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FOOTNOTES[15]Advantage was taken of the Abbot’s compulsory absence to take the necessary steps for the dissolution of the monastery. (Froude.)[16]In some private memoranda of Thomas Cromwell, which still exist in his own hand-writing, occur the words,—“Item. The Abbot of Glaston to be tried at Glaston, and also to beexecutedthere with his accomplices.” The trial, however, took place at Wells, the execution (a foregone conclusion) at Glastonbury, as related in the story.
[15]Advantage was taken of the Abbot’s compulsory absence to take the necessary steps for the dissolution of the monastery. (Froude.)
[15]Advantage was taken of the Abbot’s compulsory absence to take the necessary steps for the dissolution of the monastery. (Froude.)
[16]In some private memoranda of Thomas Cromwell, which still exist in his own hand-writing, occur the words,—“Item. The Abbot of Glaston to be tried at Glaston, and also to beexecutedthere with his accomplices.” The trial, however, took place at Wells, the execution (a foregone conclusion) at Glastonbury, as related in the story.
[16]In some private memoranda of Thomas Cromwell, which still exist in his own hand-writing, occur the words,—“Item. The Abbot of Glaston to be tried at Glaston, and also to beexecutedthere with his accomplices.” The trial, however, took place at Wells, the execution (a foregone conclusion) at Glastonbury, as related in the story.
The period of English history of which we are now writing has been aptly called “The Reign of Terror.” England under Thomas Cromwell, and France under Robespierre, were alike examples of the utter prostration which may befall a mighty nation beneath the sway of one ruthless intellect.
To make the King absolute, and himself to rule through the King, was the one aim of the man whom Fox, the Martyrologist, grotesquely calls “The valiant soldier of Christ:”—for this end he smote down the Church and the nobility: Bishop Fisher and the Carthusians represented the ecclesiastical world, the Courtenays and the Poles the aristocracy, Sir Thomas More the new-born culture of the time; and Cromwell chose his victims from the noblest and the best. The piety of Fisher, once the King’s tutor, to whom his mother had committed her royal boy on her death-bed, could not save him; nor his learning, Sir Thomas More; nor her grey hairs, the Countess of Salisbury. Spies were scatteredthrough the land; it was dangerous to speak one’s mind in one’s own house; nay, the new inquisition claimed empire over men’s thoughts; we have seen that the concealment of one’s sentiments was treason.
Will my more youthful readers wonder then that men could be found to convict upon such charges as those preferred against the aged Abbot of Glastonbury? They need wonder at nothing that occurred while Bloody Harry was King, and Thomas Cromwell Prime Minister.
The juries themselves sat with a rope around their necks; when the Prior and the chief brethren of the Charter-house waited upon Cromwell to explain their conscientious objections to the Oath of Supremacy, loyally and faithfully, he sent them from his house to the tower; when the juries would not convict the ecclesiastics, he detained them in court a second day, and threatened them with the punishment reserved for the prisoners, unless they found a verdict for the crown; finally, he visited the jurymen in person, and by individual intimidation forced the reluctant men to find a verdict of guilty, whereupon the unfortunate monks were hanged, drawn, and quartered, with every circumstance of barbarity, suspended, cut down alive, disembowelled, and finally dismembered.[17]
Thursday, the fourteenth of November, 1539, was a gloomy day: black leaden clouds floated above, the ground was sodden with moisture, the leaves, fallen leaves, no inapt emblem, rotted in the slime, a heavy damp air oppressed the breath; the day suited the deed, for on that day the aged Abbot of Glastonbury was formally arraigned at Wells, together with his brethren the Prior and Sub-Prior, on the charge of felony,—“Robbery of the Abbey Church with intent to defraud the King.”
They might well have proceeded against him under the Act of Supremacy, but variety has charms, and this new idea of felony commended itself to the mind of Cromwell, as a good device for humbling the clergy.
Lord Russell, one of Henry’s new nobility who supplied the places left vacant by so many ruthless executions, whose own fortunes were built on the plunder of the Church, sat as judge, and there were empannelled, we are told, “as worshipful a jury as was ever charged in Wells.”
The indictment set forth that the prisoners had feloniously hidden the treasures of the Abbey, to wit, sundry chalices, patens, reliquaries, parcels of plate, gold and silver in vessels, ornaments, and money, with the intent of depriving our sovereign lord the King of his rightful property, conferred upon him by Act of Parliament.
“What say you, Richard Whiting, guilty or not guilty?”
The aged prisoner looked around him with wondering eyes; he scanned the crowded array of spectators, then the jury, who looked half ashamed of their work, and finally rested his eyes upon his judge.
