The sun was setting, and a rosy light filtered through the trees which enshrouded Chiddingly Place.
The cawing of the rooks, as they winged their leisurely flight into the great rookery, alone broke the silence which sweetly brooded over the broad terrace on which two Sussex boys lay extended on the velvety turf. It was Midsummer Day—a day of unbroken sunshine and excessive heat.
In the evening a refreshing wind had revived the parched earth, and the gay flowers which spangled the wide-spreading lawn were lifting their drooped heads with renewed life.
The stone-mullioned windows of the Tudor house were thrown wide open, and the lads could see the maids within the dining-hall busily engaged in laying the supper for which they were more than ready.
Come, Ralph, said William, as he bestirred himself, "we must go indoors and make ourselves presentable. Uncle John comes to-night, and he will soon be here."
Oh, don't hurry, answered his brother, as he lay playing with two fine retrievers. "I love to watch the purple light on the downs as the sun sinks behind them; I could gladly lie here all night!"
I agree with you, answered William; "but here comes Sue with orders, I expect, from the powers that be, that we are to go indoors at once."
Susan was the only sister of the two boys, and at her approach the dogs ran forward to greet her, and the boys rose quickly from their mossy couch.
The boys were twins, and as they stood side by side the likeness between them was striking.
They were in their eighteenth year, and fine specimens were they of the race of the "Sudseaxe." Tall and well built, fair haired and blue eyed, their strong limbs and fresh complexions betokened youths whose lives had been spent amid the woods and forests of Sussex, or on the rolling downs which stretched between Chiddingly and the sea.
Yet these boys were not unlettered, for both of them had been "foundation scholars" in the famous St. Paul's School, built and endowed by Dean Colet.
Nay, more, the youths had already seen something of Court life, strange to say.
It happened in this wise.
Their uncle Sir John Jefferay was a famous London lawyer, and he bid fair to occupy a great position on the judicial bench.
At this time he was the Treasurer of Gray's Inn, and on the occasion of a grand masque, given in the fine hall of the Inn by the Fellows, his two nephews had taken the parts of Castor and Pollux. The young King had honoured the performance with his royal presence, and so struck was he with the wonderful resemblance of the two Sussex brothers that he ordered them to Court and spent much time in their company.
In fact this resemblance was very remarkable. Those who knew the boys best could hardly tell them apart, and to avoid the continual mistakes which would otherwise have occurred, William always wore a grey cap and his brother a blue one.
The fondest affection subsisted between them; they were rarely seen apart; the one was the complement of the other, and their father, William Jefferay, would often declare that "they possessed two bodies, but only one soul!"
Just now they were released from their attendance at Court, but they would have to return thither shortly, for the sickly young King found a solace in their company.
There was one point upon which the boys were pre-eminently in agreement—they both adored their sister Sue, and her slightest wish was law to them.
And well did the fair Susan deserve this devotion. Three short years before, the boys had become motherless, and Susan, as the eldest member of the family, at once assumed the domestic control of Chiddingly Place. The comfort, the happiness, the welfare of the boys became her chief object in life.
She even shared in their sports—as far as a girl could,—and to her every secret of their hearts was laid bare; she was their "dea patrona," and for her both William and Ralph would have gladly laid down their lives at any time or place.
In person Susan was a feminine replica of the twins. She possessed their fair complexion and laughing blue eyes—her hair hung, like theirs, in thick masses over her shoulders.
Though slenderly built she was tall, and her figure displayed the nameless grace of a well-born English girl.
Come, boys, cried Susan, as she ran forth to the terrace to greet them, "Uncle John will be here in a few minutes; his grooms arrived an hour ago with his baggage, and now they have set his room in order for him. Hurry up, or you will keep supper waiting!"
The boys answered her greeting merrily, and taking her hands they ran by her side towards the entrance porch, which they entered just as Uncle John appeared upon the scene.
Susan ran out to salute him as he dismounted from his grey sorrel—the boys darted upward to their rooms.
As Sir John entered the house, his brother William came forward to greet him with the warmest of welcomes.
It was a happy party which gathered in the dining-hall that evening.
The supper was served at so early an hour that the candles in the silver sconces were not yet required: the light of day still gleamed into the hall through the lozenge-paned oriel window, and sent coloured streams across the fair napery of the table as it passed through the stained glass of armorial bearings. Sir John sat at the head of the table, as he always did when he came to Chiddingly—though he had made a "deed of gift" of the Place in favour of his brother William when he took up his abode in London.
Presently the shadows of evening began to deepen, and the wax tapers were lit.
How pleasant the hall looked as the light shone on the wainscoted walls and illumined the features of past generations of Jefferays whose portraits adorned the beautiful chamber!
There was John Jefferay, who purchased Chiddingly Place in 1495, and beside him was the portrait of his wife Agnes, whose fine features bore a strong resemblance to Susan.
Their three sons were there—Richard, Thomas and William, Richard being the father of the famous Sir John who now sat at supper in the hall.
And when the young people of the family had withdrawn to the parlour, to amuse themselves with music and merry games, Sir John and his brother stepped out on to the lawn and entered into grave discourse as they walked to and fro.
The stars were shining brightly, a soft, gentle wind was stirring the tree-tops, and from the woods around came the sweet songs of many a nightingale.
Ah, what a contrast is this scene of tranquil peace and happiness to the wild drama which is unfolding itself in London! said Sir John.
"Here I may speak words to you, brother William, which might cost me my head if men overheard them in town. I have come to Chiddingly sick at heart and weary of the world, for the young King is dying, and all the beasts and birds of prey are gathering together at Court ready to fly at each others' throats as soon as the life is out of his poor body. Alas! alas! for England; I see no hope for her but in God. His Grace of Northumberland is straining every nerve to advance the cause of Lady Jane Grey and his son Lord Guildford Dudley, and I foresee that, ere long, the headsman will be busy, and the innocent will suffer with the guilty. Last night his Grace of Canterbury came to me in great trouble; he would fain know if he might legally sign certain State documents, and I told him that if he did so it would be at the peril of his head! Alas, poor Archbishop! he went away greatly perturbed.
" "Yesterday I saw the Lord Mayor, and he vowed to me that no earthly power should constrain him to proclaim Lady Jane as Queen in the City—let me tell you his heart is wholly with the Lady Mary, and, by my troth, he is wise! For, as a lawyer, I declare that the rights to the throne of the Ladies Mary and Elizabeth are indefeasible; yet, if I said as much in London to-day, I might spend the night in the Tower, and to-morrow bid my last adieu to this world on the scaffold! Oh, the times are dark, deadly, perilous, and I am glad to escape from London and breathe the pure air of Chiddingly for a brief space.""
"And if Mary become Queen, what of our Reformed Church, which is dear to us both? inquired William anxiously.
Ah! God knows—and God only, answered Sir John. "The Lady Mary is a bigot, and that we all know.
Yet I will tell you a State secret: she has sent a messenger to the Lord Mayor, declaring that should she be declared Queen, no Englishman shall suffer for his faith.
Will she keep her word? asked William.
Qui vivra verra, answered Sir John; "but I foresee that all depends upon the man whom she shall marry, for marry she will. If, by the mercy of God, she marry a good man, all may be well; if she marry a bad one, then God help us!"
William was deeply moved, and he sighed audibly.
It bodes great trouble for England, he said in a troubled voice. "It may be that the fires of Smithfield will be rekindled as in the worst days of King Henry: yet I believe that the Reformation has taken a deep hold upon the country; the Church may bend before a fierce storm of persecution, but she will not be broken—she will rise again! I, for one, would rather die than bow my knees to Baal, as represented to me by the Papacy; and, thank God, there are thousands of men of like mind with me in Sussex!"
As William pronounced these words in tones that quivered with emotion, his brother caught him by the hand, and shaking it warmly, he cried—
I know your stedfastness, brother, and I agree with you with all my heart and soul—yet I pray that God may spare us the trial of our faith! But hark! I hear an approaching horseman; I expect it is my man Roger, who is bringing us the latest news from town.
A few minutes later the groom appeared on the lawn, bearing letters in his hand.
Sir John took them from him; then, turning to his brother, he said—
Let us go indoors; these letters are from my secretary, and we will read them at once; they must be of importance, or they would not have followed me so soon.
Entering the house the gentlemen made their way to the library—a comfortable room, well lighted with wax candles, and furnished with numerous settees and easy-chairs.
Sir John sat down and eagerly opened his despatches.
It is Tremayne who writes, he said. "I will read his letter to you; it is as follows—
"'Honoured Sir, 'The Council met to-day, and the deed of which you wot was signed and sealed—all the members consenting thereto. The Archbishop hesitated to the last, but His Grace of Northumberland would not be withstood—and so all signed. I hear that the King is sinking fast. From your chambers in Gray's Inn, June 21, 1553. J. W. Tremayne'""
"The brothers looked at each other with pallid faces.
So the 'letters patent' are issued, said Sir John, "and the irrevocable step is taken! 'Domine, dirige nos'! It is the beginning of strife of which no man can see the issue. Northumberland relies on aid from France; the Lady Mary places her hope on the Emperor. I bethink me of our blessed Lord's words: 'These things are the beginning of sorrows! Then shall be great tribulation such as was not since the beginning of the world to this time, no nor ever shall be.' And alas! for the poor young King, he hath none to comfort him; he is tasting of that unutterable loneliness that surrounds a throne! I think the end of his troubles is nigh at hand—and then the great strife will begin!
But the hour is growing late, William, said Sir John, "and I hear Susan's pretty voice below; she is singing one of those songs I love so well: let us join the young people, I have seen little of them to-night."
A fortnight later, on July 6th, King Edward died at Greenwich in the sixteenth year of his age and the seventh of his reign.
Sir John had tarried at Chiddingly until the end came; then he hastened up to London, where pressing duties called him.
With him went the two boys—to begin their legal studies under the auspices of their uncle at Gray's Inn, for it was his wish that they should both enter the learned profession of the law.
It was the year of grace 1556, the third year of the reign of Queen Mary.
The forebodings of evil with which her reign had been ushered in were bitterly fulfilled.
The headsman's axe had oft-times been in use on Tower Hill: Northumberland had gone to his doom with no man to pity him; his son Lord Guildford Dudley had followed him to the block, perhaps equally unlamented.
But men were moved to deeper pity and compassion when the young, innocent, and hapless Lady Jane suffered for her kinsmen's crimes!
The Reformation had found its "witnesses unto death" in the persons of Cranmer, Ridley and Latimer, and the flames of Smithfield aroused the horror of the people; the great "Marian Persecution" had begun, and already over a hundred victims had been offered up.
Mary had married her Spanish husband, and England had witnessed the feeble and ineffectual rebellion of Sir Thomas Wyatt—a protest against the marriage which did not commend itself to the mass of the people.
Amid all these scenes of turmoil and confusion, of terror and distress, the family of the Jefferays at Chiddingly were left unmolested and undisturbed.
In many a quiet country village the Services of the Church, as they had been appointed at the Reformation, were duly performed; the Prayer Book was not superseded by the Missal, and the parish priest was not dispossessed. Their obscurity sheltered them—as yet.
The Vicar of Chiddingly was William Tittleton, who had been appointed to the benefice in the reign of Henry the Eighth. He had been at Magdalen College, Oxford, with Sir John Jefferay, where the two young men had formed a strong and enduring friendship.
Thus it happened that in due time Sir John presented his friend—now in Holy Orders—to the benefice of Chiddingly, and the Vicar had returned the good service by acting as tutor to the young people of Chiddingly Place. He was a very able scholar, and between him and his pupils a strong affection subsisted.
But a change was at hand for the parish of Chiddingly—its peace and quietude came suddenly to an end. The "Marian Persecution" had begun, and the lurid flames of Smithfield had aroused horror and indignation in many English hearts—especially in Sussex, where the Reformation had taken deep root.
At this critical moment the Vicar of Chiddingly preached a sermon at Mayfield which brought him under the censure of the Government, and an apparitor was sent to make inquiry into the ecclesiastical position of the little parish.
The ill-omened visitor attended the simple services of the parish church, and took copious notes of the Vicar's sermon, to the dismay of the rustics of Chiddingly.
The fires of Lewes in the month of June this year had excited their fierce animosity, and the appearance of the apparitor in their midst gave birth to a sudden outburst of wrath.
It was at the close of a lovely day in July—a Sunday—when their anger found vent.
They had marked the presence of a stranger at the morning service—a stern-looking, middle-aged man, garbed in black, and as they came out of church the men gathered in groups to discuss the object and purpose of his visit.
The man was sojourning at the village inn (the "Six Bells"), and thither he was allowed for the present to retire unmolested, although a strict watch was at once instituted upon his doings.
In the afternoon the visitor again attended service, and an ominous murmur among the rustics became distinctly audible as they observed that he was again busily taking notes of all that he saw and heard.
The service over, the man left the church with the intention of proceeding to the inn, where his horse was stabled; but he was not to be allowed to leave the village thus quietly.
Hard by the church was the horse-pond—at this period of the year about half full of dark slimy water; in the centre of the pond the depth would be about four or five feet.
Suddenly the visitor found himself surrounded by a band of determined, angry-looking Sussex men.
What does this mean? he asked sternly. "Do you men know that I am about the Queen's business?"
Aye, we thought as much, and that's about the reason of it all, answered the spokesman of the rustics. "Gie us them papers which we saw thee so busy with in the church instead of minding thy prayers! Gie us them—we see them sticking out of thy pocket, and we means to have them—or it will be the worse for thee!"
Fools! snarled the man, without quailing before the coming storm, "fools! do you not know that it is a hanging matter to lay a hand on me?"
It's very likely, said the bold rustic; "but it strikes me some one else will be hung, or drownded, before any of us are sent to join the Lewes martyrs."
The angry group was now just beside the horse-pond—and each moment it grew more excited and threatening. Suddenly a voice cried—
He's fond of fire, let's see how water suits him!
Thereupon the rustics hustled the hapless apparitor to the edge of the pond; then he found himself lifted from the ground, and the strong arms of his foes swung him to and fro in the air.
One, two, three, in he goes! cried a raucous voice.
A scream of terror was sent forth by the man, and he struggled violently.
It was all of no avail.
In another moment he was hurled headlong into the slimy waters of the pond! And there he might have been drowned, but for the help that came to him from an unexpected quarter.
Susan Jefferay had been in the congregation, and her attention had been arrested by the unwonted spectacle of a stranger in the church.
The service was over, and the Vicar had withdrawn into the vestry; Susan awaited him in the church, for he was to accompany her home to the Place.
The wonted silence of the Sabbath-day was broken by the angry voices of men, and Susan hurried out of the church to ascertain the cause—a dreadful suspicion arising in her mind.
A glance at the tumultuous scene at the pondside revealed to her the catastrophe which was being enacted. Instantly she flew to the vestry where the Vicar was unrobing, and seizing him by the arm, she cried—
Oh, come, Vicar, come this instant, the men are murdering the stranger!
