The Coming of the King
- -
- 100%
- +
"Ay, that is so, Roland, and thou hast never told me a lie. But I am convinced of this: That old man never intended thee to die in that cavern."
"No," I replied. "What is your reason for believing that?"
"I have many reasons."
"Then why did he leave me?"
"To return after you had fasted two or three days, and when your strength would be so gone that he would be able to make his own terms with you."
I had not thought of this before, and I wondered at my dullness, for there was sense in my father's surmise, and I fancied there might be truth in it.
"I see gay doings ahead," said my father presently.
"Ay," I replied, for I was thinking of the reception the king would meet in London.
"Never did a king come to a throne under fairer skies," said my father. "He hath come back without conditions. His will is as powerful as his father desired his own to be. But there will be a terrible time for the Puritans."
"But he hath promised general forgiveness."
"He is the son of his father, and all the world knows what a Stuart's promises are worth. But never mind, thou hast found favour. See that thou dost make use of it. But ask for nothing yet; throw your dice carefully. But, Roland, you must obtain those papers."
Again I looked nervously around, but I saw at a glance that no one paid heed to us.
"I tell you, you must do nothing until they are in your possession."
"No," I replied eagerly enough, for his commands fell in with my mood.
"I can do nothing to help you."
I looked at him inquiringly.
"Nothing. I shall have other things to look after. But you are no fool, and you must do it yourself. And mind, never sow your seed until your ground is prepared."
At this I set to wondering much as to what might be in my father's mind, but not, I am afraid, to much purpose, seeing that the noise of the crowd seemed to increase rather than diminish, especially as we drew near Canterbury.
Arrived at this old city, the king make straight for the Cathedral, and so great was the multitude who desired to follow him that I became separated from my father; and then, scarcely regretting the happening, I rode away from the turmoil, and set out for London town with all speed. A full hundred miles lay before me, but I hoped that by hard riding, even although the day was somewhat spent, I should get thither before midnight. My horse had rested for several days, and had been well fed and groomed during the time, and being a creature of high mettle, he responded to the feelings of his rider, and dashed forward at a fine speed. I had not ridden many miles, however, before I noticed that two men were riding behind me, and as I judged were anxious to keep me in sight. At first I took but little note of them, but when I found they kept about the same distance from me, neither losing nor gaining upon me, I began to wonder what was in their minds. About five o'clock in the afternoon I stopped at an inn, so that I might obtain refreshment for my horse and myself, and also, as I thought, give them an opportunity of passing me. I took my place near the window, so that I might be able to watch my horse and the road, at the same time, but although I let nothing escape me, I saw neither of them pass by the hostelry in which I was sitting.
"They must have taken some other road," I said to myself, and when after a few minutes I again mounted, and on looking around saw no sign of them, I was confirmed in my impression. But in this I was quickly deceived, for I had not gone a mile along the road, before I heard the sound of horses' hoofs, and on turning round, I saw these same two men at a short distance from me.
I stopped, determining to have the matter out with them, but the moment I did so they likewise stopped, as if by set purpose.
"Two to one," I said to myself, "and both are armed. It were foolish for me to pick a quarrel." So I determined to outdistance them by hard riding. But here again I failed to succeed, for although as I have said Black Ben was young and fleet, I could gain not one yard upon them.
If I galloped they did likewise, and if I dropped into a canter they followed my example. This kind of thing was kept up until I saw the sun begin to sink, and then, seeing a piece of lonely country before me, I began to apprehend an attack.
"Two to one," I repeated to myself, and I began to examine my pistols, and to see to it that my sword lay easy in its sheath; but no sooner had I done this than they vanished as if by magic, and I was left alone. Upon this I again gave Black Ben rein, but by this time he had become somewhat wearied by his long journey, so that although I made good speed, I feared to press him too hardly.
A little later, and the night had fallen; moreover my way led through a wood, which made everything dark, so that I had to ride warily. Added to this, I presently approached a steep hill, where I rode slowly so that my horse might take breath. I had scarcely gone half-way up when I heard a rustle among the bushes at my side, and before I had time to draw either pistol or sword, my arms were pinioned, and I was thrown to the ground with great force.