“How can I plead guilty where there can be no guilt? These treasures were committed to my care to keep for God and Holy Church; it is not meet to cast them to swine; no earthly power may lawfully take to itself the houses of God for a possession, or break down the carved work thereof with axes and hammers. Am I tried before an assembly of Christian men, or before heathen, Turks, infidels, and heretics?”
“It is not meet for a prisoner to revile his judges,” said Russell; “as an Englishman you are bound by the Acts of Parliament.”
“Talk not to me of Parliament; you have on your side but the Parliament of this sinful generation, and against you are all the Parliaments who have sat from the Witan-agemot downwards, who have granted and confirmed to us of Glastonbury, those possessions which you would snatch from a house which has been the light of this country for a thousand years; to resist such oppression and sacrilege is notguilt, and I plead in that sense, ‘Not Guilty.’”
“Thou showest but little wisdom in pressing thine own opinion against the consent of the realm.”
“I would fain hold my peace; but that I may satisfy my conscience, I will tell thee that while thou hast on thy side but a minority in a single kingdom, the whole of the Christian world, save that kingdom, is dead against you, and even the majority here condemn your proceedings, although the fear of a barbarous death silences their tongues.”
“Of whom art thou speaking?”
“Of all the good men present.”
“Why hast thou persuaded so many people to disobey the King and Parliament?”
“Nay, I have sinned in dissembling my opinions, but now Iwillspeak. I disallow these changes as impious and damnable (general sensation); I neither look for mercy nor desire it; my cause I commit to God, I am aweary of this wicked world, and long for peace.”
He sank upon the bench behind him, as did his fellow prisoners, and none of them took any further obvious interest in the proceedings.
Formal evidence was brought to prove the discovery of treasure hidden in secret places, but all this fell very flat upon the audience, the fact was tacitly admitted on both sides,thedifference of opinion only existed as to the guilt thereof.
There was no room for doubt in Lord Russell’s mind; he summed up the evidence against the prisoners, and reminded the jurymen that their own loyalty was on trial, a very forcible hint in those days, and one which few men dared disregard.
They retired; returned with downcast looks, and gave a verdict in accordance with the evidence: theirs not to argue the point of law, the fact was sufficient.
“Prisoners at the bar,” said the judge, “you have been convicted on the clearest evidence of an act of felony—of seeking to deprive the King of the property willed to him by the high estates of the realm, in trust for the nation. Into your motives I need not enquire, but no man can be a law unto himself; born within these realms you are subject to the authorities thereof, and for your disobedience to them you must now die. The only duty remaining to me is to pronounce upon you the awful sentence the law provides against your particular crime—that you be taken hence to the prison whence you came, and from thence be drawn on the morrow, upon a hurdle, to the summit of Glastonbury Tor, that all men far and wide may witness the royal justice, where you are to be hanged by the neck, but not until you are dead, for while you are still living, your bodies are to be taken down, yourbowels torn out and burnt before your faces; your heads are then to be cut off, and your bodies divided, each into four quarters, to be at the King’s disposal, and may God have mercy upon your souls.”[18]
A dead silence followed, broken at last by the Abbot’s voice.
“We appeal from this judgment of guilty and time-serving men to the judgment of God, before Whose bar we shall at length meet again.”
It was late in the same evening, the curfew had already rung, the rain was still falling at intervals in the streets of Glastonbury, as if nature wept at the approaching dissolution of the venerable fane which had been the ornament of western England so long.
In spite of the weather, many groups formed from time to time outside the gatehouse of the Abbey, for there the three prisoners had been brought from Wells, and there, in the chamber over the gateway, in strict ward, they were passing the last night the royal mercy permitted them to live.
A youth, repulsed from the door which givesadmittance to the upper chambers, retired with despairing gesture; his face bore marks of intense emotion, the tears had worn furrows therein, and from time to time a sob escaped him.
A companion pressed up to his side.
“Will they not let you in?”
“No, Gregory, I have begged in vain these three times.”
“Why not try the sheriff, he is said to be merciful?”
“I can but try, I will go to his house at once.”
As due to his office, the high sheriff of the county was charged with the details of the morrow’s tragedy; he liked the task but little, still he viewed it as a simple matter of duty, and could not flinch from it.
He was resting after the fatigues of the day, and in truth, thinking very uneasily over the events of the trial.
“What if, after all, he is in the right—that appeal to the judgment bar above was very solemn—when that great assize takes place, in whose shoes would it be best to stand, in the place of the judge or the felon of to-day?”
A domestic entered—“A lad craves a moment’s speech.”
“Who is he?”
“I know him not, but he has been weeping bitterly, as one may see by his face.”
