by John Buchan
Peter asked about Simon Rede, and Catti scratched his head.
“He is a ready man with his blade,” he said, “as some of us know to our cost. But he is merry, too, and Boarstall has a good name among us wandering folk. They say he is hot for some new thing called Gospel, which the King mislikes. There are many that hate him, but more that fear him, and he goes his own road unquestioned. . . . Nay, he is not one of us. They say that Gospel is harder on an honest man than the King’s justices. Job Cherryman that took up with it fell to groaning and weeping and died of a wasting in a twelvemonth. ‘Tis some madness of the gentles, and not for the poor.”
Peter ate the rest of his food in Catti’s company, and noted how messages came all day to the recluse — a head thrust past the door, a question asked and answered, all in the jargon which he had heard at Little Greece. When the time came for him to leave, Catti appointed a ragged urchin to show him the road down the right bank of Cherwell.
“You are well served,” said Peter.
Catti laughed. “Needs must in a trade like mine. This morning, master, you came from Brother Friday’s priggers on Bladon heath. I had news of you before you passed Kidlington granges, and, had you not come from honest company, you had never had speech with Cis here, and gotten entrance to this cell of mine.”
An hour after dark Peter entered Oxford by the side-gate adjoining Magdalen College. The snow had passed, and the air had sharpened to a still frost, but a light fog held the upper heavens, and there was no moon or star. There had been a glow by the east gate, which lit up everything, for Magdalen College, which was without the city wall, had fired a great bonfire to drive away the plague. The High Street was dark in patches, but opposite University College there was a glare also, for in its quadrangle was another bonfire. Though the hour was yet early, the place seemed empty and quiet. Farther on, where Peter had to grope his way to avoid the swollen gutter, there came the music of an organ and young voices across the way. Peter remembered that it was the Eve of All Souls, and that, according to custom, masses were being sung in Chichele’s college for the repose of the dead fallen in France. There was an echo of singing, too, from Brasenose, and Haberdashers’ Hall had lights in all its upper windows. But beyond that it was very dark. The Ram inn had shut its outer door, so that only a narrow thread of light escaped to the cobbles. The flesher near by had shuttered his shop, but the carcase of a buck from Shotover was hanging outside from a hook of the balcony, and Peter’s forehead took the beast’s rump with such force that he sat down heavily in the slush.
At the place called Quarvex, where the church of St Martin hung above the meeting of four streets, stood a stone seat called the Pennyless Bench, built for the comfort of the market-folk. The little square was deserted, and Peter stepped out with more confidence, for he was now on the confines of the west part of the city, which was his own quarter. But from the shadows of the Pennyless Bench a voice spoke:
“‘Tis a raw night to go cloakless, friend,” it said.
Peter started and slipped in a puddle of snow. He understood now that the faint glow from the east window of the church must have illumined his figure to one sitting in the shadows. Moreover, he knew the voice. He took a step forward, and saw in the corner of the bench what seemed to be the figure of a tall man.
Even as he stared the figure twitched a cloak from its shoulders and tossed it towards him.
“Take it, friend,” said the voice. “You have the better right to it.” And Peter caught in his hands his own murry-coloured cloak of woollen.
The voice spoke again.
“You would fly at my throat, but I pray you consider. This is no place to brawl for one or t’other of us. Also you are unarmed, and I bear a sword. Doubtless I used you scurvily last night, but I had weighty reasons, which some day I may recount to you. Thank God for a restored garment, and go in peace.”
Peter’s anger flared up at the cool air of authority.
“I have no sword, but, if you are a man, you will unbuckle yours. Come with me across Bookbinders bridge to a corner I know of where we may be undisturbed. There I will fight you with the weapons that God gave us both at birth, and bring you to task for last night’s work.”
A laugh came from the shadow.
“‘Twould be good play, doubtless, and would warm our blood in this nipping weather. But I have no time for such sport, nor, methinks, have you, Master Bonamy. I am within easy hail of Boarstall, but you are very far from Avelard. Get you to Oseney and your supper.”