"Not a sound, not a movement, or I will blow your brains out," said some one in my ear.
I tried to catch sight of his face, but in vain. The woods made the road dark, and as far as I could judge he was closely muffled. Moreover the fall stunned me, and so numbed my senses that I was unable to think clearly. I remember, however, that they searched my pockets, which made me think of them as common footpads, but even when they had done this they did not leave me.
"Have you found it?" said one.
"Not a sign of it," said another.
"But the fellow hath it: we must get it out of him somehow."
"He hath not, I tell you. I've searched him to the skin. This was easy, for the fall knocked all life out of him. He lies like a man dead."
"Surely, we've not killed him?"
"No, he breathes."
"Then ask him where he put it, and threaten to flog him alive if he will not tell you."
"A good thought. I say there – wake up!" and he shook me violently.
By this time my senses had come back to me sufficiently to know that I should learn most by holding my peace. I therefore continued to lie like a man dead.
"I say, you Rashcliffe, speak up. It's to your advantage, man," the man continued.
This, as you may be sure, made me more alert than ever, I was now convinced that these were no common footpads, but men who had followed and attacked me for a purpose. They knew my name, and they suspected me of having something which they desired. Immediately I thought of old Solomon's words, "the Duke of York would give his eyes to have this thing." Were these men agents of the duke, and had they discovered that I had found out where the marriage contract was?
"It's no use, Rickmore. He must have struck his head against a stone when we dragged him from his horse. He may lie like this for hours."
"You are sure you've searched him thoroughly?"
"Every rag upon his body?"
"And what have you found?"
"Nought but a little money and his pistols."
"Pull off his boots, it may be there."
I allowed them to pull off my boots, lying limp and inert as they did so; but, as may be imagined, they were again disappointed.
"The fellow hath nought," said the man who had been called Rickmore, "and 'pon my word, I believe he's dead."
"Then Duke James will have to wait."
"Hush, man, some one may hear!"
"Hear!" and the other laughed scornfully. "There's not a living soul within three miles of the place. I say Duke James will have to wait. The thing must be found, but this springald hath it not, spite of the woman's speech."
"Doth the thing exist at all?"
"Exist! You should have seen the look on Duke James' face when I told him what Katharine Harcomb had said to me. 'By the Holy Virgin, Hamilton,' said he, speaking like the good Catholic he is, 'get hold of the young rascal. Never let him out of your sight until you have obtained all he hath found, and know all he can tell you.'"
"Did he say that?"
"Ay he did. I tell you he puts great store on it."
"But the fellow hath it not."
"No, and what is worse we have so nearly killed him that he might as well be dead."
"Well, what are we to do?"
"We can do nought but return to London, and wait for the coming of the king. At all events the king is king, thanks to Monk."
"He's to be made a duke, I hear."
"After Denman's wife tried to send him to heaven?"
"Ay, and would have succeeded, but for a mishap."
"Nay, nay. She might have sent him to hell, but never to heaven."
"Well, from all I hear no one could wish to be sent to the other world by a fairer hand. Men have it that when Denman married Master Leslie's daughter, he wedded a face as fair as an angel's."
"Well, it'll not save her from the gallows. Had her father not been such a Puritan, it might have gained her favour with King Charles, but I hear that the very name stinks in his nostrils. I am told that she nearly escaped, but a man rode night and day to Dover to tell Monk that she had been captured, and was safely lodged in Bedford Gaol."
"She must be a brave woman. Were she not the wife of such a fellow as Denman I would strike a blow for her deliverance. Bedford Gaol is not a hard place to get out of, for the gaoler not only loves his wine, but will take a bribe. Besides, the woman who tried to send Monk into eternity deserves some help. But say, what are we to do with this young jackanapes?"
"Do you think he's dead?"
"No; he lives, although there's no knowing how much we've hurt him. We dare not let it be known that we've had aught to do with him. Duke James was very careful to tell us that everything must be done in secret."
