CHAPTER VI
I
The suspense at Fotheringay grew deeper with every day that passed.
Christmas was come and gone, and no sign was made from London, so far,at least, as the little town was concerned. There came almost daily fromthe castle new tales of slights put upon the Queen, and now and again ofnew favours granted to her. Her chaplain, withdrawn for a while, hadbeen admitted to her again a week before Christmas; a crowd hadcollected to see the Popish priest ride in, and had remarked on histimorous air; and about the same time a courier had been watched as herode off to London, bearing, it was rumoured, one last appeal from oneQueen to the other. On the other hand, it was known that Mary no longerhad her dais in her chamber, and that the billiard-table, which shenever used, had been taken away again.
But all this had happened before Christmas, and now a month had gone by,and although this or that tale of discourtesy from gaoler to prisonerleaked out through the servants; though it was known that the crucifixwhich Mary had hung up in the place where her dais had stood remainedundisturbed--though this argument or the other could be advanced in turnby men sitting over their wine in the taverns, that the Queen's causewas rising or falling, nothing was truly known the one way or the other.It had been proclaimed, by trumpet, in every town in England, thatsentence of death was passed; yet this was two or three months ago, andthe knowledge that the warrant had not yet been signed seemed anargument to some that now it never would be.
* * * * *
A group was waiting (as a group usually did wait) at the villageentrance to the new bridge lately built by her Grace of England, towardssunset on an evening late in January. This situation commanded, so faras was possible, every point of interest. It was the beginning of theLondon road, up which so many couriers had passed; it was over thisbridge that her Grace of Scotland herself had come from hercross-country journey from Chartley. On the left, looking northwards,rose the great old collegiate church, with its graceful lantern tower,above the low thatched stone houses of the village; on the right,adjoining the village beyond the big inn, rose the huge keep of thecastle and its walls, within its double moats, ranged in form of afetterlock of which the river itself was its straight side. Beyond, thelow rolling hills and meadows met the chilly January sky.
For four months now the village had been transformed into a kind ofcamp. The castle itself was crammed to bursting. The row of littlewindows beside the hall on the first floor, visible only from the roadthat led past the inn parallel to the river, marked the lodgings of theQueen, where, with the hall also for her use, she lived continually; therest of the castle was full of men-at-arms, officers, great lords whocame and went--these, with the castellan's rooms and those of hispeople, Sir Amyas' lodgings, and the space occupied by Mary's ownservants--all these filled the castle entirely. For the rest--thegarrison not on duty, the grooms, the couriers, the lesser servants, thesuites of the visitors, and even many of the visitors themselves--thesefilled the two inns of the little town completely, and overflowedeverywhere into the houses of the people. It was a vision of a garrisonin war-time that the countryfolk gaped at continually; the streetsparkled all day with liveries and arms; archers went to and fro; thetrample of horses, the sharp military orders at the changings of guardoutside and within the towered gateway that commanded the entrance overthe moats, the songs of men over their wine in the tavern-parlours--these things had become matters of common observation, and fired many ayoung farm-man with a zeal for arms.
The Queen herself was a mystery.
They had seen, for a moment, as she drove in after dark last September,a coach (in which, it was said, she had sat with her back to the horses)surrounded by guards; patient watchers had, perhaps, half a dozen timesaltogether caught a glimpse of a woman's face, at a window that wassupposed to be hers, look out for an instant over the wall that skirtedthe moat. But that was all. They heard the trumpets' cry within thecastle; and even learned to distinguish something of what eachsignified--the call for the changing of guards, the announcement ofdinner and supper; the warning to the gatekeepers that persons were topass out. But of her, round whom all this centred, of the prison-queenof this hive of angry bees, they knew less than of her Grace of Englandwhom once they had seen ride in through these very gates. Tales, ofcourse, were abundant--gossip from servant to servant, filtering down atlast, distorted or attenuated, to the rustics who watched and exclaimed;but there was not a soldier who kept her, not a cook who served her, ofwhom they did not know more than of herself. There were even parties inthe village; or, rather, there was a silent group who did not join inthe universal disapproval, but these were queer and fantastic persons,who still held to the old ways and would not go to church with the rest.
A little more material had been supplied for conversation by the eventsof to-day. It had positively been reported, by a fellow who had been tosee about a room for himself in the village, that he had been turned outof the castle to make space for her Grace's chaplain. This was puzzling.Had not the Popish priest already been in the castle five or six weeks?Then why should he now require another chamber?