Then she and the Vicar hurried towards the pond. The enraged rustics had thrown a rope over the unhappy apparitor's shoulders, and having secured their victim in a noose, were dragging him to and fro in the water.
Hold, in God's name! shouted the Vicar. "What madness possesses you, men?" he continued; "are you not ashamed of yourselves? Here, give me the rope," he cried, as he grasped the situation.
Let me help you, Vicar, pleaded Susan, anxious to have some part in the matter.
So the two rescuers drew the half-drowned apparitor to land, and Susan, stooping down, undid the rope which was choking the man.
He showed no sign of life now, his face looked unnaturally pale in contrast to the dull green slime which besmeared it.
Run to the vicarage and bring some strong waters, Robin, he cried to a youth who stood looking on.
Nay, rather run to the 'Six Bells'; it is nearer, suggested Susan, and the boy dashed away to do their bidding.
Meanwhile, Susan had loosed the man's garments around his throat, while the Vicar placed his hand upon his heart.
I fear he is dead! said the Vicar, in tones of anguish.
Nay, cried Susan, as she observed a green froth gurgling at his mouth, "see, he is breathing!"
By this time Robin had returned from the "Six Bells" with a bottle of brandy in his hand.
Susan took it from the lad and began carefully to moisten the man's lips with the strong spirit, then to pour a small portion down his throat.
Presently a colour flushed into the man's pallid cheeks, and a moment later he opened his eyes and looked wonderingly around.
Then, leaving Susan to attend to the sufferer, the Vicar rose to his feet and looked round upon his parishioners.
Now tell me, men, what all this means, he said somewhat sternly.
The men looked shamefaced, but their chief spokesman answered the Vicar promptly.
The man is a Government spy, he said; "he meant mischief to all of us, and especially to you, Vicar. We saw him taking notes of all that you did and said in church, and he warned us that he was a Queen's officer, and that to touch him was a hanging matter; so we just 'touched' him, and if you had not come along with Miss Susan we should have drawn his fangs, and he would never more have wrought mischief to innocent and harmless people."
The Vicar still preserved a stern countenance, but he had not been human if he had not been secretly touched by this proof of the devotion of his people, however recklessly given.
And these said notes, he said, "they may have been quite harmless; what did you do with them?"
We took them from his pockets, Vicar, then we wrapped them round a big stone and threw them in the pond; they won't do much harm there!
The Vicar's features relaxed into a momentary smile; then he became pensive again, as he said—
Thank God that I and Miss Susan came in time to frustrate your reckless intention; you might have brought down unutterable evils on our parish; and remember, men, there is One who hath said, 'Vengeance is Mine, I will repay!' What right had you to snatch the judgment from His hand?
At this moment Susan touched the Vicar on the arm, and said—
He is fast recovering consciousness: let the men carry him to his lodgings at the 'Six Bells,' and at once; he needs rest and refreshment.
Yes, replied the Vicar, "I will see to it: and do you, Mistress Susan, go home without me; I will soon follow you."
The Vicar turned to one of the men, who had not been actively engaged in the late proceedings.
Hal, said he, "take that gate off its hinges and bring it here"—pointing to a garden gate near at hand.
The man readily obeyed, the gate was brought, and the semi-unconscious apparitor was placed thereon.
Then the Vicar and three of the men conveyed their burden to the "Six Bells" Inn, the man was carried to his room, and before he left him the Vicar saw him safely placed in bed.
Take care of him, Giles, he said to the landlord. "Let me know how he is to-night; I will call and see him in the morning."
That evening the Vicar had a long and very serious conversation with his old friend William Jefferay.
All the family had supped together in the dining-hall, and now the two men were conferring on the event of the day in the library.
It is no light matter in these evil days to have a Queen's apparitor to spy and report, as this man intended to do, said Jefferay. "This man may return to his masters before twenty-four hours have passed, and no man can say what will then happen; to-day's uproar will make matters all the worse for us. Take my advice, Vicar, you have neither wife nor child to detain you in England: spend the next six months in Holland! Do you need money? I shall be proud to be your almoner. Oh, take my advice and go, ere the storm bursts!"
And leave my flock at the very first intimation of danger—perhaps to suffer in my place, replied the Vicar warmly. "Oh no, it cannot be done; and while I thank you, friend Jefferay, with all my heart, I beg you to abandon the thought of so base desertion—it would be a lack of faith in God; I cannot do it."
William Jefferay sighed, and the matter dropped.
That night the landlord of the inn came to the vicarage with bad news: the apparitor was moaning in pain, and seemed to be light-headed.
Like many of his clerical brethren, the Vicar had some knowledge of medicine, and he now hastened to the sick man's side, taking with him some simple remedies.
Susan had preceded him thither, for among her many beneficent offices she had constituted herself the "parish nurse" of Chiddingly, and in every case of trouble or sickness she was the first to be sent for.
As the Vicar entered the room, Susan rose from her seat at the bedside and greeted him.
He is very feverish, she said. "I am afraid he is going to be very ill: I have sent to Hailsham for the doctor."
You did well, answered the Vicar. "I hope he will soon be here."
Just before midnight the doctor arrived, and ere he saw his patient the Vicar related to him the circumstances of the case.
The doctor listened with some amazement.
You and Mistress Susan are very good to this man, considering the errand upon which he came to Chiddingly, said the doctor.
We do not, perhaps, know all the circumstances of the case, replied the Vicar, "for his papers were destroyed by my people; perhaps he is no foe of mine at all, but if it were so, we remember that it is written, 'If thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink.' Much more, surely, should we succour him if he be sick."
Yes, yes, you are right, doubtless, and I honour you for it, replied the doctor—"but come, let us visit the patient."
The visit paid, the two men met again in the inn parlour down-stairs.
He is in a high fever, said the doctor, "and he will need great care and attention. It is too much for Mistress Susan—I will send you a nurse to-morrow. For to-night, Giles's wife can do all that is necessary."
But Susan would not hear of this arrangement, declaring that she would remain at her post till the nurse arrived.
Three weeks later two men sat upon a seat on the vicarage lawn.
Again it was a Sunday evening, and the two men were the Vicar and the apparitor.
And you are sure that you are able to travel to-morrow? said the Vicar.
Yes, I shall take it by easy stages—resting for a night at East Grinstead, and so reaching London on the evening of the second day.
London, said the Vicar; "then you go to make your report to the Government?"
No, Mr. Vicar, I have resigned my office of apparitor—I take up work of another sort in London.
Then, in answer to a look of amazement, perhaps of inquiry, which the man saw depicted on the Vicar's countenance, he suddenly seized Mr. Tittleton's hand and shook it warmly.
Oh! Mr. Vicar, he cried, "how could you think it possible that I could again take up the accursed work which brought me hither? Do you know that each time that I saw you by my bedside, each time that I felt your cooling hand on my feverish brow, whensoever I listened to your soothing voice, my whole soul was moved with contrition and remorse. For I came hither on an evil errand—may God forgive me!
"My report of Chiddingly might have brought about your death warrant. Oh, I thank Heaven that it was destroyed ere the mischief was done! And as I lay on my sick-bed, I surmised that you must have suspected all this; yet you and Mistress Susan watched over me with unwearied tenderness and patience—you snatched me from the jaws of death! And the thought of all this broke my hard heart! Now I wish you adieu, my dear Vicar; but ere I go, let me leave with you a word of counsel. It is known to me that dangerous reports of you have reached London, and though I abandon the office of apparitor another will take it up, and your life may be in danger. Therefore, I beseech you to take refuge abroad, as so many of your brethren have done. Soon the clouds may roll by, but for the present hour of stress and trouble seek safety in flight, I beseech you.""
"The Vicar shook his head sadly.
It may not be, my dear friend—the shepherd may not flee and leave his flock in danger.
Yet, urged his visitor, "it is written, 'If they persecute you in one city, flee ye into another'—is that not so?"
Yes, that is the Divine counsel, answered the Vicar, "and the hour may come when I may feel the monition to be addressed to me; but for the present I abide in Chiddingly!"
God's will be done, said the man solemnly—and so they parted.
The apparitor had taken his departure, and Chiddingly had resumed its normal condition of rural happiness and peace.
The fields were ripening unto harvest, the rustics went forth to their daily toil whistling merrily beside their horses, and at eventide the maidens went to see to the kine with their bright milk-cans in their hands. The rooks filled the air with their raucous voices, as they fluttered about the great rookery which begirt Chiddingly Place.
On the Sunday following the departure of the Queen's officer, all the people of Chiddingly, save a few who were bedridden, flocked into the parish church as if to testify by their presence the love that they bore to their pastor.
Chiddingly was a musical village, and here, at least, the Canticles, which were "to be said or sung," were always sung to the accompaniment of a flageolet, which the parish clerk played vigorously.
And on this especial Sunday the "Te Deum" was sung so heartily that the Vicar marvelled, while Mistress Susan's bright eyes glowed with pride and then glistened with the unbidden tear which strong emotion called forth.
The service over, the Squire and his fair daughter walked through the lines of the villagers, who, according to their custom, awaited their exit to make their salutations to them, cap in hand. There was nothing servile in this—it was but the public exhibition of the love and fidelity in which the family of the Jefferays was held by the Chiddingly people. At the entrance porch of the hall Susan's quick eye noted a stable lad standing beside a pony from which he had dismounted.
What was it that so suddenly brought a flush into Susan's cheeks as she marked that the lad wore the livery of the De Fynes of Herstmonceux—a glow which deepened as the boy doffed his cap and offered her a letter?
You come from Lewes? said Susan inquiringly.
Yes, my lady, replied the lad.
Wait awhile, and I will let you know if there is any reply; go to the kitchen after you have stabled your pony—the maids will get you some dinner, said Susan.
The lad bowed low and took his departure, glad to follow out Susan's instructions.
Susan turned to her father, who had looked on smilingly.
Pardon me, dear father, she said, "I will be with you anon."
William Jefferay nodded assent. Susan hastened to her own room and quickly opened her letter.
Yes, it was from Geoffrey de Fynes; she had half hoped to have seen him this day, why had he written instead?
So, with a heart surmising evil, she proceeded to read the letter. As she did so, her cheeks paled and her hands trembled. Then she rang a small silver bell which stood at her side, and her maid Janet appeared in answer to the summons.
Ask my father to come hither to me, Janet, she said, and the maid hastened away.
Her father presently entered her room, his face still wreathed with smiles.
But the expression of his face changed suddenly as he looked upon his daughter, who held out the letter to him.
What is it, Susan, he said quickly, "what has happened?"
Read, father! she replied in a troubled voice.
The writer of the letter was a member of a great Sussex family—a family whose wrongs moved the pity of all men. The head of the house of Geoffrey de Fynes had suffered a traitor's death in the year 1545, since which time the family had been degraded "in blood and honours."
Yet never had Justice so surely missed its mark as when young Lord Dacres lost his head at Tyburn!
Young Geoffrey de Fynes at the present time held the office of Secretary to the High Sheriff of the County; just now his duties had called him to Lewes.
He was a frequent visitor at Chiddingly Place, and between him and Susan a strong attachment had sprung up, though no betrothal had taken place.
William Jefferay took the letter from his daughter's hand and read it carefully; it was as follows—
"This from the hand of one who loves thee well, and whose chief object in life is to do thee service. Hence I write this letter, and I do so with a clear conscience, though the writing of it might cause the loss of my post, and make me an inmate of Lewes gaol! Yet I dare not do otherwise, for thy happiness is dearer to me than aught else in this life! Now to come at once to the point.
" "It has come to my knowledge that a warrant has been issued by the Crown for the apprehension of the Vicar of Chiddingly. A Pursuivant, with three men-at-arms, will leave Lewes for Chiddingly three days hence, soon after daybreak. They will travel on horseback, and their object is to arrest the Vicar, bring him hither, and afterwards convey him to London.
"Thou mayest show this letter to thy father, but to none other. Between you some plan may be devised whereby he shall escape the malice of his foes. I suggest that he flee to the Continent, but thy father will be his best counsellor.
Then the letter of Geoffrey de Fynes drifted off into other matters which concerned Susan only.
When you have finished reading that letter I counsel you to destroy it—for Geoffrey's sake, said William Jefferay to his daughter, as he handed it back to her.
Oh, father, said Susan, "what is to be done?"
I know not, replied her father, "unless we can persuade the Vicar to flee."
We have tried that already, and I fear he is immovably resolved to stay among his people—he is strong in his innocence, and cannot be brought to realize the danger he is in, said Susan.
We shall see him to-night after the service; he comes here to sup with us: we will show him De Fynes's letter if needs be, or at least tell him its contents. I think this will convince him of the deadly peril in which he stands, replied Jefferay.
God grant it! cried Susan. "I shall know no rest nor peace now till I know that his safety is assured. Ralph will be here to-morrow; he is coming to spend my birthday with us. Oh! it is a heaven-sent interposition, for he can conduct the Vicar to the coast," she continued.
Nay, Susan, replied her father, "it is a post of danger, and it will need discretion as well as valour; I shall see him to Newhaven myself, if we can persuade him to flee."
For a long time they talked together, maturing their schemes.
How good and noble it was of Geoffrey de Fynes to send us this warning! said Susan; "would that he were here to aid us with his counsel!"
There you are wrong, dear girl, replied Jefferay; "he has compromised himself enough already, and now we must keep him out of our plot altogether."
Yes, I see that it must be so, answered Susan, with a sigh.
The afternoon service took place as usual, the parishioners attending once more in full force, little thinking of the danger that hung over the head of their beloved Vicar.
Every word of the simple service seemed to Susan's excited imagination to be invested with an especial significance, and her sweet voice trembled with emotion as she sang the words, "Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace." So also the psalm for the day cheered her with its ringing words, "Why do the heathen rage?" and she came out of the church both comforted and refreshed.
In the evening the Vicar came down to the Place in the best of spirits; the hearty services of the day had filled his heart with joy, and the evident good-will, respect, and affection of his people for him had deeply moved his gentle soul.
It was not till supper was over, and the three friends were seated together in the library, that Jefferay, laying his hand affectionately upon the Vicar's shoulders, said—
You are very happy to-night, Vicar; alas! that I should have bad news for you—news that will mar your happiness, I fear.
Then, as the Vicar looked into his face, without fear or trepidation, William Jefferay recounted all that had happened, and finally showed him De Fynes's letter.
The Lord's will be done! said the Vicar solemnly.
It will be done, it always is done, but not always in the manner we expect, answered Jefferay.
Then Susan intervened.
She drew near to the Vicar's side, took his hand in hers, and said—
Dear Vicar, we have decided that you must flee before this threatened storm, for it would break our hearts were you taken from us by cruel men, and not ours only, but the hearts also of many of your poor people here.
The Vicar shook his head.
The hireling fleeth because he is an hireling; the good shepherd giveth his life for the sheep, he said.
No, my dear girl, he continued, as he laid his hand affectionately on her head, "I cannot go—do not urge me!"
Then William Jefferay took another line.
Listen, my friend, he said, "we want to preserve your life for better times; and my brother Sir John tells me that all men at Court foresee that the present state of things cannot last."
