
not been consumed; and he knew how to swagger and threaten so as to
obtain the best of liquor and provisions at each <i>kermesse</i>&mdash;at
least so he said, though it might be doubted whether the Flemings might
not have been more willing to yield up their stores to Kit&rsquo;s open,
honest face and free hand.</p>
<p>However, Fulford seemed to consider himself one with the party; and
he beguiled the way by tales of the doings of the Badgers in Italy and
Savoy, which were listened to with avidity by the lads, distracting
Stephen from the pain at his heart, and filling both with excitement.&nbsp;
They were to have the honour of seeing the Badgers at Gravelines, where
they were encamped outside the city to serve as a guard to the great
inclosure that was being made of canvas stretched on the masts of ships
to mark out the space for a great banquet and dance.</p>
<p>The weather broke however just as Henry, his wife and his sister,
entered Gravelines; it rained pertinaciously, a tempestuous wind blew
down the erection, and as there was no time to set it up again, the
sports necessarily took place in the castle and town hall.&nbsp; There
was no occasion for the exercise of the armourer&rsquo;s craft, and
as Charles had forbidden the concourse of all save invited guests, everything
was comparatively quiet and dull, though the entertainment was on the
most liberal scale.&nbsp; Lodgings were provided in the city at the
Emperor&rsquo;s expense, and wherever an Englishman was quartered each
night, the imperial officers brought a cast of fine manchet bread, two
great silver pots with wine, a pound of sugar, white and yellow candles,
and a torch.&nbsp; As Randall said, &ldquo;Charles gave solid pudding
where Francis gave empty praise&rdquo;!</p>
<p>Smallbones and the two youths had very little to do, save to consume
these provisions and accept the hospitality freely offered to them at
the camp of the Badgers, where Smallbones and the Ancient of the troop
sat fraternising over big flagons of Flemish ale, which did not visibly
intoxicate the honest smith, but kept him in the dull and drowsy state,
which was his idea of the <i>dolce far niente</i> of a holiday.&nbsp;
Meanwhile the two youths were made much of by the warriors, Stephen&rsquo;s
dexterity with the bow and back-sword were shown off and lauded, Giles&rsquo;s
strength was praised, and all manner of new feats were taught them,
all manner of stories told them; and the shrinking of well-trained young
citizens from these lawless me &ldquo;full of strange oaths and bearded
like the pard,&rdquo; and some very truculent-looking, had given way
to judicious flattery, and to the attractions of adventure and of a
free life, where wealth and honour awaited the bold.</p>
<p>Stephen was told that the gentleman in him was visible, that he ought
to disdain the flat cap and blue gown, that here was his opportunity,
and that among the Badgers he would soon be so rich, famous, glorious,
as to wonder that he had ever tolerated the greasy mechanical life of
a base burgher.&nbsp; Respect to his oaths to his master&mdash;Sir John
laughed the scruple to scorn; nay, if he were so tender, he could buy
his absolution the first time he had his pouch full of gold.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What shall I do?&rdquo; was the cry of Stephen&rsquo;s heart.&nbsp;
&ldquo;My honour and my oath.&nbsp; They bind me.&nbsp; <i>She</i> would
weep.&nbsp; My master would deem me ungrateful, Ambrose break his heart.&nbsp;
And yet who knows but I should do worse if I stayed, I shall break my
own heart if I do.&nbsp; I shall not see&mdash;I may forget.&nbsp; No,
no, never! but at least I shall never know the moment when the lubber
takes the jewel he knows not how to prize!&nbsp; Marches&mdash;sieges&mdash;there
shall I quell this wild beating!&nbsp; I may die there.&nbsp; At least
they will allay this present frenzy of my blood.&rdquo;</p>
<p>And he listened when Fulford and Will Marden, a young English man-at-arms
with whom he had made friends, concerted how he should meet them at
an inn&mdash;the sign of the Seven Stars&mdash;in Gravelines, and there
exchange his prentice&rsquo;s garb for the buff coat and corslet of
a Badger, with the Austrian black and yellow scarf.&nbsp; He listened,
but he had not promised.&nbsp; The sense of duty to his master, the
honour to his word, always recurred like &ldquo;first thoughts,&rdquo;
though the longing to escape, the restlessness of hopeless love, the
youthful eagerness for adventure and freedom, swept it aside again and
again.</p>
<p>He had not seen his uncle since the evening of the comedy, for Hal
had travelled in the Cardinal&rsquo;s suite, and the amusements being
all within doors, jesters were much in request, as indeed Charles V.
was curious in fools, and generally had at least three in attendance.&nbsp;
Stephen, moreover, always shrank from his uncle when acting professionally.&nbsp;
He had learnt to love and esteem the man during his troubles, but this
only rendered the sight of his buffoonery more distressing, and as Randall
had not provided himself with his home suit, they were the more cut
off from one another.&nbsp; Thus there was all the less to counteract
or show the fallacy of Fulford&rsquo;s recruiting blandishments.</p>
<p>The day had come on the evening of which Stephen was to meet Fulford
and Marden at the Seven Stars and give them his final answer, in time
to allow of their smuggling him out of the city, and sending him away
into the country, since Smallbones would certainly suspect him to be
in the camp, and as he was still an apprentice, it was possible, though
not probable, that the town magistrates might be incited to make search
on inquiry, as they were very jealous of the luring away of their apprentices
by the Free Companies, and moreover his uncle might move the Cardinal
and the King to cause measures to be taken for his recovery.</p>
<p>Ill at ease, Stephen wandered away from the hostel where Smallbones
was entertaining his friend, the Ancient.&nbsp; He had not gone far
down the street when a familiar figure met his eye, no other than that
of Lucas Hansen, his brother&rsquo;s old master, walking along with
a pack on his back.&nbsp; Grown as Stephen was, the old man&rsquo;s
recognition was as rapid as his own, and there was a clasp of the hand,
an exchange of greeting, while Lucas eagerly asked after his dear pupil,
Ambrose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Come in hither, and we can speak more at ease,&rdquo; said
Lucas, leading the way up the common staircase of a tall house, whose
upper stories overhung the street.&nbsp; Up and up, Lucas led the way
to a room in the high peaked roof, looking out at the back.&nbsp; Here
Stephen recognised a press, but it was not at work, only a young friar
was sitting there engaged in sewing up sheets so as to form a pamphlet.&nbsp;
Lucas spoke to him in Flemish to explain his own return with the English
prentice.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Dost thou dwell here, sir?&rdquo; asked Stephen.&nbsp; &ldquo;I
thought Rotterdam was thine home.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yea,&rdquo; said Lucas, &ldquo;so it be, but I am sojourning
here to aid in bearing about the seed of the Gospel, for which I walk
through these lands of ours.&nbsp; But tell me of thy brother, and of
the little Moorish maiden?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Stephen replied with an account of both Ambrose and Aldonza, and
likewise of Tibble Steelman, explaining how ill the last had been in
the winter, and that therefore he could not be with the party.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I would I had a token to send him,&rdquo; said Lucas; &ldquo;but
I have nought here that is not either in the Dutch or the French, and
neither of those tongues doth he understand.&nbsp; But thy brother,
the good Ambrose, can read the Dutch.&nbsp; Wilt thou carry him from
me this fresh tractate, showing how many there be that make light of
the Apostle Paul&rsquo;s words not to do evil that good may come?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Stephen had been hearing rather listlessly, thinking how little the
good man suspected how doubtful it was that he should bear messages
to Ambrose.&nbsp; Now, on that sore spot in his conscience, that sentence
darted like an arrow, the shaft finding &ldquo;mark the archer little
meant,&rdquo; and with a start, not lost on Lucas, he exclaimed &ldquo;Saith
the holy Saint Paul that?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Assuredly, my son.&nbsp; Brother Cornelis, who is one whose
eyes have been opened, can show you the very words, if thou hast any
Latin.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Perhaps to gain time, Stephen assented, and the young friar, with
a somewhat inquisitive look, presently brought him the sentence &ldquo;<i>Et
non faciamus mala ut veniant bona</i>.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Stephen&rsquo;s Latin was not very fresh, and he hardly comprehended
the words, but he stood gazing with a frown of distress on his brow,
which made Lucas say, &ldquo;My son, thou art sorely bestead.&nbsp;
Is there aught in which a plain old man can help thee, for thy brother&rsquo;s
sake?&nbsp; Speak freely.&nbsp; Brother Cornelis knows not a word of
English.&nbsp; Dost thou owe aught to any man?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay, nay&mdash;not that,&rdquo; said Stephen, drawn in his
trouble and perplexity to open his heart to this incongruous confidant,
&ldquo;but, sir, sir, which be the worst, to break my pledge to my master,
or to run into a trial which&mdash;which will last from day to day,
and may be too much for me&mdash;yea, and for another&mdash;at last?&rdquo;</p>
<p>The colour, the trembling of limb, the passion of voice, revealed
enough to Lucas to make him say, in the voice of one who, dried up as
he was, had once proved the trial, &ldquo;&rsquo;Tis love, thou wouldst
say?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ay, sir,&rdquo; said Stephen, turning away, but in another
moment bursting forth, &ldquo;I love my master&rsquo;s daughter, and
she is to wed her cousin, who takes her as her father&rsquo;s chattel!&nbsp;
I wist not why the world had grown dark to me till I saw a comedy at
Ardres, where, as in a mirror, &rsquo;twas all set forth&mdash;yea,
and how love was too strong for him and for her, and how shame and death
came thereof.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Those players are good for nought but to wake the passions!&rdquo;
muttered Lucas.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay, methought they warned me,&rdquo; said Stephen.&nbsp;
&ldquo;For, sir,&rdquo;&mdash;he hid his burning face in his hands as
he leant on the back of a chair&mdash;&ldquo;I wot that she has ever
liked me better, far better than him.&nbsp; And scarce a night have
I closed an eye without dreaming it all, and finding myself bringing
evil on her, till I deemed &rsquo;twere better I never saw her more,
and left her to think of me as a forsworn runagate rather than see her
wedded only to be flouted&mdash;and maybe&mdash;do worse.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Poor lad!&rdquo; said Lucas; &ldquo;and what wouldst thou
do?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have not pledged myself&mdash;but I said I would consider
of&mdash;service among Fulford&rsquo;s troop,&rdquo; faltered Stephen.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Among those ruffians&mdash;godless, lawless men!&rdquo; exclaimed
Lucas.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yea, I know what you would say,&rdquo; returned Stephen, &ldquo;but
they are brave men, better than you deem, sir.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Were they angels or saints,&rdquo; said Lucas, rallying his
forces, &ldquo;thou hast no right to join them.&nbsp; Thine oath fetters
thee.&nbsp; Thou hast no right to break it and do a sure and certain
evil to avoid one that may never befall!&nbsp; How knowst thou how it
may be?&nbsp; Nay, if the trial seem to thee over great, thine apprenticeship
will soon be at an end.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Not for two years&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Or thy master, if thou spakest the whole truth, would transfer
thine indentures.&nbsp; He is a good man, and if it be as thou sayest,
would not see his child tried too sorely.&nbsp; God will make a way
for the tempted to escape.&nbsp; They need not take the devil&rsquo;s
way.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sir,&rdquo; said Stephen, lifting up his head, &ldquo;I thank
you.&nbsp; Thus was what I needed.&nbsp; I will tell Sir John Fulford
that I ought never to have heeded him.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Must thou see him again?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I must.&nbsp; I am to give him his answer at the Seven Stars.&nbsp;
But fear not me, Master Lucas, he shall not lead me away.&rdquo;&nbsp;
And Stephen took a grateful leave of the little Dutchman, and charged
himself with more messages for Ambrose and Tibble than his overburdened
spirit was likely to retain.</p>
<p>Lucas went down the stairs with him, and as a sudden thought, said
at the foot of them, &ldquo;&rsquo;Tis at the Seven Stars thou meetest
this knight.&nbsp; Take an old man&rsquo;s counsel.&nbsp; Taste no liquor
there.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am no ale bibber,&rdquo; said Stephen.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay, I deemed thee none&mdash;but heed my words&mdash;captains
of landsknechts in <i>kermesses</i> are scarce to be trusted.&nbsp;
Taste not.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Stephen gave a sort of laugh at the precaution, and shook himself
loose.&nbsp; It was still an hour to the time of meeting, and the Ave-bell
was ringing.&nbsp; A church door stood open, and for the first time
since he had been at Gravelines he felt that there would be the calm
he needed to adjust the conflict of his spirits, and comprehend the
new situation, or rather the recurrence to the old one.&nbsp; He seemed
to have recovered his former self, and to be able to perceive that things
might go on as before, and his heart really leapt at finding he might
return to the sight of Dennet and Ambrose and all he loved.</p>
<p>His wishes were really that way; and Fulford&rsquo;s allurements
had become very shadowy when he made his way to the Seven Stars, whose
vine-covered window allowed many loud voices and fumes of beer and wine
to escape into the summer evening air.</p>
<p>The room was perhaps cleaner than an English one would have been,
but it was reeking with heat and odours, and the forest-bred youth was
unwilling to enter, but Fulford and two or three Badgers greeted him
noisily and called on him to partake of the supper they had ready prepared.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, sir knight, I thank you,&rdquo; said Stephen.&nbsp; &ldquo;I
am bound for my quarters, I came but to thank you for your goodness
to me, and to bid you farewell.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And how as to thy pledge to join us, young man?&rdquo; demanded
Fulford sternly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I gave no pledge,&rdquo; said Stephen.&nbsp; &ldquo;I said
I would consider of it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Faint-hearted! ha! ha!&rdquo; and the English Badgers translated
the word to the Germans, and set them shouting with derision.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am not faint-hearted,&rdquo; said Stephen; &ldquo;but I
will not break mine oath to my master.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And thine oath to me?&nbsp; Ha!&rdquo; said Fulford.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I sware you no oath, I gave you no word,&rdquo; said Stephen.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ha!&nbsp; Thou darest give me the lie, base prentice.&nbsp;
Take that!&rdquo;</p>
<p>And therewith he struck Stephen a crushing blow on the head, which
felled him to the ground.&nbsp; The host and all the company, used to
pot-house quarrels, and perhaps playing into his hands, took little
heed; Stephen was dragged insensible into another room, and there the
Badgers began hastily to divest him of his prentice&rsquo;s gown, and
draw his arms into a buff coat.</p>
<p>Fulford had really been struck with his bravery, and knew besides
that his skill in the armourer&rsquo;s craft would be valuable, so that
it had been determined beforehand that he should&mdash;by fair means
or foul&mdash;leave the Seven Stars a Badger.</p>
<p>&ldquo;By all the powers of hell, you have struck too hard, sir.&nbsp;
He is sped,&rdquo; said Marden anxiously.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ass! tut!&rdquo; said Fulford.&nbsp; &ldquo;Only enough to
daze him till he be safe in our quarters&mdash;and for that the sooner
the better.&nbsp; Here, call Anton to take his heels.&nbsp; We&rsquo;ll
get him forth now as a fellow of our own.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hark!&nbsp; What&rsquo;s that?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Gentlemen,&rdquo; said the host hurrying in, &ldquo;here be
some of the gentlemen of the English Cardinal, calling for a nephew
of one of them, who they say is in this house.&rdquo;</p>
<p>With an imprecation, Fulford denied all connection with gentlemen
of the Cardinal; but there was evidently an invasion, and in another
moment, several powerful-looking men in the crimson and black velvet
of Wolsey&rsquo;s train had forced their way into the chamber, and the
foremost, seeing Stephen&rsquo;s condition at a glance, exclaimed loudly,
&ldquo;Thou villain! traitor! kidnapper!&nbsp; This is thy work.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ha! ha!&rdquo; shouted Fulford, &ldquo;whom have we here?&nbsp;
The Cardinal&rsquo;s fool a masquing!&nbsp; Treat us to a caper, quipsome
sir?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I&rsquo;m more like to treat you to the gyves,&rdquo; returned
Randall.&nbsp; &ldquo;Away with you!&nbsp; The watch are at hand.&nbsp;
Were it not for my wife&rsquo;s sake, they should bear you off to the
city jail; the Emperor should know how you fill your ranks.&rdquo;</p>
<p>It was quite true.&nbsp; The city guard were entering at the street
door, and the host hurried Fulford and his men, swearing and raging,
out at a back door provided for such emergencies.&nbsp; Stephen was
beginning to recover by this time.&nbsp; His uncle knelt down, took
his head on his shoulder, and Lucas washed off the blood and administered
a drop of wine.&nbsp; His first words were:</p>
<p>&ldquo;Was it Giles?&nbsp; Where is she?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Still going over the play!&rdquo; thought Lucas.&nbsp; &ldquo;Nay,
nay, lad.&nbsp; &rsquo;Twas one of the soldiers who played thee this
scurvy trick!&nbsp; All&rsquo;s well now.&nbsp; Thou wilt soon be able
to quit this place.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I remember now,&rdquo; said Stephen, &ldquo;Sir John said
I gave him the lie when I said I had given no pledge.&nbsp; But I had
not!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thou hast been a brave fellow, and better broken head than
broken troth,&rdquo; said his uncle.</p>
<p>&ldquo;But how came you here,&rdquo; asked Stephen.&nbsp; &ldquo;In
the nick of time?&rdquo;</p>
<p>It was explained that Lucas, not doubting Stephen&rsquo;s resolution,
but quite aware of the tricks of landsknecht captains with promising
recruits in view, had gone first in search of Smallbones, but had found
him and the Ancient so deeply engaged in potations from the liberal
supply of the Emperor to all English guests, that there was no getting
him apart, and he was too much muddled to comprehend if he could have