The argument waxed hot by the bridge. One said that it was anotherpriest that was come in disguise; another, that once a Popish priest gota foothold in a place he was never content till he got the whole forhimself; a third, that the fellow had simply lied, and that he wasturned out because he had been caught by Sir Amyas making love to one ofthe maids. Each was positive of his own thesis, and argued for it by theprocess of re-assertion that it was so, and that his opponents werefools. They spat into the water; one got out a tobacco pipe that asoldier had given him and made a great show of filling it, though he hadno flint to light it with; another proclaimed that for two figs he wouldgo and inquire at the gateway itself....
To this barren war of the schools came a fact at last, and its bearerwas a gorgeous figure of a man-at-arms (who, later, got into trouble bytalking too much), who came swaggering down the road from the New Inn,blowing smoke into the air, with his hat on one side, and hisbreast-piece loose; and declared in that strange clipped London-Englishof his that he had been on guard at the door of Sir Amyas' room, and hadheard him tell Melville the steward and De Preau the priest that theymust no longer have access to her Grace, but must move their lodgingselsewhere within the castle.
This, then, had to be discussed once more from the beginning. One saidthat this was an evident sign that the end was to come and that Madamwas to die; another that, on the contrary, it was plain that this wasnot so, but that rather she was to be compelled by greater strictness toacknowledge her guilt; a third, that it was none of these things, butrather that Madam was turning Protestant at last in order to save herlife, and had devised this manner of ridding herself of the priest. Andthe soldier damned them all round as block-fools, who knew nothing andtalked all the more for it.
* * * * *
The dark was beginning to fall before the group broke up, and none ofthem took much notice of a young man on a fresh horse, who rode quietlyout of the yard of the New Inn as the saunterers came up. One of them,three minutes later, however, heard suddenly from across the bridge thesound of a horse breaking into a gallop and presently dying awaywestwards beyond Perry Lane.
II
Within the castle that evening nothing happened that was of any note toits more careless occupants. All was as usual.
The guard at the towers that controlled the drawbridge across the outermoat was changed at four o'clock; six men came out, under an officer,from the inner court; the words were exchanged, and the six that wentoff duty marched into the armoury to lay by their pikes and presentlydispersed, four to their rooms in the east side of the quadrangle, twoto their quarters in the village. From the kitchen came the clash ofdishes. Sir Amyas came out from the direction of the keep, where he hadbeen conferring with Mr. FitzWilliam, the castellan, and passed acrossto his lodging on the south. A butcher hurried in, under escort of acouple of men fr
om the gate, with a covered basket and disappeared intothe kitchen entry. All these things were observed idly by the dozenguards who stood two at each of the five doors that gave upon thecourtyard. Presently, too, hardly ten minutes after the guard waschanged, three figures came out at the staircase foot where Sir Amyashad just gone in, and stood there apparently talking in low voices. Thenone of them, Mr. Melville, the Queen's steward, came across the courtwith Mr. Bourgoign towards the outer entrance, passed under it, andpresently Mr. Bourgoign came back and wheeled sharply in to the right bythe entry that led up to the Queen's lodging. Meanwhile the thirdfigure, whom one of the men had thought to be M. de Preau, had gone backagain towards Mr. Melville's rooms.
That was all that was to be seen, until half an hour later, a fewminutes before the drawbridge was raised for the night, the steward cameback, crossed the court once more and vanished into the entry opposite.
It was about this time that the young man had ridden out from the NewInn.
Then the sun went down; the flambeaux were lighted beneath the two greatentrances--in the towered archway across the moat, and the smallervaulted archway within, as well as one more flambeau stuck into the ironring by each of the four more court-doors, and lights began to burn inthe windows round about. The man at Sir Amyas' staircase looked acrossthe court and idly wondered what was passing in the rooms opposite onthe first floor where the Queen was lodged. He had heard that the priesthad been forced to change his room, and was to sleep in Mr. Melville'sfor the present; so her Grace would have to get on without him as wellas she could. There would be no Popish mass to-morrow, then, in theoratory that he had heard was made upstairs.... He marvelled at thesuperstition that made this a burden....
