Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  “It must have been written to some one about us!” said the Duchess at length. “To some one in our confidence. ‘On our side of the door,’ as he calls it.”

  “Yes, that is certain,” I said.

  “And on the wrapper he styles her Mistress Clarence. Now who — —”

  “Who could it have been? That is the question we have to answer,” Master Bertie replied dryly. Hearing his voice, I knew he had come at last to the same conclusion to which I had jumped. “I think you may dismiss the servants from the inquiry,” he continued. “The Bishop of Winchester would scarcely write to them in that style.”

  “Dismiss the servants? Then who is left?” she protested.

  “I think — —” He lost courage, hesitated, and broke off. She looked at him wonderingly. He turned to me, and, gaining confirmation from my nod, began again. “I think I should ask A —— B —— ,” he said.

  “A —— B —— ?” she cried, still not seeing one whit.

  “Yes. Anne Brandon,” he answered sternly.

  She repeated his words softly and stood a moment gazing at him. In that moment she saw it all. She sat down suddenly on the chair beside her and shuddered violently, as if she had laid her hand unwittingly upon a snake. “Oh, Richard,” she whispered, “it is too horrible!”

  “I fear it is too true,” he answered gloomily.

  I shrank from looking at them, from meeting her eyes or his. I felt as if this shame had come upon us all. The thought that the culprit might walk into the room at any moment filled me with terror. I turned away and looked through the window, leaving the husband and wife together.

  “Is it only the name you are thinking of?” she muttered.

  “No,” he answered. “Before I left England to go to Calais I saw something pass between them — between her and Clarence — which, surprised me. Only in the confusion of those last days it slipped from my memory for the time.”

  “I see,” she said quietly. “The villain!”

  Looking back on the events of the last week, I found many things made plain by the lurid light now cast upon them. I understood how Master Lindstrom’s vase had come to be broken when we were discussing the letter, which in my hands must have been a perpetual terror to the girl. I discerned that she had purposely sown dissension between myself and Van Tree, and recalled how she had striven to persuade us not to leave the island; then, how she had induced us to take that unlucky road; finally, how on the road her horse had lagged and lagged behind, detaining us all when every minute was precious. The things all dovetailed into one another; each by itself was weak, but together they formed a strong scaffold — a scaffold strong enough for the hanging of a man, if she had been a man! The others appealed to me, the Duchess feverishly anxious to be assured one way or the other. The very suspicion of the existence of such treachery at her side seemed to stifle her. Still looking out of the window I detailed the proofs I have mentioned, not gladly, Heaven knows, or in any spirit of revenge. But my duty was rather to my companions who had been true to me, than to her. I told them the truth as far as I knew it. The whole wretched, miserable truth was only to become known to me later.

  “I will go to her,” the Duchess said presently, rising from her seat.

  “My dear!” her husband cried. He stretched out his hand, and grasping her skirt detained her. “You will not — —”

  “Do not be afraid!” she replied sadly, as she stooped over him and kissed his forehead. “It is a thing past scolding, Richard; past love and even hope, and all but past pity. I will be merciful as we hope for mercy, but she can never be friend of ours again, and some one must tell her. I will do so and return. As for that man!” she continued, obscuring suddenly the fair and noble side of her character which she had just exhibited, and which I confess had surprised me, for I had not thought her capable of a generosity so uncommon; “as for that man,” she repeated, drawing herself up to her full height, while her eyes sparkled and her cheek grew red, “who has turned her into a vile schemer and a shameless hypocrite, as he would fain have turned better women, I will show him no mercy nor grace if I ever have him under my feet. I will crush him as I would an adder, though I be crushed next moment myself!”

  She was sweeping with that word from the room, and had nearly reached the door before I found my voice. Then I called out “Stay!” just in time. “You will do no good, madam, by going!” I said, rising. “You will not find her. She is gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Yes,” I said quietly. “She left the house twenty minutes ago. I saw her cross the market-place, wearing her cloak and carrying a bag. I do not think she will return.”