been spoken with.</p>
<p>Lucas then, in desperation, betook himself to the convent where Wolsey
was magnificently lodged.&nbsp; Ill May Day had made him, as well as
others, well acquainted with the relationship between Stephen and Randall,
though he was not aware of the further connection with Fulford.&nbsp;
He hoped, even if unable to see Randall, to obtain help on behalf of
an English lad in danger, and happily he arrived at a moment when State
affairs were going on, and Randall was refreshing himself by a stroll
in the cloister.&nbsp; When Lucas had made him understand the situation,
his dismay was only equalled by his promptitude.&nbsp; He easily obtained
the loan of one of the splendid suits of scarlet and crimson, guarded
with black velvet a hand broad, which were worn by the Cardinal&rsquo;s
secular attendants&mdash;for he was well known by this time in the household
to be very far from an absolute fool, and indeed had done many a good
turn to his comrades.&nbsp; Several of the gentlemen, indignant at the
threatened outrage on a young Englishman, and esteeming the craftsmen
of the Dragon, volunteered to accompany him, and others warned the watch.</p>
<p>There was some difficulty still, for the burgher guards, coming up
puffing and blowing, wanted to carry off the victim and keep him in
ward to give evidence against the mercenaries, whom they regarded as
a sort of wolves, so that even the Emperor never durst quarter them
within one of the cities.&nbsp; The drawn swords of Randall&rsquo;s
friends however settled that matter, and Stephen, though still dizzy,
was able to walk.&nbsp; Thus leaning on his uncle, he was escorted back
to the hostel.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The villain!&rdquo; the jester said on the way, &ldquo;I mistrusted
him, but I never thought he would have abused our kindred in this fashion.&nbsp;
I would fain have come down to look after thee, nevvy, but these kings
and queens are troublesome folk.&nbsp; The Emperor&mdash;he is a pale,
shame-faced, solemn lad.&nbsp; Maybe he museth, but he had scarce a
word to say for himself.&nbsp; Our Hal tried clapping on the shoulder,
calling him fair coz, and the like, in his hearty fashion.&nbsp; Behold,
what doth he but turn round with such a look about the long lip of him
as my Lord of Buckingham might have if his scullion made free with him.&nbsp;
His aunt, the Duchess of Savoy, is a merry dame, and a wise!&nbsp; She
and our King can talk by the ell, but as for the Emperor, he speaketh
to none willingly save Queen Katharine, who is of his own stiff Spanish
humour, and he hath eyes for none save Queen Mary, who would have been
his empress had high folk held to their word.&nbsp; And with so tongue-tied
a host, and the rain without, what had the poor things to do by way
of disporting themselves with but a show of fools.&nbsp; I&rsquo;ve
had to go through every trick and quip I learnt when I was with old
Nat Fire-eater.&nbsp; And I&rsquo;m stiffer in the joints and weightier
in the heft than I was in those days when I slept in the fields, and
fasted more than ever Holy Church meant.&nbsp; But, heigh ho!&nbsp;
I ought to be supple enough after the practice of these three days.&nbsp;
Moreover, if it could loose a fool&rsquo;s tongue to have a king and
queen for interpreters, I had them&mdash;for there were our Harry and
Moll catching at every gibe as fast as my brain could hatch it, and
rendering it into French as best thy might, carping and quibbling the
while underhand at one another&rsquo;s renderings, and the Emperor sitting
by in his black velvet, smiling about as much as a felon at the hangman&rsquo;s
jests.&nbsp; All his poor fools moreover, and the King&rsquo;s own,
ready to gnaw their baubles for envy!&nbsp; That was the only sport
I had!&nbsp; I&rsquo;m wearier than if I&rsquo;d been plying Smallbones&rsquo;
biggest hammer.&nbsp; The worst of it is that my Lord Cardinal is to
stay behind and go on to Bruges as ambassador, and I with him, so thou
must bear my greetings to thy naunt, and tell her I&rsquo;m keeping
from picking up a word of French or Flemish lest this same Charles should
take a fancy to me and ask me of my master, who would give away his
own head to get the Pope&rsquo;s fool&rsquo;s cap.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;<i>Wer da?&nbsp; Qui va l&agrave;</i>?&rdquo; asked a voice,
and the summer twilight revealed two figures with cloaks held high and
drooping Spanish hats; one of whom, a slender, youthful figure, so far
as could be seen under his cloak, made inquiries, first in Flemish,
then in French, as to what ailed the youth.&nbsp; Lucas replied in the
former tongue, and one of the Englishmen could speak French.&nbsp; The
gentleman seemed much concerned, asked if the watch had been at hand,
and desired Lucas to assure the young Englishman that the Emperor would
be much distressed at the tidings, asked where he was lodged, and passed
on.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ah ha!&rdquo; muttered the jester, &ldquo;if my ears deceive
me now, I&rsquo;ll never trust them again!&nbsp; Mynheer Charles knows
a few more tricks than he is fain to show off in royal company.&nbsp;
Come on, Stevie!&nbsp; I&rsquo;ll see thee to thy bed.&nbsp; Old Kit
is too far gone to ask after thee.&nbsp; In sooth, I trow that my sweet
father-in-law set his Ancient to nail him to the wine pot.&nbsp; And
Master Giles I saw last with some of the grooms.&nbsp; I said nought
to him, for I trow thou wouldst not have him know thy plight!&nbsp;
I&rsquo;ll be with thee in the morning ere thou partest, if kings, queens,
and cardinals roar themselves hoarse for the Quipsome.&rdquo;</p>
<p>With this promise Hal Randall bestowed his still dulled and half-stunned
nephew carefully on the pallet provided by the care of the purveyors.&nbsp;
Stephen slept dreamily at first, then soundly, and woke at the sound
of the bells of Gravelines to the sense that a great crisis in his life
was over, a strange wild dream of evil dispelled, and that he was to
go home to see, hear, and act as he could, with a heartache indeed,
but with the resolve to do his best as a true and honest man.</p>
<p>Smallbones was already afoot&mdash;for the start for Calais was to
be made on that very day.&nbsp; The smith was fully himself again, and
was bawling for his subordinates, who had followed his example in indulging
in the good cheer, and did not carry it off so easily.&nbsp; Giles,
rather silent and surly, was out of bed, shouting answers to Smallbones,
and calling on Stephen to truss his points.&nbsp; He was in a mood not
easy to understand, he would hardly speak, and never noticed the marks
of the fray on Stephen&rsquo;s temple&mdash;only half hidden by the
dark curly hair.&nbsp; This was of course a relief, but Stephen could
not help suspecting that he had been last night engaged in some revel
about which he desired no inquiries.</p>
<p>Randall came just as the operation was completed.&nbsp; He was in
a good deal of haste, having to restore the groom&rsquo;s dress he wore
by the time the owner had finished the morning toilet of the Lord Cardinal&rsquo;s
palfreys.&nbsp; He could not wait to inquire how Stephen had contrived
to fall into the hands of Fulford, his chief business being to put under
safe charge a bag of coins, the largesse from the various princes and
nobles whom he had diverted&mdash;ducats, crowns, dollars, and angels
all jingling together&mdash;to be bestowed wherever Perronel kept her
store, a matter which Hal was content not to know, though the pair cherished
a hope some day to retire on it from fooling.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thou art a good lad, Steve,&rdquo; said Hal.&nbsp; &ldquo;I&rsquo;m
right glad thou leavest this father of mine behind thee.&nbsp; I would
not see thee such as he&mdash;no, not for all the gold we saw on the
Frenchmen&rsquo;s backs.&rdquo;</p>
<p>This was the jester&rsquo;s farewell, but it was some time before
the waggon was under way, for the carter and one of the smiths were
missing, and were only at noon found in an alehouse, both very far gone
in liquor, and one with a black eye.&nbsp; Kit discoursed on sobriety
in the most edifying manner, as at last he drove heavily along the street,
almost the last in the baggage train of the king and queens&mdash;but
still in time to be so included in it so as to save all difficulty at
the gates.&nbsp; It was, however, very late in the evening when they
reached Calais, so that darkness was coming on as they waited their
turn at the drawbridge, with a cart full of scullions and pots and pans
before them, and a waggon-load of tents behind.&nbsp; The warders in
charge of the gateway had orders to count over all whom they admitted,
so that no unauthorised person might enter that much-valued fortress.&nbsp;
When at length the waggon rolled forward into the shadow of the great
towered gateway on the outer side of the moat, the demand was made,
who was there?&nbsp; Giles had always insisted, as leader of the party,
on making reply to such questions, and Smallbones waited for his answer,
but none was forthcoming.&nbsp; Therefore Kit shouted in reply, &ldquo;Alderman
Headley&rsquo;s wain and armourers.&nbsp; Two journeymen, one prentice,
two smiths, two waggoners.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Seven!&rdquo; rejoined the warder.&nbsp; &ldquo;One&mdash;two&mdash;three&mdash;four&mdash;five.&nbsp;
Ha! your company seems to be lacking.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Giles must have ridden on,&rdquo; suggested Stephen, while
Kit, growling angrily, called on the lazy fellow, Will Wherry, to wake
and show himself.&nbsp; But the officials were greatly hurried, and
as long as no dangerous person got into Calais, it mattered little to
them who might be left outside, so they hurried on the waggon into the
narrow street.</p>
<p>It was well that it was a summer night, for lodgings there were none.&nbsp;
Every hostel was full and all the houses besides.&nbsp; The earlier
comers assured Kit that it was of no use to try to go on.&nbsp; The
streets up to the wharf were choked, and he might think himself lucky
to have his waggon to sleep in.&nbsp; But the horses!&nbsp; And food?&nbsp;
However, there was one comfort&mdash;English tongues answered, if it
was only with denials.</p>
<p>Kit&rsquo;s store of travelling money was at a low ebb, and it was
nearly exhausted by the time, at an exorbitant price, he had managed
to get a little hay and water for the horses, and a couple of loaves
and a haunch of bacon among the five hungry men.&nbsp; They were quite
content to believe that Master Giles had ridden on before and secured
better quarters and viands, nor could they much regret the absence of
Will Wherry&rsquo;s wide mouth.</p>
<p>Kit called Stephen to council in the morning.&nbsp; His funds would
not permit waiting for the missing ones, if he were to bring home any
reasonable proportion of gain to his master.&nbsp; He believed that
Master Headley would by no means risk the whole party loitering at Calais,
when it was highly probable that Giles might have joined some of the
other travellers, and embarked by himself.</p>
<p>After all, Kit&rsquo;s store had to be well-nigh expended before
the horses, waggon, and all, could find means to encounter the miseries
of the transit to Dover.&nbsp; Then, glad as he was to be on his native
soil, his spirits sank lower and lower as the waggon creaked on under
the hot sun towards London.&nbsp; He had actually brought home only
four marks to make over to his master; and although he could show a
considerable score against the King and various nobles, these debts
were not apt to be promptly discharged, and what was worse, two members
of his party and one horse were missing.&nbsp; He little knew how narrow
an escape he had had of losing a third!</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXII.&nbsp; AN INVASION</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>&ldquo;What shall be the maiden&rsquo;s fate?<br />Who shall be the
maiden&rsquo;s mate?&rdquo;</p>
<p>SCOTT.</p>
<p>No Giles Headley appeared to greet the travellers, though Kit Smallbones
had halted at Canterbury, to pour out entreaties to St. Thomas, and
the vow of a steel and gilt reliquary of his best workmanship to contain
the old shoe, which a few years previously had so much disgusted Erasmus
and his companion.</p>
<p>Poor old fellow, he was too much crest-fallen thoroughly to enjoy
even the gladness of his little children; and his wife made no secret
of her previous conviction that he was too dunderheaded not to run into
some coil, when she was not there to look after him.&nbsp; The alderman
was more merciful.&nbsp; Since there had been no invasion from Salisbury,
he had regretted the not having gone himself to Ardres, and he knew
pretty well that Kit&rsquo;s power lay more in his arms than in his
brain.&nbsp; He did not wonder at the small gain, nor at the having
lost sight of the young man, and confidently expected the lost ones
soon to appear.</p>
<p>As to Dennet, her eyes shone quietly, and she took upon herself to
send down to let Mistress Randall know of her nephew&rsquo;s return,
and invite her to supper to hear the story of his doings.&nbsp; The
girl did not look at all like a maiden uneasy about her lost lover,
but much more like one enjoying for the moment the immunity from a kind
of burthen; and, as she smiled, called for Stephen&rsquo;s help in her
little arrangements, and treated him in the friendly manner of old times,
he could not but wonder at the panic that had overpowered him for a
time like a fever of the mind.</p>
<p>There was plenty to speak of in the glories of the Field of the Cloth
of Gold, and the transactions with the knights and nobles; and Stephen
held his peace as to his adventure, but Dennet&rsquo;s eyes were sharper
than Kit&rsquo;s.&nbsp; She spied the remains of the bruise under his
black curly hair; and while her father and Tib were unravelling the
accounts from Kit&rsquo;s brain and tally-sticks, she got the youth
out into the gallery, and observed, &ldquo;So thou hast a broken head.&nbsp;
See here are grandmother&rsquo;s lily-leaves in strong waters.&nbsp;
Let me lay one on for thee.&nbsp; There, sit down on the step, then
I can reach.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;&rsquo;Tis well nigh whole now, sweet mistress,&rdquo; said
Stephen, complying however, for it was too sweet to have those little
fingers busy about him, for the offer to be declined.</p>
<p>&ldquo;How gatst thou the blow?&rdquo; asked Dennet.&nbsp; &ldquo;Was
it at single-stick?&nbsp; Come, thou mayst tell me.&nbsp; &rsquo;Twas
in standing up for some one.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay, mistress, I would it had been.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thou hast been in trouble,&rdquo; she said, leaning on the
baluster above him.&nbsp; &ldquo;Or did ill men set on thee?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That&rsquo;s the nearest guess,&rdquo; said Stephen.&nbsp;
&ldquo;&rsquo;Twas that tall father of mine aunt&rsquo;s, the fellow
that came here for armour, and bought poor Master Michael&rsquo;s sword.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And sliced the apple on thine hand.&nbsp; Ay?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He would have me for one of his Badgers.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thee!&nbsp; Stephen!&rdquo;&nbsp; It was a cry of pain as
well as horror.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yea, mistress; and when I refused, the fellow dealt me a blow,
and laid me down senseless, to bear me off willy nilly, but that good
old Lucas Hansen brought mine uncle to mine aid&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>Dennet clasped her hands.&nbsp; &ldquo;O Stephen, Stephen!&nbsp;
Now I know how good the Lord is.&nbsp; Wot ye, I asked of Tibble to
take me daily to St. Faith&rsquo;s to crave of good St. Julian to have
you all in his keeping, and saith he on the way, &lsquo;Methinks, mistress,
our dear Lord would hear you if you spake to Him direct, with no go-between.&rsquo;&nbsp;
I did as he bade me, Stephen, I went to the high Altar, and prayed there,
and Tibble went with me, and lo, now, He hath brought you back safe.&nbsp;
We will have a mass of thanksgiving on the very morn.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Stephen&rsquo;s heart could not but bound, for it was plain enough
for whom the chief force of these prayers had been offered.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sweet mistress,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;they have availed me
indeed.&nbsp; Certes, they warded me in the time of sore trial and temptation.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay,&rdquo; said Dennet, &ldquo;thou <i>couldst</i> not have
longed to go away from hence with those ill men who live by slaying
and plundering?&rdquo;</p>
<p>The present temptation was to say that he had doubted whether this
course would not have been for the best both for himself and for her;
but he recollected that Giles might be at the gate, and if so, he should
feel as if he had rather have bitten out his tongue than have let Dennet
know the state of the case, so he only answered&mdash;</p>
<p>&ldquo;There be sorer temptations in the world for us poor rogues
than little home-biding house crickets like thee wot of, mistress.&nbsp;
Well that ye can pray for us without knowing all!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Stephen had never consciously come so near love-making, and his honest
face was all one burning glow with the suppressed feeling, while Dennet
lingered till the curfew warned them of the lateness of the hour, both
with a strange sense of undefined pleasure in the being together in
the summer twilight.</p>
<p>Day after day passed on with no news of Giles or Will Wherry.&nbsp;
The alderman grew uneasy, and sent Stephen to ask his brother to write
to Randall, or to some one else in Wolsey&rsquo;s suite, to make inquiries
at Bruges.&nbsp; But Ambrose was found to have gone abroad in the train
of Sir Thomas More, and nothing was heard till their return six weeks
later, when Ambrose brought home a small packet which had been conveyed
to him through one of the Emperor&rsquo;s suite.&nbsp; It was tied up
with a long tough pale wisp of hair, evidently from the mane or tail
of some Flemish horse, and was addressed, &ldquo;To Master Ambrose Birkenholt,
menial clerk to the most worshipful Sir Thomas More, Knight, Under Sheriff
of the City of London.&nbsp; These greeting&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>Within, when Ambrose could open the missive, was another small parcel,
and a piece of brown coarse paper, on which was scrawled&mdash;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Good Ambrose Birkenholt,&mdash;I pray thee to stand my friend,
and let all know whom it may concern, that when this same billet comes
to hand, I shall be far on the march to High Germany, with a company
of lusty fellows in the Emperor&rsquo;s service.&nbsp; They be commanded
by the good knight, Sir John Fulford.</p>
<p>&ldquo;If thou canst send tidings to my mother, bid her keep her
heart up, for I shall come back a captain, full of wealth and honour,
and that will be better than hammering for life&mdash;or being wedded
against mine own will.&nbsp; There never was troth plight between my
master&rsquo;s daughter and me, and my time is over, so I be quit with
them, and I thank my master for his goodness.&nbsp; They shall all hear
of me some of these days.&nbsp; Will Wherry is my groom, and commends
him to his mother.&nbsp; And so, commending thee and all the rest to
Our Lady and the saints,</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thine to command,</p>
<p>&ldquo;GILES HEADLEY,</p>
<p>&ldquo;<i>Man-at-Arms in the Honourable Company of Sir John Fulford,