Then, dropping his voice to almost a whisper, he continued—
"The Queen's health is failing; the friends of the Princess Elizabeth are gathering about her, and are taking heart. This may be treason, but, as God lives, I believe it is true! Save yourself, then, Vicar, for better times and future labour among the people whose souls God has committed into your charge! Now let me tell you my plans. To-morrow The Golden Horn sets sail from Newhaven for Ostend. I have interest with the captain, and I can answer for him that he will accept you as a passenger. We can leave Chiddingly at break of day, ere people are moving, and I will conduct you to Newhaven.""
"I will give you my answer to-morrow, pleaded the Vicar.
But his two faithful friends would not be thus appeased.
No, Vicar, that will be too late, for The Golden Horn puts to sea early in the day, and we should lose our great opportunity.
For a long time the earnest discussion continued, and the hour waxed late before the reluctant consent was given. To the loving heart of Susan that hard-won victory brought great joy.
To-morrow, then, at three o'clock we meet here; the horses will be ready to start the moment you arrive, said William, as the guest took his departure from the Place.
I shall be here—God willing, replied the Vicar.
The next day saw William Jefferay's plan carried out—with the addition that, on Susan's suggestion, Jefferay should accompany the Vicar to Holland and see him safely and comfortably settled there.
That same day, Monday, Ralph arrived from London, and it was not long ere the confiding Susan had revealed to him all that had passed, and that on Wednesday the Queen's Pursuivant would visit Chiddingly to find "the bird flown"!
Now Ralph was a fine, strong English youth, endowed by nature with a very combative disposition and an inordinate love of adventure.
He had thoroughly approved of the action of the Chiddingly rustics when they dipped the apparitor in the horse-pond, though he had taken no part in the affair.
The threatened visit of the Pursuivant aroused his indignation to a white heat, and, unfortunately, at this moment he lacked the restraining influence of his father's presence at home, nor did he take counsel on the matter with Susan.
That very day Ralph called about him a few of his young confidants among the Chiddingly rustics, and at nightfall ten of them met him in conference in the taproom of the "Six Bells" Inn.
The meeting was "secret and confidential"; none but the ten stalwarts were admitted to it, and these pledged themselves to secrecy by a solemn oath which Ralph administered with all due gravity.
Then the meeting having been duly constituted, and Ralph accepted as their leader by common consent, the "young Squire" (as he was known among the rustics) set forth in sufficiently guarded language the nature of the matter which had brought them together, omitting all reference by name to Geoffrey de Fynes.
Headstrong and thoughtless as Ralph was, he saw the necessity for secrecy on that point.
It was a remarkable and typical assembly.
These young men were fine young Englishmen, who, though they lacked great intelligence, possessed the bravery and independence of their fore-fathers.
They were absolutely loyal to their Queen, and would have shed their blood for her and for their country against Spain, or France, or any other foreign foe with complete devotion.
But there was growing up in their hearts a deadly hatred for the Spanish nation in general, and for King Philip in particular—nor did the Sussex people ever forget or forgive the religious intolerance which had kindled the fires at Lewes, Mayfield, and many another place.
So Ralph found ready material at hand when he proposed to take vengeance on the Pursuivant as they had done upon the apparitor, reckless of the anger of the "powers that be."
Before the conspirators separated that night it was resolved that the Pursuivant and his party should be waylaid on Wednesday morning at a point in the woods well known to them all—about four miles from Chiddingly.
The warrant should be taken from the Pursuivant and be torn to pieces; there should be no bloodshed if it were possible to prevent it; the obnoxious visitors should be unhorsed and left to find their way back to Lewes on foot.
The horses would be driven into the woods; they were Lewes horses, and would surely find their way home in due time; and, if not, there was abundant pasture for them in the glades of the forest.
The rustics, under Ralph's leadership, would leave the village at daybreak on Wednesday morning; they would thus reach the place appointed for the attack an hour or so before their foes, and would have time to make all necessary preparations.
Thus the scheme was elaborated, and every detail arranged by the resourceful lad, Ralph Jefferay.
To him the whole adventure was a matter of supreme delight—little recked he of the danger attending it!
On the morrow (Tuesday) he mounted his cob and rode to the spot he had selected for the attack.
There were no high-roads in Sussex, but between the villages and the county town well-known beaten tracks existed. These were well-nigh impassable in winter—at other seasons a fair amount of traffic passed along them.
Between Chiddingly and Lewes lay dense woods—the relics of the mighty forest of the Andreadsweald of ancient days. Sometimes the trackway led through forest glades of much beauty; at other times it was a narrow pass between giant oaks and elms whose rich foliage would occasionally meet over the head of the traveller, forming a delicious shade in the hot months of summer.
It was to a place of this latter kind that Ralph came on that fine July morning.
He felt perfectly certain that the Pursuivant would take this route on the following day; any other would involve a détour of several miles in making the journey from Lewes to Chiddingly.
Ralph inspected narrowly the trees which grew on both sides of the track; eventually he seemed to find what he needed, namely, two stout young saplings facing each other with about twenty feet intervening between them.
Then he rode slowly home, and in the evening his rustic friends assembled again, at his summons, in the taproom of the inn, where he gave them his final instructions.
To Susan he said nothing of the scheme on foot; he would not involve her or any member of his family in the dangers of the enterprise.
One great regret filled his heart—the absence of his brother William.
The twins were rarely apart from each other, and this visit to Chiddingly lacked but this one thing for Ralph's perfect happiness; his brother had been compelled to remain in London, where his uncle, Sir John, required his services and personal attendance.
A dim grey light filled the eastern horizon on the Wednesday morning as Ralph made his way to the stables, where he saddled his stout cob.
He bore no weapon—not even the customary rapier without which he rarely went abroad—for this enterprise was to be carried through without bloodshed; upon that point he was determined.
His followers would all carry single-sticks, a formidable weapon enough in the hands of a Sussex rustic! Round his waist he had begirt himself with a long and strong cord—destined for a special purpose.
Presently he mounted his horse and proceeded at a gentle pace towards the woods; his men, he knew, were gone on ahead.
A bright red light suffused the eastern sky, the sun was about to rise, and the twittering of countless birds from every copse filled the air with sweet music.
A summer mist lay on the meadowland, and big drops of dew bedecked the leaves of the hazel bushes, gleaming under the rosy light like rubies.
Suddenly the sun rose above the horizon into a cloudless sky, and the day had begun.
It was a lovely morning, not a cloud flecked the bright azure of the sky.
On his left hand ran the long line of the Sussex downs in graceful outline—rising at Firle Beacon to a lofty height of some seven hundred feet.
Before him lay the dense forest, the deep embowered shades of Chiddingly woods.
Ralph was in high spirits, and as his stout cob gaily cantered along the trackway he broke into song, as if in emulation of the sweet-toned larks rising into the deep-blue sky on quivering wing.
He was now nearing the point of the rendezvous, and he checked his song as he caught sight of one of his stalwarts trudging along in front of him.
You are in good time, Roger, he cried to the man as he overtook him.
Yes, Mr. William, and the others are all in front of me. I am the rear-guard.
Good, cried Ralph, "but tell me, Roger, why do you call me Mr. William?—alas, he is not here."
I beg your pardon, sir, replied the man with a laugh. "I thought for the moment that Mr. William had joined us—it was your grey cap which misled me."
Ralph pulled the cap from his head and looked at it with an air of astonishment.
It is true, he said, "I have put on my brother's cap; it was dark when I left home, and I did not mark the colour of it."
Then he rode rapidly ahead, and in a few minutes he arrived at the rendezvous.
The spot was admirably chosen for the object in view. Here the track narrowed to a breadth of sixteen or seventeen feet, and the branches of a giant oak spread right over it.
On each side of the track grew a stout young sapling, as if nature was conspiring on behalf of the stalwarts. Ralph drew a whistle from his doublet and blew a shrill note.
In a minute a rustling noise arose in the dense wood, and there emerged from it nine of his men.
Ralph dismounted, and putting his bridle rein into the hands of one of the men, said—
Take him to the hut and tie him up carefully; see that you shut the door after you.
Aye, aye, sir, said the man.
Then Ralph began to unwind from his body the stout cord he had brought with him, with the assistance of his men. One end of it was securely fastened to the sapling on the right of the road, at a height of one foot from the grassy soil.
The other end was made sure at the foot of a tree on the left-hand side, and the rope was drawn taut. The rough grass which grew luxuriantly on the trackway obscured it sufficiently from view.
Every man of the band carried a short cord round his waist, and Ralph carefully inspected these cords to see that they were ready for immediate use.
Now listen, all of you, to my final instructions, said Ralph, as the men gathered round him.
"You, Tom and Jim, will mount the oak-tree, climb along that limb which crosses the track, and be ready to drop on the Pursuivant at the moment he passes beneath you. Bring him to the ground and bind his arms and legs with your cords. Four of you will hide in the wood on the right-hand side of the track, and four on the left-hand. The horses will probably be caught by our rope and will come to ground, their riders being thrown headlong. That is your moment of attack; spring upon them and rope them securely.
"Should a horse escape the stretched rope, his rider must be brought to ground by your cudgels. Beware that no man escapes, or our plan will fail. Above all, remember there must be no bloodshed unless self-defence require it. Leave the rest to me; now, do you all understand?
Aye, aye, sir, answered the rustics in a joyful shout.
Then get to your posts, all of you; our foes may be here at any moment, said Ralph.
For a time absolute silence brooded upon the sylvan scene, save for the humming of insects and the twittering of birds.
Ten minutes, a quarter of an hour, twenty minutes had passed, and yet there was no sign of approaching horsemen. Ralph's heart began to beat tumultuously.
Perhaps, thought he, "the Pursuivant has taken the long route over the downs, and all our well-laid schemes will come to naught," and he groaned within himself.
He stepped forth from the wood into the track, and looked anxiously in the direction of Lewes.
No sound struck his ear, but at that moment a flash of light caught his eye!
The sun was shining upon bright steel halberds, and flashed yet brighter on the cuirasses of two musketeers. They were mounted on stout horses in war panoply, and behind them rose a tall officer in sombre uniform—it was the Pursuivant!
Instantly Ralph dived unperceived into the wood, and a low whistle told his men that the moment for action was nigh. The horsemen were approaching at a brisk trot; their arquebuses were attached to their saddles; in their left hands they bore long halberds; they rode as men all unconscious of danger.
Another moment and they were at hand!
Crash! crash! both horses had struck the fatal rope, and their riders were thrown violently upon the track. The Pursuivant, who was riding about three yards in the rear of his men, threw his horse upon its haunches in blank amazement.
Alas for him! he was at that moment exactly under the great oak limb which stretched across the track, and ere he could utter a sound two men dropped upon him, and he was caught in a strong embrace, while Ralph Jefferay stood at his horse's head, his hand on the bridle. Meanwhile the eight rustics had sprung from the wood, and ere the halberdiers could recover from their fall, they were imprisoned by vigorous arms, and stout ropes were being wound round their bodies.
As the fallen horses struggled to their feet, two rustics sprang to their heads and held them fast.
What means this outrage? shouted the Pursuivant; then, addressing Ralph, whom he recognized as the leader of the band, he added—
Do you know, sir, that I am a Queen's officer, and that you stop me at the peril of your life!
At a signal from Ralph, his two captors dismounted him from his saddle, and he came helplessly to the ground.
Search him, said Ralph, disdaining to make any reply to the luckless officer.
His orders were instantly obeyed, and in a few moments the Pursuivant was relieved of a big official-looking document, which Ralph forthwith proceeded to open.
Listen, my men, he said; "this is a warrant for the apprehension of the Vicar of Chiddingly. What shall we do with it?"
Tear it in pieces and scatter it to the winds! shouted the angry rustics.
At the peril of your lives! shouted again the enraged officer.
Ralph laughed scornfully in reply, and in another moment he had torn the formidable document to shreds, tossing them in the air as his followers had suggested.
You will suffer for this, sir, growled the astonished officer.
You are a bold man, Mr. Pursuivant, said Ralph. "You came hither on a message of death, and now your plans are frustrated and your life is in our hands! Have you thought of that, sir?"
You would not dare! replied the officer.
Ralph laughed aloud, and replied—
"You little know the daring of the people of Sussex when they know that God is on their side; yet your experience to-day might give you an inkling of the extent of their hardihood. But have no fear,"" he continued, ""your life is safe, and you and your men can go back to Lewes to tell them how you have been outwitted by Sussex rustics.
"Yet it does not suit our purposes that your return should be too quickly made, so we shall tie you to these trees by the roadside and relieve you of your horses. Before nightfall there will, doubtless, be passers-by who will release you from your bondage, and then you may trudge homeward.
Then, ere the enraged Pursuivant could find words for a reply, Ralph turned to his men and said—
Quick, men, with the ropes; tie our prisoners securely to the trees by the roadside, beginning with the officer.
In a few minutes his orders were carried out. Then Ralph bowed with mock ceremony to the Pursuivant.
Good-day, sir, he said; "I wish you a speedy release and a pleasant walk to Lewes!"
And at a signal from their leader the whole gang dived into the forest, driving the horses in front of them.
Ralph made his way to the hut where his horse had been stabled, and was soon trotting quietly homewards, his stalwarts following his example on foot by the well-known bypath of the forest.
No sooner had the gang disappeared than the bound men began to struggle desperately in a vain endeavour to escape from their bonds, soon to find all their efforts useless.
Then the Pursuivant spoke.
You Lewes men ought to be able to recognize some of these ruffians—do you know their leader?
Yes, I know him, replied one of his men; "I have often seen him in Lewes—'tis Mr. William Jefferay."
Are you sure? said the Pursuivant, rejoiced at the news.
Yes, replied the man, "I know him by his grey cap!"
Good, said the officer; "you shall hang for this, Mr. William Jefferay, as surely as there is a sun in the heavens."
The day was wearing on, the sun rose high in the sky, and the bound men began to feel the pangs of thirst—yet no man passed that way to bring them release.
They had many times shouted loudly for help—but there was none to make reply.
Evening had come, and the wretched men began to fear that a night in the woods would be their fate—perhaps death itself from hunger and thirst! But Providence willed it otherwise.
To their joy a woodman, returning from his daily toil, came slowly down the track.
He started in amazement as he heard the cries of the prisoners, and came to the spot where they were bound.
What now, my masters! cried the woodman. "What means all this?"
Don't waste time in talk, man, answered the luckless Pursuivant; "bring hither thy axe and cut these accursed ropes."
The man hesitated, and his weather-beaten features assumed a shrewd expression.
You must first tell me who you be, and how you came to this pass; I may get myself into trouble.
Fool! cried the Pursuivant, now getting angry, "I am a Queen's officer, and these are my men—thy axe, I say, thy axe, and that quick!"
But the man was evidently the master of the situation, and he was not to be hurried.
Moreover, his sense of cupidity began to be awakened—there was, doubtless, something to be earned in this matter.
Well, I doant know but what I med do you this little job, he said cautiously; "but what is it worth?"
The Pursuivant ground his teeth with rage.