  “Not return? But whither has she gone?” they both cried at once.

  I shook my head.

  “I can only guess,” I said in a low voice. “I saw no more than I have told you.”

  “But why did you not tell me’” the Duchess cried reproachfully. “She shall be brought back.”

  “It would be useless,” Master Bertie answered. “Yet I doubt if it be as Carey thinks. Why should she go just at this time? She does not know that she is found out. She does not know that this letter has been recovered. Not a word, mind, was said of it before she left the room.”

  “No,” I allowed; “that is true.”

  I was puzzled on this point myself, now I came to consider it. I could not see why she had taken the alarm so opportunely; but I maintained my opinion nevertheless.

  “Something frightened her,” I said; “though it may not have been the letter.”

  “Yes,” said the Duchess, after a moment’s silence. “I suppose you are right. I suppose something frightened her, as you say. I wonder what it was, poor wretch!”

  It turned out that I was right. Mistress Anne had gone indeed, having stayed, so far as we could learn from an examination of the room which she had shared with Dymphna, merely to put together the few things which our adventures had left her. She had gone out from among us in this foreign land without a word of farewell, without a good wish given or received, without a soul to say God speed! The thought made me tremble. If she had died it would have been different. Now, to feel sorrow for her as for one who had been with us in heart as well as in body, seemed a mockery. How could we grieve for one who had moved day by day and hour by hour among us, only that with each hour and day she might plot and scheme and plan our destruction? It was impossible!

  We made inquiries indeed, but without result; and so, abruptly and terribly she passed — for the time — out of our knowledge, though often afterward I recalled sadly the weary, hunted look which I had sometimes seen in her eyes when she sat listless and dreamy. Poor girl! Her own acts had placed her, as the Duchess said, beyond love or hope, but not beyond pity.

  So it is in life. The day which sees one’s trial end sees another’s begin. We — the Duchess and her child, Master Bertie and I — stayed with our good and faithful friends the Lindstroms a while, resting and recruiting our strength; and during this interval, at the pressing instance of the Duchess, I wrote letters to Sir Anthony and Petronilla, stating that I was abroad, and was well, and looked presently to return; but not disclosing my refuge or the names of my companions. At the end of five days, Master Bertie being fairly strong again and Santon being considered unsafe for us as a permanent residence, we went under guard to Wesel, where we were received as people of quality, and lodged, there being no fitting place, in the disused church of St. Willibrod. Here the child was christened Peregrine — a wanderer; the governor of the city and I being godfathers. And here we lived in peace — albeit with hearts that yearned for home — for some months.

  During this time two pieces of news came to us from England: one, that the Parliament, though much pressed to it, had refused to acquiesce in the confiscation of the Duchess’s estates; the other, that our joint persecutor, the great Bishop of Winchester, was dead. This last we at first disbelieved. It was true, nevertheless. Stephen Gardiner, whose vast schemes had enmeshed people
so far apart in station, and indeed in all else, as the Duchess and myself, was dead at last; had died toward the end of 1555, at the height of his power, with England at his feet, and gone to his Maker. I have known many worse men.

  We trusted that this might open the way for our return, but we found on the contrary that fresh clouds were rising. The persecution of the Reformers, which Queen Mary had begun in England, was carried on with increasing rigor, and her husband, who was now King of Spain and master of the Netherlands, freed from the prudent checks of his father, was inclined to pleasure her in this by giving what aid he could abroad. His Minister in the Netherlands, the Bishop of Arras, brought so much pressure to bear upon our protector to induce him to give us up, that it was plain the Duke of Cleves must sooner or later comply. We thought it better, therefore, to remove ourselves, and presently did so, going to the town of Winnheim in the Rhine Palatinate.

  We found ourselves not much more secure here, however, and all our efforts to discover a safe road into France failing, and the stock of money which the Duchess had provided beginning to give out, we were in great straits whither to go or what to do.