The sheriff hesitated, but he was in a merciful mood; he suspected the object of the visitor, and it was a good sign for the success of the suppliant that he permitted the visit.
“Well, my lad,” said he, as Cuthbert entered, “what is the matter now?”
“I have a boon to crave, your worship; you will not refuse it me?”
“Let me first hear what it is.”
“The Abbot has been my adopted father, my best friend from childhood; let me see him once more, let me receive his parting blessing, ere wicked hands slay him.”
“Wicked hands, my lad, you forget yourself, and where you are.”
“Pardon me, I meant no offence; I know it is no fault of your worship.”
“It is but a slight boon, after all,” said the sheriff, “and one whichmaybe conceded;” and as he spoke he wrote a few lines on a slip of parchment. “They will give you admission for half-an-hour, if you show them this at the gateway.”
“May I not stay longer?”
“It would not be kind to those who are to die; they need their time to make their peace with God.”
“That is already made, your worship.”
“I trust so,” said the sheriff, with a sad faint smile at the boy’s earnestness.
“Who art thou, my lad?” he said.
“The Abbot’s adopted son.”
“But who were your real parents?”
“I know not.”
“What name do they call you?”
“Cuthbert, I have none other.”
“Poor lad,” said the sheriff, as the boy departed, “it seems almost like a familiar face, yet I have never met him before; some accidental likeness, I suppose.”
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FOOTNOTES[17]Lingard v. 19.[18]This terrible sentence is copied from the form in actual use until the present century.
[17]Lingard v. 19.
[17]Lingard v. 19.
[18]This terrible sentence is copied from the form in actual use until the present century.
[18]This terrible sentence is copied from the form in actual use until the present century.
A dead silence reigned around the precincts of the once mighty Abbey, many of the monks had fled, fearing lest they should share the fate which had befallen their superiors, and having no decided predilection for martyrdom; but many still shuddered in their cells, or wandered aimlessly about the doomed cloisters, so soon to be a refuge for bats and owls.
Only a few lights burned here and there in the darkness of that November night, but one shone steadily from the window of the strong room over the gatehouse, where the three fated monks awaited their doom.
Scantily furnished was that chamber; three wooden chairs with high backs grotesquely carved, a massive table in the centre, a huge hearth decorated with the Abbey arms, upon which smouldered two or three logs, for fuel was cheap, and the night was cold and damp. Againstthe wall hung a crucifix, and there, with their faces towards the memorial of the martyrdom which redeemed a world, knelt the three.
We cannot follow their mental struggles, which found relief in prayer—in intense prayer, in burning words of supplication, which wafted their spirits on high, and gave them strength to say “not my will but Thine be done.”
A step on the stairs, but they rose not from their knees; they felt that one had entered and was kneeling behind them, and at length they heard sobs escape from their visitor, which he could not repress.
They rose slowly from their devotions, and the Abbot grasped Cuthbert’s hands and raised him from the floor.
“My child,” he said, “dost thou grieve for me?”
A sob was the only answer.
“Listen, my child, which is best, heaven or earth, Paradise or Glastonbury?”
Still no answer.
“And they but rob us of a few brief years, which to aged men like us must be years of suffering; they separate us from the ranks of the Church Militant, but not from those of the Church Triumphant, that is beyond their power; they may kill the body, but after that they have no more that they can do.”
“But the shame, the disgrace!”
“Is it greater than the Son of God bore on Calvary? Nay, my son, let us not grieve that it has pleased Him, of Whom are all things, to ordain this painful road, which He Himself has trodden before us; nay, sob not, nor sorrow as those without hope, but live so that thou mayest rejoin us in the regions of Paradise.”
Cuthbert gazed upon the calm majestic face of the old man, and it seemed to him irradiated by a light from above. He repressed his grief, and listened to the last words of his friend.
“It is written that in the last days perilous times shall come, and we have fallen upon them; happy then that God removes us to His secret chambers, where He shall hide us until the iniquity of a world be overpast, and His redeemed come with triumph to Zion. Before us now is thevia Dolorosaof a brief hour, but from the gibbet we shall scale the skies. Forthee, my son, is the life-time of trial and temptation, wherefore I pray for thee, andwillpray for thee when thou shall see my face no more. Remember, dear child, he that endureth to the end, the same shall be saved, and let neither men nor devils rob thee of thy crown.”
“By God’s help I will endure.”
“I believe that thou wilt strive, yea, and prevail. Butonemore thought to earthly things, and I resign the world for ever. Thou rememberest the secret chamber?”
“I do, Father.”
“And the ring which is now on the finger of him who shall claim thy promise?”
“Well, my Father.”