"Then let him lie, while we make our way to London."
"Shall we take his money? He will think then that we are footpads."
"No, we cannot do that, badly as we need it. After all, a gentleman is a gentleman."
"Nor his horse? It is a good one."
"Nay, that might tell tales. Besides, we are well supplied; let us on to London. A good night's rest to you, Master Rashcliffe."
"With apologies for delay."
"And a curse upon you for not having what we wanted."
I heard them laugh as they mounted and rode away, as though they were pleased with themselves. For some time I did not move; I thought it would be wiser to keep up the part I had been playing, for fear they might come back. Presently I heard the sound of horses coming towards me from the Canterbury road, and this led me to get up with all speed, and to call Black Ben to my side. A few minutes later I was again on horseback, but little the worse for my happening, although sore vexed with myself for being mastered so easily. Still, I had learnt something. I was not the only one who was trying to obtain Lucy Walters' marriage contract, while my father was not the only one to whom Katharine Harcomb had spoken concerning the thing. Moreover I had been confirmed in my information concerning the prison of Mistress Denman, neither did I fail to take note of what was said about the gaoler.
On the whole, therefore, I was not ill-pleased with the night's events, and possessed no very bitter feelings towards either Master Rickmore or Master Hamilton.
Nothing of importance happened further to me that night. As I drew nearer London, I found the people talking much about the gay doings which were to take place when the king came back to his loyal city, as well as the terrible punishments which would be meted out to all who in any way took part in King Charles' death. I did not stay in London longer than I could help, however, for, foolish as it may appear, I determined to ride to Bedford, and if possible deliver from prison the woman who had been my companion to Pycroft Hall but a few nights before.
CHAPTER XIV
HOW I SAW A MAN WHO BECAME FAMOUS!
The night was falling fast as I drew near Bedford town. The weather was very fine, however, and the country side was fair to behold. Flowers were blooming on all sides, and the scent of the young and bursting life was indeed pleasant. Not that I was in a mood to enter into the joyousness of that spring evening, for I had ridden hard since morning, and I noticed that Black Ben's head drooped, and he dragged one leg wearily after another. Besides, my mind was filled with many doubts and fears. Why had I come to a town of which I knew nothing? And why should I seek to rescue a woman from prison who thought so little of my help that she had treated my offer with but little respect? Added to this, why should I, the son of a gentleman who had fought for Charles Stuart, seek to befriend the woman who had attempted murder in order to prevent the rightful king of the country from coming back to his throne?
These questions, which persisted in coming to me, were real and forceful enough, and try as I would I could find no satisfactory answer to them. Yet did I ride straight on, determined to do that which reason and welfare declared to be madness. For the woman's face haunted me. The look of despair I had seen in her eyes, the tone of her voice, appealed to me so strongly for help that I could not resist. More than that, the very mystery which surrounded her strengthened my determination. What led her to Folkestone, and what connection had she with the old man with whom I had had such strange experiences at Pycroft Hall?
All this determined me to get to Bedford that night, and then to use my utmost endeavour to deliver her from the hands of Monk's minions and from the king's power.
I heard the bells from the old church at Bedford pealing out a note of joy, when I saw a man in plain homely garments trudging along the road in front of me.
"Give you good even," he said, as I rode up.
"Good even," I replied, trying to discern in the fast failing light whether he was a man of quality.
"You look as though you have ridden far."
"From London," I replied, reflecting that although he looked not like a man of wealth, there was an air of authority about him, which made it impossible to pass him by without a second look.
"Ah," he said eagerly. "And what is the news from London?"
"There is much," I replied; "and yet it will not take long in the telling."
"And how is that?"
"Because it all hath to do with the same thing. When you have said that the new king is on his way thither and that the people are preparing to welcome him, you have told all."
"Ah, but that means much, I fear."
"You fear?"
"Ay, I fear, young master, for I fear me the devil is unloosed in London town. If what I have heard be true, then all those things which the children of the Lord have fought against, and driven into the darkness, are to be flaunted in broad daylight, and no man will dare to cry shame."