It will be worse for thee, fool, if thou hesitate any longer; come, bring thy axe and cut these ropes, I command you.
Oh, that is it, is it? said the man; "then I leaves you to yourself and bid you good e'en!"
And forthwith he began to walk away.
At this the bound men set up a loud howl of entreaty—their worst fears seemed about to be realized.
The woodman relented, and returned once more to the prisoners.
This time he came straight to the point.
What will you give me if I cut your cords? said he, and his eyes sparkled greedily.
The Pursuivant hesitated ere he replied; his first thought was tinged with bitter rage: he would make this fellow smart for his greedy impudence.
But reflection brought another thought: it did not matter what he gave this man; they were three to one—when once they were freed they could make him disgorge his ill-gotten gains!
So he replied, "Come hither, man; put thy hand in my doublet pocket and take my purse, with all that it contains."
The woodman obeyed, and soon found the purse; it was well lined, and his greed was satisfied.
But he was no simpleton, and the same thought which had inspired the Pursuivant's generosity had occurred to him also; he determined, therefore, on his line of action.
Approaching the tree to which one of the men-at-arms was bound, he raised his axe, and, with one blow, severed the rope.
Now loose thy fellows, he cried, as he bounded into the forest.
The liberated man was long ere he freed his companions; by that time the woodman with the purse in his pocket was deep in the recesses of the forest.
The night was falling, yet a long march lay before the three men ere the lights of Lewes would gladden their eyes.
Yet, hungry, thirsty, and weary, they reached the county town that night, nor did the Pursuivant seek rest till the first step in his revenge was taken, and he had lodged his report with the authorities in the castle.
It was an hour after sunset, and a rich red glow still lingered in the western horizon, tinging the waters of the Thames as they swirled past the water-gate of Surrey House with gleams of scarlet and gold.
A young man stood on the brink of the river idly watching the ebb and flow of the tide.
For some time he had been strolling to and fro on the velvety lawn of my Lord of Surrey's house at Chelsea, as if awaiting a companion.
He was richly dressed, and the fading light glistened on many a jewel which bedecked his Court costume. It lit up the diamond cross of S. Iago of Toledo which he wore upon his breast, and gleamed on the diamonds which decked the pommel of the dress-sword which hung at his side.
Queen Mary was holding a Court revel this night at Whitehall in honour of her royal consort, King Philip, who had that day arrived in London from Spain, to the great joy of the Queen, and Don Diego d'Olivares was apparelled for the fête.
Don Diego was a typical Hidalgo of purest Castilian blood. His well-formed features, swarthy complexion, dark lustrous eyes, and glossy black locks proclaimed the fact.
My father comes not, he murmured to himself. "If he delay much longer, I shall leave him to follow me to Court in Lord Surrey's company."
The light was fading off the river, the stars were becoming bright and lustrous, and the young courtier was growing impatient.
Few boats were on the river; now and then a galley or a wherry would dart by, and he noticed that the boatmen were lighting their torches.
He bethought him of the beautiful gardens at Whitehall, already gleaming beneath the light of hundreds of cressets. And his thoughts wandered to those whom he expected to meet there: the treasurer of Gray's Inn and his fair niece, Miss Susan Jefferay, the "heavenly twins," as he facetiously termed her two brothers William and Ralph, and many others.
For Don Diego was a legal student also—perfecting himself in the knowledge of English law at the Temple, by command of his renowned step-father, the Spanish Ambassador at the Court of Queen Mary.
He had met the twins at a masque at Gray's Inn, and a strong friendship had sprung up between the young men.
Thus he mused as he watched the passing boats on the silent waterway.
But Don Diego had not observed a dark wherry in which three men were seated, passing slowly up-stream.
He had not marked when the two oarsmen therein had thrust their boat under the shadow of the bank fifty feet higher up, nor did he see them land stealthily and creep silently into his rear as he sat on a bench on the top of the terrace.
Suddenly, and ere he could utter a cry for help, a shawl was thrown over his head, a gag was thrust into his mouth, a cord bound his arms to his side. Then he found himself lifted aloft by sturdy arms, and, despite his furious efforts, he was thrown violently into the boat, which at once pushed into the stream.
One of the oarsmen propelled the boat rapidly in the direction of London Bridge; his companions proceeded to further secure their captive with strong ropes, binding both hands and feet.
That was a good haul, Bill, said one of the ruffians; "he is a fine bird, and will make good picking!"
Stop your gab, you fool, till we get aboard the hulk, there are too many boats about, muttered his companion savagely.
The boat sped rapidly past Whitehall, where the lights were gleaming, and whence sounds of sweet music arose. They reached the ears of the poor prisoner as he lay at the mercy of his captors in the bottom of the boat, and they filled his heart with bitterness.
Should he ever hear those sounds again—would his eyes ever look again upon the fair scenes of earth?
Such were the thoughts that filled Don Diego's soul; he knew that he had fallen into the hands of merciless Thames pirates.
The boat was now rapidly nearing London Bridge, and the oarsmen prepared to shoot one of its narrow arches. The unfortunate captive had struggled desperately to loose the cords which bound his hands and feet; alas! all his efforts were in vain—he had been too securely bound by practised hands.
Yet he found it possible, by rubbing his head against the side of the boat, to disengage the gag which had almost suffocated him.
Then, collecting all his strength, he shrieked forth piercing cries for "help" until his captors had sprung upon him and had replaced the gag.
But his cries were not unheard, though he knew it not!
In the afternoon of that day William and Ralph Jefferay had gone down-stream to Greenwich Park, and had strolled awhile beneath the majestic elms and oaks which begirt the royal palace.
As evening fell they betook themselves to their light boat, and, being dexterous oarsmen, they made rapid progress against the swift-flowing tide, now on the ebb.
They had no time to spare, for both the young men had accepted invitations to the Queen's Revel at Whitehall, and they must needs go first to Gray's Inn.
They passed London Bridge beneath its widest arch, the central one, and were now opposite St. Paul's Wharf.
At this moment a piercing cry for help rent the air, and the twins instantly rested upon their oars, and listened eagerly for a repetition of the cry. Alas! there was none; the silence of night was again upon the river.
Oh, Ralph! said William, "that was a genuine cry for aid; it came from some poor creature in deadly peril. Oh! what can we do?"
We will respond to it, by the help of God, replied Ralph; "it came, surely, from that dark wherry which I see yonder preparing to shoot the bridge."
I thought so also, said William, "and methought I recognized the voice of him who called for help; it rang into my very soul, and, if I err not, it was the voice of our friend Diego!"
To the rescue! to the rescue! cried Ralph in reply, and in an instant they had turned their boat down-stream and were following the suspicious wherry.
Their light boat soon brought the heavier wherry into full view. They could see that there were three men on board of her; two were rowing, the third held the tiller.
What are our plans, William? said Ralph; "do you take the lead, and I will second you promptly."
Agreed, replied his brother. "I propose, then, that we follow that wherry whithersoever it goes. If those men have a captive on board, they will soon seek to lodge him in durance—that will be our moment of attack.
"For the present we keep within reach of them, but sufficiently far off to disarm their suspicions. Leave the boat to me, I will row, and do you keep a vigilant eye on their movements. Loosen your poignard in its sheath—I will do the same—for this matter will not be decided without bloodshed, and may God defend the right!""
"Amen, said Ralph solemnly, yet with a distinct sound of joyous exultation in his voice.
No fear, no misgiving, found place in their brave young souls!
On the contrary, they rejoiced in the thought and belief that this was a call from Heaven, that they were God's ministers in carrying out a work of mercy and justice! A minute later both boats shot beneath London Bridge at a furious pace, the temporarily imprisoned tide hurling them on its strong bosom down-stream.
They are making for the Surrey side, said Ralph; "it strikes me that they are going aboard one of those wretched hulks which line the shore; if so, what then?"
I think you are right, replied his brother; "they would not dare to land their victim on shore, where they would at once encounter the watchmen. If these men are Thames pirates, as I strongly suspect, then these dark black hulks are their fitting and foul nests.
Now, brother, take good heed, I beseech you—this is my plan. Presently the wherry will run alongside a hulk, and one man will leave the boat, mount the hulk, and proceed to make ready to disembark the captive. This is our moment to attack! We run in swiftly between the wherry and the hulk—so detaching them. Then we leap into the wherry, and our poignards must do the rest. It matters not what becomes of our little boat, a rescued life is worth a hundred such things.
Right, said Ralph, "I understand; now put a good way on the boat, for, if I mistake not, they are running alongside a hulk."
Ralph was correct in his forecast; a moment later the wherry was alongside of a dark object, upon which one of the oarsmen sprung lightly with a rope in his hand. Then, with a loud crash, the light boat ran swiftly in between the two; and, above all, rang the fierce shouts and curses of the pirates.
But as they rose in their wherry the twins leapt into it—giving it a strong impulse into the stream.
There was no light on the hulk until the one man left upon it had lit a torch by whose lurid flame he sought to discover what had happened to his comrades.
So the fierce fight began in darkness, save for the gleam of the twinkling stars.
From their first onset the brothers perceived that their suspicions had been correct, for a bound man lay in the bottom of the boat, motionless and silent.
The surprise to the pirates had been complete, yet they had time to draw their long knives, with which they struck desperately at their foes.
It was a deadly struggle—there was no thought of asking or giving quarter; it was a matter of death or victory! Fierce blows were exchanged and parried; then the combatants closed, and the wherry swayed to and fro with a violence that threatened to submerge its occupants beneath the dark waters of the river.
The first gleam of light from the torch on the hulk fell upon a scene of fiercest strife—upon men in deadly grip, equally expert with their weapons, equally matched in strength and courage.
All were wounded, and the fast flowing blood rendered the planks of the wherry a slippery foot-hold.
Suddenly William's foe lost his balance; in an instant he was hurled overboard, and sank beneath the waters. His comrade perceived this, and with a howl of rage he also flung himself into the stream—for he was desperately wounded, and, as William approached to his brothers aid, he knew that the end had come.
Then the brothers turned eagerly to each other, and the question arose from both alike—
Brother, are you hurt?
Not much, I think, said William.
Mere flesh wounds, said Ralph almost gaily.
Then the twins joined hands and kissed each other on the cheek.
Let us kneel down and thank God! whispered William.
So they knelt side by side like two Christian warriors!
Presently they rose, and now they turned their attention to the captive in the boat, who had ofttime been trampled under foot in the strife.
He is gagged, said William; "I will unloose him."
For a few moments the rescued man was well-nigh unconscious through the pain and suffering he had undergone. Then the well-known voices of his friends the twins fell upon his ears like heavenly music, and he spake.
Brothers, he said, "will you cut my bonds?"
By Heaven! cried William, "it is Diego. Oh, thank God!"
Then they cut his bonds, and the young Spaniard rose with great difficulty, so benumbed were his limbs.
Oh! my brothers, he cried, seizing their hands, "you have risked your lives to save mine, and Heaven has blessed your noble efforts; henceforth we are more than friends—we are brothers in heart and soul while life lasts.
Ah! I see that you are both wounded—you have shed your blood to save my life! How shall I thank you enough? Oh, may Heaven reward you! But come, let me examine your wounds; it is my turn now to turn rescuer.
Ere Diego could carry out his intention, William sank suddenly into the bottom of the boat; he had fainted from loss of blood.
A moment later Ralph lay beside him from like cause.
Oh, my brothers! cried Diego in agonizing tones, "you will die before I can find succour for you; my poor life were not worth so great a sacrifice!"
His first thought was to seize the oars and strive to reach Greenwich—the lights of the town were now plainly visible.
Or he would strive to stanch their gaping wounds, and leave the boat to be borne forward by the rapid tide. While he thus hesitated, a sudden light appeared on the surface of the river, and his ears caught the welcome sound of the oars of a practised crew.
It was a Queen's guardship, and as it rapidly neared the wherry Don Diego uttered a loud shout for help. His appeal found instant and joyous response, for on board that ship were his father and Lord Surrey.
A Chelsea boatman had witnessed his capture, and had instantly given the alarm.
Yet so long a time had it taken before the guardship at Whitehall wharf could be sent in pursuit of the pirates, that its aid would have been too late, but for the Heaven-sent interposition of the twins.
The guardship rapidly drew alongside the wherry, and in a few minutes the wounded men and Diego were taken on board.
With tender care William and Ralph were carried into the little cabin, and a ship's surgeon made immediate examination of their injuries.
To the joy of Diego, he reported that though both the brothers were sorely lacerated, yet no desperate injury had been inflicted—they had lost much blood, and were thereby rendered unconscious; a few days' careful nursing was all that was required.
The guardship soon reached Whitehall, and there, litters having been procured for the brothers, they were forthwith conveyed to their lodgings in Gray's Inn.
Nor did Don Diego leave them till he had seen them safely consigned to the care of Miss Susan Jefferay, who had lately come to town from Chiddingly Place on a visit to her uncle, Sir John.
The morning was yet young when Sir John Jefferay entered the library at Gray's Inn.
It was a noble room with a splendid vaulted roof. All around were bookshelves laden with heavy volumes; above the shelves were portraits of famous lawyers, and some few statesmen whose names were associated with the history of the Inn.
The floor was thickly carpeted, and scattered here and there were tables strewn with documents and parchments.
Sir John seemed ill at ease this morning; he did not seat himself, nor did his books and papers seem to have any attraction for him.
He walked to and fro in the spacious room, his hands crossed behind his back, his grave but handsome face bore the look of one in trouble or in deep reflection. He was clad in a suit of rich black velvet, the sombreness of which was relieved by a ruff of spotless whiteness around the neck and wristbands of delicate lace of the same colour.
A tap at the door awoke him from reflective mood, and as the door opened, and Susan Jefferay appeared, a welcoming smile dispelled the gloom from the Treasurer's anxious face.
And no wonder; for not only was Susan the darling of the childless Treasurer's heart, but her winsome presence, her bright smile and merry, dancing eyes were to him like a gleam of sunshine which dispels the clouds from a dark sky.
Good news! good news! dear uncle, she cried, as she ran up to him with outstretched hands. "Dr. Barnes has been with the boys for the last hour, and I have helped him to dress their wounds; he says I am as clever at it as many a young surgeon. And they are both doing well—much better than he had dared to hope for.
There is no fever in their blood, he says, and they need but good nursing and careful feeding to be as strong and well as they ever were, and that in a very few days' time.
I thank God for that! said the Treasurer fervently. "I could not sleep last night," he continued; "the sight of their poor gashed and lacerated bodies was ever before my eyes."
And yet no vital point was touched by the murderous knives, replied Susan. "Oh, how good Heaven has been to us! But, dear uncle, you look very wearied and sad this lovely morning; now, tell me at once, and tell me truly, have you breakfasted?"
Sir John laughed lightly as he looked on her smiling face.
No, my child, I have not yet touched food; but I will go now to the breakfast room with you, for you must need refreshment as much as I.
The dwelling rooms of the Treasurer closely adjoined the library, and presently Sir John and Susan were seated at a well-spread table.