“Await him, my son, in Glastonbury, not in the Abbey, that will be destroyed by wicked hands, but in the house of thy foster father, Giles Hodge, whose name thou must take, and be content to pass as his foster son till the time comes, and thy services are claimed. He who bears the ring will provide for thy future.”
“Oh, think not of that.”
“Ihavethought of it, and now, my child, thou mayest again join us in prayer.”
“The half-hour has passed,” said a rough voice at the door.
“Thy blessing, Father.”
“It is thine, my child: Benedicat et custodiat te Deus omnipotens, Pater, Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus, nunc et in sæcula sæculorum.”
Upon the summit of the hill men are working all through the storms of the night, erecting a huge gibbet, from the cross-beam of which three ropes are now dependent; beneath is a huge block, like a butcher’s block, and a ghastly cleaver andsaw rest upon it; hard by stands a caldron of pitch, which but awaits the kindling match to boil and bubble.
Through the dark shadows of the clouds, or in the bright light of the moon when the winds open a path for her rays, ghostly figures flit about. It is well that they should work in darkness,—it were better that such work were not done at all. Thus they execute the will of the ruthless Tudor, the Nero of English history; well, he and his victims have long since met before a more awful bar.
The winds blow ceaselessly all through the night, but in the morn the clouds are breaking; in the east a faint roseate light appears, and soon brighter streaks of crimson fringe the clouds, which hang over the dawn; anon the monarch of day arises in his strength, the shadows flee away, and from the summit of the hill a vast extent of sea and land is beheld, rejoicing in his beams.
A crowd gathers around the gatehouse, some few royal parasites to jeer, men at arms to guard the prisoners, and prevent any attempt at rescue, more sad and tearful faces of women, or sternly indignant visages of bearded men.
“Here they come.”
The trampling of horse, a train of strong wooden hurdles, each drawn by a single horse, appears; hard carriages these on which to takethe ride to eternity, but many an innocent victim has fared no better.
The doors are opened, and the Abbot appears first: a blush overspreads his aged cheeks, as the indignity thus palpably presents itself, but uttering, “And this, too, I offer to Thee,” he lies down upon the hurdle, and they bind his hands and feet to the crossbars, carefully, that they may not touch the ground, for those in charge of the execution would not willingly offer additional pain—some of them are sick at heart as they fulfil the will of the tyrant Tudor.
The Prior and Sub-Prior submit to the same painful restraint, and thevia Dolorosais entered.
All through the streets of the town, where the Abbot has often ridden in triumphant processions, the highest in dignity of all far and wide, the hurdles jolt along: the aged frames of the sufferers are fearfully shaken by the rude joltings, but they remember thatvia Dolorosawhich led to Calvary, and accept the pain for the sake of the Divine Sufferer, in Whom our sufferings are sanctified.
There are those present who are paid to raise hisses and hootings, and to revile the passing victims, but they are awed by the attitude of the spectators in general, and forfeit their wages.
Up the hill with labouring steps the horsestread: at length the rounded summit appears, and the gibbet looms in sight.
The sufferers see it not, owing to their prostrate condition, until they are beneath it. “It is easier to bear than the cross, brethren,” says Abbot Richard.
The victims are unbound from the hurdles, and one after the other resigns himself to the rude hands of the executioners; for now, under this reign of terror and bloodshed, ecclesiastics are led forth in theirhabitsto die without being first stripped of their robes, and degraded. There is a meaning in this, it is not of mercy.[19]
The Abbot yields himself first, calmly reciting the words of the 31st Psalm, “In manus tuas, Domine, commendo Spiritum meum.” Thetwopray for him until their own turn comes.
“Go forth, O Christian soul, from this world, in the Name of God the Father Who created thee, of God the Son, Who redeemed thee, of God the Holy Ghost Who hath sanctified thee; may thy place be this day in peace, and thine abode in Mount Sion.”
Their faces did not grow pale, neither didtheir voices tremble—they declared as they died that they were true subjects of the king in all things lawful, and obedient children of Holy Church.
So one after the other they suffered—we spare the reader the sickening details, which Englishmen couldlookon in those days, and which innocent men were called upon to suffer, but which we shudder even to read.
But we will conclude with a letter written by Lord Russell to Cromwell on the 16th of November, being the day following the tragedy.