Knight</i>.&rdquo;</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>On a separate strip was written&mdash;</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>&ldquo;Give this packet to the little Moorish maid, and tell her
that I will bring her better by and by, and mayhap make her a knight&rsquo;s
lady; but on thy life, say nought to any other.&rdquo;</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>It was out now!&nbsp; Ambrose&rsquo;s head was more in Sir Thomas&rsquo;s
books than in real life at all times, or he would long ago have inferred
something&mdash;from the jackdaw&rsquo;s favourite phrase&mdash;from
Giles&rsquo;s modes of haunting his steps, and making him the bearer
of small tokens&mdash;an orange, a simnel cake, a bag of walnuts or
almonds to Mistress Aldonza, and of the smiles, blushes, and thanks
with which she greeted them.&nbsp; Nay, had she not burst into tears
and entreated to be spared when Lady More wanted to make a match between
her and the big porter, and had not her distress led Mistress Margaret
to appeal to her father, who had said he should as soon think of wedding
the silver-footed Thetis to Polyphemus.&nbsp; &ldquo;Tilley valley!&nbsp;
Master More,&rdquo; the lady had answered, &ldquo;will all your fine
pagan gods hinder the wench from starving on earth, and leading apes
in hell.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Margaret had answered that Aldonza should never do the first, and
Sir Thomas had gravely said that he thought those black eyes would lead
many a man on earth before they came to the latter fate.</p>
<p>Ambrose hid the parcel for her deep in his bosom before he asked
permission of his master to go to the Dragon court with the rest of
the tidings.</p>
<p>&ldquo;He always was an unmannerly cub,&rdquo; said Master Headley,
as he read the letter.&nbsp; &ldquo;Well, I&rsquo;ve done my best to
make a silk purse of a sow&rsquo;s ear!&nbsp; I&rsquo;ve done my duty
by poor Robert&rsquo;s son, and if he will be such a fool as to run
after blood and wounds, I have no more to say!&nbsp; Though &rsquo;tis
pity of the old name!&nbsp; Ha! what&rsquo;s this?&nbsp; &lsquo;Wedded
against my will&mdash;no troth plight.&rsquo;&nbsp; Forsooth, I thought
my young master was mighty slack.&nbsp; He hath some other matter in
his mind, hath he?&nbsp; Run into some coil mayhap with a beggar wench!&nbsp;
Well, we need not be beholden to him.&nbsp; Ha, Dennet, my maid!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Dennet screwed up her little mouth, and looked very demure, but she
twinkled her bright eyes, and said, &ldquo;My heart will not break,
sir; I am in no haste to be wed.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Her father pinched her cheek and said she was a silly wench; but
perhaps he marked the dancing step with which the young mistress went
about her household cares, and how she was singing to herself songs
that certainly were not &ldquo;Willow! willow!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Ambrose had no scruple in delivering to Aldonza the message and token,
when he overtook her on the stairs of the house at Chelsea, carrying
up a lapful of roses to the still-room, where Dame Alice More was rejoicing
in setting her step-daughters to housewifely tasks.</p>
<p>There came a wonderful illumination and agitation over the girl&rsquo;s
usually impassive features, giving all that they needed to make them
surpassingly beautiful.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Woe is me!&rdquo; was, however, her first exclamation.&nbsp;
&ldquo;That he should have given up all for me!&nbsp; Oh! if I had thought
it!&rdquo;&nbsp; But while she spoke as if she were shocked and appalled,
her eyes belied her words.&nbsp; They shone with the first absolute
certainty of love, and there was no realising as yet the years of silent
waiting and anxiety that must go by, nay, perhaps an entire lifetime
of uncertainty of her lover&rsquo;s truth or untruth, life or death.</p>
<p>Dame Alice called her, and in a rambling, maundering way, charged
her with loitering and gadding with the young men; and Margaret saw
by her colour and by her eyes that some strange thing had happened to
her.&nbsp; Margaret had, perhaps, some intuition; for was not her heart
very tender towards a certain young barrister by name Roper whom her
father doubted as yet, because of his Lutheran inclinations.&nbsp; By
and by she discovered that she needed Aldonza to comb out her long dark
hair, and ere long, she had heard all the tale of the youth cured by
the girl&rsquo;s father, and all his gifts, and how Aldonza deemed him
too great and too good for her (poor Giles!) though she knew she should
never do more than look up to him with love and gratitude from afar.&nbsp;
And she never so much as dreamt that he would cast an eye on her save
in kindness.&nbsp; Oh yes, she knew what he had taught the daw to say,
but then she was a child, she durst not deem it more.&nbsp; And Margaret
More was more kind and eager than worldly wise, and she encouraged Aldonza
to watch and wait, promised protection from all enforced suits and suitors,
and gave assurances of shelter as her own attendant as long as the girl
should need it.</p>
<p>Master Headley, with some sighing and groaning, applied himself to
write to the mother at Salisbury what had become of her son; but he
had only spent one evening over the trying task, when just as the supper
bell was ringing, with Master Hope and his wife as guests, there were
horses&rsquo; feet in the court, and Master Tiptoff appeared, with a
servant on another horse, which carried besides a figure in camlet,
on a pillion.&nbsp; No sooner was this same figure lifted from her steed
and set down on the steps, while the master of the house and his daughter
came out to greet her, than she began, &ldquo;Master Alderman Headley,
I am here to know what you have done with my poor son!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Alack, good cousin!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Alack me no alacks,&rdquo; she interrupted, holding up her
riding rod.&nbsp; &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll have no dissembling, there hath
been enough of that, Giles Headley.&nbsp; Thou hast sold him, soul and
body, to one of yon cruel, bloodthirsty plundering, burning captains,
that the poor child may be slain and murthered!&nbsp; Is this the fair
promises you made to his father&mdash;wiling him away from his poor
mother, a widow, with talking of teaching him the craft, and giving
him your daughter!&nbsp; My son, Tiptoff here, told me the spousal was
delayed and delayed, and he doubted whether it would ever come off,
but I thought not of this sending him beyond seas, to make merchandise
of him.&nbsp; And you call yourself an alderman!&nbsp; The gown should
be stript off the back of you, and shall be, if there be any justice
in London for a widow woman.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay, cousin, you have heard some strange tale,&rdquo; said
Master Headley, who, much as he would have dreaded the attack beforehand,
faced it the more calmly and manfully because the accusation was so
outrageous.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ay, so I told her,&rdquo; began her son-in-law, &ldquo;but
she hath been neither to have nor to hold since the&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And how should I be to have or to hold by a nincompoop like
thee,&rdquo; she said, turning round on him, &ldquo;that would have
me sit down and be content forsooth, when mine only son is kidnapped
to be sold to the Turks or to work in the galleys, for aught I know.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Mistress!&rdquo; here Master Hope&rsquo;s voice came in, &ldquo;I
would counsel you to speak less loud, and hear before you accuse.&nbsp;
We of the City of London know Master Alderman Headley too well to hear
him railed against.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ah! you&rsquo;re all of a piece,&rdquo; she began; but by
this time Master Tiptoff had managed at least to get her into the hall,
and had exchanged words enough with the alderman to assure himself that
there was an explanation, nay, that there was a letter from Giles himself.&nbsp;
This the indignant mother presently was made to understand&mdash;and
as the alderman had borrowed the letter in order to copy it for her,
it was given to her.&nbsp; She could not read, and would trust no one
but her son-in-law to read it to her.&nbsp; &ldquo;Yea, you have it
very pat,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;but how am I to be assured &rsquo;tis
not all writ here to hoodwink a poor woman like me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;&rsquo;Tis Giles&rsquo;s hand,&rdquo; averred Tiptoff.</p>
<p>&ldquo;And if you will,&rdquo; added the alderman, with wonderful
patience, &ldquo;to-morrow you may speak with the youth who received
it.&nbsp; Come, sit down and sup with us, and then you shall learn from
Smallbones how this mischance befel, all from my sending two young heads
together, and one who, though a good fellow, could not hold all in rule.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ay&mdash;you&rsquo;ve your reasons for anything,&rdquo; she
muttered, but being both weary and hungry, she consented to eat and
drink, while Tiptoff, who was evidently ashamed of her violence, and
anxious to excuse it, managed to explain that a report had been picked
up at Romsey, by a bare-footed friar from Salisbury, that young Giles
Headley had been seen at Ghent by one of the servants of a wool merchant,
riding with a troop of Free Companions in the Emperor&rsquo;s service.&nbsp;
All the rest was deduced from this intelligence by the dame&rsquo;s
own imagination.</p>
<p>After supper she was invited to interrogate Kit and Stephen, and
her grief and anxiety found vent in fierce scolding at the misrule which
had permitted such a villain as Fulford to be haunting and tempting
poor fatherless lads.&nbsp; Master Headley had reproached poor Kit for
the same thing, but he could only represent that Giles, being a freeman,
was no longer under his authority.&nbsp; However, she stormed on, being
absolutely convinced that her son&rsquo;s evasion was every one&rsquo;s
fault but his own.&nbsp; Now it was the alderman for misusing him, overtasking
the poor child, and deferring the marriage, now it was that little pert
poppet, Dennet, who had flouted him, now it was the bad company he had
been led into&mdash;the poor babe who had been bred to godly ways.</p>
<p>The alderman was really sorry for her, and felt himself to blame
so far as that he had shifted the guidance of the expedition to such
an insufficient head as poor Smallbones, so he let her rail on as much
as she would, till the storm exhausted itself, and she settled into
the trust that Giles would soon grow weary and return.&nbsp; The good
man felt bound to show her all hospitality, and the civilities to country
cousins were in proportion to the rarity of their visits.&nbsp; So Mrs.
Headley stayed on after Tiptoff&rsquo;s return to Salisbury, and had
the best view feasible of all the pageants and diversions of autumn.&nbsp;
She saw some magnificent processions of clergy, she was welcomed at
a civic banquet and drank of the loving cup, and she beheld the Lord
Mayor&rsquo;s Show in all its picturesque glory of emblazoned barges
on the river.&nbsp; In fact, she found the position of denizen of an
alderman&rsquo;s household so very agreeable that she did her best to
make it a permanency.&nbsp; Nay, Dennet soon found that she considered
herself to be waiting there and keeping guard till her son&rsquo;s return
should establish her there, and that she viewed the girl already as
a daughter&mdash;for which Dennet was by no means obliged to her!&nbsp;
She lavished counsel on her hostess, found fault with the maidens, criticised
the cookery, walked into the kitchen and still-room with assistance
and directions, and even made a strong effort to possess herself of
the keys.</p>
<p>It must be confessed that Dennet was saucy!&nbsp; It was her weapon
of self-defence, and she considered herself insulted in her own house.</p>
<p>There she stood, exalted on a tall pair of pattens before the stout
oaken table in the kitchen where a glowing fire burned; pewter, red
and yellow earthenware, and clean scrubbed trenchers made a goodly show,
a couple of men-cooks and twice as many scullions obeyed her behests&mdash;only
the superior of the two first ever daring to argue a point with her.&nbsp;
There she stood, in her white apron, with sleeves turned up, daintily
compounding her mincemeat for Christmas, when in stalked Mrs. Headley
to offer her counsel and aid&mdash;but this was lost in a volley of
barking from the long-backed, bandy-legged, turnspit dog, which was
awaiting its turn at the wheel, and which ran forward, yapping with
malign intentions towards the dame&rsquo;s scarlet-hosed ankles.</p>
<p>She shook her petticoats at him, but Dennet tittered even while declaring
that Tray hurt nobody.&nbsp; Mrs. Headley reviled the dog, and then
proceeded to advise Dennet that she should chop her citron finer.&nbsp;
Dennet made answer &ldquo;that father liked a good stout piece of it.&rdquo;&nbsp;
Mistress Headley offered to take the chopper and instruct her how to
compound all in the true Sarum style.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Grammercy, mistress, but we follow my grand-dame&rsquo;s recipe!&rdquo;
said Dennet, grasping her implement firmly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Come, child, be not above taking a lesson from thine elders!&nbsp;
Where&rsquo;s the goose?&nbsp; What?&rdquo; as the girl looked amazed,
&ldquo;where hast thou lived not to know that a live goose should be
bled into the mincemeat?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have never lived with barbarous, savage folk,&rdquo; said
Dennet&mdash;and therewith she burst into an irrepressible fit of laughter,
trying in vain to check it, for a small and mischievous elf, freshly
promoted to the office of scullion, had crept up and pinned a dish-cloth
to the substantial petticoats, and as Mistress Headley whisked round
to see what was the matter, like a kitten after its tail, it followed
her like a train, while she rushed to box the ears of the offender,
crying,</p>
<p>&ldquo;You set him on, you little saucy vixen!&nbsp; I saw it in
your eyes.&nbsp; Let the rascal be scourged.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Not so,&rdquo; said Dennet, with prim mouth and laughing eyes.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Far be it from me!&nbsp; But &rsquo;tis ever the wont of the
kitchen, when those come there who have no call thither.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Mistress Headley flounced away, dish-cloth and all, to go whimpering
to the alderman with her tale of insults.&nbsp; She trusted that her
cousin would give the pert wench a good beating.&nbsp; She was not a
whit too old for it.</p>
<p>&ldquo;How oft did you beat Giles, good kinswoman?&rdquo; said Dennet
demurely, as she stood by her father.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Whisht, whisht, child,&rdquo; said her father, &ldquo;this
may not be!&nbsp; I cannot have my guest flouted.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;If she act as our guest, I will treat her with all honour
and courtesy,&rdquo; said the maiden; &ldquo;but when she comes where
we look not for guests, there is no saying what the black guard may
take it on them to do.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Master Headley was mischievously tickled at the retort, and not without
hope that it might offend his kinswoman into departing; but she contented
herself with denouncing all imaginable evils from Dennet&rsquo;s ungoverned
condition, with which she was prevented in her beneficence from interfering
by the father&rsquo;s foolish fondness.&nbsp; He would rue the day!</p>
<p>Meantime if the alderman&rsquo;s peace on one side was disturbed
by his visitor, on the other, suitors for Dennet&rsquo;s hand gave him
little rest.&nbsp; She was known to be a considerable heiress, and though
Mistress Headley gave every one to understand that there was a contract
with Giles, and that she was awaiting his return, this did not deter
more wooers than Dennet ever knew of, from making proposals to her father.&nbsp;
Jasper Hope was offered, but he was too young, and besides, was a mercer&mdash;and
Dennet and her father were agreed that her husband must go on with the
trade.&nbsp; Then there was a master armourer, but he was a widower
with sons and daughters as old as Dennet, and she shook her head and
laughed at the bare notion.&nbsp; There also came a young knight who
would have turned the Dragon court into a tilt-yard, and spent all the
gold that long years of prudent toil had amassed.</p>
<p>If Mistress Headley deemed each denial the result of her vigilance
for her son&rsquo;s interests, she was the more impelled to expatiate
on the folly of leaving a maid of sixteen to herself, to let the household
go to rack and ruin; while as to the wench, she might prank herself
in her own conceit, but no honest man would soon look at her for a wife,
if her father left her to herself, without giving her a good stepmother,
or at least putting a kinswoman in authority over her.</p>
<p>The alderman was stung.&nbsp; He certainly had warmed a snake on
his hearth, and how was he to be rid of it?&nbsp; He secretly winked
at the resumption of a forge fire that had been abandoned, because the
noise and smoke incommoded the dwelling-house, and Kit Smallbones hammered
his loudest there, when the guest might be taking her morning nap; but
this had no effect in driving her away, though it may have told upon
her temper; and good-humoured Master Headley was harassed more than
he had ever been in his life.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It puts me past my patience,&rdquo; said he, turning into
Tibble&rsquo;s special workshop one afternoon.&nbsp; &ldquo;Here hath
Mistress Hillyer of the Eagle been with me full of proposals that I
would give my poor wench to that scapegrace lad of hers, who hath been
twice called to account before the guild, but who now, forsooth, is
to turn over a new leaf.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;So I wis would the Dragon under him,&rdquo; quoth Tibble.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I told her &rsquo;twas not to be thought of, and then what
does the dame but sniff the air and protest that I had better take heed,
for there may not be so many who would choose a spoilt, misruled maid
like mine.&nbsp; There&rsquo;s the work of yonder Sarum woman.&nbsp;
I tell thee, Tib, never was bull in the ring more baited than am I.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yea, sir,&rdquo; returned Tib, &ldquo;there&rsquo;ll be no
help for it till our young mistress be wed.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ay! that&rsquo;s the rub!&nbsp; But I&rsquo;ve not seen one
whom I could mate with her&mdash;let alone one who would keep up the
old house.&nbsp; Giles would have done that passably, though he were
scarce worthy of the wench, even without&mdash;&rdquo;&nbsp; An expressive
shake of the head denoted the rest.&nbsp; &ldquo;And now if he ever
come home at all, &rsquo;twill be as a foul-mouthed, plundering scarecrow,
like the kites of men-at-arms, who, if they lose not their lives, lose
all that makes an honest life in the Italian wars.&nbsp; I would have
writ to Edmund Burgess, but I hear his elder brother is dead, and he
is driving a good traffic at York.&nbsp; Belike too he is wedded.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay,&rdquo; said Tibble, &ldquo;I could tell of one who would
be true and faithful to your worship, and a loving husband to Mistress
Dennet, ay, and would be a master that all of us would gladly cleave
to.&nbsp; For he is godly after his lights, and sound-hearted, and wots