There was a noise farther down the Cornmarket street and a sudden gleam of light, which announced the watch.
“I have but to wait,” Peter said, “and proclaim that you are he that loosed the heretic from the Bishop’s men.”
Again the man laughed. “You would not be credited,” he said. “I am better known in Oxford town than the reputed heir of my Lord Avelard out of the west country. Besides” — he paused—”bethink you what, if so minded, I could proclaim of you. Begone, my priestling. A cell at Oseney is healthier for you than the cobbles of Quarvex on a November night.”
The sound of the oncoming watch grew nearer, and Peter let prudence govern his temper. This was not the place or hour for a reckoning with Simon Rede. He flung the cloak round his shoulders, and turned down a lane that led to the Castle. He was angry and shamed. Once again his enemy had had the laugh of him, and at the thought of the scornful merriment in Simon’s voice he shivered, but not with the cold.
It was darker and quieter among the lanes beside the Castle which sloped to the river. Down in Fisherrow there were moving lights, and high in the sky Peter saw the lamp in the bell-tower of Oseney. Even as he gazed Thomas began to strike the hour of eight. He passed no one except a lay brother hurrying to Rewley, and a party of young bloods from one of the colleges, who had come from hawking in Botley fen, and had been making a great clamour at the west gate. At the said gate a band of west-country clothiers were setting out, hoping to lie the night at Witney, so as to make Gloucester on the morrow. Peter slipped round the shaggy cavalcade, and found himself without the walls, on the Oseney causeway.
From there it was but a step to the Ox Pens, a piece of open ground where a cattle-market was held of a Tuesday. Beyond it was a cluster of small houses, huddled round the approach to the river bridge called the Fennel. It was rough going, for the ground was slippery with dung and offal, and there were many miry puddles now crackling with frost. The Swan tavern was not hard to find, for it had an open door from which slanted a broad band of light that illuminated a white swan on a scarlet ground on a board surmounting a pollarded willow. The place, now that Thomas’s strokes had died on the night, was as silent as the heart of Wychwood. Even the lit tavern made no sound.
It was a very humble place, but the rushes on the floor were fresh and the logs on the hearth crackled cheerfully. There was no one there.
Peter shook the powder of snow from his cloak, stamped his feet clear, and warmed himself at the blaze. The place had the air of a room much frequented and expecting guests. He called loudly for a drawer.
A little girl peeped round the corner of an inner door, and laid her finger on her lips, her eyes wide with apprehension.
“Whisht!” she said. “Ye manna make no noise — he be near his dead-throes.”
“Master Darking?” Peter began, but the child had gone. He noticed that at least a dozen lights, besides that of the fire, were burning in the little room, so that the place was as bright as a high altar at Candlemas. There was no sound except the logs crackling. The door was pinned open to its widest, and from the silent tavern an eerie radiance flooded out into the silent night.
Peter felt a spell creeping upon him. He took off his cloak, sat down on a stool, and stared into the fire. This was the place that Darking had appointed, and his task was done in coming here. Meantime he could rest, for he felt listless and out of temper.
A hand was laid on his arm, and he saw that it was Darking, who had come in by the
door through which the child had peeped. He wore a townsman’s clothes, so that he looked like some prosperous trader, save for his lean, outland face.
“God’s mercy has brought you here, my lord,” he said. “I feared my message would not be in time, or that you might have some pressing business at Avelard. But indeed no business could be more pressing than this. One lies dying in this house that has something to say to you.”
Darking pulled another stool to the hearth.
“‘Tis the outcome of Mother Sweetbread’s care and the spells of Madge of Shipton. They have sought treasure for you, and maybe they have found it. . . . You have heard of the great Lord Lovell?”
Peter nodded. “Him that died after the Stoke battle — drowned in Trent?”
“Nay, he did not drown in Trent. He came in secret to his own house of Minster Lovell, and what befell him after that is known only to God. But he is dead long since, for that is fifty years back. But mark you what manner of man was this Francis Lovell. With Catesby and Ratcliffe he ruled the land under King Richard. You have heard the country rhyme:
“‘The Cat, the Rat, and Lovell our dog
Ruled all England under the Hog.’