“My Lorde—thies shal be to asserteyne, that on Thursday the xiii. daye of this present moneth, the Abbot was arrayned, and the next daye putt to execution, with ii. other of his monkes, for the robbyng of Glastonburye Churche; on the Torre Hill, the seyde Abbottes body beyng devyded in fower partes, and his heedd stryken off, whereof oone quarter stondyth at Welles, another at Bathe, and at Ylchester and Brigewater the rest, and his hedd upon the abbey gate at Glaston.”[20]
“My Lorde—thies shal be to asserteyne, that on Thursday the xiii. daye of this present moneth, the Abbot was arrayned, and the next daye putt to execution, with ii. other of his monkes, for the robbyng of Glastonburye Churche; on the Torre Hill, the seyde Abbottes body beyng devyded in fower partes, and his heedd stryken off, whereof oone quarter stondyth at Welles, another at Bathe, and at Ylchester and Brigewater the rest, and his hedd upon the abbey gate at Glaston.”[20]
As the traveller, in modern times, passes swiftly along the Great Western line between Weston and Bridgewater, he may see, on his left, a round conical hill, rising abruptly from the flat plain, aplain which was once a sea, a hill which was once an island. This is Glastonbury Tor.
Fair and beautiful it looks in the summer sunlight, but it was once the scene of the foul judicial murder which we have endeavoured to describe.[21]
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FOOTNOTES[19]“While he was waiting for the hangman, he was questioned again by Pollard as to the concealment of plate, but he had nothing more to say, and would accuse neither himself nor others, but thereupon took his death very patiently.”—Blunt.[20]This letter is authentic, spelling and all.[21]See Note G.Death of Abbot Whiting.
[19]“While he was waiting for the hangman, he was questioned again by Pollard as to the concealment of plate, but he had nothing more to say, and would accuse neither himself nor others, but thereupon took his death very patiently.”—Blunt.
[19]“While he was waiting for the hangman, he was questioned again by Pollard as to the concealment of plate, but he had nothing more to say, and would accuse neither himself nor others, but thereupon took his death very patiently.”—Blunt.
[20]This letter is authentic, spelling and all.
[20]This letter is authentic, spelling and all.
[21]See Note G.Death of Abbot Whiting.
[21]See Note G.Death of Abbot Whiting.
“We grieve not o’er our abbey lands, e’en pass they as they may,But we grieve because the tyrant found a richer spoil than they;He cast aside, as a thing defiled, the remembrance of the just,And the bones of saints and martyrs he scattered to the dust.”Neale.
“We grieve not o’er our abbey lands, e’en pass they as they may,But we grieve because the tyrant found a richer spoil than they;He cast aside, as a thing defiled, the remembrance of the just,And the bones of saints and martyrs he scattered to the dust.”Neale.
“We grieve not o’er our abbey lands, e’en pass they as they may,
But we grieve because the tyrant found a richer spoil than they;
He cast aside, as a thing defiled, the remembrance of the just,
And the bones of saints and martyrs he scattered to the dust.”
Neale.
It was in vain that Bishop Latimer besought the tyrant, mad after the spoils which a venal parliament had given him, to let at leastsomeof the monasteries remain as the houses of learning. Few countries could boast of such shrines as those which adorned like jewels the shires of England—but all were ruthlessly sacrificed, from the fane which rose over the mighty dead at Battle, to the humblest cell which but sheltered half-a-dozen poor brethren or sisters.
Such was the value of the noble library at Glastonbury that Leland, an old English antiquarian,tells us, when first he beheld it, “The sight of its vast treasures of antiquity so struck me with awe, that I hesitated to enter.”
Yet we learn from Bale, that such noble collections were sold to grocers for waste paper, and that he knew a man who had bought for that purpose two large monastic libraries at the dissolution, and added that he had been using their contents for ten years, and had hardly got through half his store.
So strongly built were many of the Abbeys, that they had to be blown up with gunpowder, after they were stripped of all that could be sold; the lands were given to greedy favourites, Cromwell himself is said to have secured thirty Abbeys, and the ready money was spent at court in gambling and dissolute living.
So, in a few years, all the wealth which flowed into the hands of the crown was dissipated, and instead of the remission of taxation, by the hope of which many had been bribed to assent to the fall of the monasteries, the burdens laid upon the people were heavier than before.
Four months had passed away since the tragical events recorded in our last chapter, andthe blustering month of March was in mid-career; the winds swept over the ruined Abbey, now in great part roofless, and dismantled, the abode of bats and owls; they swept over the bare and rounded summit of Glastonbury Tor, stained so lately by a foul deed of blood. Many a violent storm of rain had beaten upon that blood-stained summit, and the traces of the butchery had long since vanished; but the peasants yet gazed up to the hill top with awe and wonder.
But the storm which had desolated the proud Abbey had left the humble cottage of Giles Hodge untouched: there the old man and his wife lived in peace, like their neighbours, and went through their daily round, their trivial task—
Each morning saw some work begunEach evening saw its close.