For half-an-hour they lingered there, Susan attending to all her uncle's needs with loving care.
Now I will go and see the boys, said Sir John, rising from his seat.
Not yet, dear uncle, I beseech you, replied Susan. "Dr. Barnes has given them some soothing medicine which will probably induce sleep; they must not be disturbed for some hours. Moreover, I want you for a brief time all to myself; I have something to tell you which troubles me."
Really! said Sir John, as he stooped down and kissed her cheek, "I always thought that you and trouble were far apart!"
Let us go back into the library, said his niece; "we shall be undisturbed there."
This sounds serious! said Sir John.
It is serious—or at least I fear so, replied Susan.
Once more in the library, the Treasurer seated himself in one of the great leather chairs, and Susan, bringing a footstool to his side, sat down beside him.
The two made a striking picture.
Sir John's noble and pensive face was lighted up by a gentle and loving smile as he gazed down on his niece's fair face.
This morning she had not tied her hair, and the long golden locks fell in rich profusion over her shoulders. Her morning gown was simplicity itself; its pure whiteness was unrelieved by colour but for a waistband of blue silk; she wore no ornament save that on her shapely finger a ring beset with diamonds glittered in the sunlight—it was surely a love gift!
Now, Susan, for your revelation, said Sir John, as he took her little hand and held it caressingly.
You remember, dear uncle, began Susan, "how Ralph came to us at Chiddingly last Sunday week, intending to pass at least ten days with us? Well, he left us on Wednesday night, at which I marvelled."
So did I, interpolated Sir John.
I must tell you, continued the fair girl, "that on that Sunday morning a messenger brought me a letter from Mr. Geoffrey Fynes."
Ah! ah! said Sir John, "this grows interesting."
Susan blushed prettily as she looked into her uncle's face, and shook her head reprovingly.
Oh, uncle, you must be serious; I think you will be so when I have told you all!
Go on, my child, said Sir John gravely.
Well, I have the letter here; I meant to show it to you last night; please read it.
The Treasurer took the letter, and as he read it his face assumed an increased expression of gravity.
And did the Pursuivant come—only to find the Vicarage empty?
No, said Susan, "and that is my trouble! I showed the letter to Ralph, little thinking that any harm would ensue from my doing so.
"On the Wednesday, when I expected to see the Queen's officer, Ralph was absent from home all day, and on making inquiries I found he had gone on horseback into the woods. I began to be anxious, and I made inquiries about him in the stables and elsewhere. Then I found to my alarm that many of our young men were missing from Chiddingly that day.
"Ralph returned home in the afternoon, but he would tell me nothing—'these were not women's matters,' he said. That same night he took the road for London.
And since then have you heard nothing? said Sir John eagerly.
Not until to-day, replied Susan. "This morning a messenger from Chiddingly brought me another letter from Mr. Geoffrey Fynes; he did not know that I had left home for London. It is this letter which fills me with anxiety and no little astonishment. I will read you the passage which deals with this business."
Susan's fair face flushed as she glanced over the letter which she held in her hand; then she read as follows—
"'There is danger abroad for some members of your house, I fear. 'I am revealing a State secret to you at the risk of the loss of place, reputation, and, perhaps, even life itself! Yet I do not hesitate to tell you, my sweet Susan, all I know, for your interests are dearer to me than aught else in this world.
" "'In a few words the matter stands thus— 'The Queen's Pursuivant was assaulted by a band of men in Chiddingly wood on Wednesday morning; his warrant was forcibly taken from him and torn to pieces by the leader of the band. That leader was recognized by one of his men as Mr. William Jefferay.
" "'The Queen's officers suffered no personal injury, but they were bound to trees in the forest, where they remained until nightfall, when a passing woodman released them. The Pursuivant is hastening to London to lay the whole matter before the Council. 'Warn William that he may be arrested any day, and be brought before the Chancellor in the Star Chamber. My advice is that he take instant flight abroad.'""
"Sir John rose hastily from his seat and walked to and fro in the library, full of disquietude and fear. Suddenly he turned to Susan.
This is serious news indeed, he said; "it is a matter of life or death. Oh, foolish, foolish boy! what madness could have possessed him?
But tell me, Susan, he exclaimed eagerly, "why is this charge brought against William? Surely, if the offence was committed, it was Ralph who was the offender."
I think I can answer that question, said Susan tremblingly. "I observed that when Ralph returned home on that fatal Wednesday, he was wearing William's grey cap; he must have taken it by mistake."
Ah, I see a gleam of light here, said Sir John quickly. "The warrant will be made out in William's name.
"Now it so happens, by God's good grace, that the Master of the Rolls, Sir Philip Broke, was with me all that Wednesday in question; we were holding a long legal consultation, and William acted as my secretary. We will let matters take their course! If the worst befall, it will be many days before the poor wounded boy can appear before the Court of the Star Chamber, and, when he does, Sir Philip and I will be a match for the Queen's Pursuivant.""
"Then, moving swiftly to Susan's side, he kissed her cheek fondly.
Fear not, dear child, he cried; "I have hope that God will bring us safely through this trouble!"
But if they find out that Ralph is the real culprit? said Susan falteringly.
Yes, there lies the real danger, said Sir John musingly. "Alas, that he lies helpless on a bed of sickness; but for that he should be in Holland, with our dear Vicar, ere twenty-four hours had passed."
A sudden thought struck him.
Think you, Susan, that William knows aught of this mad adventure?
I think so, replied Susan, "for the boys have no secrets apart from each other, and if matters came to the worst, as you say, I believe that William would plead guilty rather than Ralph should suffer!"
Oh, boys, boys! how you wring my heart! cried Sir John, with uncontrollable emotion.
He resumed his seat, and for a short time remained in deep thought; then he spoke slowly and with deep emphasis.
The innocent must not suffer for the guilty—no, God forbid! But let us hope for the best, he continued, as he marked the growing pallor of poor Susan's face. "It was a foolish freak, but no man has been injured—no blood was shed.
"Cheer up, my child, we have powerful friends in Court, even in this Court of the Star Chamber—the worst of all our Courts! In the last issue, if all else fails, it may be but a matter of a fine, and we are, happily, rich enough to pay it; or a short imprisonment, and the boy is young, and will live through it. Cheer up, Susan; wipe those tears away, and trust in God that all will come right! Now go and see the boys, and let me know if I may see them also,"" continued Sir John.
"I go, dear uncle, said Susan, rising to her feet; "but pardon me if I urge that you say nothing to them at present about this sad matter; remember that Dr. Barnes enjoins the most watchful care on our part; they must have rest and peace both for body and mind."
I will remember, most wise nurse! said Sir John, as he rose to open the door for her with a smile on his grave countenance.
Susan had scarcely left the library than, with a preliminary knock at the door, Sir John's valet entered it.
Bowing low, the man informed his master that his Excellency the Spanish Ambassador and his son Don Diego d'Olivares were in the entrance-hall, and that they craved the honour of a brief interview.
Sir John nodded assent, and a few moments later he heard the steps of his visitors as they ascended the stairs to the library.
Hastening to the top of the staircase the Treasurer met his distinguished visitors with deep obeisance.
But the Ambassador was evidently in no mood to stand upon points of ceremony.
Hurrying forward, with extended hands, he warmly saluted the Treasurer, yet the anxiety which had prompted this early morning call found immediate utterance in the first words he spoke.
Your boys, Mr. Treasurer, are they doing well?
Dr. Barnes has just left them, your Excellency, and his report is altogether favourable; they have many serious flesh wounds, yet, by the mercy of God, no vital injury has been inflicted; and, if nothing unforeseen occurs, they will make a rapid recovery to health.
They are noble boys! cried the Ambassador, with enthusiasm. "They saved my son's life at the peril of their own, and with a manly daring which moves all men to admiration. London is ringing with their praises to-day; they are the heroes of the hour!"
Then Don Diego intervened with an eager request that he might visit the sick-room.
It may not be, young sir, said Sir John. "You know they have a masterful young nurse in Mistress Susan Jefferay, and I myself have just been refused an interview with the boys by their stern guardian; they are to be kept in absolute quiet, she says, or Dr. Barnes will not answer for the consequences."
So the visitors took their departure, Diego obtaining permission to return to Gray's Inn in the evening.
Throughout that day visitors poured in at the Treasurer's lodgings with eager inquiries respecting the lads whose deed of daring had become public property from the moment when the Queen's guardship came to their rescue.
To many of these visitors the lads were unknown personally, though their handsome faces and strongly knit bodies had attracted much observation in Gray's Inn and its neighbourhood.
But Sir John was one of the leading men of the day; not only was he known to be a great lawyer, but he sat in Queen Mary's Parliament as a member for the City of London, and was fast becoming a strong leader among the members of the House who were silently ranging themselves as partisans of the young Princess Elizabeth.
In the evening the young Spaniard, Don Diego, returned to the Inn, and he brought news with him which Susan promised to impart to her brothers at the earliest possible moment.
Diego had gone down the Thames that morning on board a guardship in the hope of discovering the hulk to which his captors would have taken him, but his efforts had been useless.
There were many suspicious-looking hulks moored on the banks of the stream, but he had no means of identifying the one he sought.
When the twins were themselves again, they would make another attempt; he had been lying in the bottom of the boat, fast bound, when one of his captors had endeavoured to moor the boat alongside the hulk.
But he had other news.
The watermen had picked up the bodies of the two ruffians who had leapt overboard—they had paid the due penalty of their crime.
The hour was growing late when the young Spaniard took his leave, and the wearied Treasurer was just congratulating himself that the labours of the day were over, when the valet once more presented himself in the library.
Another visitor—and at this late hour! said Sir John, somewhat impatiently. "Make my excuses, Robin," he continued; "say that I have retired to rest."
Yes, Sir John, said Robin, yet he lingered as if he had something further to say.
What is it, man? said Sir John, perceiving Robin's hesitation.
Please, your honour, and craving your pardon, I doubt if the visitor will take your dismissal thus easily: it is Sir William Anson, the Sheriff of London.
Sir John rose hastily from his chair, and Susan ran from the couch whereon she was seated to her uncle's side.
Oh, uncle, she cried, as she flung her arms around his neck, "he comes, surely, on the Queen's business; the fatal hour has come. Oh God, help us!"
Courage, dear one! whispered Sir John in her ear. "Sir William is a friend of mine; his errand may be but one of friendly inquiry. Compose yourself; remain in the library, you may hear all that he has to say."
Then he bade Robin admit the late visitor.
A moment later the Sheriff entered the room, bowing low to both its occupants as he did so.
He was a man of stately presence, his dress of sombre colours yet of rich material.
He advanced towards Sir John with extended hand, and his handsome face was lit up with a cordial smile. Susan's heart was reassured as she marked his friendly behaviour; but Sir John's eyes were fixed upon a small gold chain of office which the Sheriff wore around his neck.
He comes officially, on the Queen's business! said Sir John within himself.
Sir William seated himself at the invitation of the Treasurer.
Tell me, first, Sir John, he said, "how your gallant nephews fare. It is a scandal to London that such an outrage could happen on our own river; but we are overrun with foreigners, outlaws and riffraff of all sorts; we must see to it!"
Then, hearing a good report of the lads, he thanked Heaven for the news, and therewith glanced nervously towards Susan.
Sir John perceived his difficulty.
You have something private to say to me, Sir William, he said; "you may say it before my niece, I have no secrets from her."
I can understand that, Sir John, said the gallant Sheriff, with a courtly smile as he bowed towards Susan. "I will therefore tell you plainly and fully why I am come to you at so untimely an hour.
Yet let me ask you both to keep my visit from the knowledge of others, for I am exceeding my office to-night, and might be called in question for what I do.
Sir John and Susan gravely bowed assent.
It is respecting one of your noble boys, William Jefferay, that I have come hither. To-night I come as your friend and well-wisher, but to-morrow, alas! I shall bring you a warrant for his arrest in the Queens name and by order of the Court of the Star Chamber.
Sir John gave a low groan, and poor Susan hid her fair face in her hands.
You will ask me why I come to you to-night with this sad news, said the Sheriff, with real sympathy in his kindly heart. "I will tell you why I come. My warrant commands me to possess myself of William Jefferay's body, and to commit it forthwith to Her Majesty's prison at the Fleet.
Be not surprised, not alarmed, therefore, when to-morrow morning I serve the warrant with all due state and ceremony. Yet will I not attach his body until he shall have regained his strength if you, Sir John, will give me your word of honour that no attempt at escape be made on his behalf.
I give you my word, Mr. Sheriff, said Sir John, "and I count it an act of friendship on your part that you have thus given me warning."
The Sheriff rose from his seat, advanced towards Sir John, and shook his hand heartily.
My good friend, said he, "would to God that I could do more for you! but keep a good heart, for you have many a friend both at Court and in the city."
So saying, the kind-hearted Sheriff made his adieux and took his departure.
Susan had borne up bravely during this brief interview; yet, when the Sheriff had gone, and she and Sir John were left to themselves, her fortitude gave way, and she began to sob gently.
Sir John moved to her side and took her hand caressingly.
Is this the brave and trusty nurse, he said to her in a low voice, "of whom I was so proud to-day?
"Oh, Susan, dear Susan, have faith in God; let us kneel together and commit the whole matter to His most gracious keeping! Now go to rest, dear child,"" said Sir John, as they rose from their kneeling posture.
"Presently, dear uncle, I will seek rest, replied Susan; "but I have work in the sick-room awaiting me, and I keep watch there the first half of the night."
Then, bidding her uncle "Good-night," Susan lit a wax candle and quitted the library.
For a full hour the Treasurer sat alone in deep thought. He resolved that on the morrow he would send a trusty messenger to the Hague, who should inform his brother of all that had passed, and the present position of affairs.
How he longed for the presence of William—how valuable would his counsel be to him at this crisis!
Yet it could not be, for it was known full well to those in power that William had aided the Vicar of Chiddingly to escape, that he had gone with him to Holland.
He therefore lay under grave suspicion, and must remain an exile until happier days.
At length, weary and worn, the Treasurer betook himself to rest.
The Star Chamber was a part of a range of buildings on the east side of Palace Yard at Westminster.
Its peculiar name did not find its origin in any distinctive feature of the building, but rather from the fact that, by order of King Richard I, the "Starra," or Jewish Covenants, were deposited there.
In the reign of Edward III large additions were made to the Palace at Westminster, including St. Stephen's Chapel, and a new council chamber henceforth to be known as the Court of the Star Chamber.
This was the popular name of the building; the Court itself was known officially as "The Lords of the Council sitting in the Star Chamber."
It was instituted in the reign of Henry VII (A.D. 1487), and the number of judges varied, from time to time, from twenty-six to forty-two; the Lord Chancellor, or the Lord Keeper, was the President.
It took cognizance of perjury, riot, and conspiracy. The building was large, and richly decorated. The walls were panelled to the ceiling, great bow windows admitted light and air.
The ceiling was ornamented with carved wood-work, and was richly painted.
It was in this building, and before this august tribunal, that William Jefferay appeared, in the month of September, A.D. 1557, on the charge of riot and assault.