what good work be, and can do it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That were a son-in-law, Tib!&nbsp; Of who speakest thou?&nbsp;
Is he of good birth?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yea, of gentle birth and breeding.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And willing?&nbsp; But that they all are.&nbsp; Wherefore
then hath he never made suit?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He hath not yet his freedom.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Who be it then?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He that made this elbow-piece for the suit that Queen Margaret
ordered for the little King of Scots,&rdquo; returned Tibble, producing
an exquisite miniature bit of workmanship.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Stephen Birkenholt!&nbsp; The fool&rsquo;s nephew!&nbsp; Mine
own prentice!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yea, and the best worker in steel we have yet turned out.&nbsp;
Since the sickness of last winter hath stiffened my joints and dimmed
mine eyes, I had rather trust dainty work such as this to him than to
myself.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Stephen!&nbsp; Tibble, hath he set thee on to this?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, sir.&nbsp; We both know too well what becometh us; but
when you were casting about for a mate for my young mistress, I could
not but think how men seek far, and overlook the jewel at their feet.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He hath nought!&nbsp; That brother of his will give him nought.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He hath what will be better for the old Dragon and for your
worship&rsquo;s self, than many a bag of gold, sir.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thou sayst truly there, Tib.&nbsp; I know him so far that
he would not be the ingrate Jack to turn his back on the old master
or the old man.&nbsp; He is a good lad.&nbsp; But&mdash;but&mdash;I&rsquo;ve
ever set my face against the prentice wedding the master&rsquo;s daughter,
save when he is of her own house, like Giles.&nbsp; Tell me, Tibble,
deemst thou that the varlet hath dared to lift his eyes to the lass?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I wot nothing of love!&rdquo; said Tibble, somewhat grimly.&nbsp;
&ldquo;I have seen nought.&nbsp; I only told your worship where a good
son and a good master might be had.&nbsp; Is it your pleasure, sir,
that we take in a freight of sea-coal from Simon Collier for the new
furnace?&nbsp; His is purest, if a mark more the chaldron.&rdquo;</p>
<p>He spoke as if he put the recommendation of the son and master on
the same line as that of the coal.&nbsp; Mr. Headley answered the business
matters absently, and ended by saying he would think on the council.</p>
<p>In Tibble&rsquo;s workroom, with the clatter of a forge close to
them, they had not heard a commotion in the court outside.&nbsp; Dennet
had been standing on the steps cleaning her tame starling&rsquo;s cage,
when Mistress Headley had suddenly come out on the gallery behind her,
hotly scolding her laundress, and waving her cap to show how ill-starched
it was.</p>
<p>The bird had taken fright and flown to the tree in the court; Dennet
hastened in pursuit, but all the boys and children in the court rushing
out after her, her blandishments had no chance, and &ldquo;Goldspot&rdquo;
had fluttered on to the gateway.&nbsp; Stephen had by this time come
out, and hastened to the gate, hoping to turn the truant back from escaping
into Cheapside; but all in vain, it flew out while the market was in
full career, and he could only call back to her that he would not lose
sight of it.</p>
<p>Out he hurried, Dennet waiting in a sort of despair by the tree for
a time that seemed to her endless, until Stephen reappeared under the
gate, with a signal that all was well.&nbsp; She darted to meet him.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Yea, mistress, here he is, the little caitiff.&nbsp; He was just
knocked down by this country lad&rsquo;s cap&mdash;happily not hurt.&nbsp;
I told him you would give him a tester for your bird.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;With all my heart!&rdquo; and Dennet produced the coin.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Oh!&nbsp; Stephen, are you sure he is safe?&nbsp; Thou bad Goldspot,
to fly away from me!&nbsp; Wink with thine eye&mdash;thou saucy rogue!&nbsp;
Wottest thou not but for Stephen they might be blinding thy sweet blue
eyes with hot needles?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;His wing is grown since the moulting,&rdquo; said Stephen.&nbsp;
&ldquo;It should be cut to hinder such mischances.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Will you do it?&nbsp; I will hold him,&rdquo; said Dennet.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Ah! &rsquo;tis pity, the beauteous green gold-bedropped wing&mdash;that
no armour of thine can equal, Stephen, not even that for the little
King of Scots.&nbsp; But shouldst not be so silly a bird, Goldie, even
though thou hast thine excuse.&nbsp; There!&nbsp; Peck not, ill birdling.&nbsp;
Know thy friends, Master Stare.&rdquo;</p>
<p>And with such pretty nonsense the two stood together, Dennet in her
white cap, short crimson kirtle, little stiff collar, and white bib
and apron, holding her bird upside down in one hand, and with the other
trying to keep his angry beak from pecking Stephen, who, in his leathern
coat and apron, grimed, as well as his crisp black hair, with soot,
stood towering above her, stooping to hold out the lustrous wing with
one hand while he used his smallest pair of shears with the other to
clip the pen-feathers.</p>
<p>&ldquo;See there, Master Alderman,&rdquo; cried Mistress Headley,
bursting on him from the gallery stairs.&nbsp; &ldquo;Be that what you
call fitting for your daughter and your prentice, a beggar lad from
the heath?&nbsp; I ever told you she would bring you to shame, thus
left to herself.&nbsp; And now you see it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Their heads had been near together over the starling, but at this
objurgation they started apart, both crimson in the cheeks, and Dennet
flew up to her father, bird in hand, crying, &ldquo;O father, father!
suffer her not.&nbsp; He did no wrong.&nbsp; He was cutting my bird&rsquo;s
wing.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I suffer no one to insult my child in her own house,&rdquo;
said the alderman, so much provoked as to be determined to put an end
to it all at once.&nbsp; &ldquo;Stephen Birkenholt, come here.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Stephen came, cap in hand, red in the face, with a strange tumult
in his heart, ready to plead guilty, though he had done nothing, but
imagining at the moment that his feelings had been actions.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Stephen,&rdquo; said the alderman, &ldquo;thou art a true
and worthy lad!&nbsp; Canst thou love my daughter?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I&mdash;I crave your pardon, sir, there was no helping it,&rdquo;
stammered Stephen, not catching the tone of the strange interrogation,
and expecting any amount of terrible consequences for his presumption.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then thou wilt be a faithful spouse to her, and son to me?&nbsp;
And Dennet, my daughter, hast thou any distaste to this youth&mdash;though
he bring nought but skill and honesty&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;O, father, father!&nbsp; I&mdash;I had rather have him than
any other!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then, Stephen Birkenholt and Dennet Headley, ye shall be man
and wife, so soon as the young man&rsquo;s term be over, and he be a
freeman&mdash;so he continue to be that which he seems at present.&nbsp;
Thereto I give my word, I, Giles Headley, Alderman of the Chepe Ward,
and thereof ye are witnesses, all of you.&nbsp; And God&rsquo;s blessing
on it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>A tremendous hurrah arose, led by Kit Smallbones, from every workman
in the court, and the while Stephen and Dennet, unaware of anything
else, flew into one another&rsquo;s arms, while Goldspot, on whom the
operation had been fortunately completed, took refuge upon Stephen&rsquo;s
head.</p>
<p>&ldquo;O, Mistress Dennet, I have made you black all over!&rdquo;
was Stephen&rsquo;s first word.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Heed not, I ever loved the black!&rdquo; she cried, as her
eyes sparkled.</p>
<p>&ldquo;So I have done what was to thy mind, my lass?&rdquo; said
Master Headley, who, without ever having thought of consulting his daughter,
was delighted to see that her heart was with him.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sir, I did not know fully&mdash;but indeed I should never
have been so happy as I am now.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sir,&rdquo; added Stephen, putting his knee to the ground,
&ldquo;it nearly wrung my heart to think of her as belonging to another,
though I never durst utter aught&rdquo;&mdash;and while Dennet embraced
her father, Stephen sobbed for very joy, and with difficulty said in
broken words something about a &ldquo;son&rsquo;s duty and devotion.&rdquo;</p>
<p>They were broken in upon by Mistress Headley, who, after standing
in mute consternation, fell on them in a fury.&nbsp; She understood
the device now!&nbsp; All had been a scheme laid amongst them for defrauding
her poor fatherless child, driving him away, and taking up this beggarly
brat.&nbsp; She had seen through the little baggage from the first,
and she pitied Master Headley.&nbsp; Rage was utterly ungovernable in
those days, and she actually was flying to attack Dennet with her nails
when the alderman caught her by the wrists; and she would have been
almost too much for him, had not Kit Smallbones come to his assistance,
and carried her, kicking and screaming like a naughty child, into the
house.&nbsp; There was small restraint of temper in those days even
in high life, and below it, there was some reason for the employment
of the padlock and the ducking stool.</p>
<p>Floods of tears restored the dame to some sort of composure; but
she declared she could stay no longer in a house where her son had been
ill-used and deceived, and she had been insulted.&nbsp; The alderman
thought the insult had been the other way, but he was too glad to be
rid of her on any terms to gainsay her, and at his own charge, undertook
to procure horse and escort to convey her safely to Salisbury the next
morning.&nbsp; He advised Stephen to keep out of her sight for the rest
of the day, giving leave of absence, so that the youth, as one treading
on air, set forth to carry to his brother, his aunt, and if possible,
his uncle, the intelligence that he could as yet hardly believe was
more than a happy dream.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXIII.&nbsp; UNWELCOME PREFERMENT</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>&ldquo;I am a poor fallen man, unworthy now<br />To be thy lord and
master.&nbsp; Seek the king!<br />That sun I pray may never set.&rdquo;<br />SHAKESPEARE.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Matters flowed on peaceably with Stephen and Dennet.&nbsp; The alderman
saw no reason to repent his decision, hastily as it had been made.&nbsp;
Stephen gave himself no unseemly airs of presumption, but worked on
as one whose heart was in the business, and Dennet rewarded her father&rsquo;s
trust by her discretion.</p>
<p>They were happily married in the summer of 1522, as soon as Stephen&rsquo;s
apprenticeship was over; and from that time, he was in the position
of the master&rsquo;s son, with more and more devolving on him as Tibble
became increasingly rheumatic every winter, and the alderman himself
grew in flesh and in distaste to exertion.</p>
<p>Ambrose meanwhile prospered with his master, and could easily have
obtained some office in the law courts that would have enabled him to
make a home of his own; but if he had the least inclination to the love
of women, it was all merged in a silent distant worship of &ldquo;sweet
pale Margaret, rare pale Margaret,&rdquo; the like-minded daughter of
Sir Thomas More&mdash;an affection which was so entirely devotion at
a shrine, that it suffered no shock when Sir Thomas at length consented
to his daughter&rsquo;s marriage with William Roper.</p>
<p>Ambrose was the only person who ever received any communication from
Giles Headley.&nbsp; They were few and far between, but when Stephen
Gardiner returned from his embassy to Pope Clement VII., who was then
at Orvieto, one of the suite reported to Ambrose how astonished he had
been by being accosted in good English by one of the imperial men-at-arms,
who were guarding his Holiness in actual though unconfessed captivity.&nbsp;
This person had sent his commendations to Ambrose, and likewise a laborious
bit of writing, which looked as if he were fast forgetting the art.&nbsp;
It bade Ambrose inform his mother and all his friends and kin that he
was well and coming to preferment, and inclosed for Aldonza a small
mother-of-pearl cross blessed by the Pope.&nbsp; Giles added that he
should bring her finer gifts by and by.</p>
<p>Seven years&rsquo; constancy!&nbsp; It gave quite a respectability
to Giles&rsquo;s love, and Aldonza was still ready and patient while
waiting in attendance on her beloved mistress.</p>
<p>Ambrose lived on in the colony at Chelsea, sometimes attending his
master, especially on diplomatic missions, and generally acting as librarian
and foreign secretary, and obtaining some notice from Erasmus on the
great scholar&rsquo;s visit to Chelsea.&nbsp; Under such guidance, Ambrose&rsquo;s
opinions had settled down a good deal; and he was a disappointment to
Tibble, whose views advanced proportionably as he worked less, and read
and thought more.&nbsp; He so bitterly resented and deplored the burning
of Tindal&rsquo;s Bible that there was constant fear that he might bring
on himself the same fate, especially as he treasured his own copy and
studied it constantly.&nbsp; The reform that Wolsey had intended to
effect when he obtained the legatine authority seemed to fall into the
background among political interests, and his efforts had as yet no
result save the suppression of some useless and ill-managed small religious
houses to endow his magnificent project of York College at Oxford, with
a feeder at Ipswich, his native town.</p>
<p>He was waiting to obtain the papacy, when he would deal better with
the abuses.&nbsp; Randall once asked him if he were not waiting to be
King of Heaven, when he could make root and branch work at once.&nbsp;
Hal had never so nearly incurred a flogging!</p>
<p>And in the meantime another influence was at work, an influence only
heard of at first in whispered jests, which made loyal-hearted Dennet
blush and look indignant, but which soon grew to sad earnest, as she
could not but avow, when she beheld the stately pomp of the two Cardinals,
Wolsey and Campeggio, sweep up to the Blackfriars Convent to sit in
judgment on the marriage of poor Queen Katharine.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Out on them!&rdquo; she said.&nbsp; &ldquo;So many learned
men to set their wits against one poor woman!&rdquo;&nbsp; And she heartily
rejoiced when they came to no decision, and the Pope was appealed to.&nbsp;
As to understanding all the explanations that Ambrose brought from time
to time, she called them quirks and quiddities, and left them to her
father and Tibble to discuss in their chimney corners.</p>
<p>They had seen nothing of the jester for a good while, for he was
with Wolsey, who was attending the King on a progress through the midland
shires.&nbsp; When the Cardinal returned to open the law courts as Chancellor
at the beginning of the autumn term, still Randall kept away from home,
perhaps because he had forebodings that he could not bear to mention.</p>
<p>On the evening of that very day, London rang with the tidings that
the Great Seal had been taken from the Cardinal, and that he was under
orders to yield up his noble mansion of York House and to retire to
Esher; nay, it was reported that he was to be imprisoned in the Tower,
and the next day the Thames was crowded with more than a thousand boats
filled with people, expecting to see him landed at the Traitors&rsquo;
Gate, and much disappointed when his barge turned towards Putney.</p>
<p>In the afternoon, Ambrose came to the Dragon court.&nbsp; Even as
Stephen figured now as a handsome prosperous young freeman of the City,
Ambrose looked well in the sober black apparel and neat ruff of a lawyer&rsquo;s
clerk&mdash;clerk indeed to the first lawyer in the kingdom, for the
news had spread before him that Sir Thomas More had become Lord Chancellor.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thou art come to bear us word of thy promotion&mdash;for thy
master&rsquo;s is thine own,&rdquo; said the alderman heartily as he
entered, shaking hands with him.&nbsp; &ldquo;Never was the Great Seal
in better hands.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;&rsquo;Tis true indeed, your worship,&rdquo; said Ambrose,
&ldquo;though it will lay a heavy charge on him, and divert him from
much that he loveth better still.&nbsp; I came to ask of my sister Dennet
a supper and a bed for the night, as I have been on business for him,
and can scarce get back to Chelsea.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And welcome,&rdquo; said Dennet.&nbsp; &ldquo;Little Giles
and Bess have been wearying for their uncle.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I must not toy with them yet,&rdquo; said Ambrose, &ldquo;I
have a message for my aunt.&nbsp; Brother, wilt thou walk down to the
Temple with me before supper?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yea, and how is it with Master Randall?&rdquo; asked Dennet.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Be he gone with my Lord Cardinal?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He is made over to the King,&rdquo; said Ambrose briefly.&nbsp;
&ldquo;&rsquo;Tis that which I must tell his wife.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Have with thee, then,&rdquo; said Stephen, linking his arm
into that of his brother, for to be together was still as great an enjoyment
to them as in Forest days.&nbsp; And on the way, Ambrose told what he
had not been willing to utter in full assembly in the hall.&nbsp; He
had been sent by his master with a letter of condolence to the fallen
Cardinal, and likewise of inquiry into some necessary business connected
with the chancellorship.&nbsp; Wolsey had not time to answer before
embarking, but as Sir Thomas had vouched for the messenger&rsquo;s ability
and trustiness, he had bidden Ambrose come into his barge, and receive
his instructions.&nbsp; Thus Ambrose had landed with him, just as a
messenger came riding in haste from the King, with a kind greeting,
assuring his old friend that his seeming disgrace was only for a time,
and for political reasons, and sending him a ring in token thereof.&nbsp;
The Cardinal had fallen on his knees to receive the message, had snatched
a gold chain and precious relic from his own neck to reward the messenger,
and then, casting about for some gift for the King, &ldquo;by ill luck,&rdquo;
said Ambrose, &ldquo;his eye lit upon our uncle, and he instantly declared
that he would bestow Patch, as the Court chooses to call him, on the
King.&nbsp; Well, as thou canst guess, Hal is hotly wroth at the treatment
of his lord, whom he truly loveth; and he flung himself before the Cardinal,
and besought that he might not be sent from his good lord.&nbsp; But
the Cardinal was only chafed at aught that gainsaid him; and all he
did was to say he would have no more ado, he had made his gift.&nbsp;