"The new king loves pleasure," I made answer.
He looked at me steadily, and was silent.
I would have ridden on at this; but thinking he might be able to tell me things I desired to know, I determined to alight and walk by his side.
"We are not far from Bedford, I take it?" I said.
"But a mile."
"Know you of a good hostelry there?"
"I know all that may be found there."
"Then, by your leave, I will walk back with you, for I judge you are travelling thither."
"Ay," he replied, "my home is at Bedford, and my wife and dear ones live there."
There was a quiet dignity in the way he spoke, and although I detected none of the evidences of the schoolman in his speech, I could not help feeling that he was a man of some authority.
"Do you love God, young master?" he said, the moment I had dismounted, and walked by his side.
"How may a man do that?" I asked, for the question took me aback.
"By loving His Son, whom He hath sent in the flesh to proclaim his love, by dying for a sinful world."
"And what may be the signs which show forth that one loves the Son of God?" I continued, concluding that I had happened across one of the Puritans of the district.
"The sign of love is obedience," he replied. "For what are His Words? 'He that hath My commandments, and keepeth them, he it is that loveth Me.'"
"That also may need explanation," I replied, for I determined not to endanger myself in any way by hasty speech.
"The explanation is simple," he replied quietly. "The teaching of Christ is that we do good, not only in lip but in life. That we love one another, and that we also love the truth of God. It is also that we obey God at all costs, even as the Apostles did of olden time. We have a safe guide to the will of God in the Holy Scriptures, and especially is it made clear to us in the New Testament Scriptures. The proofs of love to God are trust in and obedience to Him, as is set forth therein. For what said Martin Luther, when he stood before his judges, who called upon him to recant. 'Confute me with scripture; if you cannot do that, neither can I recant, for it is neither safe nor wise for a man to disobey his conscience.' So then he loves God who is true to Him, and this he does by instructing his conscience by Holy Writ and much prayer, and then obeying his conscience whatever may befall him."
"But may a man not need instruction in Holy Writ?" I asked.
"A man's prayer obtains the best instruction," he made answer. "If we read the Scriptures in prayer and reverence, God will guide us. Thus it is that a wayfaring man, though a fool, need not err in the ways of truth."
"But suppose that one be led in reading the Scriptures to hold views different from those of those set in authority over us?" I asked.
He lifted his large eyes to mine, and scanned my face intently.
"Yet should he hold fast by his integrity," he replied.
"Even if the teachers of the Church command otherwise?" I asked.
"Who are the teachers of the Church?" he asked. "Are they such as Cardinal Pole, and Stephen Gardiner, falsely called the Bishop of Winchester, or Dr. Ridley and Master Hugh Latimer, whom they put to death by fire? Ay, and to whose voice shall we listen; that of Laud, the Papist in disguise, and his lying master Charles Stuart, or to such as Cromwell, and Pym, and Hampden, who saved England from Popery and slavery?"
"That is treason," I said.
"To whom – God or man?" he asked quietly.
"To man," I made answer, even before I knew the words had escaped from my lips.
"Ay, to man," he replied; "but he who loves God will never be a traitor to Him. Nevertheless, may God grant that the will of man and the will of God may never be set against each other."
"Do you fear they will?" I asked.
"What say men in London town?" he asked.
"That the king will bring in a new order of things," I made answer, "and that those who favoured his father's death shall be punished."
"Ay, ay," he said slowly. "But what of the Church, young master, what of the Church?"
"It is said that the bishops are already looking forward to the time when schism shall be overcome, and that they are already making preparation for the change. That they are overjoyed that the king is coming back is but to make suggestion of the whole truth."
"Ay, ay," he replied; "but we fight not with carnal weapons; our strength is in the Lord of Hosts. The three Hebrew youths would not fall down and worship, and they were thrown into the furnace seven times heated, yet did the Lord deliver them. The Apostles were commanded not to preach the Gospel, yet did they preach it, and were thrown into prison; but the Lord opened the prison doors. At present the cloud is no bigger than a man's hand, yet it will darken this land. I can see it plainly, yet must the children of God bear witness to the truth."