A fortnight had passed since the warrant had been duly served by the Sheriff, and for the past three days William had been an inmate of the Fleet prison.
The boys had rapidly regained their health, though William still carried his arm in a bandage, and the pallor of his handsome face showed the stress through which he had passed.
As soon as the state of their health had permitted it, their uncle had revealed to them the dangerous position in which William stood.
As Susan had surmised, "the brothers had no secrets," and Ralph's adventure in the Chiddingly woods was well known to William.
But to both of them the news that William, and not Ralph, was deemed the culprit, was a matter of profound amazement, and, on Ralph's part, of intense indignation.
Oh, uncle, he cried, "this may not be! Mine was the folly, if folly it was, and on my head must fall the consequences, be they what they may!"
An approving smile lit up Sir John's noble and dignified face as he replied—
I knew that would be your first thought, and you may yet have to pay the penalty of your wild freak—Heaven only knows! But in this mistake of identity lies, perhaps, the path of safety, and the Master of the Rolls agrees with me that it is our wisest course to let the matter proceed.
With great reluctance Ralph consented, with the assurance of his uncle that if aught went amiss, and William was not acquitted, the whole truth should be told.
Three days later the Sheriff appeared at Gray's Inn with much ceremony, and Ralph saw his brother carried off a prisoner to the Fleet.
It was the first moment of real anguish in his young life, and but for the sweet influence of his sister, Ralph would have then proclaimed himself the offender and demanded the release of his brother.
From the library window Ralph and Susan had seen the departure of William under the escort of the Sheriff's guard, and the boy's pale face was wrung with so intense an agony that Susan's fears were strongly aroused.
Oh, Ralph, she cried, "for the love of God do nothing rashly, bring not your uncle's plans to confusion; have faith that all will come right in Heaven's good time."
She laid her hand upon his shoulder and drew him lovingly towards her, seeing that he was irresolute.
Have you no pity for me? she said. "Think you that I do not suffer with you, and with our beloved uncle also?"
A moment more, and the crisis was past; the prisoner and his escort had moved out of sight, and Ralph sank exhausted upon a couch: his barely recovered strength had failed him.
Three days had passed since William had been committed to the Fleet prison, where, thanks to the Sheriff, the prisoner had been granted a private room, and every alleviation of his hard lot which the Governor could give to him.
He had been permitted to receive visitors, and each day Sir John and Susan had spent some hours with him. On the evening of the third day Simon Renard, the Spanish Ambassador, had brought the great news to Gray's Inn that the Council of the Star Chamber would meet on the morrow, and that William's fate would be then decided.
That night the friends of the unhappy boy met in the library at Gray's Inn to decide on their course of action.
The day had been hot, the evening was sultry, and the windows of the fine room were thrown open to admit the little air that stirred the leaves of the plane-trees in the square.
The room was somewhat dimly lit by wax candles, and small silver lamps, fed with perfumed oil, sent forth a languorous odour.
Don Simon Renard had much to tell the gentlemen who sat around him, among whom were the Lord Mayor of London, the Master of the Rolls, and, of course, Sir John Jefferay.
To all of these men the constitution of the Star Chamber and the course of procedure at the Council Meeting were perfectly well known, and the personal characteristics of every member of that dread tribunal (each of whom acted as a judge) were equally familiar to them.
Don Renard told them that the Chancellor himself, the Earl of Arundel, would preside, and that with him would sit the Earl of Pembroke, the Lords Paget and Rochester, Sir William Petre, and many others.
Cardinal Pole rarely sat at the Council—yet, at the Ambassador's especial solicitation, he had promised attendance on the morrow.
No strangers had a right to be present in the Court. Nevertheless, the Chancellor had granted the Ambassador's request that Sir Philip Broke and Sir John Jefferay might be admitted on this occasion.
The accused person was not allowed the privilege of the assistance of "Counsel," excepting upon the special invitation of the President.
Our chief hope, said the Ambassador, "lies in the fact that the Master of the Rolls and the Treasurer of Gray's Inn can give in evidence that William was, at the time of the assault, actually with them in the Library of Gray's Inn, which should conclusively prove that he cannot possibly be guilty of the offence now charged against him."
Beyond a doubt, answered Sir John; "yet my mind misgives me on one point. The Pursuivant," he continued, "may fail to identify William as his assailant; he may have heard of the extraordinary resemblance of the twin brothers. And if William be acquitted, he may shift the charge to Ralph and demand his arrest."
I think you are distressing yourself needlessly, my friend, answered the Ambassador, "for let me tell you that this very day the Pursuivant was taken to the Fleet that he might see the prisoner as he took his daily exercise in the yard. He saw him, and was instantly convinced that William was the man who had assaulted him in Chiddingly wood. Moreover, we have no reason to suppose that he is aware of Ralph's existence."
I am afraid that the last-named circumstance is too well known both in London and at Lewes, interposed the Lord Mayor, "especially since the occurrence of the gallant episode on the Thames. I begin to think that Sir John's fears are well founded, and that after all our wisest course would be to send Ralph across the water, and that instantly; he is now quite strong enough to travel."
Sir John smiled sadly as he replied—
You do not know my two nephews sufficiently well, my Lord Mayor, if you think that scheme possible. Let me tell you that they are so linked together in brotherly love that Ralph would never consent to save his own life if thereby he endangered William's safety. Nay, more, let me assure you that if our plans failed, and William were condemned, Ralph would at once make a full confession to the authorities.
They are two noble boys, cried Don Renard, with generous enthusiasm, "equally great in love and strife; have no fear for them, my dear Sir John. Heaven will not suffer them to pass their young lives in a prison cell!"
Thus the friendly conclave debated until the hour grew late, and the heavy air within the library became oppressive.
As night had deepened the sultry atmosphere had given place to storm and tempest, and a heavy rain was falling.
The lights had grown dim, but the noble proportions of the library were almost continuously lit up by the flashes of lightning, and the deep diapason of the rolling thunder shook the ancient Inn.
The serving men of the friends in Council were awaiting their masters with carriages in the Square, and as St. Paul's clock struck the hour of midnight Sir John's guests took their departure.
The day had already begun which was "big with fate" for the twin brothers!
The storm was abating, and Sir John stood at the open window watching the fleeting clouds and the occasional glimmer of stars emerging from the gloom. A light step across the thickly carpeted floor did not catch his ear, but a caressing arm thrown round his neck told him that Susan was there.
To rest, dear uncle, to rest, said she; "for this day will bring thee labour and toil for body and mind! Yet tell me briefly, does all go well—do our friends give us cause to hope for the best?"
Then Sir John comforted her distressed heart by telling her in a few words their schemes for the great event in the Star Chamber, and their hopes for a joyful delivery from their cares, and Susan at length sought her chamber somewhat cheered.
The day broke fine and cloudless.
The sun shone through the painted windows of the great Court House of the Star Chamber, casting a thousand richly tinted shadows on the marble floor. The gilt stars in the roof glittered, and rich beams of light fell on the beautiful panelling which lined the walls of the noble hall.
It was yet early morn, and the only occupants of the Court were the ushers, attendants and servants who were making preparations for the meeting of the Court. At ten o'clock armed warders took up their positions within the hall; a few minutes later the Sheriff with a strong force of javelin men made his entry; he had brought up the prisoner, William Jefferay, from the Fleet prison.
The boy's handsome face was deadly pale, forming a strong contrast with his dark, flashing eyes. There was no sign of fear or misgiving on the part of the youthful prisoner as he took his place in the dock, a warder standing on each side of him.
Presently a small group of gentlemen entered the hall to whom all present showed great deference, and they were shown to benches reserved for distinguished visitors who held permits from the Lord Chancellor.
William's eyes lit up with pleasure, and his pale face flushed as he recognized Don Simon Renard and his stepson Diego, Sir John Jefferay, and the Master of the Rolls among the group.
When all were seated a solemn silence ensued, shortly to be broken by the clarion tones of silver trumpets.
The Lords of the Council were entering the Chamber in a stately procession vested in their robes of office. Every point of the ancient form and ceremony was rigidly observed.
All men stood, cap in hand, until the Chancellor had taken his seat; then, at a sign from him, a richly bedizened herald stepped forth and proclaimed that the Court was opened.
On the Chancellor's right hand sat Cardinal Pole. Between these famous men there was a marked and striking contrast.
The Earl of Arundel was a dark-featured man of some fifty years of age; his black beard and moustache, worn in the Tudor style, was streaked with grey. A soldier, a statesman, a courtier of immense power and influence, he had steered his political barque with supreme skill through the stormy period of the English Reformation, when many greater than he, and more highly placed, had suffered shipwreck. Just now he was the acknowledged leader of the Spanish faction at Court, and no man stood higher than he in the favour of King Philip.
To-day his sombre face had a marked expression of sternness, which underwent a sudden change as the Cardinal bent towards him and whispered something in his ear. Arundel was listening to the Cardinal with unwonted deference, and his grim features relaxed into a friendly smile as he made reply in low tones.
From the bench where he sat Sir John's keen eyes had noted that both these illustrious judges were bending close, inquisitorial glances on the boy prisoner; he was evidently the subject of their secret discourse.
The Chancellor seems to be in a stern frame of mind to-day, whispered Sir John to Sir Philip Broke.
I have seen him look yet more fierce, replied the Master of the Rolls. "I was with him on the day when he arrested his brother-in-law the Duke of Northumberland, when the gleam of his dark eyes struck terror into the Duke's soul! But be of good courage, Sir John; mark how the Cardinal's gentle smile is thawing his icy reserve, and remember his Eminence hath promised Don Renard to give us all the aid in his power."
Thank God for that! whispered Sir John in reply.
Cardinal Reginald Pole, Archbishop of Canterbury, was perhaps the foremost Englishman of his age.
An aristocrat of the finest type, with the royal blood of the Plantagenets in his veins, he was, above all things, an ecclesiastic of stainless life and reputation.
Those who differed from him toto c?lo in religious matters were eager to acknowledge his incorruptibility and devotion to duty.
Men remembered how boldly he had withstood the threats and cajoleries of King Henry VIII; how, later, he had shown a bold front to the Vatican itself, and to the most dreaded tribunal in the world, the "Holy Office"!
There was something eminently pleasing and attractive in the face, bearing and physique of the great Cardinal. Notwithstanding his long sojourn in foreign lands, he was a typical Englishman.
He wore his hair long—it hung in profusion on his broad shoulders, and, like his long bushy beard, was of a rich brown colour.
His fine expressive face was somewhat colourless, but it was lit up by the deep-blue eyes of the Plantagenet race—eyes which at times gleamed with tenderness and pity.
He was spare in body, and his hands were as small and as delicately shaped as those of a woman.
The whispered conversation between the Chancellor and the Cardinal had come to an end, and for a moment a deep silence brooded in the Court.
Then, at a signal from Lord Arundel, the Clerk of the Court rose and "called on" the case which was occupying the minds of all men present.
The Queen v. William Jefferay; prisoner at the bar, he cried in loud tones, "you are charged that on the 17th of July last you committed an assault upon the Queen's Pursuivant; how say you—are you guilty or not guilty?"
William bowed low to the Chancellor, and in subdued but distinct tones replied—
Not guilty, my Lord.
Let us hear the witnesses, said Lord Arundel, and thereupon the Pursuivant arose; behind him stood his assistants.
There was something vindictive and threatening in the attitude and voice of the Pursuivant—a note of triumph rang out with his words.
He felt sure of his case, and positively sure of the identity of the accused with his assailant in the woods of Chiddingly.
In slow and measured terms the Pursuivant gave his evidence, telling the tale of the assault in the woods in full detail.
His two halberdiers, as witnesses of the attack upon the Queen's officer, bore testimony to the truth of the charge made against the prisoner.
The Court was but thinly attended; the general public could only obtain admission by invitation, and this was rarely accorded.
Yet among those present were many—even in the rank of the august judges—who knew something of young Jefferay and had heard of his recent deed of daring on the Thames.
Among these a deep feeling of dismay and commiseration arose, so clear and undeniable appeared the evidence of the young prisoner's folly; already they seemed to see the executioner clipping the ears and slitting the nose of his victim!
It was at this critical moment that the Cardinal again turned towards the Chancellor and whispered something in his ear; Lord Arundel nodded assent to his suggestion.
Cardinal Pole thereupon addressed the Court. The Cardinal's voice was soft and musical; he spoke in low and gentle terms, yet was he distinctly audible even to the furthest extremity of that great hall.
There is a mystery in this case, he said, "and it does not lie upon the surface. Some of us are not convinced as to the identity of the accused, notwithstanding the evidence of the Queen's officers. By permission of the Lord Chancellor I call upon the Treasurer of Gray's Inn, Sir John Jefferay, and the Master of the Rolls, Sir Philip Broke, to give evidence upon this vital point."
An excited murmur passed among the audience as Sir John Jefferay, in obedience to this command, rose in his place and proceeded to the witness-box, and addressing the Court, said—
With your permission, my Lords, I will first ask for the date and the hour of the alleged assault.
Much marvelling, the Pursuivant rose and said in reply—
It was on the seventeenth day of July, and the hour was about eight o'clock in the morning.
Thank you, Mr. Pursuivant, replied Sir John, with great gravity; then, turning towards the Bench of Judges, he said—
"On that day, and at that hour, I held a consultation in the library of Gray's Inn with my honourable friend the Master of the Rolls, here present. My secretary took notes of our conference, and was with us all that morning. The secretary in question was Mr. William Jefferay, the prisoner at the Bar! A thrill of emotion passed through the Court at these words, and but for the august presence in which they stood, the air would have been rent with cheers. The accusers of William Jefferay, and those that sided with them (for there were some), were petrified with astonishment. Yet even at that supreme moment Sir John observed that one of the halberdiers clutched the Pursuivant by the shoulder and began to whisper eagerly to him, whereat his master's woebegone face began to light up with a grim smile. A sudden hush fell on the Court as the Earl of Arundel spoke. Call the Master of the Rolls;"" and as Sir Philip Broke entered the witness-box, the Chancellor said, ""Do you corroborate the evidence of the last witness?""
"Sir Philip Broke, bowing low, said—
In every detail, my Lord.
Then it only remains for us to dismiss the case, and we do hereby dismiss it, said the Chancellor.
My Lord, cried the Pursuivant, rising hastily in his place, "my Lord, in this case——"
But the Chancellor instantly silenced the speaker.
There is no case, he said; "the matter is at an end."
The Pursuivant sank back in his seat, but his eyes were full of malice and baffled rage.
Then the warders stood aside and beckoned to William to leave the dock.
As he descended, his friends clustered around him, and his pale face flushed with excitement as they poured forth their congratulations.
Foremost among them was the Spanish Ambassador and Don Diego; the latter flung his arms round his friend's neck and kissed him lovingly on both cheeks.
Presently, with Sir John and Sir Philip on either side of him, William emerged into the street, and there a great crowd of law students awaited him.
These were his "sodales"; with them the twin brothers were universally popular, and their recent exploit on the Thames had aroused that admiration to a frenzy.