At a quarter before six a trumpet blew, and presently the tall windowsof the hall across the court from him began to kindle. That was for herGrace's supper to be served. At five minutes to six another trumpetsounded, and M. Landet, the Queen's butler, hurried out with his whiterod to take his place for the entrance of the dishes. Finally, throughthe ground-floor window at the foot of the Queen's stair, the man caughta glimpse of moving figures passing towards the hall. That would be herGrace going in state to her supper with her women; but, for the firsttime, without either priest to say grace or steward to escort her. Hesaw, too, the couple of guards under the inner archway come to thesalute as the little procession came for an instant within their view;and Mr. Newrins, the butler of the castle, stop suddenly and pull offhis cap as he was hurrying in to be in time for the supper of thegentlemen that was served in the keep half an hour after the Queen's.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, ten miles away, along the Uppingham and Leicester track, rodea young man through the dark.
III
Sunday, too, passed as usual.
At half-past eight the bells of the church pealed out for the morningservice, and the village street was thronged with worshippers and a fewsoldiers. At nine o'clock they ceased, and the street was empty. Ateleven o'clock the trumpets sounded to announce change of guard, and totell the kitchen folk that dishing-time was come. Half an hour lateronce more the little procession glinted a moment through theground-floor window of the Queen's stair as her Grace went to dinner.(She was not very well, the cooks had reported, and had eaten but littlelast night.) At twelve o'clock she came out again and went upstairs; andat the same time, in Leicester, a young man, splashed from head to foot,slipped off a draggled and exhausted horse and went into an inn,ordering a fresh horse to be ready for him at three o'clock.
And so once more the sun went down, and the little rituals wereperformed, and the guards were changed, and M. Landet, for the last timein his life (though he did not know it), came out from the kitchen withhis white rod to bear it before the dishes of a Queen; and Sir Amyaswalked in from the orchard and was saluted, and Mr. FitzWilliam went hisrounds, and the drawbridge was raised. And, at the time that thedrawbridge was raised, a young man on a horse was wondering when heshould see the lights of Burton....
IV
The first that Mistress Manners knew of his coming in the early hours ofMonday morning, was when she was awakened by Janet in the pitch darknessshaking her shoulder.
"It is a young man," she said, "on foot. His horse fell five miles off.He is come with a letter from Derby."
Sleep fell from Marjorie like a cloak. This kind of thing had happenedto her before. Now and then such a letter would come from a priest wholacked money or desired a guide or information. She sprang out of bedand began to put on her outer dress and her hooded cloak, as the nightwas cold.
"Bring him into the hall," she said. "Get beer and some food, and blowthe fire up."
Janet vanished.
When the mistress came down five minutes later, all had been done as shehad ordered. The turf and wood fire leaped in the chimney; a young man,still with his hat on his head and drawn down a little over his face,was sitting over the hearth, steaming like a kettle, eating voraciously.Janet was waiting discreetly by the doors. Marjorie nodded to her, andshe went out; she had learned that her mistress's secrets were notalways her own as well.
"I am Mistress Manners," she said. "You have a letter for me?"
The young man stood up.
"I know you well enough, mistress," he said. "I am John Merton's son."
Marjorie's heart leaped with relief. In spite of her determination thatthis must be a letter from a priest, there had still thrust itselfbefore her mind the possibility that it might be that other letter whosecoming she had feared. She had told herself fiercely as she camedownstairs just now, that it could not be. No news was come fromFotheringay all the winter; it was common knowledge that her Grace had apriest of her own. And now that this was John Merton's son--
She smiled.
"Give me the letter," she said. "I should have known you, too, if itwere not for the dark."
"Well, mistress," he said, "the letter was to be delivered to you, Mr.Melville said; but--"
"Who?"
"Mr. Melville, mistress: her Grace's steward at Fotheringay."
* * * * *
He talked on a moment or two, beginning to say that Mr. Melville himselfhad come out to the inn, that he, as Melville's own servant, had beenlodging there, and had been bidden to hold himself in readiness, sincehe knew Derbyshire.... But she was not listening. She only knew thatthat had fallen which she feared.
"Give me the letter," she said again.
He sat down, excusing himself, and fumbled with his boot; and by thetime that he held it out to her, she was in the thick of the conflict.She knew well enough what it meant--that there was no peril in allEngland like that to which this letter called her friend, there, waitingfor him in Fotheringay where every strange face was suspected, where aPopish priest was as a sheep in a den of wolves, where there would be nomercy at all if he were discovered; and where, if he were to be of useat all, he must adventure himself in the very spot where he would bemost suspected, on a task that would be thought the last word in treasonand disobedience. And, worst of all, this priest had lodged in thetavern where the conspirators had lodged; he had talked with them thenight before their flight, and now, here he was, striving to get accessto her for whom all had been designed. Was there a soul in England thatcould doubt his complicity?... And it was to her own house here inDerbyshire that he had come for shelter; it was here that he had saidmass yesterday; and it must be from this house that he must ride, on oneof her horses; and it must be her hand that gave him the summons. Lastof all, it was she, Marjorie Manners, that had sent him to this life,six years ago.