He brought your grandsire, Harry of Buckingham, to his death, and got his office of Constable. He had the plundering of the whole nation, and, being no spender, he amassed uncounted riches. Where, think you, has that wealth gone? Harry the King had never a groat of it. ‘Tis buried somewhere among the ruinous courts of Minster Lovell, and it may be yours for the finding. A third of it, my lord, would give you the sinews of war, and make you master indeed, for you would have your own privy purse, and be dependent on none.”
Peter was stirred to the liveliest interest. “But what hope? . . . Who can know? . . .”
“Listen! My tale goes on. At Minster Lovell there was one household thirled above all others to the wicked lord. Its name was Blackthorn, and Giles Blackthorn was at my lord’s bridle hand in all his iniquity. Where Lovell pricked Blackthorn slew, and where Lovell pinched Blackthorn skinned. Well, this Giles died beyond question on Stoke field from an arrow in the throat, but he left a widow more evil than himself. ‘Twas to Mother Blackthorn at Minster Lovell that my lord fled after his cause had gone down, and Mother Blackthorn alone knew what end he made. She lived for but a month after Stoke, and died in the terrors of hell, screaming that she could not leave her lord, and, as I have been told, being held down in bed by four men to control her frenzy. With her an ugly stock passed out of the world, save for her son Jack. He had been page to Lovell, and had been at Stoke with him and had accompanied him home, and, though only a stripling, was as wicked as his master. Whatever black secrets Lovell had this Rustling Jack, as they called him, was their sure repository. After his mother’s death he disappeared, like my lord, and was believed long since to be in the devil’s hands. But it seems the world was wrong. He was in far countries, fighting for the Spaniards, and a prisoner for years among the heathen. Now, by the arts of Goody Littlemouse, he has been discovered.”
“Where?” Peter asked breathlessly.
“In this very house, where he is now at the point of death. The priest of St Thomas awaits to shrive him. But he cannot save his soul by confession like a Christian, for it seems that he has done things which cannot be told even to holy ears. Also he has some restitution to make, and till he make it his soul will not leave his body. He has a horror of darkness on him, and that is why these lights burn. Also he has a horror of sound, and cries that the pealing of Oseney bells are the yells of the damned.”
“What has he to restore?”
“My guess is that it is the clue to Lovell’s treasure. Mother Littlemouse, who has her own ways of getting knowledge, is assured that he has such a secret in his keeping. But he will not surrender it to any chance comer. He cries out for one of the blood of Lovell to help him die. You, my lord, are of that blood, for Lovell and Stafford and Bohun were all intermingled. They say, too, that you are the living image of your grandsire, Duke Harry. Maybe, when he sees you, he may be moved to make you his confessor. But we must make haste, for his thread of life wears thin.”
The boy’s mood in a violent revulsion was now one of excited triumph. It seemed like God’s hand leading him by strange paths to recover that heritage of which he had been harshly robbed. Lovell’s treasure was Buckingham’s treasure, since Lovell had clomb to power on Buckingham’s ruin. . . . A sudden memory gave him assurance. The sign of this place was the swan, and the swan was the badge of Bohun.
The frontage of the tavern was narrow, but the building was deep, since behind it lay a nest of small rooms, dug out of a fragment of old masonry which may have gone back to Norman days. Peter found himself in a crooked passage, blazing with tallow dips in iron sconces. There was a little window with a broken hasp, through which came eddies of air that set the lights smoking. As he passed it he had a glimpse without of swollen rushing waters. This place abutted on the river — a fine strategic point for lawless folk.
Darking ushered him into a big room which looked like the girnel of an ancient mill. Here, too, many lights blazed, which revealed the cobwebbed rafters, the floor deep in dust, and a vast rusty pin projecting from the wall. On a pallet in the centre lay the dying man, with beside him an old woman, the inn-wife, who from time to time moistened his lips with sour wine. A man in a priest’s gown stood by the far wall, a timid youth who was busy with his beads. As they entered Darking fell back, the old woman rose and withdrew to the priest’s side, and Peter found himself alone by the pallet, looking down at a grey face distorted with fear.
