CHAPTER III
FATHER ANDREW
None were abroad in the streets of Dunwich on that bitter winter nightwhen these three trudged wearily down Middlegate Street through thedriving snow to the door of the grey Preceptory of the Knights Templar.In a window above the porch a light burned dimly, the only one to beseen in any of the houses round about, for by now all men were abed.
"'Tis Father Arnold's room," said Eve. "He sits there at his books. I'llknock and call him, but do you two go lay hold of the ring of the churchdoor," and she nodded toward a grey pile that stood near by. "Then nonecan touch you, and how know we who may be in this house?"
"I'll go no step further," answered Hugh sullenly. "All this Templeground is sanctuary, or at least we will risk it." And, seizing theknocker, he hammered at the door.
The light in the window vanished, and presently they heard a soundof creaking bolts. Then the door opened, revealing a tall man,white-bearded, ancient, and clad in a frayed, furred robe worn over apriest's cassock, who held a lantern in his hand.
"Who knocks?" he asked. "Does some soul pass that you disturb me aftercurfew?"
"Ay, Father Andrew," answered Hugh, "souls have passed, and souls arenear to passing. Let us in, and we will tell you all."
Without waiting for an answer he entered with the others, pushed to themassive door and bolted it again.
"What's this? A woman?" said the old priest. "Eve of Clavering, by theSaints!"
"Yes," she answered calmly, though her teeth chattered; "Eve ofClavering, Eve the Red, this time with the blood of men, soaked with thewaters of the Blythe, frozen with the snows of Dunwich Heath, whereshe has lain hid for hours with a furze bush for shelter. Eve who seeksshriving, a dry rag for her back, a morsel for her lips, and fire towarm her, which in the Name of Christ and of charity she prays you willnot refuse to her."
So she spoke, and laughed recklessly.
Almost before she had finished her wild words the old man, who lookedwhat he was, a knight arrayed in priestly robes, had run to a door atthe end of the hall and was calling through it, "Mother Agnes! MotherAgnes!"
"Be not so hasty, Sir Andrew," answered a shrill voice. "A posset musthave time to boil. It is meet now that you wear a tonsure that you whoare no longer a centurion should forget these 'Come, and he cometh,'ways. When the water's hot----"
The rest of that speech was lost, for Father Arnold, muttering some wordbelonging to his "centurion" days, dived into the kitchen, to reappearpresently dragging a little withered old woman after him who was dressedin a robe of conventual make.
"Peace, Mother Agnes, peace!" he said. "Take this lady, dry her, arrayher in your best gown, give her food, warm her, and bring her back tome. Short? What care I if the robe be short? Obey, or it will not become, and he cometh, but go and she goeth, and then who will shelter onewho talks so much?"
He thrust the pair of them through the kitchen door and, returning, ledHugh and Grey Dick up a broad oak stair to what had been the guest-hallof the Preceptory on its first floor.
It was a very great chamber where, before their Order was dispersed, allthe Knights Templar had been wont to dine with those who visited them attimes of festival. Tattered banners still hung among the cobwebs of theancient roof, the shields of past masters with stately blazonings werecarved in stone upon the walls. But of all this departed splendour butlittle could be seen, since the place was lit only by a single lamp ofwhale's oil and a fire that burned upon the wide stone hearth, a greatfire, since Father Arnold, who had spent many years of his life in theEast, loved warmth.
"Now, Hugh de Cressi," he said, "what have you done?"
"Slain my cousin, John of Clavering, Father, and perhaps another man."
"In fair fight, very fair fight," croaked Grey Dick.
"Who doubts it? Can a de Cressi be a murderer?" asked the priest. "Andyou, Richard the Archer, what have you done?"
"Shot a good horse and three bad men dead with arrows--at least theyshould be dead--and another through the hand, standing one againsttwenty."
"A gallant--I mean--an evil deed," broke in the old warrior priest,"though once it happened to me in a place called Damascus--but you bothare wet, also. Come into my chamber; I can furnish you with garments ofa sort. And, Richard, set that black bow of yours near the fire, but nottoo fire. As you should know well, a damp string is ill to draw with.Nay, fear not to leave it; this is sanctuary, and to make sure I willlock the doors."
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