So it was amid a cheering and uproariously excited escort that the party made its way to Gray's Inn, where Susan and Ralph awaited them.
They had not been permitted to attend the Court, where no ladies found a place, and as for Ralph, perhaps there were other reasons wherefore Sir John commanded him to abide at home!
Oh, it was a moment of bliss when Susan flung herself into the arms of her brother—such a moment as Heaven rarely grants to mortals!
Oh, William!
Oh, Susan!
Then the brothers embraced, and, after the manner of the times, kissed each other affectionately on the cheek. Hand in hand the three happy young people ascended to the library, where William related to eager listeners the moving scenes which had been enacted that morning in the Star Chamber.
Come, children, come with me to the dining-room, cried Sir John with cheerful voice, as he entered the library. "Do you not know that the body has its needs as well as the mind, and some of us have scarce broken our fast this day; indeed, to judge by William's pale face, I doubt whether he has breakfasted."
And therewith he led the way into the fine old dining-room of Gray's Inn, where a large party of friends awaited them.
It was a noble room, wainscoted to the ceiling in dark oak, and adorned with many portraits of the legal luminaries of past days.
Around the great open fire-place was grouped a throng of friends all eager to congratulate the Treasurer and his family on the joyful event of the day. Among them were the Spanish Ambassador and his son Don Diego; the Lord Mayor and Sir Philip Broke were there, and many of Sir John's brother members in Parliament.
Where is our friend the Sheriff? asked Sir John of the Lord Mayor; "he promised to be here."
He was here just now, replied the Lord Mayor, "but he has been summoned to perform some duty connected with his office; he asked me to explain his absence to you."
A cold chill fell upon the heart of Sir John as he heard these words—was it a premonition?
Then, regaining his usual composure, he cried with a loud and cheerful voice—
Be seated, friends; the dinner waits, and some of us are as hungry as hunters.
The chaplain of the Inn, who was present as a guest, said grace, and a merry clatter of knives and forks ensued.
Next to Sir Philip Broke sat the Spanish Ambassador, and, as the meal progressed, Sir Philip fell into conversation with his neighbour, with whom his high office brought him into frequent communication; and in social life also they were excellent friends.
Tell me, your excellency, he said in a low voice, "how will your royal master view the proceedings of this day?"
Somewhat bitterly, I fear, replied Don Renard. "It was only yesterday that he expressed to me his amazement that a royal officer could be so treated as was our friend the Pursuivant. He was eager to see the perpetrator of the assault brought to condign punishment.
"'In our own land,' he said to me, 'we should have broken the miscreant upon the wheel without judge or jury; but these islanders are so phlegmatic, and stand so much on forms and ceremonies.' You must pardon King Philip, my friend, for his outspokenness; it is true that the customs of Spain and England differ considerably.""
"Yes, replied Sir Philip dryly, "and I thank God for it."
Whereat the Spanish Ambassador smiled grimly.
Presently he spoke again to the Master of the Rolls. He had been attentively watching the twin brothers, who sat at the table side by side.
By St. Iago, he said in a low voice, "I have been looking at the twin brothers for the last five minutes, and at this moment I cannot tell you which is William and which is Ralph; I do not think that the world contains another so perfect example of the 'Dioscuroi'; no man could tell them apart."
Sir Philip shivered inwardly at these words, and he thought within himself—
Does our friendly Ambassador begin to suspect the legal trick by which our case was won? If so, the sooner we get Ralph across the water the better.
At that moment his eye fell upon Don Diego, who sat next to Susan, with whom he was holding eager discourse.
No, no, thought he, "no harm can come to our twins from that quarter; he can never forget the noble daring that saved his son's life."
As a rule no sound from the outside world ever penetrated the stillness of the dining-hall of Gray's Inn, yet to the watchful ears of some who sat at that festive table it seemed as if armed men were in movement in the great courtyard.
No word of command, no treading of iron-girt men, no clash of arms, but only a dull sense of approaching danger!
Suddenly Sir John's major-domo entered the hall and passed rapidly to his master's side as he sat at the head of the table.
Sir John noted not that the man's face was ghastly pale, nor that his terror-stricken tongue could scarce find utterance for his words.
He stooped towards Sir John, and in low tones said—
Sir John, the Deputy Sheriff is outside the hall—on the staircase.
Sir John started.
Is it not the Sheriff? he said; "we expected him as a guest to-day."
A dead silence had fallen in the hall, the guests were listening eagerly.
No, Sir John, it is Mr. Deputy Sheriff, replied the major-domo.
Bid him enter, said his master.
He is not alone, Sir John; he has halberdiers with him.
Sir John rose, as he said again—
Bid him enter!
The trembling servant obeyed, and, proceeding to the end of the Hall, threw open the great folding doors.
All the guests had now risen to their feet; all knew that some catastrophe was at hand.
The men looked stern, and, for the most part, undaunted; but from the many ladies present came the sound of choking sobs and subdued cries.
The Deputy Sheriff had entered, and with him came a posse of halberdiers in full armour.
As the armed men drew up in line within the hall their leader stepped forward and bowed low to Sir John—waiting, apparently, to be questioned.
Mr. Deputy Sheriff, said Sir John in firm tones, "you would be welcome here this day, but for this array at your back; what means it?"
I crave your pardon, Sir John Jefferay, yet the servants of the Queen must do their duty and obey the royal command, even if it be bitter and irksome.
It is true, sir, replied Sir John with dignity, "and you need no pardon from me; declare to us your business here."
The Deputy Sheriff produced a formal-looking document, and unfolding, read forth a warrant from the Sheriff, commanding the arrest forthwith, in the Queen's name, of Mr. Ralph Jefferay."
On what charge, sir? demanded Sir John.
On the charge of riot and assault, replied the Deputy Sheriff, and forthwith he handed the warrant to Sir John.
It was a formal document from the Court of the Star Chamber, bidding the High Sheriff to attach the body of Mr. Ralph Jefferay, to convey the prisoner to the Fleet prison, and to produce him before the Chamber on the following morning at ten o'clock.
Sir John had grown pale as marble, and it was evident to all that he was deeply stricken, yet he said in firm tones—
Do your duty, sir.
The Deputy Sheriff looked round the hall, and his eyes rested on the twin brothers, as they stood pale yet undismayed side by side.
The officer moved towards them, then scanned them both with close but dubious gaze.
Which of you is Mr. Ralph Jefferay? he said at length.
I am Ralph Jefferay, said Ralph in unfaltering tones.
The Sheriff laid his hand on his shoulder and said with loud voice—
I arrest you, Mr. Ralph Jefferay, in the name of the Queen!
Then, turning to his halberdiers, he pointed to Ralph, and immediately two men placed themselves at his side.
Disarm the prisoner, said the officer in sharp words of command.
There is no need, said Ralph, instantly unbuckling his sword, and placing it upon the table.
Are you ready, sir? then follow me, said the Deputy Sheriff, as he turned to leave the hall with his prisoner.
One moment, Mr. Deputy Sheriff, cried Sir John. "Can you grant your prisoner a brief space wherein to make his adieux?"
Certainly, Sir John, replied the officer courteously, "if it be done briefly and in my presence."
Then Ralph moved towards his uncle; he would have knelt on one knee before him and have kissed his hand; but Sir John caught him to his breast, and kissing him on both cheeks, said—
Farewell for the present, dear Ralph; keep a brave heart and good courage. Trust in God! Esperez toujours, toujours esperez!
William's turn came next. Ah, what a parting was this! Undying love sat in their eyes as they kissed each other, and William said—
Would God I had died for thee, my brother!
And last of all came Susan, her sweet face suffused with tears and her grief so great that she was voiceless as she embraced her brother and kissed his lips again and again.
Many of the guests then crowded round, each with a loving word to comfort and console.
Then the Deputy Sheriff gave the signal, his men closed round the prisoner, and in a moment the march began which was to end in the Fleet prison.
When the Sheriff's posse had left the hall, and the doors were closed, a great silence fell upon the assembled guests; all looked upon Sir John, who, in reply to their questioning gaze, spoke briefly with agitated voice.
My friends, said he, "a great trouble has fallen upon my house; I am smitten and afflicted, yet do I not despair! I will not disguise to you the terrible fact that my nephew Ralph has committed a crime against the laws of his country, and I know that to-morrow, when he will stand his trial in the Court of the Star Chamber, he will plead 'guilty.'
Yet the deed he committed was but a boyish freak, and no blood was shed by him or his fellows. But in the eyes of the law it was 'conspiracy,' and the penalty may be imprisonment, with a heavy fine, or even the pillory and mutilation.
At these words a shudder ran through the throng, and some of the ladies wept uncontrollably.
The men's faces were sternly set, they maintained a rigid silence.
Then Sir John spoke again.
Yet I do not despair, and 'I lift mine eyes unto the hills, to God, from whom cometh my hope.' And we have many friends, powerful both in the Court and in the city. No, I cannot, and will not, despair, so help me God!
There was something inexpressibly solemn and noble in Sir John's utterance and manner; his fine face was full of anguish, but his heart quailed not.
Then came a sudden interruption: the Spanish Ambassador asked permission to speak, and all strained forward to hear what Don Renard had to say.
Sir John and friends all, he began in low tones but with distinct utterance, "it is known to you that the twin brothers have a special claim on my sympathy and can command whatsoever aid I can give them in their hour of need; but for their noble courage I should have been a childless man this day!
"The proceedings in the Star Chamber to-morrow will probably be brief, for the accused will admit his guilt; the result is certain—a heavy sentence. But, like Sir John, I do not despair; then will be the hour for action on the part of Mr. Ralph's friends. I do not hesitate to lay before you my own plan of action; for I am persuaded that all who now hear me will feel the necessity for absolute secrecy on this great matter. It is known to many of you that Cardinal Pole is already well disposed towards Mr. Ralph—it was manifestly shown in the trial to-day.
"When sentence has been given I will ask his Eminence to accompany me to Whitehall, and there we will ask of Queen Mary the exercise of her royal clemency for our young friend. I do not think we shall plead in vain!
At these words a murmur of satisfaction and reassurance passed amid his almost breathless audience.
But Sir Philip Broke rose to speak, and all were silent again.
Has your Excellency thought of the possibly adverse influence of King Philip in this matter? he asked.
Yes, replied Don Renard, "it was my first thought, and I own that it troubled me. But, as a matter of fact, King Philip has no jurisdiction in this case; it is a matter for the Queen's own decision, and if the Cardinal and I can incline her royal heart to a merciful view of this young man's escapade (for it is nothing more), the King would find it difficult to sway her decision. But I will see the King also, and I am by no means persuaded that he will turn a deaf ear to my appeal."
Nothing more was said, and the guests began to depart. The Lord Mayor remained to the last; he was about to accompany Sir John to the Fleet prison that they might assure themselves that every arrangement which could ameliorate the lot of the unhappy prisoner should be made.
The day was drawing towards its close, a day which had opened so brightly for Susan and William. They sat together in the library with hands interclasped, their hearts charged with an overwhelming sense of coming woe, their grief too great for words.
Yet when Sir John returned from the Fleet prison and told them that Ralph was occupying William's old room, and that the great Cardinal had already sent him a message of condolence and comfort through their young friend Don Diego, their hearts were comforted, and hope sprang up in their stricken souls.
The Star Chamber once more!
For an hour before the sitting of the Court an unwonted excitement pervaded its precincts—for the news of the tragic events of the preceding day had gone abroad till London was ringing with it.
The warders within the building were doubled in number, and a strong party of halberdiers kept order in the purlieus of Westminster.
The reason of this display of force was soon manifested.
From the Temple and from Gray's Inn the young law students had assembled in great strength, and with them were the 'prentices from the City, brandishing their clubs and evidently eager for a fray.
Among the young "limbs of the law" the twin brothers were well known, and their recent exploit on the Thames had raised their popularity to a burning heat, while the 'prentices found sufficient justification for their presence in the fact that Sir John Jefferay was the Member of Parliament for the City, and his cause was theirs also.
As the Pursuivant and his men made their way towards the Chamber, protected by a strong body of armed men, curses loud and deep were hurled at them from a thousand throats.
A sudden change to cheering and hurrahing took place as the multitude recognized the Treasurer of Gray's Inn and the Master of the Rolls, who were passing through the streets in company.
London had seldom been so agitated—nor was the excitement lessened when the halberdiers were strengthened by some troops of the Household Guards from Whitehall. Inside the Chambers many of the notabilities of the Court had gathered together, and when the judges entered it, it was noted that nearly the whole of its august body of members was present.
By the side of Cardinal Pole sat the Bishop of London, Edmund Bonner, a Prelate whose attendance at this Court was a rare event.
But behind them sat a figure upon whom all eyes were fixed—it was King Philip.
He was dressed in a suit of black velvet without ornament of any kind, yet its dark hue was somewhat relieved by the spotless whiteness of the Valenciennes lace which bedecked his neck and wrists.
He was of moderate stature and very spare in body. His long oval face was somewhat colourless, he wore a beard and moustache of a sandy colour. His large piercing eyes were of a sombre blue, the mouth large, with heavy hanging lip and protruding lower jaw. His demeanour was still and silent, tinged with a Castilian haughtiness. Philip was thirty years of age at this period, but men would have given him credit for a longer record; perhaps the cares of his world-wide sovereignty had made him prematurely old.
Few mortals loved Philip; yet one fond heart had given itself to him unreservedly, for Mary loved her husband with a devotion as deep as it was unrequited.
The opening of the Court had not yet been formally declared, and a murmur of subdued voices in eager consultation filled the air.
Men noted that the King was conversing with the dignified ecclesiastics in front of him.
Presently a silver trumpet sounded, and the Lord High Chancellor took his seat as President of the Court. A dead silence ensued, and the Clerk thereupon pronounced the Court open.
All eyes turned to the dock as the prisoner was seen to be entering it, bowing low to the Court as he did so.
His friends had mustered strongly in the Chamber, and an unrestrainable murmur of sympathy arose from them as they marked the deathly pallor of his youthful countenance, his wounded arm (still supported in a sling) and a great scar of a recent wound on his handsome face.
The case was duly "called on," and the charge of riot and assault was made against the prisoner.
Ralph would have pleaded "Guilty" forthwith, but Sir John had addressed himself to this matter at his interview with Ralph at the Fleet prison on the preceding evening, and upon his advice the prisoner pleaded "Not Guilty!"
Thereupon the Pursuivant took his place in the witness-box and proceeded to set forth, with great detail, the well-known tale of the assault in Chiddingly woods. He now swore that the prisoner in the dock, Ralph Jefferay, was his assailant, and this was duly corroborated by his witnesses.
At this point Cardinal Pole addressed the President—
Yesterday, my Lord President, Mr. Pursuivant swore, with equal assurance, as to the identity of Mr. William Jefferay with his assailant. We know now that he was mistaken,—may he not err in the present case?
The Pursuivant rose again hastily and, bowing to the President, said—
May I answer His Eminence the Cardinal, my Lord?