&lsquo;Get thee gone,&rsquo; he said, as if he had been ordering off
a horse or dog.&nbsp; Well-a-day! it was hard to brook the sight, and
Hal&rsquo;s blood was up.&nbsp; He flatly refused to go, saying he was
the Cardinal&rsquo;s servant, but no villain nor serf to be thus made
over without his own will.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He was in the right there,&rdquo; returned Stephen, hotly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yea, save that by playing the fool, poor fellow, he hath yielded
up the rights of a wise man.&nbsp; Any way, all he gat by it was that
the Cardinal bade two of the yeomen lay hands on him and bear him off.&nbsp;
Then there came on him that reckless mood, which, I trow, banished him
long ago from the Forest, and brought him to the motley.&nbsp; He fought
with them with all his force, and broke away once&mdash;as if that were
of any use for a man in motley!&mdash;but he was bound at last, and
borne off by six of them to Windsor!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And thou stoodst by, and beheld it!&rdquo; cried Stephen.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay, what could I have done, save to make his plight worse,
and forfeit all chance of yet speaking to him?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thou wert ever cool!&nbsp; I wot that I could not have borne
it,&rdquo; said Stephen.</p>
<p>They told the story to Perronel, who was on the whole elated by her
husband&rsquo;s promotion, declaring that the King loved him well, and
that he would soon come to his senses, though for a wise man, he certainly
had too much of the fool, even as he had too much of the wise man for
the fool.</p>
<p>She became anxious, however, as the weeks passed by without hearing
of or from him, and at length Ambrose confessed his uneasiness to his
kind master, and obtained leave to attend him on the next summons to
Windsor.</p>
<p>Ambrose could not find his uncle at first.&nbsp; Randall, who used
to pervade York House, and turn up everywhere when least expected, did
not appear among the superior serving-men and secretaries with whom
his nephew ranked, and of course there was no access to the state apartments.&nbsp;
Sir Thomas, however, told Ambrose that he had seen Quipsome Hal among
the other jesters, but that he seemed dull and dejected.&nbsp; Then
Ambrose beheld from a window a cruel sight, for the other fools, three
in number, were surrounding Hal, baiting and teasing him, triumphing
over him in fact, for having formerly outshone them, while he stood
among them like a big dog worried by little curs, against whom he disdained
to use his strength.&nbsp; Ambrose, unable to bear this, ran down stairs
to endeavour to interfere; but before he could find his way to the spot,
an arrival at the gate had attracted the tormentors, and Ambrose found
his uncle leaning against the wall alone.&nbsp; He looked thin and wan,
the light was gone out of his black eyes, and his countenance was in
sad contrast to his gay and absurd attire.&nbsp; He scarcely cheered
up when his nephew spoke to him, though he was glad to hear of Perronel.&nbsp;
He said he knew not when he should see her again, for he had been unable
to secure his suit of ordinary garments, so that even if the King came
to London, or if he could elude the other fools, he could not get out
to visit her.&nbsp; He was no better than a prisoner here, he only marvelled
that the King retained so wretched a jester, with so heavy a heart.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Once thou wast in favour,&rdquo; said Ambrose.&nbsp; &ldquo;Methought
thou couldst have availed thyself of it to speak for the Lord Cardinal.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What?&nbsp; A senseless cur whom he kicked from him,&rdquo;
said Randall.&nbsp; &ldquo;&rsquo;Twas that took all spirit from me,
boy.&nbsp; I, who thought he loved me, as I love him to this day.&nbsp;
To send me to be sport for his foes!&nbsp; I think of it day and night,
and I&rsquo;ve not a gibe left under my belt!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay,&rdquo; said Ambrose, &ldquo;it may have been that the
Cardinal hoped to secure a true friend at the King&rsquo;s ear, as well
as to provide for thee.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Had he but said so&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay, perchance he trusted to thy sharp wit.&rdquo;</p>
<p>A gleam came into Hal&rsquo;s eyes.&nbsp; &ldquo;It might be so.&nbsp;
Thou always wast a toward lad, Ambrose, and if so, I was cur and fool
indeed to baulk him.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Therewith one of the other fools danced back exhibiting a silver
crown that had just been flung to him, mopping and mowing, and demanding
when Patch would have wit to gain the like.&nbsp; Whereto Hal replied
by pointing to Ambrose and declaring that that gentleman had given him
better than fifty crowns.&nbsp; And that night, Sir Thomas told Ambrose
that the Quipsome one had recovered himself, had been more brilliant
than ever and had quite eclipsed the other fools.</p>
<p>On the next opportunity, Ambrose contrived to pack in his cloak-bag,
the cap and loose garment in which his uncle was wont to cover his motley.&nbsp;
The Court was still at Windsor; but nearly the whole of Sir Thomas&rsquo;s
stay elapsed without Ambrose being able to find his uncle.&nbsp; Wolsey
had been very ill, and the King had relented enough to send his own
physician to attend him.&nbsp; Ambrose began to wonder if Hal could
have found any plea for rejoining his old master; but in the last hour
of his stay, he found Hal curled up listlessly on a window seat of a
gallery, his head resting on his hand.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Uncle, good uncle!&nbsp; At last!&nbsp; Thou art sick?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sick at heart, lad,&rdquo; said Hal, looking up.&nbsp; &ldquo;Yea,
I took thy counsel.&nbsp; I plucked up a spirit, I made Harry laugh
as of old, though my heart smote me, as I thought how he was wont to
be answered by my master.&nbsp; I even brooked to jest with the night-crow,
as my own poor lord called this Nan Boleyn.&nbsp; And lo you now, when
his Grace was touched at my lord&rsquo;s sickness, I durst say there
was one sure elixir for such as he, to wit a gold Harry; and that a
King&rsquo;s touch was a sovereign cure for other disorders than the
King&rsquo;s evil.&nbsp; Harry smiled, and in ten minutes more would
have taken horse for Esher, had not Madam Nan claimed his word to ride
out hawking with her.&nbsp; And next, she sendeth me a warning by one
of her pert maids, that I should be whipped, if I spoke to his Grace
of unfitting matters.&nbsp; My flesh could brook no more, and like a
born natural, I made answer that Nan Boleyn was no mistress of mine
to bid me hold a tongue that had spoken sooth to her betters.&nbsp;
Thereupon, what think you, boy?&nbsp; The grooms came and soundly flogged
me for uncomely speech of my Lady Anne!&nbsp; I that was eighteen years
with my Lord Cardinal, and none laid hand on me!&nbsp; Yea, I was beaten;
and then shut up in a dog-hole for three days on bread and water, with
none to speak to, but the other fools jeering at me like a rogue in
a pillory.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Ambrose could hardly speak for hot grief and indignation, but he
wrung his uncle&rsquo;s hand, and whispered that he had hid the loose
gown behind the arras of his chamber, but he could do no more, for he
was summoned to attend his master, and a servant further thrust in to
say, &ldquo;Concern yourself not for that rogue, sir, he hath been saucy,
and must mend his manners, or he will have worse.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Away, kind sir,&rdquo; said Hal, &ldquo;you can do the poor
fool no further good! but only bring the pack about the ears of the
mangy hound.&rdquo;&nbsp; And he sang a stave appropriated by a greater
man than he&mdash;</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>&ldquo;Then let the stricken deer go weep,<br />The hart ungalled
play.&rdquo;</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>The only hope that Ambrose or his good master could devise for poor
Randall was that Sir Thomas should watch his opportunity and beg the
fool from the King, who might part with him as a child gives away the
once coveted toy that has failed in its hands; but the request would
need circumspection, for all had already felt the change that had taken
place in the temper of the King since Henry had resolutely undertaken
that the wrong should be the right; and Ambrose could not but dread
the effect of desperation on a man whose nature had in it a vein of
impatient recklessness.</p>
<p>It was after dinner, and Dennet, with her little boy and girl, was
on the steps dispensing the salt fish, broken bread, and pottage of
the Lenten meal to the daily troop who came for her alms, when, among
them, she saw, somewhat to her alarm, a gipsy man, who was talking to
little Giles.&nbsp; The boy, a stout fellow of six, was astride on the
balustrade, looking up eagerly into the face of the man, who began imitating
the note of a blackbird.&nbsp; Dennet, remembering the evil propensities
of the gipsy race, called hastily to her little son to come down and
return to her side; but little Giles was unwilling to move, and called
to her, &ldquo;O mother, come!&nbsp; He hath a bird-call!&rdquo;&nbsp;
In some perturbation lest the man might be calling her bird away, Dennet
descended the steps.&nbsp; She was about to utter a sharp rebuke, but
Giles held out his hand imploringly, and she paused a moment to hear
the sweet full note of the &ldquo;ouzel cock, with orange tawny bill&rdquo;
closely imitated on a tiny bone whistle.&nbsp; &ldquo;He will sell it
to me for two farthings,&rdquo; cried the boy, &ldquo;and teach me to
sing on it like all the birds&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yea, good mistress,&rdquo; said the gipsy, &ldquo;I can whistle
a tune that the little master, ay, and others, might be fain to hear.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Therewith, spite of the wild dress, Dennet knew the eyes and the
voice.&nbsp; And perhaps the blackbird&rsquo;s note had awakened echoes
in another mind, for she saw Stephen, in his working dress, come out
to the door of the shop where he continued to do all the finer work
which had formerly fallen to Tibble&rsquo;s share.</p>
<p>She lifted her boy from his perch, and bade him take the stranger
to his father, who would no doubt give him the whistle.&nbsp; And thus,
having without exciting attention, separated the fugitive from the rest
of her pensioners, she made haste to dismiss them.</p>
<p>She was not surprised that little Giles came running back to her,
producing unearthly notes on the instrument, and telling her that father
had taken the gipsy into his workshop, and said they would teach him
bird&rsquo;s songs by and by.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Steve, Steve,&rdquo; had been the first words uttered when
the boy was out of hearing, &ldquo;hast thou a smith&rsquo;s apron and
plenty of smut to bestow on me?&nbsp; None can tell what Harry&rsquo;s
mood may be, when he finds I&rsquo;ve given him the slip.&nbsp; That
is the reason I durst not go to my poor dame.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;We will send to let her know.&nbsp; I thought I guessed what
black ouzel &rsquo;twas!&nbsp; I mind how thou didst make the like notes
for us when we were no bigger than my Giles!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thou hast a kind heart, Stephen.&nbsp; Here!&nbsp; Is thy
furnace hot enough to make a speedy end of this same greasy gipsy doublet?&nbsp;
I trust not the varlet with whom I bartered it for my motley.&nbsp;
And a fine bargain he had of what I trust never to wear again to the
end of my days.&nbsp; Make me a smith complete, Stephen, and then will
I tell thee my story.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;We must call Kit into counsel, ere we can do that fully,&rdquo;
said Stephen.</p>
<p>In a few minutes Hal Randall was, to all appearance, a very shabby
and grimy smith, and then he took breath to explain his anxiety and
alarm.&nbsp; Once again, hearing that the Cardinal was to be exiled
to York, he had ventured on a sorry jest about old friends and old wine
being better than new; but the King, who had once been open to plain
speaking, was now incensed, threatened and swore at him!&nbsp; Moreover,
one of the other fools had told him, in the way of boasting, that he
had heard Master Cromwell, formerly the Cardinal&rsquo;s secretary,
informing the King that this rogue was no true &ldquo;natural&rdquo;
at all, but was blessed (or cursed) with as good an understanding as
other folks, as was well known in the Cardinal&rsquo;s household, and
that he had no doubt been sent to serve as a spy, so that he was to
be esteemed a dangerous person, and had best be put under ward.</p>
<p>Hal had not been able to discover whether Cromwell had communicated
his name, but he suspected that it might be known to that acute person,
and he could not tell whether his compeer spoke out of a sort of good-natured
desire to warn him, or simply to triumph in his disgrace, and leer at
him for being an impostor.&nbsp; At any rate, being now desperate, he
covered his parti-coloured raiment with the gown Ambrose had brought,
made a perilous descent from a window in the twilight, scaled a wall
with the agility that seemed to have returned to him, and reached Windsor
Forest.</p>
<p>There, falling on a camp of gipsies, he had availed himself of old
experiences in his wild Shirley days, and had obtained an exchange of
garb, his handsome motley being really a prize to the wanderers.&nbsp;
Thus he had been able to reach London; but he did not feel any confidence
that if he were pursued to the gipsy tent he would not be betrayed.</p>
<p>In this, his sagacity was not at fault, for he had scarcely made
his explanation, when there was a knocking at the outer gate, and a
demand to enter in the name of the King, and to see Alderman Sir Giles
Headley.&nbsp; Several of the stout figures of the yeomen of the King&rsquo;s
guard were seen crossing the court, and Stephen, committing the charge
of his uncle to Kit, threw off his apron, washed his face and went up
to the hall, not very rapidly, for he suspected that since his father-in-law
knew nothing of the arrival, he would best baffle the inquiries by sincere
denials.</p>
<p>And Dennet, with her sharp woman&rsquo;s wit, scenting danger, had
whisked herself and her children out of the hall at the first moment,
and taken them down to the kitchen, where modelling with a batch of
dough occupied both of them.</p>
<p>Meantime the alderman flatly denied the presence of the jester, or
the harbouring of the gipsy.&nbsp; He allowed that the jester was of
kin to his son-in-law, but the good man averred in all honesty that
he knew nought of any escape, and was absolutely certain that no such
person was in the court.&nbsp; Then, as Stephen entered, doffing his
cap to the King&rsquo;s officer, the alderman continued, &ldquo;There,
fair son, this is what these gentlemen have come about.&nbsp; Thy kinsman,
it seemeth, hath fled from Windsor, and his Grace is mightily incensed.&nbsp;
They say he changed clothes with a gipsy, and was traced hither this
morn, but I have told them the thing is impossible.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Will the gentlemen search?&rdquo; asked Stephen.&nbsp; The
gentlemen did search, but they only saw the smiths in full work; and
in Smallbones&rsquo; forge, there was a roaring glowing furnace, with
a bare-armed fellow feeding it with coals, so that it fairly scorched
them, and gave them double relish for the good wine and beer that was
put out on the table to do honour to them.</p>
<p>Stephen had just with all civility seen them off the premises when
Perronel came sobbing into the court.&nbsp; They had visited her first,
for Cromwell had evidently known of Randall&rsquo;s haunts; they had
turned her little house upside down, and had threatened her hotly in
case she harboured a disloyal spy, who deserved hanging.&nbsp; She came
to consult Stephen, for the notion of her husband wandering about, as
a sort of outlaw, was almost as terrible as the threat of his being
hanged.</p>
<p>Stephen beckoned her to a store-room full of gaunt figures of armour
upon blocks, and there brought up to her his extremely grimy new hand!</p>
<p>There was much gladness between them, but the future had to be considered.&nbsp;
Perronel had a little hoard, the amount of which she was too shrewd
to name to any one, even her husband, but she considered it sufficient
to enable him to fulfil the cherished scheme of his life, of retiring
to some small farm near his old home, and she was for setting off at
once.&nbsp; But Harry Randall declared that he could not go without
having offered his services to his old master.&nbsp; He had heard of
his &ldquo;good lord&rdquo; as sick, sad, and deserted by those whom
he had cherished, and the faithful heart was so true in its loyalty
that no persuasion could prevail in making it turn south.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay,&rdquo; said the wife, &ldquo;did he not cast thee off
himself, and serve thee like one of his dogs?&nbsp; How canst thou be
bound to him?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;There&rsquo;s the rub!&rdquo; sighed Hal.&nbsp; &ldquo;He
sent me to the King deeming that he should have one full of faithful
love to speak a word on his behalf, and I, brutish oaf as I was, must
needs take it amiss, and sulk and mope till the occasion was past, and
that viper Cromwell was there to back up the woman Boleyn and poison
his Grace&rsquo;s ear.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;As if a man must not have a spirit to be angered by such treatment.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thou forgettest, good wife.&nbsp; No man, but a fool, and
to be entreated as such!&nbsp; Be that as it may, to York I must.&nbsp;
I have eaten of my lord&rsquo;s bread too many years, and had too much
kindness from him in the days of his glory, to seek mine own ease now
in his adversity.&nbsp; Thou wouldst have a poor bargain of me when
my heart is away.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Perronel saw that thus it would be, and that this was one of the
points on which, to her mind, her husband was more than half a veritable
fool after all.</p>
<p>There had long been a promise that Stephen should, in some time of
slack employment, make a visit to his old comrade, Edmund Burgess, at
York; and as some new tools and patterns had to be conveyed thither,
a sudden resolution was come to, in family conclave, that Stephen himself
should convey them, taking his uncle with him as a serving-man, to attend
to the horses.&nbsp; The alderman gave full consent, he had always wished
Stephen to see York, while he himself, with Tibble Steelman, was able
to attend to the business; and while he pronounced Randall to have a
heart of gold, well worth guarding, he still was glad when the risk
was over of the King&rsquo;s hearing that the runaway jester was harboured
at the Dragon.&nbsp; Dennet did not like the journey for her husband,
for to her mind it was perilous, but she had had a warm affection for
his uncle ever since their expedition to Richmond together, and she
did her best to reconcile the murmuring and wounded Perronel by praises
of Randall, a true and noble heart; and that as to setting her aside
for the Cardinal, who had heeded him so little, such faithfulness only
made her more secure of his true-heartedness towards her.&nbsp; Perronel
was moreover to break up her business, dispose of her house, and await
her husband&rsquo;s return at the Dragon.</p>
<p>Stephen came back after a happy month with his friend, stored with