Then, as she took the letter, the shrewd woman in her spoke. It wasirresistible, and she seemed to listen to voice that was not hers.
"Does any here know that you are come?"
"No, mistress."
"If I bade you, and said that I had reasons for it, you would ride awayagain alone, without a word to any?"
"Why, yes, mistress!"
&nb
sp; (Oh! the plan was irresistible and complete. She would send thismessenger away again on one of her own horses as far as Derby; he couldleave the horse there, and she would send a man for it to-morrow. Hewould go back to Fotheringay and would wait, he and those that had senthim. And the priest they expected would not come. He, too, himself, hadceased to expect any word from Mr. Bourgoign; he had said a month agothat surely none would come now. He had been away from Booth's Edge, infact, for nearly a month, and had scarcely even asked on his return lastSaturday to Padley, whether any message had come. Why, it wascomplete--complete and irresistible! She would burn the letter here inthis hall-fire when the man was gone again; and say to Janet that theletter had been from a travelling priest that was in trouble, and thatshe had sent the answer. And Robin would presently cease to look fornews, and the end would come, and there would be no more trouble.)
"Do you know what is in the letter?" she whispered sharply. ("Sit downagain and go on eating.")
He obeyed her.
"Yes, mistress," he said. "The priest was taken from her on Saturday.Mr. Bourgoign had arranged all in readiness for that."
"You said Mr. Melville."
"Mr. Melville is a Protestant, mistress; but he is very well devoted toher Grace, and has done as Mr. Bourgoign wished."
"Why must her Grace have a priest at once? Surely for a few days--"
He glanced up at her, and she, conscious of her own falseness, thoughthe looked astonished.
"I mean that they will surely give her her priest back, again presently;and"--(her voice faltered)--"and Mr. Alban is spent with histravelling."
"They mean to kill her, mistress. There is no doubt of it amongst thoseof us that are Catholics. And it is that she may have a priest beforeshe dies, that--"
He paused.
"Yes?" she said.
"Her Grace had a fit of crying, it is said, when her priest was takenfrom her. Mr. Melville was crying himself, even though--"
He stopped, himself plainly affected.
* * * * *
Then, in a great surge, her own heart rose up, and she understood whatshe was doing. As in a vision, she saw her own mother crying out for thepriest that never came; and she understood that horror of darkness thatfalls on one who, knowing what the priest can do, knowing the infiniteconsolations which Christ gives, is deprived, when physical deathapproaches, of that tremendous strength and comfort. Indeed, sherecognised to the full that when a priest cannot be had, God will saveand forgive without him; yet what would be the heartlessness, to saynothing of the guilt, of one that would keep him away? For what, exceptthat this strength and comfort might be at the service of Christ'sflock, had her own life been spent? It was expressly for this that shehad lived on in England when peace and the cloister might be herselsewhere; and now that her own life was touched, should she fail?...The blindness passed like a dream, and her soul rose up again on a waveof pain and exaltation....
"Wait," she said. "I will go and awaken him, and bid him come down."
V
An hour later, as the first streaks of dawn slit the sky to theeastwards over the moors, she stood with Janet and Mistress Alice andRobin by the hall fire.
She had said not a word to any of the struggle she had passed through.She had gone upstairs resolutely and knocked on his door till he hadanswered, and then whispered, "The letter is come.... I will have foodready"; slipping the letter beneath the door.
Then she had sent Janet to awaken a couple of men that slept over thestables; and bid them saddle two horses at once; and herself had gone tothe buttery to make ready a meal. Then Mistress Alice had awakened andcome downstairs, and the three women had waited on the priest, as, inboots and cloak, he had taken some food.
Then, as the sound of the horses' feet coming round from the stables atthe back had reached them, she had determined to tell Robin before hewent of how she had played the coward.
She went out with him to the entry between the hall and the buttery,holding the others back with a glance.
"I near destroyed the letter," she said simply, with downcast eyes, "andsent the man away again. I was afraid of what might fall atFotheringay.... May Christ protect you!"
She said no more than that, but turned and called the others before hecould speak.
As he gathered up the reins a moment later, before mounting, the threewomen kneeled down in the lighted entry and the two farm-men by thehorses' heads, and the priest gave them his blessing.