  At this time of our need, however, Providence opened a door in a quarter where we least looked for it. Letters came from Sigismund, the King of Poland, and from the Palatine of Wilna in that country, inviting the Duchess and Master Bertie to take up their residence there, and offering the latter an establishment and honorable employment. The overture was unlooked for, and was not accepted without misgivings, Wilna being so far distant, and there being none of our race in that country. However, assurance of the Polish King’s good faith reached us — I say us, for in all their plans I was included — through John Alasco, a nobleman who had visited England. And in due time we started on this prodigious journey, and came safely to Wilna, where our reception was such as the letters had led us to expect.

  I do not propose to set down here our adventures, though they were many, in that strange country of frozen marshes and endless plains, but to pass over eighteen months which I spent not without profit to myself in the Pole’s service, seeing something of war in his Lithuanian campaigns, and learning much of men and the world, which here, to say nothing of wolves and bears, bore certain aspects not commonly visible in Warwickshire. I pass on to the early autumn of 1558, when a letter from the Duchess, who was at Wilna, was brought to me at Cracovy. It was to this effect:

  “Dear Friend: Send you good speed! Word has come to us here of an enterprise Englandward, which promises, if it be truly reported to us, to so alter things at home that there may be room for us at our own firesides. Heaven so further it, both for our happiness and the good of the religion. Master Bertie has embarked on it, and I have taken upon myself to answer for your aid and counsel, which have never been wanting to us. Wherefore, dear friend, come, sparing neither horse nor spurs, nor anything which may bring you sooner to Wilna, and your assured and loving friend, Katherine Suffolk.”

  In five days after receiving this I was at Wilna, and two months later I saw England again, after an absence of three years. Early in November, 1558, Master Bertie and I landed at Lowestoft, having made the passage from Hamburg in a trading vessel of that place. We stopped only to sleep one night, and then, dressed as traveling merchants, we set out on the road to London, entering the city without accident or hindrance on the third day after landing.

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  THE WITCH’S WARNING.

  “One minute!” I said. “That is the place.”

  Master Bertie turned in his saddle, and looked at it. The light was fading into the early dusk of a November evening, but the main features of four cross streets, the angle between two of them filled by the tall belfry of a church, were still to be made out. The east wind had driven loiterers indoors, and there was scarcely any one abroad to notice us. I pointed to a dead wall ten paces down one street. “Opposite that they stopped,” I said. “There was a pile of boards leaning against it then.”

  “You have had many a worse bedchamber since, lad,” he said, smiling.

  “Many,” I answered. And then by a common impulse we shook up the horses, and trotting gently on were soon clear of London and making for Islington. Passing through the latter we began to breast the steep slope which leads to Highgate, and coming, when we had reached the summit, plump upon the lights of the village, pulled up in front of a building which loomed darkly across the road.

  “This is the Gatehouse Tavern,” Master Bertie said in a low voice. “We shall soon know whether we have come on a fool’s errand — or worse!”

  We rode under the archway into a great courtyard, from which the road issued again on the other side through another gate. In one corner two men were littering down a line of packhorses by the light of the lanterns, which brought their tanned and rugged faces into relief. In another, where the light poured ruddily from an open doorway, an ostler was serving out fodder, and doing so, if we might judge from the travelers’ remonstrances, with a niggardly hand. From the windows of the house a dozen rays of light shot athwart the darkness, and disclosed as many pigs wallowing asleep in the middle of the yard. In all we saw a coarse comfort and welcome. Master Bertie led the way across the yard, and accosted the ostler. “Can we have stalls and beds?” he asked.

  The man stayed his chaffering, and looked up at us. “Every man to his business,” he replied gruffly. “Stalls, yes; but of beds I know nothing. For women’s work go to the women.”

  “Right!” said I, “so we will. With better luck than you would go, I expect, my man!”