wondrous tales and descriptions which would last the children for a
month.&nbsp; He had seen his uncle present himself to the Cardinal at
Cawood Castle.&nbsp; It had been a touching meeting.&nbsp; Hal could
hardly restrain his tears when he saw how Wolsey&rsquo;s sturdy form
had wasted, and his round ruddy cheeks had fallen away, while the attitude
in which he sat in his chair was listless and weary, though he fitfully
exerted himself with his old vigour.</p>
<p>Hal on his side, in the dark plain dress of a citizen, was hardly
recognisable, for not only had he likewise grown thinner, and his brown
cheeks more hollow, but his hair had become almost white during his
miserable weeks at Windsor, though he was not much over forty years
old.</p>
<p>He came up the last of a number who presented themselves for the
Archiepiscopal blessing, as Wolsey sat under a large tree in Cawood
Park.&nbsp; Wolsey gave it with his raised fingers, without special
heed, but therewith Hal threw himself on the ground, kissed his feet,
and cried, &ldquo;My lord, my dear lord, your pardon.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What hast done, fellow?&nbsp; Speak!&rdquo; said the Cardinal.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Grovel not thus.&nbsp; We will be merciful.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ah! my lord,&rdquo; said Randall, lifting himself up, but
with clasped hands and tearful eyes, &ldquo;I did not serve you as I
ought with the King, but if you will forgive me and take me back&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;How now?&nbsp; How couldst thou serve me?&nbsp; What!&rdquo;&mdash;as
Hal made a familiar gesture&mdash;&ldquo;thou art not the poor fool;
Quipsome Patch?&nbsp; How comest thou here?&nbsp; Methought I had provided
well for thee in making thee over to the King.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ah! my lord, I was fool, fool indeed, but all my jests failed
me.&nbsp; How could I make sport for your enemies?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And thou hast come, thou hast left the King to follow my fallen
fortunes?&rdquo; said Wolsey.&nbsp; &ldquo;My poor boy, he who is sitting
in sackcloth and ashes needs no jester.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay, my lord, nor can I find one jest to break!&nbsp; Would
you but let me be your meanest horse-boy, your scullion!&rdquo;&nbsp;
Hal&rsquo;s voice was cut short by tears as the Cardinal abandoned to
him one hand.&nbsp; The other was drying eyes that seldom wept.</p>
<p>&ldquo;My faithful Hal!&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;this is love indeed!&rdquo;</p>
<p>And Stephen ere he came away had seen his uncle fully established,
as a rational creature, and by his true name, as one of the personal
attendants on the Cardinal&rsquo;s bed-chamber, and treated with the
affection he well deserved.&nbsp; Wolsey had really seemed cheered by
his affection, and was devoting himself to the care of his hitherto
neglected and even unvisited diocese, in a way that delighted the hearts
of the Yorkshiremen.</p>
<p>The first idea was that Perronel should join her husband at York,
but safe modes of travelling were not easy to be found, and before any
satisfactory escort offered, there were rumours that made it prudent
to delay.&nbsp; As autumn advanced, it was known that the Earl of Northumberland
had been sent to attach the Cardinal of High Treason.&nbsp; Then ensued
other reports that the great Cardinal had sunk and died on his way to
London for trial; and at last, one dark winter evening, a sorrowful
man stumbled up the steps of the Dragon, and as he came into the bright
light of the fire, and Perronel sprang to meet him, he sank into a chair
and wept aloud.</p>
<p>He had been one of those who had lifted the broken-hearted Wolsey
from his mule in the cloister of Leicester Abbey, he had carried him
to his bed, watched over him, and supported him, as the Abbot of Leicester
gave him the last Sacraments.&nbsp; He had heard and treasured up those
mournful words which are Wolsey&rsquo;s chief legacy to the world, &ldquo;Had
I but served my God, as I have served my king, He would not have forsaken
me in my old age.&rdquo;&nbsp; For himself, he had the dying man&rsquo;s
blessing, and assurance that nothing had so much availed to cheer in
these sad hours as his faithful love.</p>
<p>Now, Perronel might do what she would with him&mdash;he cared not.</p>
<p>And what she did was to set forth with him for Hampshire, on a pair
of stout mules with a strong serving-man behind them.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXIV.&nbsp; THE SOLDIER</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>&ldquo;Of a worthy London prentice<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;My purpose
is to speak,<br />And tell his brave adventures<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Done
for his country&rsquo;s sake.<br />Seek all the world about<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And
you shall hardly find<br />A man in valour to exceed<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;A
prentice&rsquo; gallant mind.&rdquo;</p>
<p><i>The Homes of a London Prentice</i>.</p>
<p>Six more years had passed over the Dragon court, when, one fine summer
evening, as the old walls rang with the merriment of the young boys
at play, there entered through the gateway a tall, well-equipped, soldierly
figure, which caught the eyes of the little armourer world in a moment.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Oh, that&rsquo;s a real Milan helmet!&rdquo; exclaimed the one
lad.</p>
<p>&ldquo;And oh, what a belt and buff coat!&rdquo; cried another.</p>
<p>The subject of their admiration advanced muttering, &ldquo;As if
I&rsquo;d not been away a week,&rdquo; adding, &ldquo;I pray you, pretty
lads, doth Master Alderman Headley still dwell here?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yea, sir, he is our grandfather,&rdquo; said the elder boy,
holding a lesser one by the shoulder as he spoke.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Verily!&nbsp; And what may be your names?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am Giles Birkenholt, and this is my little brother, Dick.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Even as I thought.&nbsp; Wilt thou run in to your grandsire,
and tell him?&rdquo;</p>
<p>The bigger boy interrupted, &ldquo;Grandfather is going to bed.&nbsp;
He is old and weary, and cannot see strangers so late.&nbsp; &rsquo;Tis
our father who heareth all the orders.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And,&rdquo; added the little one, with wide open grave eyes,
&ldquo;Mother bade us run out and play and not trouble father, because
uncle Ambrose is so downcast because they have cut off the head of good
Sir Thomas More.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yet,&rdquo; said the visitor, &ldquo;methinks your father
would hear of an old comrade.&nbsp; Or stay, where be Tibble Steelman
and Kit Smallbones?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Tibble is in the hall, well-nigh as sad as uncle Ambrose,&rdquo;
began Dick; but Giles, better able to draw conclusions, exclaimed, &ldquo;Tibble!&nbsp;
Kit!&nbsp; You know them, sir!&nbsp; Oh! are you the Giles Headley that
ran away to be a soldier ere I was born?&nbsp; Kit!&nbsp; Kit! see here&mdash;&rdquo;
as the giant, broader and perhaps a little more bent, but with little
loss of strength, came forward out of his hut, and taking up the matter
just where it had been left fourteen years before, demanded as they
shook hands, &ldquo;Ah!&nbsp; Master Giles, how couldst thou play me
such a scurvy trick?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nay, Kit, was it not best for all that I turned my back to
make way for honest Stephen?&rdquo;</p>
<p>By this time young Giles had rushed up the stair to the hall, where,
as he said truly, Stephen was giving his brother such poor comfort as
could be had from sympathy, when listening to the story of the cheerful,
brave resignation of the noblest of all the victims of Henry VIII.&nbsp;
Ambrose had been with Sir Thomas well-nigh to the last, had carried
messages between him and his friends during his imprisonment, had handed
his papers to him at his trial, had been with Mrs. Roper when she broke
through the crowd and fell on his neck as he walked from Westminster
Hall with the axe-edge turned towards him; had received his last kind
farewell, counsel, and blessing, and had only not been with him on the
scaffold because Sir Thomas had forbidden it, saying, in the old strain
of mirth, which never forsook him, &ldquo;Nay, come not, my good friend.&nbsp;
Thou art of a queasy nature, and I would fain not haunt thee against
thy will.&rdquo;</p>
<p>All was over now, the wise and faithful head had fallen, because
it would not own the wrong for the right; and Ambrose had been brought
home by his brother, a being confounded, dazed, seeming hardly able
to think or understand aught save that the man whom he had above all
loved and looked up to was taken from him, judicially murdered, and
by the King.&nbsp; The whole world seemed utterly changed to him, and
as to thinking or planning for himself, he was incapable of it; indeed,
he looked fearfully ill.&nbsp; His little nephew came up to his father&rsquo;s
knee, pausing, though open-mouthed, and at the first token of permission,
bursting out, &ldquo;Oh! father!&nbsp; Here&rsquo;s a soldier in the
court!&nbsp; Kit is talking to him.&nbsp; And he is Giles Headley that
ran away.&nbsp; He has a beauteous Spanish leathern coat, and a belt
with silver bosses&mdash;and a morion that Phil Smallbones saith to
be of Milan, but I say it is French.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Stephen had no sooner gathered the import of this intelligence than
he sprang down almost as rapidly as his little boy, with his welcome.&nbsp;
Nor did Giles Headley return at all in the dilapidated condition that
had been predicted.&nbsp; He was stout, comely, and well fleshed, and
very handsomely clad and equipped in a foreign style, with nothing of
the lean wolfish appearance of Sir John Fulford.&nbsp; The two old comrades
heartily shook one another by the hand in real gladness at the meeting.&nbsp;
Stephen&rsquo;s welcome was crossed by the greeting and inquiry whether
all was well.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yea.&nbsp; The alderman is hale and hearty, but aged.&nbsp;
Your mother is tabled at a religious house at Salisbury.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I know.&nbsp; I landed at Southampton and have seen her.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And Dennet,&rdquo; Stephen added with a short laugh, &ldquo;she
could not wait for you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, verily.&nbsp; Did I not wot well that she cared not a
fico for me?&nbsp; I hoped when I made off that thou wouldst be the
winner, Steve, and I am right glad thou art, man.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I can but thank thee, Giles,&rdquo; said Stephen, changing
to the familiar singular pronoun.&nbsp; &ldquo;I have oft since thought
what a foolish figure I should have cut had I met thee among the Badgers,
after having given leg bail because I might not brook seeing thee wedded
to her.&nbsp; For I was sore tempted&mdash;only thou wast free, and
mine indenture held me fast.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then it was so!&nbsp; And I did thee a good turn!&nbsp; For
I tell thee, Steve, I never knew how well I liked thee till I was wounded
and sick among those who heeded neither God nor man!&nbsp; But one word
more, Stephen, ere we go in.&nbsp; The Moor&rsquo;s little maiden, is
she still unwedded?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yea,&rdquo; was Stephen&rsquo;s answer.&nbsp; &ldquo;She is
still waiting-maid to Mistress Roper, daughter to good Sir Thomas More;
but alack, Giles, they are in sore trouble, as it may be thou hast heard&mdash;and
my poor brother is like one distraught.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Ambrose did indeed meet Giles like one in a dream.&nbsp; He probably
would have made the same mechanical greeting, if the Emperor or the
Pope had been at that moment presented to him; but Dennet, who had been
attending to her father, made up all that was wanting in cordiality.&nbsp;
She had always had a certain sense of shame for having flouted her cousin,
and, as his mother told her, driven him to death and destruction, and
it was highly satisfactory to see him safe and sound, and apparently
respectable and prosperous.</p>
<p>Moreover, grieved as all the family were for the fate of the admirable
and excellent More, it was a relief to those less closely connected
with him to attend to something beyond poor Ambrose&rsquo;s sorrow and
his talk, the which moreover might be perilous if any outsider listened
and reported it to the authorities as disaffection to the King.&nbsp;
So Giles told his story, sitting on the gallery in the cool of the summer
evening, and marvelling over and over again how entirely unchanged all
was since his first view of the Dragon court as a proud, sullen, raw
lad twenty summers ago.&nbsp; Since that time he had seen so much that
the time appeared far longer to him than to those who had stayed at
home.</p>
<p>It seemed that Fulford had from the first fascinated him more than
any of the party guessed, and that each day of the free life of the
expedition, and of contact with the soldiery, made a return to the monotony
of the forge, the decorous life of a London citizen, and the bridal
with a child, to whom he was indifferent, seem more intolerable to him.&nbsp;
Fulford imagining rightly that the knowledge of his intentions might
deter young Birkenholt from escaping, enjoined strict secrecy on either
lad, not intending them to meet till it should be too late to return,
and therefore had arranged that Giles should quit the party on the way
to Calais, bringing with him Will Wherry, and the horse he rode.</p>
<p>Giles had then been enrolled among the Badgers.&nbsp; He had little
to tell about his life among them till the battle of Pavia, where he
had had the good fortune to take three French prisoners; but a stray
shot from a fugitive had broken his leg during the pursuit, and he had
been laid up in a merchant&rsquo;s house at Pavia for several months.&nbsp;
He evidently looked back to the time with gratitude, as having wakened
his better associations, which had been well-nigh stifled during the
previous years of the wild life of a soldier of fortune.&nbsp; His host&rsquo;s
young daughter had eyes like Aldonza, and the almost forgotten possibility
of returning to his love a brave and distinguished man awoke once more.&nbsp;
His burgher thrift began to assert itself again, and he deposited a
nest-egg from the ransoms of his prisoners in the hands of his host,
who gave him bonds by which he could recover the sum from Lombard correspondents
in London.</p>
<p>He was bound by his engagements to join the Badgers again, or he
would have gone home on his recovery; and he had shared in the terrible
taking of Rome, of which he declared that he could not speak&mdash;with
a significant look at Dennet and her children, who were devouring his
words.&nbsp; He had, however, stood guard over a lady and her young
children whom some savage Spaniards were about to murder, and the whole
family had overpowered him with gratitude, lodged him sumptuously in
their house, and shown themselves as grateful to him as if he had given
them all the treasure which he had abstained from seizing.</p>
<p>The sickness brought on by their savage excesses together with the
Roman summer had laid low many of the Badgers.&nbsp; When the Prince
of Orange drew off the army from the miserable city, scarce seven score
of that once gallant troop were in marching order, and Sir John Fulford
himself was dying.&nbsp; He sent for Giles, as less of a demon than
most of the troop, and sent a gold medal, the only fragment of spoil
remaining to him, to his daughter Perronel.&nbsp; To Giles himself Fulford
bequeathed Abenali&rsquo;s well-tested sword, and he died in the comfortable
belief&mdash;so far as he troubled himself about the matter at all&mdash;that
there were special exemptions for soldiers.</p>
<p>The Badgers now incorporated themselves with another broken body
of Landsknechts, and fell under the command of a better and more conscientious
captain.&nbsp; Giles, who had been horrified rather than hardened by
the experiences of Rome, was found trustworthy and rose in command.&nbsp;
The troop was sent to take charge of the Pope at Orvieto, and thus it
was that he had fallen in with the Englishmen of Gardiner&rsquo;s suite,
and had been able to send his letter to Ambrose.&nbsp; Since he had
found the means of rising out of the slough, he had made up his mind
to continue to serve till he had won some honour, and had obtained enough
to prevent his return as a hungry beggar.</p>
<p>His corps became known for discipline and valour.&nbsp; It was trusted
often, was in attendance on the Emperor, and was fairly well paid.&nbsp;
Giles was their &ldquo;ancient&rdquo; and had charge of the banner,
nor could it be doubted that he had flourished.&nbsp; His last adventure
had been the expedition to Tunis, when 20,000 Christian captives had
been set free from the dungeons and galleys, and so grand a treasure
had been shared among the soldiery that Giles, having completed the
term of service for which he was engaged, decided on returning to England,
before, as he said, he grew any older, to see how matters were going.</p>
<p>&ldquo;For the future,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;it depended on how
he found things.&nbsp; If Aldonza would none of him, he should return
to the Emperor&rsquo;s service.&nbsp; If she would go with him, he held
such a position that he could provide for her honourably.&nbsp; Or he
could settle in England.&nbsp; For he had a good sum in the hands of
Lombard merchants; having made over to them spoils of war, ransoms,
and arrears when he obtained them; and having at times earned something
by exercising his craft, which he said had been most valuable to him.&nbsp;
Indeed he thought he could show Stephen and Tibble a few fresh arts
he had picked up at Milan.</p>
<p>Meantime his first desire was to see Aldonza.&nbsp; She was still
at Chelsea with her mistress, and Ambrose, to his brother&rsquo;s regret,
went thither every day, partly because he could not keep away, and partly
to try to be of use to the family.&nbsp; Giles might accompany him,
though he still looked so absorbed in his trouble that it was doubtful
whether he had really understood what was passing, or that he was wanted
to bring about an interview between his companion and Aldonza.</p>
<p>The beautiful grounds at Chelsea, in their summer beauty, looked
inexpressibly mournful, deprived of him who had planted and cherished
the trees and roses.&nbsp; As they passed along in the barge, one spot
after another recalled More&rsquo;s bright jests or wise words; above
all, the very place where he had told his son-in-law Roper that he was
merry, not because he was safe, but because the fight was won, and his
conscience had triumphed against the King he loved and feared.</p>
<p>Giles told of the report that the Emperor had said he would have
given a hundred of his nobles for one such councillor as More, and the
prospect of telling this to the daughters had somewhat cheered Ambrose.&nbsp;
They found a guard in the royal livery at the stairs to the river, and
at the door of the house, but these had been there ever since Sir Thomas&rsquo;s
apprehension.&nbsp; They knew Ambrose Birkenholt, and made no objection
to his passing in and leaving his companion to walk about among the
borders and paths, once so trim, but already missing their master&rsquo;s
hand and eye.</p>
<p>Very long it seemed to Giles, who was nearly despairing, when a female