Each morning saw some work begunEach evening saw its close.
Each morning saw some work begun
Each evening saw its close.
Their foster son was often present to their remembrances, but he had not been with them in person since the martyrdom. They had wisely judged it best to remove him from the immediate neighbourhood of such harrowing recollections, and as old Giles had a brother who lived at Lyme Regis, a seafaring man, thither he had sent Cuthbert to spend the winter.
The change of scene had wrought good. The poor boy had gone there broken-hearted, and suffering from the nervous excitement which hehad passed through; the shock had been very great, but youth is elastic, and soon recovers from such a strain. The sea and its wonders, the romantic scenery around, all contributed to the beneficial change. Sometimes Cuthbert would go out fishing with his uncle, as he had learned to call the brother of his foster father; the fishing awakened all his interest: on the deep all the night, watching the moonbeams on the waves, the gradual breaking of the dawn, the “many dimpled smile of ocean:” all this was new to the land-bred youth, and exercised a most happy effect upon his health and spirits.
But it must not be supposed that he forgot the Abbot, or that he was unmindful of the secret entrusted to him; he had told his foster father that he expected some communication from the friends of the late Abbot, and old Hodge had promised that if anyone arrived, and presented the ring which was to serve as a token, he would send for Cuthbert without any delay.
And at last the message came, just when Cuthbert returned home with his “uncle,” after a most successful night at sea, bringing the scaly spoils of the deep in their boats. A rustic messenger had ridden across the country from Glastonbury, through Langport, Ilminster, Chard, and Axminster, a distance of from thirty to forty miles.
Old Giles could not write, he only sent word by his envoy, “Come home, I have seen the ring, he expects thee to-morrow.”
We have not hitherto explained fully the social position of Giles Hodge. Well, he was a yeoman, having no lands of his own; only he had a farm of three or four pounds a year,[22]and hereupon he tilled as much as kept five or six men. He had walk for a hundred sheep, and his wife milked thirty kine. He was able and bound to provide one man and horse, with “harness” for both, when the king had need of him; for this species of feudal tenure yet lingered, and supplied the want of a standing army. In short, he was an English yeoman, “all of the olden time.”
The fire was burning brightly on the hearth in old Giles’ cottage, which looked as pleasant as in days of yore; he and his old dame occupied their chairs on either side, for the day’s work was over, and they were resting after its fatigues, whilst they anxiously awaited the arrival of their foster son, their Cuthbert.
It was only just dark, not yet seven o’clock; the evening meal was already prepared, and set forth with many a tempting dish upon a comely white cloth, to tempt the appetite of the darling of their old age.
A knock at the door—the hearts of the old couple beat with anticipation—yet the knock! Would Cuthbert stop to knock? “Come in,” they cried.
The latch lifted, and their parish priest entered, Doctor Adam Tonstal.
“Good even to you, my worthy friends; I have come for a chat with you about a matter of importance.”
“Nothing amiss about Cuthbert, I hope,” said the old dame, anxiously.
“No, there is naught amiss,yetstill my errand is about him. Are you not expecting him home?”
“Yes, thank God, this very night; we thought when you knocked that it was he.”
“Well, I know you will be glad to see him again, for he is a worthy lad, and there are few who have not a good word for him, but it will be just as well not to let anyone know of his arrival, and to get him away again as soon as possible. My object was to warn you against allowing him to return, and also to advise you not to tell anyone where he may be found.”
“But why,” inquired Giles, aghast, as soon as he could get a word in; “what harm hath the poor lad done?”
“Harm, forsooth!” then lowering his voice, “what harm had Richard Whiting done?”
“But Cuthbert is too young to be answerable for such weighty matters.”
“I knowthat, but not too young to be an object of interest just now. You see it is reported that he was deep in the Abbot’s secrets.”
“They would indeed be weighty secrets, which the Abbot would entrust to a mere boy.”
“Ordinarily your remarks would be just, but the case is peculiar. The Abbot was suspected to be in possession of lists of names, of papers, nay of treasure, in connection with the rising in the north, which had been entrusted to him after the disastrous collapse of the Pilgrimage of Grace: we are all friends here,” added the priest, fearing lest he might have committed himself, for had such an expression as “disastrous,” applied to the royal triumph, been reported to Cromwell, it might have been his death-warrant.[23]
“We are alone, my wife and I, and we be no tale-bearers.”
“Well then, it is said that there must be asecret chamber, somewhere in the Abbey, not yet discovered, in spite of all the search made for it by Sir John Redfyrne, the administrator of the property of the Abbey for the king; who is also an ally of Cromwell, that arch-heretic, and oppressor of the Church. You are sure there is no one in the house save yourselves?”