  Bursting into a hoarse laugh at this — he was lame and one-eyed and not very well-favored — he led us into a long, many-stalled stable, feebly lit by lanterns which here and there glimmered against the walls. “Suit yourselves,” he said; “first come is first served here.”

  He seemed an ill-conditioned fellow, but the businesslike way in which we went about our work, watering, feeding, and littering down in old campaigners’ fashion, drew from him a grunt of commendation. “Have you come from far, masters?” he asked.

  “No, from London,” I answered curtly. “We come as linen-drapers from Westcheap, if you want to know.”

  “Ay, I see that,” he said chuckling. “Never were atop of a horse before nor handled anything but a clothyard; oh, no!”

  “We want a merchant reputed to sell French lace,” I continued, looking hard at him. “Do you happen to know if there is a dealer here with any?”

  He nodded rather to himself than to me, as if he had expected the question. Then in the same tone, but with a quick glance of intelligence, he answered, “I will show you into the house presently, and you can see for yourselves. A stable is no place for French lace.” He pointed with a wink over his shoulder toward a stall in which a man, apparently drunk, lay snoring. “That is a fine toy!” he ran on carelessly, as I removed my dagger from the holster and concealed it under my cloak— “a fine plaything — for a linen draper!”

  “Peace, peace, man! and show us in,” said Master Bertie impatiently.

  With a shrug of his shoulders the man obeyed. Crossing the courtyard behind him, we entered the great kitchen, which, full of light and warmth and noise, presented just such a scene of comfort and bustle, of loud talking, red-faced guests, and hurrying bare-armed serving-maids, as I remembered lighting upon at St. Albans three years back. But I had changed much since then, and seen much. The bailiff himself would hardly have recognized his old antagonist in the tall, heavily cloaked stranger, whose assured air, acquired amid wild surroundings in a foreign land, gave him a look of age to which I could not fairly lay claim. Master Bertie had assigned the lead to me as being in less danger of recognition, and I followed the ostler toward the hearth without hesitation. “Master Jenkin!” the man cried, with the same rough bluntness he had shown without, “here are two travelers want the lace-seller who was here to-day. Has he gone?”

  “Who gone?” retorted the host as loudly.

  “The lace merchant who
came this morning.”

  “No; he is in No. 32,” returned the landlord. “Will you sup first, gentlemen?”

  We declined, and followed the ostler, who made no secret of our destination, telling those in our road to make way, as the gentlemen were for No. 32. One of the crowd, however, who seemed to be crossing from the lower end of the room, failed apparently to understand, and, interposing between us and our guide, brought me perforce to a halt.

  “By your leave, good woman!” I said, and turned to pass round her.

  But she foiled me with unexpected nimbleness, and I could not push her aside, she was so very old. Her gums were toothless and her forehead was lined and wrinkled. About her eyes, which under hideous red lids still shone with an evil gleam — a kind of reflection of a wicked past — a thousand crows’ feet had gathered. A few wisps of gray hair struggled from under the handkerchief which covered her head. She was humpbacked, and stooped over a stick, and whether she saw or not my movement of repugnance, her voice was harsh when she spoke.

  “Young gentleman,” she croaked, “let me tell your fortune by the stars. A fortune for a groat, young gentleman!” she continued, peering up into my face and frustrating my attempts to pass.

  “Here is a groat,” I answered peevishly, “and for the fortune, I will hear it another day. So let us by!”

  But she would not. My companion, seeing that the attention of the room was being drawn to us, tried to pull me by her. But I could not use force, and short of force there was no remedy. The ostler, indeed, would have interfered on our behalf, and returned to bid her, with a civility he had not bestowed on us, “give us passage.” But she swiftly turned her eyes on him in a sinister fashion, and he retreated with an oath and a paling face, while those nearest to us — and half a dozen had crowded round — drew back, and crossed themselves in haste almost ludicrous.