figure in black came out of one of the side doors, which were not guarded,
and seemed to be timidly looking for him.&nbsp; Instantly he was at
her side.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Not here,&rdquo; she said, and in silence led the way to a
pleached alley out of sight of the windows.&nbsp; There they stood still.&nbsp;
It was a strange meeting of two who had not seen each other for fourteen
years, when the one was a tall, ungainly youth, the other well-nigh
a child.&nbsp; And now Giles was a fine, soldierly man in the prime
of life, with a short, curled beard, and powerful, alert bearing, and
Aldonza, though the first flower of her youth had gone by, yet, having
lived a sheltered and far from toilsome life, was a really beautiful
woman, gracefully proportioned, and with the delicate features and clear
olive skin of the Andalusian Moor.&nbsp; Her eyes, always her finest
feature, were sunken with weeping, but their soft beauty could still
be seen.&nbsp; Giles threw himself on his knee and grasped at her hand.</p>
<p>&ldquo;My love!&mdash;my only love!&rdquo; he cried.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh! how can I think of such matters now&mdash;now, when it
is thus with my dear mistress,&rdquo; said Aldonza, in a mournful voice,
as though her tears were all spent&mdash;yet not withholding her hand.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You knew me before you knew her,&rdquo; said Giles.&nbsp;
&ldquo;See, Aldonza, what I have brought back to you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>And he half drew the sword her father had made.&nbsp; She gave a
gasp of delight, for well she knew every device in the gold inlaying
of the blade, and she looked at Giles with eyes fall of gratitude.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I knew thou wouldst own me,&rdquo; said Giles.&nbsp; &ldquo;I
have fought and gone far from thee, Aldonza.&nbsp; Canst not spare one
word for thine old Giles?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ah, Giles&mdash;there is one thing which if you will do for
my mistress, I would be yours from&mdash;from my heart of hearts.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Say it, sweetheart, and it is done.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You know not.&nbsp; It is perilous, and may be many would
quail.&nbsp; Yet it may be less perilous for you than for one who is
better known.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Peril and I are well acquainted, my heart.&rdquo;&nbsp; She
lowered her voice as her eyes dilated, and she laid her hand on his
arm.&nbsp; &ldquo;Thou wottest what is on London Bridge gates?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I saw it, a sorry sight.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;My mistress will not rest till that dear and sacred head,
holy as any blessed relic, be taken down so as not to be the sport of
sun and wind, and cruel men gaping beneath.&nbsp; She cannot sleep,
she cannot sit or stand still, she cannot even kiss her child for thinking
of it.&nbsp; Her mind is set on taking it down, yet she will not peril
her husband.&nbsp; Nor verily know I how any here could do the deed.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ha!&nbsp; I have scaled a wall ere now.&nbsp; I bare our banner
at Goletta, with the battlements full of angry Moors, not far behind
the Emperor&rsquo;s.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You would?&nbsp; And be secret?&nbsp; Then indeed nought would
be overmuch for you.&nbsp; And this very night&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;The sooner the better.&rdquo;</p>
<p>She not only clasped his hand in thanks, but let him raise her face
to his, and take the reward he felt his due.&nbsp; Then she said she
must return, but Ambrose would bring him all particulars.&nbsp; Ambrose
was as anxious as herself and her mistress that the thing should be
done, but was unfit by all his habits, and his dainty, scholarly niceness,
to render such effectual assistance as the soldier could do.&nbsp; Giles
offered to scale the gate by night himself, carry off the head, and
take it to any place Mrs. Roper might appoint, with no assistance save
such as Ambrose could afford.&nbsp; Aldonza shuddered a little at this,
proving that her heart had gone out to him already, but with this he
had to be contented, for she went back into the house, and he saw her
no more.&nbsp; Ambrose came back to him, and, with something more like
cheerfulness than he had yet seen, said, &ldquo;Thou art happy, Giles.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;More happy than I durst hope&mdash;to find her&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Tush!&nbsp; I meant not that.&nbsp; But to be able to do the
work of the holy ones of old who gathered the remnants of the martyrs,
while I have indeed the will, but am but a poor craven!&nbsp; It is
gone nearer to comfort that sad-hearted lady than aught else.&rdquo;</p>
<p>It appeared that Mrs. Roper would not be satisfied unless she herself
were present at the undertaking, and this was contrary to the views
of Giles, who thought the further off women were in such a matter the
better.&nbsp; There was a watch at the outer entrance of London Bridge,
the trainbands taking turns to supply it, but it was known by experience
that they did not think it necessary to keep awake after belated travellers
had ceased to come in; and Sir Thomas More&rsquo;s head was set over
the opposite gateway, looking inwards at the City.&nbsp; The most suitable
hour would be between one and two o&rsquo;clock, when no one would be
stirring, and the summer night would be at the shortest.&nbsp; Mrs.
Roper was exceedingly anxious to implicate no one, and to prevent her
husband and brother from having any knowledge of an act that William
Roper might have prohibited, as if she could not absolutely exculpate
him, it might be fatal to him.&nbsp; She would therefore allow no one
to assist save Ambrose, and a few more devoted old servants, of condition
too low for anger to be likely to light upon them.&nbsp; She was to
be rowed with muffled oars to the spot, to lie hid in the shadow of
the bridge till a signal like the cry of the pee-wit was exchanged from
the bridge, then approach the stairs at the inner angle of the bridge
where Giles and Ambrose would meet her.</p>
<p>Giles&rsquo;s experience as a man-at-arms stood him in good stead.&nbsp;
He purchased a rope as he went home, also some iron ramps.&nbsp; He
took a survey of the arched gateway in the course of the afternoon,
and shutting himself into one of the worksheds with Ambrose, he constructed
such a rope ladder as was used in scaling fortresses, especially when
seized at night by surprise.&nbsp; He beguiled the work by a long series
of anecdotes of adventures of the kind, of all of which Ambrose heard
not one word.&nbsp; The whole court, and especially Giles number three,
were very curious as to their occupation, but nothing was said even
to Stephen, for it was better, if Ambrose should be suspected, that
he should be wholly ignorant, but he had&mdash;they knew not how&mdash;gathered
somewhat.&nbsp; Only Ambrose was, at parting for the night, obliged
to ask him for the key of the gate.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Brother,&rdquo; then he said, &ldquo;what is this work I see?&nbsp;
Dost think I can let thee go into a danger I do not partake?&nbsp; I
will share in this pious act towards the man I have ever reverenced.&rdquo;</p>
<p>So at dead of night the three men stole out together, all in the
plainest leathern suits.&nbsp; The deed was done in the perfect stillness
of the sleeping City, and without mishap or mischance.&nbsp; Stephen&rsquo;s
strong hand held the ladder securely and aided to fix it to the ramps,
and just as the early dawn was touching the summit of St. Paul&rsquo;s
spire with a promise of light, Giles stepped into the boat, and reverently
placed his burden within the opening of a velvet cushion that had been
ripped up and deprived of part of the stuffing, so as to conceal it
effectually.&nbsp; The brave Margaret Roper, the English Antigone, well
knowing that all depended on her self-control, refrained from aught
that might shake it.&nbsp; She only raised her face to Giles and murmured
from dry lips, &ldquo;Sir, God must reward you!&rdquo;&nbsp; And Aldonza,
who sat beside her, held out her hand.</p>
<p>Ambrose was to go with them to the priest&rsquo;s house, where Mrs.
Roper was forced to leave her treasure, since she durst not take it
to Chelsea, as the royal officers were already in possession, and the
whole family were to depart on the ensuing day.&nbsp; Stephen and Giles
returned safely to Cheapside.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXV.&nbsp; OLD HAUNTS</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>&ldquo;O the oak, and the birch, and the bonny holly tree,<br />They
flourish best at home in my own countree.&rdquo;</p>
<p>When the absence of the barbarous token of the execution was discovered,
suspicion instantly fell on the More family, and Margaret, her husband,
and her brother, were all imprisoned.&nbsp; The brave lady took all
upon herself, and gave no names of her associates in the deed, and as
Henry VIII. still sometimes had better moods, all were soon released.</p>
<p>But that night had given Ambrose a terrible cough, so that Dennet
kept him in bed two days.&nbsp; Indeed he hardly cared to rise from
it.&nbsp; His whole nature, health, spirits, and mind, had been so cruelly
strained, and he was so listless, so weak, so incapable of rousing himself,
or turning to any fresh scheme of life, that Stephen decided on fulfilling
a long-cherished plan of visiting their native home and seeing their
uncle, who had, as he had contrived to send them word, settled down
on a farm which he had bought with Perronel&rsquo;s savings, near Romsey.&nbsp;
Headley, who was lingering till Aldonza could leave her mistress and
decide on any plan, undertook to attend to the business, and little
Giles, to his great delight, was to accompany them.</p>
<p>So the brothers went over the old ground.&nbsp; They slept in the
hostel at Dogmersfield where the Dragon mark and the badge of the Armourers&rsquo;
Company had first appeared before them.&nbsp; They found the very tree
where the alderman had been tied, and beneath which Spring lay buried,
while little Giles gazed with ecstatic, almost religious veneration,
and Ambrose seemed to draw in new life with the fresh air of the heath,
now becoming rich with crimson bells.&nbsp; They visited Hyde Abbey,
and the well-clothed, well-mounted travellers received a better welcome
than had fallen to the lot of the hungry lads.&nbsp; They were shown
the grave of old Richard Birkenholt in the cloister, and Stephen left
a sum to be expended in masses for his behoof.&nbsp; They looked into
St. Elizabeth&rsquo;s College, but the kind warden was dead, and a trembling
old man who looked at them through the wicket hoped they were not sent
from the Commissioners.&nbsp; For the visitation of the lesser religious
houses was going on, and St. Elizabeth&rsquo;s was already doomed.&nbsp;
Stephen inquired at the White Hart for Father Shoveller, and heard that
he had grown too old to perform the office of a bailiff, and had retired
to the parent abbey.&nbsp; The brothers therefore renounced their first
scheme of taking Silkstede in their way, and made for Romsey.&nbsp;
There, under the shadow of the magnificent nunnery, they dined pleasantly
by the waterside at the sign of Bishop Blaise, patron of the woolcombers
of the town, and halted long enough to refresh Ambrose, who was equal
to very little fatigue.&nbsp; It amused Stephen to recollect how mighty
a place he had once thought the little town.</p>
<p>Did mine host know Master Randall?&nbsp; What, Master Randall of
Baddesley?&nbsp; He should think so!&nbsp; Was not the good man or his
good wife here every market day, with a pleasant word for every one!&nbsp;
Men said he had had some good office about the Court, as steward or
the like&mdash;for he was plainly conversant with great men, though
he made no boast.&nbsp; If these guests were kin of his, they were welcome
for his sake.</p>
<p>So the brothers rode on amid the gorse and heather till they came
to a broad-spreading oak tree, sheltering a farmhouse built in frames
of heavy timber, filled up with bricks set in zigzag patterns, with
a high-pitched roof and tall chimneys.&nbsp; Barns and stacks were near
it, and fields reclaimed from the heath were waving with corn just tinged
with the gold of harvest.&nbsp; Three or four cows, of the tawny hue
that looked so home-like to the brothers, were being released from the
stack-yard after being milked, and conducted to their field by a tall,
white-haired man in a farmer&rsquo;s smock with a little child perched
on his shoulder, who gave a loud jubilant cry at the sight of the riders.&nbsp;
Stephen, pushing on, began the question whether Master Randall dwelt
there, but it broke off half way into a cry of recognition on either
side, Harry&rsquo;s an absolute shout.&nbsp; &ldquo;The lads, the lads!&nbsp;
Wife, wife! &rsquo;tis our own lads!&rdquo;</p>
<p>And as Perronel, more buxom and rosy than London had ever made her,
came forth from her dairy, and there was a m&ecirc;l&eacute;e of greetings,
and Stephen would have asked what homeless little one the pair had adopted,
he was cut short by an exulting laugh.&nbsp; &ldquo;No more adopted
than thy Giles there, Stephen.&nbsp; &rsquo;Tis our own boy, Thomas
Randall!&nbsp; Yea, and if he have come late, he is the better loved,
though I trow Perronel there will ever look on Ambrose as her eldest
son.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And by my troth, he needs good country diet and air!&rdquo;
cried Perronel.&nbsp; &ldquo;Thou hast had none to take care of thee,
Ambrose.&nbsp; They have let thee pine and dwine over thy books.&nbsp;
I must take thee in hand.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;&rsquo;Tis what I brought him to thee for, good aunt,&rdquo;
said Stephen, smiling.</p>
<p>Great was the interchange of news over the homely hearty meal.&nbsp;
It was plain that no one could be happier, or more prosperous in a humble
way, than the ex-jester and his wife; and if anything could restore
Ambrose it would surely be the homely plenty and motherly care he found
there.</p>
<p>Stephen heard another tale of his half-brother.&nbsp; His wife had
soon been disgusted by the loneliness of the verdurer&rsquo;s lodge,
and was always finding excuses for going to Southampton, where she and
her daughter had both caught the plague, imported in some Eastern merchandise,
and had died.&nbsp; The only son had turned out wild and wicked, and
had been killed in a broil which he had provoked: and John, a broken-down
man, with no one to enjoy the wealth he had accumulated, had given up
his office as verdurer, and retired to an estate which he had purchased
on the skirts of the Forest.</p>
<p>Stephen rode thither to see him, and found him a dying man, tyrannised
over and neglected by his servants, and having often bitterly regretted
his hardness towards his young brothers.&nbsp; All that Stephen did
for him he received as tokens of pardon, and it was not possible to
leave him until, after a fortnight&rsquo;s watching, he died in his
brother&rsquo;s arms.&nbsp; He had made no will, and Ambrose thus inherited
a property which made his future maintenance no longer an anxiety to
his brother.</p>
<p>He himself seemed to care very little for the matter.&nbsp; To be
allowed to rest under Perronel&rsquo;s care, to read his Erasmus&rsquo;
Testament, and attend mass on Sundays at the little Norman church, seemed
all that he wished.&nbsp; Stephen tried to persuade him that he was
young enough at thirty-five to marry and begin life again on the fair
woodland river-bordered estate that was his portion, but he shook his
head.&nbsp; &ldquo;No, Stephen, my work is over.&nbsp; I could only
help my dear master, and that is at an end.&nbsp; Dean Colet is gone,
Sir Thomas is gone, what more have I to do here?&nbsp; Old ties are
broken, old bonds severed.&nbsp; Crime and corruption were protested
against in vain; and, now that judgment is beginning at the house of
God, I am thankful that I am not like to live to see it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Perronel scolded and exhorted him, and told him he would be stronger
when the hot weather was over, but Ambrose only smiled, and Stephen
saw a change in him, even in this fortnight, which justified his forebodings.</p>
<p>Stephen and his uncle found a trustworthy bailiff to manage the estate,
and Ambrose remained in the house where he could now be no burthen.&nbsp;
Stephen was obliged to leave him and take home young Giles, who had,
he found, become so completely a country lad, enjoying everything to
the utmost, that he already declared that he would much rather be a
yeoman and forester than an armourer, and that he did not want to be
apprenticed to that black forge.</p>
<p>This again made Ambrose smile with pleasure as he thought of the
boy as keeping up the name of Birkenholt in the Forest.&nbsp; The one
wish he expressed was that Stephen would send down Tibble Steelman to
be with him.&nbsp; For in truth they both felt that in London Tib might
at any time be laid hands on, and suffer at Smithfield for his opinions.&nbsp;
The hope of being a comfort to Ambrose was perhaps the only idea that
could have counterbalanced the sense that he ought not to fly from martyrdom;
and as it proved, the invitation came only just in time.&nbsp; Three
days after Tibble had been despatched by the Southampton carrier in
charge of all the comforts Dennet could put together, Bishop Stokesley&rsquo;s
grim &ldquo;soumpnour&rdquo; came to summon him to the Bishop&rsquo;s
court, and there could be little question that he would have courted
the faggot and stake.&nbsp; But as he was gone out of reach, no further
inquiries were made after him.</p>
<p>Dennet had told her husband that she had been amazed to find how,
in spite of a very warm affection for her, her husband, and children,
her father hankered after the old name, and grieved that he could not
fulfil his old engagement to his cousin Robert.&nbsp; Giles Headley
had managed the business excellently during Stephen&rsquo;s absence,
had shown himself very capable, and gained good opinions from all.&nbsp;
Rubbing about in the world had been very good for him; and she verily
believed that nothing would make her father so happy as for them to
offer to share the business with Giles.&nbsp; She would on her part
make Aldonza welcome, and had no fears of not agreeing with her.&nbsp;
Besides&mdash;if little Giles were indeed to be heir to Testside was
not the way made clear?</p>
<p>So thus it was.&nbsp; The alderman was very happy in the arrangement,
and Giles Headley had not forfeited his rights to be a freeman of London
or a member of the Armourers&rsquo; Guild.&nbsp; He married Aldonza
at Michaelmas, and all went well and peacefully in the household.&nbsp;
Dennet never quitted her father while he lived; but Stephen struggled
through winter roads and floods, and reached Baddesley in time to watch
his brother depart in peace, his sorrow and indignation for his master
healed by the sense of his martyrdom, and his trust firm and joyful.&nbsp;
&ldquo;If this be, as it is, dying of grief,&rdquo; said Hal Randall,
&ldquo;surely it is a blessed way to die!&rdquo;</p>
<p>A few winters later Stephen and Dennet left Giles Headley in sole
possession of the Dragon, with their second son as an apprentice, while
they themselves took up the old forest life as Master and Mistress Birkenholt
of Testside, where they lived and died honoured and loved.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div>
<p>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE ARMOURER'S PRENTICES ***</p>
<pre>