“Quite sure, don’t fear; but what has this to do with Cuthbert?”
“Only that a lad named Nicholas Grabber offers to make oath that he heard the Abbot reveal the secret to Cuthbert, when the two were in his private chamber, and bid him await the arrival of some mysterious person, with a ring: Grabber’s account is very defective, but he says the Abbot discovered his presence, and ordered him roughly away.”
“As I live,”—said Giles.
“Of course you know nothing,” said the priest, interrupting, “but I have learned through friends that a warrant is about to be issued against the lad: now if he is taken——”
“But they can lay nocrimeto his charge, to know a secret is no crime.”
“But theymay, and probablywillconsider that secret of sufficient importance to the State to insist upon its disclosure, and if the poor boy, as will very likely be the case, refuse to tell, they willsee what the thumb-screw, or failing that, even the rack, may effect.”
“Good heavens! Saint Joseph forbid.”
“Amen; but the best way is to keep Cuthbert out of the way.”
“Too late; for here he is!”
The door opened and our hero entered, all flushed with travel, and with the delight of meeting his old friends, whom he embraced warmly; after which he saluted the priest with a lowly reverence.
“How well he is looking, poor lad,” said the dame: for his face was flushed with pleasure, or she might still have seen some traces of his recent trial. A more thoughtful expression sat on his features, such a period as he had gone through had done the work of years in sobering his boyish spirits, and bringing on, prematurely, the thoughts and cares of manhood.
“Now, Cuthbert,” said the good priest, “I will take a turn on the green, while you tell all your news to your kind friends, and satisfy your hunger, and after that I will return for a little talk with you;” and he went out, but only to pace up and down the green, keeping the cottage still in sight.
And we too will leave the good souls within to their endearments for the same space of time; they will soon know the extent of the danger in which their foster boy is placed.
But the priest knows it, and he walks up and down, peering sometimes into the darkness beyond the green, in the direction of the town, scrutinizing the faces of the passers-by, until curfew rings from the tower of his own church. Then he re-enters the cottage.
Cuthbert, hunger satisfied, is seated in the chimney-corner; the logs sparkle in the draughts of wind, which find their entrance through every cranny; the aged couple are seated as before.
“Father, we have told Cuthbert that you think he ought not to stay here, but he says he is bound to remain over the morrow; that will not hurt, will it?”
“Not if he is unseen, and the news of his coming has not got abroad.”
“Did anyone see thee, child, as thou enteredst the town?”
“Alas, I fearonedid; Nicholas Grabber was hanging about the gate on the common.”
“Nicholas Grabber; then, my boy, thou must not tarry an hour; it is he who hast already betrayed thee.”
“Betrayed me! how?” said Cuthbert, alarmed.
Then the priest told Cuthbert all that our readers have already learned from his lips, and the lad at once recognized his danger, for he remembered how Nicholas had lurked about theAbbot’s chamber that eventful night, when the secret was revealed to him.
“You are right, Father,” he said, “I must go.”
“Too late!” said the priest, “too late!”
For at that moment the tramp of many feet was heard without, followed by a violent knocking at the door, which the priest fortunately had barred when he entered.
“Hide him,” said the good man; “I will keep them at bay for a few minutes.”
And the old people hurried Cuthbert out of the room.
“The back door,” said the boy.
“Nay, that is watched too; I hear them whispering without.”
“Then I am lost.”
“No! no! my boy,” said the old woman, “come up stairs, and get into the loft.”
They went hastily up the stairs, into the old people’s bedroom.
There was no ceiling, but that which plain boards overhead, separating them from the attic beneath the roof, afforded; knocking one of these aside with his staff, the old man bade Cuthbert mount on his shoulders, and get into the loft. The lad did so easily, for the roof of the room was low, and then replaced the boards, so that no one could see that there had been any disturbance thereof.
The loft was often used for the storage of fruit, corn,flax, and the like, and there was a quantity of the latter material stored therein; on this Cuthbert lay.
Meanwhile the priest below fulfilled his task.
“Who are ye, disturbing an honest family after curfew?”
“Officers of the law, constables; open, in the name of the law.”
“There be many who avail themselves of that name, with very little title; robbers be about, and I must have surer warrant ere I admit you.”
“Open, or we will break down the door.”
“Nay, and thou come tothatgame, there be those within, good at the game of quarter staff; meanwhile we will blow the horn and rouse the watch.”
“Thou old fool, we will break thy bones, as well as the door; we tell theeweare the constables—the watch.”
“’Tisn’t old Hodge’s voice,” said another; “ask the fellow who he is.”