The man whom they called Rustling Jack was very old. His neck was a mere string of sinews, his cheeks were fallen into ghastly hollows, and the lips he moved incessantly were blue like the blackthorn fruit. A great scar ran athwart his brow, and the wrists which lay on the coverlet were grooved deep with the manacles which had once attached him to his oar in the Moors’ galleys. The eyes were shut, and through his clenched teeth came a slow moaning.
Peter stood awestruck, regarding the tortured face. He had never seen a man die, and this one was having a cruel passage. In spite of age and weakness the man on the pallet seemed to him a fearful thing, for on his face was printed as in a book a long odyssey of evil.
Suddenly he saw that the eyes had opened and were staring at him, and so hungry was their stare that he stepped back a pace. A voice filtered painfully between the lips.
“Who is it?” it croaked. “In God’s name what are you that vexes me? Your name? Your name? You have eyes I mind of. . . .”
“I am Bohun,” said Peter, and he was not conscious of what he said.
There came an exulting laugh.
“There is no Bohun in England — not these fifty years — it is Lovell I see — Lovell.”
“I am the grandson of Henry of Buckingham.”
A gleam of intelligence came into the frenzied eyes.
“You are Henry of Buckingham. . . . I saw him die at Salisbury . . . his head rolled a good yard beyond the sawdust, and I sopped my kerchief in the blood of it. . . . Yea, you have his eyes . . . he had pretty eyes to beguile hearts, but they could not save him. . . . Harry Stafford . . . my lord liked him ill.”
A last spasm of life galvanised him into action. He half raised himself, and Peter saw the neck muscles knot like eggs.
“Be you from Heaven or Hell I care not . . . Lovell slew you, but you have Lovell’s blood, and I summon you to give my master peace. If you are a blessed one, I plead in Christ’s name. My lord never leaves me . . . his voice whinnies and sobs in my ears, and I cannot go to meet him till I have done his commands. Angel or devil, I charge you to lay his spirit. . . . Listen. . . . Bend down, ghost, for my breath is short. . . .”
Peter bent till his ear was close to the dying man’s lips. The words came slow and faint but very clear. “The west court,” it said, “the corner under the dovecot. . . . Three paces from the east wall. . . . Haste ye in the name of God the Fathe
r and God the Son and . . .”
He fell back choking on the bed, and at the same moment all the lights in the room swayed and flickered as if from a rush of wind. Peter, white with awe, thought it was the waft of death, till he saw that the door by which he had entered had opened, and that the scared little girl he had already seen was standing in it. There was a noise beyond as of men’s heavy feet and men’s speech.
At the same moment he felt Darking’s hand on his arm. “You have the word?” was his excited whisper. “Then this is no place for you and me. There are men here seeking Jack, and they will find only clay. Quick — follow me.”
Someone in a hurry blew out the lights, all but two at the bed head and one at the foot. Peter found himself dragged by Darking into a passage, narrower than that by which they had entered, and dark as a pit. Presently cold air blew in his face, and he was at a window, through which he was made to clamber. “Drop,” said Darking’s voice, and he was sprawling in the bottom of a wherry, riding on a rough current. A second later Darking joined him, untied a mooring rope, and took up the oars, and the boat shot under the bridge called the Fennel.
“You heard the words clear,” Darking asked, and made Peter repeat them. “God be thanked, my lord. ‘Twas a race between us and the Devil, and we won by a hair.”
CHAPTER IX. THE ROAD TO DAMASCUS
Darking drew in to a corner of the upper Fisherrow which made a tiny wharf, and shipped the oars. The flurries of snow had ceased, and the air had become still and very cold. Thomas of Oseney rang the hour of ten, and his notes lingered long in the black vault of night. When they had died away, there was no sound in the world but the swirl of the flooded river.