******This file should be named arpn10h.htm or arpn10h.zip******
Corrected EDITIONS of our EBooks get a new NUMBER, arpn11h.htm
VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, arpn10ah.htm

Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US
unless a copyright notice is included.  Thus, we usually do not
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

We are now trying to release all our eBooks one year in advance
of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing.
Please be encouraged to tell us about any error or corrections,
even years after the official publication date.

Please note neither this listing nor its contents are final til
midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement.
The official release date of all Project Gutenberg eBooks is at
Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month.  A
preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment
and editing by those who wish to do so.

Most people start at our Web sites at:
http://gutenberg.net or
http://promo.net/pg

These Web sites include award-winning information about Project
Gutenberg, including how to donate, how to help produce our new
eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter (free!).


Those of you who want to download any eBook before announcement
can get to them as follows, and just download by date.  This is
also a good way to get them instantly upon announcement, as the
indexes our cataloguers produce obviously take a while after an
announcement goes out in the Project Gutenberg Newsletter.

http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/etext05 or
ftp://ftp.ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/etext05

Or /etext04, 03, 02, 01, 00, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 92,
91 or 90

Just search by the first five letters of the filename you want,
as it appears in our Newsletters.


Information about Project Gutenberg (one page)

We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work.  The
time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours
to get any eBook selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright
searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc.   Our
projected audience is one hundred million readers.  If the value
per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2
million dollars per hour in 2002 as we release over 100 new text
files per month:  1240 more eBooks in 2001 for a total of 4000+
We are already on our way to trying for 2000 more eBooks in 2002
If they reach just 1-2% of the world's population then the total
will reach over half a trillion eBooks given away by year's end.

The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away 1 Trillion eBooks!
This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers,
which is only about 4% of the present number of computer users.

Here is the briefest record of our progress (* means estimated):

eBooks Year Month

    1  1971 July
   10  1991 January
  100  1994 January
 1000  1997 August
 1500  1998 October
 2000  1999 December
 2500  2000 December
 3000  2001 November
 4000  2001 October/November
 6000  2002 December*
 9000  2003 November*
10000  2004 January*


The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been created
to secure a future for Project Gutenberg into the next millennium.

We need your donations more than ever!

As of February, 2002, contributions are being solicited from people
and organizations in: Alabama, Alaska, Arkansas, Connecticut,
Delaware, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Illinois,
Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Massachusetts,
Michigan, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New
Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, Ohio,
Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, South
Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West
Virginia, Wisconsin, and Wyoming.

We have filed in all 50 states now, but these are the only ones
that have responded.

As the requirements for other states are met, additions to this list
will be made and fund raising will begin in the additional states.
Please feel free to ask to check the status of your state.

In answer to various questions we have received on this:

We are constantly working on finishing the paperwork to legally
request donations in all 50 states.  If your state is not listed and
you would like to know if we have added it since the list you have,
just ask.

While we cannot solicit donations from people in states where we are
not yet registered, we know of no prohibition against accepting
donations from donors in these states who approach us with an offer to
donate.

International donations are accepted, but we don't know ANYTHING about
how to make them tax-deductible, or even if they CAN be made
deductible, and don't have the staff to handle it even if there are
ways.

Donations by check or money order may be sent to:

 PROJECT GUTENBERG LITERARY ARCHIVE FOUNDATION
 809 North 1500 West
 Salt Lake City, UT 84116

Contact us if you want to arrange for a wire transfer or payment
method other than by check or money order.

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been approved by
the US Internal Revenue Service as a 501(c)(3) organization with EIN
[Employee Identification Number] 64-622154.  Donations are
tax-deductible to the maximum extent permitted by law.  As fund-raising
requirements for other states are met, additions to this list will be
made and fund-raising will begin in the additional states.

We need your donations more than ever!

You can get up to date donation information online at:

http://www.gutenberg.net/donation.html


***

If you can't reach Project Gutenberg,
you can always email directly to:

Michael S. Hart hart@pobox.com

Prof. Hart will answer or forward your message.

We would prefer to send you information by email.


**The Legal Small Print**


(Three Pages)

***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS**START***
Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers.
They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with
your copy of this eBook, even if you got it for free from
someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our
fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement
disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how
you may distribute copies of this eBook if you want to.

*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS EBOOK
By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm
eBook, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept
this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive
a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this eBook by
sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person
you got it from. If you received this eBook on a physical
medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request.

ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM EBOOKS
This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBooks,
is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor Michael S. Hart
through the Project Gutenberg Association (the "Project").
Among other things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright
on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and
distribute it in the United States without permission and
without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth
below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this eBook
under the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark.

Please do not use the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark to market
any commercial products without permission.

To create these eBooks, the Project expends considerable
efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain
works. Despite these efforts, the Project's eBooks and any
medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other
things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged
disk or other eBook medium, a computer virus, or computer
codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES
But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below,
[1] Michael Hart and the Foundation (and any other party you may
receive this eBook from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook) disclaims
all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including
legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR
UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT,
INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE
OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE
POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES.

If you discover a Defect in this eBook within 90 days of
receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any)
you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that
time to the person you received it from. If you received it
on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and
such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement
copy. If you received it electronically, such person may
choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to
receive it electronically.

THIS EBOOK IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS
TO THE EBOOK OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A
PARTICULAR PURPOSE.

Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or
the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the
above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you
may have other legal rights.

INDEMNITY
You will indemnify and hold Michael Hart, the Foundation,
and its trustees and agents, and any volunteers associated
with the production and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm
texts harmless, from all liability, cost and expense, including
legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the
following that you do or cause:  [1] distribution of this eBook,
[2] alteration, modification, or addition to the eBook,
or [3] any Defect.

DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm"
You may distribute copies of this eBook electronically, or by
disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this
"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg,
or:

[1]  Only give exact copies of it.  Among other things, this
     requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the
     eBook or this "small print!" statement.  You may however,
     if you wish, distribute this eBook in machine readable
     binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form,
     including any form resulting from conversion by word
     processing or hypertext software, but only so long as
     *EITHER*:

     [*]  The eBook, when displayed, is clearly readable, and
          does *not* contain characters other than those
          intended by the author of the work, although tilde
          (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may
          be used to convey punctuation intended by the
          author, and additional characters may be used to
          indicate hypertext links; OR

     [*]  The eBook may be readily converted by the reader at
          no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent
          form by the program that displays the eBook (as is
          the case, for instance, with most word processors);
          OR

     [*]  You provide, or agree to also provide on request at
          no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the
          eBook in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC
          or other equivalent proprietary form).

[2]  Honor the eBook refund and replacement provisions of this
     "Small Print!" statement.

[3]  Pay a trademark license fee to the Foundation of 20% of the
     gross profits you derive calculated using the method you
     already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  If you
     don't derive profits, no royalty is due.  Royalties are
     payable to "Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation"
     the 60 days following each date you prepare (or were
     legally required to prepare) your annual (or equivalent
     periodic) tax return.  Please contact us beforehand to
     let us know your plans and to work out the details.

WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO?
Project Gutenberg is dedicated to increasing the number of
public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed
in machine readable form.

The Project gratefully accepts contributions of money, time,
public domain materials, or royalty free copyright licenses.
Money should be paid to the:
"Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."

If you are interested in contributing scanning equipment or
software or other items, please contact Michael Hart at:
hart@pobox.com

[Portions of this eBook's header and trailer may be reprinted only
when distributed free of all fees.  Copyright (C) 2001, 2002 by
Michael S. Hart.  Project Gutenberg is a TradeMark and may not be
used in any sales of Project Gutenberg eBooks or other materials be
they hardware or software or any other related product without
express permission.]

*END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS*Ver.02/11/02*END*
</pre></body>
</html>
generated by cgit v1.2.3 (git 2.25.1) at 2026-02-20 14:51:57 +0000