“Who art thou, fool?”
“That is for wise men like thee to find out.”
“Well, then, here are Roger Hancock, John Sprygs, James Griggs, Denis Howlet, the four constables, and Laurence Craveall, a body servant of Sir John Redfyrne.”
“I fear me, friend, thou art taking the namesof better men in vain; more to the token, thou showest thyself a liar: for well do I know that neither Jack Sprygs nor Jim Griggs ever leave the ale-tap after curfew, until it is time to tumble, drunk, into their sinful beds.”
“Break open the doors,” cried the two impugned worthies, in a rage.
“I will loose the mastiff upon you.”
But in spite of this direful threat, which it would have been difficult to fulfil, as no mastiff was in the house, the men commenced breaking down the door.
At that instant old Hodge appeared, and signifying by a sign all was right, cried aloud—
“What are you doing at my door?”
“Breaking it down, with a search warrant for our justification.”
“Thou mayst save thyself the trouble; I have nought here to hide;” and the old man withdrew the bars.
Four ill-looking men, Jacks in office, entered, and behind them two faces appeared, whose owners preferred to stay without; the one was the valet of Sir John Redfyrne, the other Nicholas Grabber.
The two constables whom he had so grievously aspersed fixed their eyes upon the priest.
“So it was thou, was it, who kept us waiting?”
“Your pardon, if I mistook you; doubtless you have good cause for your untimely errand.”
“We have pulled down monks, and your turn may come next,” said the surly John Sprygs, “and then you may not have the chance of taking sober folks’ reputation away; but enough of this, where is that young rascal, Cuthbert Hodge, if that is his name, we have a warrant for his apprehension?”
“Why, he has been away ever since November.”
“But came home to-night; here is the witness. Nick Grabber, when didst thou last see Cuthbert Hodge?”
“This evening, riding with another lad through the common gate, on the Langport Road.”
“And does thy worshipful father permit thee, now thy school days are over, to spend thy time in Glastonbury as a spy?” said old Hodge.
“My worshipful father has given me to the care of Sir John Redfyrne, as a page, old man, so thou hadst better keep a civil tongue in thine head, and it will be better for thy young bastard’s bones; he shall pay for it.”
“I think, my son,” said the priest very quietly, “that when thou wast coupled between two hounds, as a truant, thou must have learnt from them to bite and snarl.”
“We have no time for all this nonsense,” said the head constable, “where is this youngster?”
“Since you say he is here, you had better find him.”
“He has not gone out by the back door,” said Grabber.
“Or you would have grabbed him.”
“Even so, with right good will.”
They proceeded to search the house, but all in vain, and they were at length about to conclude that the boy had left the place before their entrance, when Grabber remarked to one of the constables, that he might be above the boards of the bedroom. “When we were schoolfellows,” he said, “I have often heard him say that very good apples were kept there.”
“The boy has got the right sow by the ear,” says James Griggs, and followed by the others, he went upstairs again, whereupon the old lady began to cry.
“Ah,” said Nicholas, “the scent is hot, the old lady gives tongue.”
A board was withdrawn, chests piled beneath, and John Sprygs cried out, “Now, young Nick, you go and grab him.”
“After you,” said Nicholas, who remembered the weight of his young opponent’s fist that night in the woods.
John Sprygs mounted, and was no sooner in the loft than he cried,—
“The place is as dark as pitch, pass me up the torch.”
“Nay! nay!” cried Giles Hodge, “the place is full of flax.”
“We will take care of that; thou dost not want thy precious brat found.”
Up went the torch which the men had brought with them, a flaring pine torch, to assist in the operations; in very wantonness Nick Grabber tossed it into the fellow’s hand, crying “Catch.” He missed it, and it fell into a heap of flax. The man started back to avoid the blaze which instantly sprang up, and so put the fire between him and the moveable planks—the only moveable ones—which served as a trap-door.
“Come down, come down,” called out the appalled voices below.
But the wretch could not face that sea of flame, until, maddened by desperation, he took a header as boys might say, at the opening through the fire, and falling head foremost on the bedroom floor, split his skull and died on the spot. The others could do nothing for him, the loft was one mass of flame, and shouting “Fire! Fire!” they ran to get water, in a vain attempt to save the cottage. But of this there was little hope; the roof was of thatch, and the building mainly oftimber, so they saw in a few minutes that there was nothing for it but to help the aged couple to save their furniture.
But what of Cuthbert? they had forgotten him, for the time, then they said,—
“The boy couldn’t have been there, nor in the house, or he would be driven from his hiding-place now. See how unconcerned the old man looks; he wouldn’t look so if his precious boy were in danger.”