The Earl of Arundel bowed assent, and the Pursuivant proceeded to explain his first error.
Yesterday, my lords, I was not aware of the extraordinary likeness which exists between the twin brothers Mr. William and Mr. Ralph Jefferay, a likeness so wonderful that no man may tell them apart but by some sign or symbol. One of my witnesses, who is a Lewes man and knows the Jefferays well by sight, informed me of this fact when the verdict of acquittal was given in this Court yesterday. The sign of distinction between the brothers is a very simple one—Mr. William always wears a grey cap and Mr. Ralph a blue one. Now on the occasion of the assault I solemnly swore that my assailant, Ralph Jefferay, the prisoner, wore a grey cap, whether by design or accident I cannot say, hence the mistake of identity.
The Pursuivant sat down with a malignant gleam of satisfaction in his fierce black eyes.
There was silence in the Court and the judges consulted with each other; presently the Chancellor spoke.
The Court would fain see these wonderful brothers side by side, he said. "Is Mr. William Jefferay here?"
The Clerk of the Court beckoned to Sir John Jefferay, who stood near to him, and, after a brief conversation, said—
Mr. William Jefferay is now at Gray's Inn, but he can be brought hither in a short time, my lord.
Let him be sent for, replied the Chancellor.
During the interval in the proceedings men talked freely in low voices; it was marked that an air of gloom and despondency sat upon the faces of the friends of the Jefferays.
Suddenly there was a rustling movement in the gangway of the Court, and a dead silence ensued as William Jefferay was perceived in the hands of the officers of the Court, who were leading him towards the dock.
Place them side by side, commanded the Chancellor.
William entered the dock and stood beside his brother. The brothers looked into each other's face with a quiet air, in which sadness and love bore equal part; they clasped hands and so faced the Court.
Even in that august presence a murmur of admiration and sympathy, closely mingled, ran through the assembly.
There was no further need of words or explanation, it was evident to all why the first trial had miscarried, how the Pursuivant had made his great mistake.
It is enough, let Mr. William Jefferay step down, said the President.
Yes, it was enough, there remained now but the dread sentence to be pronounced.
The judges briefly consulted; then the Chancellor arose and, amid an ominous silence, said—
The Court finds the prisoner guilty, and its sentence is that the prisoner pay a fine of five thousand pounds, that he stand in pillory at Tyburn for one day, and that his ears be clipped by the common hangman, and that he remain in prison for three years—God save the Queen!
Then occurred a startling interruption, the prisoner spoke.
I am guilty of assault, my Lord, he cried, "but, before God and High Heaven, I am no conspirator; I, also, cry God save the Queen!"
Then he sat down.
All was over, the dread sentence had been pronounced, and forthwith the warders proceeded to lead the prisoner from the dock.
The crowd departed, and in a few minutes the Star Chamber was untenanted save by a few warders.
The terrible news had spread abroad and seditious cries, mingled with oaths and execrations, rent the air.
The judges and King Philip had departed by private exits, but as the Pursuivant and his men reached the street a fierce contest between the military and the 'prentices arose.
Great stones hurtled through the air, and the clubs of the "City Boys" made fine play with the swords and rapiers of the halberdiers.
But the Household Guards, on their strong Flemish horses, swept all before them, and closing in a dense body around the Pursuivant, conveyed him to a place of safety.
As Sir John Jefferay and his nephew William were about to leave the Court, an usher brought him a note.
From his Excellency the Spanish Ambassador, said the man.
Turning to the friends who accompanied him, Sir John said—
Await me one moment, my friends.
Then he drew William with him into one of the waiting-rooms of the Court, and eagerly opened the note. It was brief.
An hour hence I shall be with you at Gray's Inn, and the Cardinal will be with me. His Eminence wishes that no other person be present at our interview.—Renard.
Oh, thank God, thank God! cried Sir John, as he passed the letter to William.
It was light amid the darkness, and the Treasurers noble face lost its look of despair and flushed with joy and hope!
And well might it be so, for these two men, of all others in the realm of England, possessed influence with Mary and Philip of high and exalted nature.
No word of this to our friends, whispered Sir John to his nephew, as they proceeded to rejoin them.
At this moment the roar from the street reached the little group, and they halted.
Instantly it flashed upon the Treasurer's mind that it might derange all their plans if he and William were to be acclaimed by a wild, disorderly mob.
Adieu, my friends, he said to those who surrounded them, "it is necessary that we part here; William and I will return through the Abbey. We meet again to-night at Gray's Inn, to supper."
All saw the wisdom of this, and Sir Philip Broke, noting the flush of hope in Sir John's face, whispered to him—
You have news—something to cheer our hearts?
To-night you shall know all, I trust, but now depart, I pray you!
Then grasping his hand he shook it warmly.
Farewell for the present, best and truest of friends, he said; then turning to William, "Follow me, nephew," he said.
All the cloisters of Westminster were known to Sir John, and soon, by many an ancient and devious way, the two were in the Abbey.
Ah, how its glorious quietude contrasted with the scene in the Star Chamber, with the tumult of the streets!
A strange peace took possession of Sir John's soul as he gazed into the semi-darkness of the Chapel of King Edward the Confessor, where, over the altar, gleamed a dull red light.
Sir John was no Romanist—nay, he was a somewhat ardent follower of Luther!
But it was no hour to think upon mysteries and niceties.
Come with me, my dear nephew, he said.
And under his guidance William in a moment found himself kneeling by his uncle's side in front of the glorious altar of King Edward's Chapel. Long they knelt in fervent prayer, commending the condemned prisoner to the mercy of Almighty God, and beseeching His blessing on the steps they were taking on his behalf.
Then, comforted and refreshed, they rose and made their way towards Whitehall and Gray's Inn.
It was past mid-day when Sir John and William reached Gray's Inn, and, as their footsteps reached the ears of the watchful and anxious Susan, she flew down-stairs to meet them.
Already the fatal news had reached the girl's ears, but she was far too prudent a housewife and too loving a niece and sister to show her grief to men who had not dined, who were probably well-nigh spent with anxiety and need of bodily refreshment.
Therefore, without a word, Susan led the way into the dining-room, where food and wine had been prepared through her loving care.
Then, dismissing the servants, she said—
I myself have dined, now let me wait on you. Do not speak, my dear uncle; alas, I know all, and presently we will confer together; but now refresh yourself, for I see indeed that you need it.
Sir John proceeded to obey his imperious housewife; yet, ere he sat himself at table, he embraced her affectionately and said—
You little know, dear girl, how sage and prudent is your advice, for I must needs tell you that in half-an-hour two visitors will be here to whom I must give immediate audience, for they come on matters of life and death!
Oh, uncle, is poor Ralph's case so desperate? cried Susan, with a terror-stricken face.
God only knows, replied Sir John; "but if there be any help in man, they who now are on their way hither are surely sent by Heaven to bring us that help, for they are none other than the Cardinal and the Spanish Ambassador."
Susan's eyes sparkled with a sudden access of joy; yet she resumed her first insistence.
Then you have but a few minutes wherein to refresh yourself, dear uncle, and I will not speak again, nor allow you to do so till you have eaten.
Sir John's serious face relaxed into a smile, and he proceeded to obey.
The minutes flew by, and soon Sir John's major-domo entered the room, after a discreet knock at the door.
Two visitors await you in the library, Sir John. They did not give me their names, but they said they came by appointment.
Sir John rose at once.
You will see that no one disturbs our conference in the library, he said to his servant. "And you, my children, await my return here; please God, I may have good news to bring you."
Then he proceeded to the library.
The two visitors stood near the great hearth, where a fire sparkled, for the morning was chilly. Hastening towards them, Sir John fell on one knee at the foot of the Cardinal, who, with a kindly smile, extended his hand towards him.
The Treasurer reverently kissed it.
Yet did he not kiss the hand of the great Churchman in his character of a Prince of the Roman Church, but rather because he saw in Reginald Pole a Plantagenet in whose veins ran royal blood. Then, rising, he warmly saluted the Ambassador, and at a courteous invitation from Sir John the three men took seats.
The Cardinal opened the conference.
You are in trouble, Sir John, very grievous trouble, and there are many reasons why I should seek to bring you aid and comfort. I know from the Ambassador how great a service your two brave nephews have rendered to him, and when I saw them in Court to-day and marked their manly bearing, their evident mutual love, and the heroic loyalty of the condemned man as he cried 'God save the Queen,' I vowed to God that I would save him from the mutilating hand of the hangman and the pillory at Tyburn, if it lay in my power.
There was a deep compassion in the Cardinal's voice, and his noble face flushed with a generous excitement as he spoke.
He marked the unbidden tears which suffused Sir John's eyes, and grasping his hand he cried—
"Have faith in God, Sir John, and hope for the best! Now tell me all about the Chiddingly affair from your own point of view; I heard the Pursuivant's tale, but I would fain have it supplemented by yours: I would know the motives which actuated Ralph, and what accomplices he had. Will your boys volunteer for that service?""
"Then tell me all about that heroic deed of rescue on the Thames. I would know the smallest detail of that gallant action, for therewith I trust to move the Queen's heart to mercy!"
Then, folding his purple cassock over his knees, the Cardinal leant back in his seat and prepared to listen.
With consummate skill Sir John performed his task, for which his legal training eminently fitted him. Thus half-an-hour swiftly flew by, and at the conclusion of the somewhat long narration the Ambassador spoke briefly.
Sir John, he said, "I have an expedient in my mind which, perhaps, may win us through our enterprise if all other means fail. Your lads are born soldiers; why are you bent upon making such fine fellows lawyers? I wager that they are better hands with their rapiers than with their quills. I fancy that if the matter were left to their choice they would rather see camps and beleaguered cities than pass their lives in musty law-courts!
Now to my point. King Philip is here to gain England's help in his war with France; he seeks to raise a strong English contingent, under Lords Pembroke and Clinton, which will proceed forthwith to join his army under the command of Count Egmont. Will your boys volunteer for that service if the Queen extend to them her gracious pardon?
For a moment Sir John, taken utterly by surprise, kept silence; then he said—
I would fain consult the boys themselves upon so momentous a point; or, at least, crave for time to consider it.
Alas, my dear friend, replied Don Renard quickly, "the matter is very urgent. I must be prepared at all points when I see the King to-night. Moreover, do you not know that the machinery of the Star Chamber moves quickly, and it may be (which God forbid) that to-morrow our young friend Ralph may stand in the pillory at Tyburn. Think what may depend on your decision, and let me act on it, lest that should happen which we may have to regret all our lives."
Remember also, Sir John, added the Cardinal, "that the military service of which the Ambassador speaks may be but of short duration; when the campaign is over, the lads may resume their legal studies if God spare their lives, and they so desire. As a matter of fact, am I not right in saying that you yourself have seen military service?"
Yes, your Excellency, it is true, replied the Treasurer. "As a young man I did three years' duty at Calais and in Flanders, but I did not know that your Eminence was aware of the fact."
The Cardinal smiled and answered significantly—
There are few circumstances connected with the family of the Jefferays which are unknown to those at Court.
Sir John put his hand upon his brow and pondered deeply. At length his mind seemed to be made up, and he replied—
It is true that I cannot consult both the boys ere coming to a decision, and that delay may be fatal. I therefore take the responsibility upon myself, and I accept your Excellency's proposition; God grant that I have not to regret my action.
The Cardinal rose with a sigh of relief.
Then that closes our conference. There is much to do between now and nightfall. To-night we see the Queen and King Philip, and the matter will be decided. Ere I seek my couch this night I will let you know the result. Farewell, my friend!
Sir John, as before, sank reverently on one knee before him, and the good Cardinal, extending his hand, pronounced the benediction of the Church—the Ambassador kneeling likewise at Sir John's side.
Then the two illustrious visitors departed, Sir John himself going before them to the entrance gate of Gray's Inn.
The Treasurer returned to the library, and for a while sat in deep thought; he was greatly agitated, yet there was springing up in his heart a blessed feeling of hope!
After a while he rose, and, remembering his promise, went into the dining-room, where William and Susan sat anxiously awaiting him.
Susan flew to meet him.
My dearest uncle, she cried, "you bring us good and comforting news, I can see it in your eyes."
Sir John stooped and kissed her fondly.
Let us go into the library, he said; "we shall be undisturbed there, and I will tell you all."
There Sir John resumed his seat, and with Susan nestling fondly at his feet, and William standing at his side, he detailed the conversation which had passed between him and his visitors, omitting nothing. His eyes were closely fixed upon William as he came to the military proposition of the Ambassador.
William's face flushed scarlet, and his eyes flashed with evident joy.
The Ambassador was right, he said within himself; "the boy is a born soldier; it is in the blood!"
Then aloud he said—
Was I acting rightly when I accepted Don Renard's proposal?
Instantly William flung himself at his uncle's knees with all affection and reverence, and seizing his hand, cried—
I ask nothing better, it is my dearest heart's wish; and when I speak for myself I speak for Ralph also; I can answer for him.
I thought so, replied the Treasurer, "but as far as Ralph is concerned (and he is chiefly concerned) I will go to the Fleet prison at once and learn his own decision."
But poor Susan was mute!
To be robbed of her two brothers at once, from whom she had never been long separated; to see them go forth to all the dangers of war; to think that she might never see them more, all this wrung her tender heart, and she began to sob gently.
But she was yet to bear another trial, for William, turning to his uncle as he prepared to go forth, said—
"One moment, uncle. Geoffrey de Fynes comes to London this day from Lewes on business of State. He longs for active service, and he is heartsick with his present mode of life. Let me hie to the Ambassador at once and propose that De Fynes's name be added to ours.
"He will be here to-night, and I can vouch for him that he will rejoice to join us."
The Treasurer hesitated for a moment, then said—
Yes, go, William, and at once. De Fynes is a brave man and true, I could not ask for a better comrade for my boys; I think it can be done.
Thereupon he left them, and William prepared to go also. A deep sigh from Susan, almost a groan was it, arrested his steps.
The poor girl had thrown herself upon a couch in an attitude of despair.
William knelt at her side.
What is it, my dear one? he said compassionately.
Oh, William, Susan murmured, "was it not enough that I should lose my two brothers in one day that you must needs take my lover also?"
What! cried William, "is that so?—and yet you told me not?"
The poor girl blushed to the roots of her hair, amid all her sorrow, as she answered—
We were betrothed last week, and this night he would have told you all; he comes to London on no State business: it was to ask my uncle's consent. And now, murmured the heart-stricken girl, "now I may lose him—lose him for ever!"
Oh, Susan, said her brother, throwing his arms around her, "I knew not of this; and yet I might have guessed it when I saw that bright ring sparkling on your finger. I rejoice thereat greatly; now we shall be brothers indeed, Geoffrey and Ralph and I! Trust him to us, my dear one; we will watch over him as he will over us; we will bring him back to you by the blessing and help of God!"
But Susan wept bitterly, her heart refused comfort. And so with reluctant steps William left her; his errand to the Embassy must be done!
God wills it, God wills it, he said to himself in the spirit of the old Crusaders as he set forth.