The man spoke like one would think the prophets of old times spoke, so calm and quiet, and yet so full of authority were his tones.
"Methinks, those who call themselves the children of God fight with other than carnal weapons," I made answer. "If ever there was a man of the sword it was Oliver Cromwell."
"Ay, but he trusted not in the arm of flesh, but in the Lord God," he made answer, "else would his armies have been but burning stubble in a strong wind. It was the men of God whom Cromwell selected, who won Marston Moor and Naseby. On the other hand, it was the lies and the base living of Charles and his followers which caused their defeat."
"Ay, but Cromwell is dead, and men have it that a whining, hypocritical crew have taken his place. There have been some Judas Iscariots and traitors at the head of England for many months."
"Ay, and some Monks too," he added, a little bitterly, I thought.
"Ay, and a Puritan woman sought to kill him, and if report speaks truly, she is even now in Bedford Gaol."
I thought I saw him start as I spoke, so being young and foolish, and wishing to get the better of an argument of which, as I thought, he had the best all the way, I went on —
"Men have it that Master John Leslie, the father of this woman, is a great man among the hot-gospellers and Independents, while Sir Charles Denman, her husband, is almost as much renowned for his preaching as Hugh Peters himself."
For a moment he stopped still in the road, and he lifted his right hand above his head. Even in the dim light I noted his sturdy thick-set figure, his broad mouth, and his searching, yet kindly eyes.
"Is that what men are saying?" he asked presently, dropping his hand.
"It is common gossip," I replied.
"Men have it that Constance, daughter of John Leslie, together with her husband and father, plotted the murder of Monk, have they? Is that the talk in London town?"
"It is given out by General Monk himself," I replied. "It is told to the new king and his counsellors, and more it hath been proved by many witnesses. The wound in the arm of Monk's secretary is sufficient proof."
He stood still for a minute without speaking, then he said quietly —
"And have you heard aught concerning the probable fate of this maiden?"
"She is to be brought to London without delay after the king hath arrived thither, and then she is to be tried, condemned, and put to death. Men also have it that there is a warrant out against Sir Charles Denman and Master John Leslie."
"Perhaps it is the will of God," he said, presently. "The blood of the martyr hath ever been the seed of the Church of the living God."
"Martyr," I said, for something made me feel that this man knew much of these people. "Can the death of a woman who hath attempted murder be called martyrdom?"
I could have almost bitten my tongue for having uttered these words, for although my reason told me they were true, my heart went against them, and accused me of being unjust to the woman to whom I had avowed that she could never do an unworthy deed.
"There be many things known only to God," he replied solemnly, "and God's ways are not our ways, neither His thoughts our thoughts, yet will we trust Him though He slay us."
"Know you aught of this woman?" I asked.
"I know what all men know," he answered. "I know that she was on her way to Bedford to visit her father, who is a man of substance in Bedford, as well as in London, and that while coming hither she was taken by the minions of Monk, and dragged to gaol."
"From whence did she come?"
"From the south, somewhere."
"But had she no protector?"
"She had none. She was taken during the night."
"But surely she could not travel from the south on foot."
"Nay, she rode a good horse."
I wanted to ask other questions, but I was afraid, for I knew not who the man was, and I dared not trust him so far as to lead him to think I knew anything concerning her.
"Know you aught of her, young master?"
"I have come from the south," I answered, "and it was said that she had been seen not twenty miles from where the king landed but yesterday."
"Ay, poor child, I fear me that this led her to think she would be safe here. For you are mistaken in believing that a warrant is out against her father. It is not true. It hath been proved that Master Leslie had neither part nor lot in the attempt to murder Monk, and in proof of my words he may be seen in Bedford town, although in sore grief that his daughter is now awaiting such a fearful end."
"But he would have sheltered her, ay, and have sought to hide her, had she reached his house?" I said.