The Armourer's Prentices

by Charlotte M. Yonge

  CHAPTER EIGHT.

  QUIPSOME HAL.

  "The sweet and bitter fool Will presently appear, The one in motley here The other found out there." Shakespeare.

  There lay the quiet Temple Gardens, on the Thames bank, cut out informal walks, with flowers growing in the beds of the homely kindsbeloved by the English. Musk roses, honeysuckle and virgin's bower,climbed on the old grey walls; sops-in-wine, bluebottles, bachelor'sbuttons, stars of Bethlehem and the like, filled the borders; May thornswere in full sweet blossom; and near one another were the two rose-bushes, one damask and one white provence, whence Somerset and Warwickwere said to have plucked their fatal badges; while on the opposite sideof a broad grass-plot was another bush, looked on as a great curiosityof the best omen, where the roses were streaked with alternate red andwhite, in honour, as it were, of the union of York and Lancaster.

  By this rose-tree stood the two young Birkenholts. Edmund Burgesshaving, by his master's desire, shown them the way, and passed them inby a word and sign from his master, then retired unseen to a distance tomark what became of them, they having promised also to return and reportof themselves to Master Headley.

  They stood together earnestly watching for the coming of the uncle,feeling quite uncertain whether to expect a frail old broken man, or tofind themselves absolutely deluded, and made game of by the jester.

  The gardens were nearly empty, for most people were sitting over theirsupper-tables after the business of the day was over, and only one ortwo figures in black gowns paced up and down in conversation.

  "Come away, Ambrose," said Stephen at last. "He only meant to makefools of us! Come, before he comes to gibe us for having heeded amoment. Come, I say--here's this man coming to ask us what we are doinghere."

  For a tall, well-made, well personage in the black or sad colour of alegal official, looking like a prosperous householder, or superiorartisan, was approaching them, some attendant, as the boys concludedbelonging to the Temple. They expected to be turned out, and Ambrose inan apologetic tone, began, "Sir, we were bidden to meet a--a kinsmanhere."

  "And even so am I," was the answer, in a grave, quiet tone, "or ratherto meet twain."

  Ambrose looked up into a pair of dark eyes, and exclaimed, "Stevie,Stevie, 'tis he. 'Tis uncle Hal."

  "Ay, 'tis all you're like to have for him," answered Harry Randall,enfolding each in his embrace. "Lad, how like thou art to my poorsister! And is she indeed gone--and your honest father too--and noneleft at home but that hunks, little John? How and when died she?"

  "Two years agone come Lammastide," answered Stephen. "There was adeadly creeping fever and ague through the Forest. We two sickened, andAmbrose was so like to die that Diggory went to the abbey for the priestto housel and anneal him, but by the time Father Simon came he was soundasleep, and soon was whole again. But before we were on our legs, ourblessed mother took the disease, and she passed away ere many days wereover. Then, though poor father took not that sickness, he never was thesame man again, and only twelve days after last Pasch-tide he was takenwith a fit and never spake again."

  Stephen was weeping by this time, and his uncle had a hand on hisshoulder, and with tears in his eyes, threw in ejaculations of pity andaffection. Ambrose finished the narrative with a broken voice indeed,but as one who had more self-command than his brother, perhaps than hisuncle, whose exclamations became bitter and angry as he heard of thetreatment the boys had experienced from their half-brother, who, as hesaid, he had always known as a currish mean-spirited churl, but scarcesuch as this.

  "Nor do I think he would have been, save for his wife, Maud Pratt ofHampton," said Ambrose. "Nay, truly also, he deemed that we were onlywithin a day's journey of council from our uncle Richard at Hyde."

  "Richard Birkenholt was a sturdy old comrade! Methinks he would giveMaster Jack a piece of his mind."

  "Alack, good uncle, we found him in his dotage, and the bursar of Hydemade quick work with us, for fear, good Father Shoveller said, that wewere come to look after his corrody."

  "Shoveller--what, a Shoveller of Cranbury? How fell ye in with him?"

  Ambrose told the adventures of their journey, and Randall exclaimed, "Bymy bau--I mean by my faith--if ye have ill-luck in uncles, ye have hadgood luck in friends."

  "No ill-luck in thee, good, kind uncle," said Stephen, catching at hishand with the sense of comfort that kindred blood gives.

  "How wottest thou that, child? Did not I--I mean did not Merryman tellyou, that mayhap ye would not be willing to own your uncle?"

  "We deemed he was but jesting," said Stephen.

  For a sudden twinkle in the black eyes, an involuntary twist of themuscles of the face, were a sudden revelation to him. He clutched holdof Ambrose with a sudden grasp; Ambrose too looked and recoiled for amoment, while the colour spread over his face.

  "Yes, lads. Can you brook the thought!--Harry Randall is the poorfool!"

  Stephen, whose composure had already broken down, burst into tearsagain, perhaps mostly at the downfall of all his own expectations andglorifications of the kinsman about whom he had boasted. Ambrose onlyexclaimed, "O uncle, you must have been hard pressed." For indeed thegrave, almost melancholy man, who stood before them, regarding themwistfully, had little in common with the lithe tumbler full ofabsurdities whom they had left at York House.

  "Even so, my good lad. Thou art right in that," said he gravely."Harder than I trust will ever be the lot of you two, my sweet Moll'ssons. She never guessed that I was come to this."

  "O no," said Stephen. "She always thought thou--thou hadst some highpreferment in--"

  "And so I have," said Randall with something of his ordinary humour."There's no man dares to speak such plain truth to my lord--or for thatmatter to King Harry himself, save his own Jack-a-Lee--and he, being afool of nature's own making, cannot use his chances, poor rogue! And sothe poor lads came up to London hoping to find a gallant captain whocould bring them to high preferment, and found nought but--Tom Fool! Icould find it in my heart to weep for them! And so thou mindestclutching the mistletoe on nunk Hal's shoulder. I warrant it growethstill on the crooked May bush? And is old Bobbin alive?"

  They answered his questions, but still as if under a great shock, andpresently he said, as they paced up and down the garden walks, "Ay, Ihave been sore bestead, and I'll tell you how it came about, boys, andmayhap ye will pardon the poor fool, who would not own you sooner, lestye should come in for mockery ye have not learnt to brook." There was asadness and pleading in his tone that touched Ambrose, and he drewnearer to his uncle, who laid a hand on his shoulder, and presently theother on that of Stephen, who shrank a little at first, but submitted."Lads, I need not tell you why I left fair Shirley and the goodgreenwood. I was a worse fool then than ever I have been since I worethe cap and bells, and if all had been brought home to me, it might havebrought your father and mother into trouble--my sweet Moll who had doneher best for me. I deemed, as you do now, that the way to fortune wasopen, but I found no path before me, and I had tightened my belt many atime, and was not much more than a bag of bones, when, by chance, I fellin with a company of tumblers and gleemen. I sang them the old hunting-song, and they said I did it tunably, and, whereas they saw I couldalready dance a hornpipe and turn a somersault passably well, the leaderof the troop, old Nat Fire-eater, took me on, and methinks he did notrepent--nor I neither--save when I sprained my foot and had time to lieby and think. We had plenty to fill our bellies and put on our backs;we had welcome wherever we went, and the groats and pennies rained intoour caps. I was Clown and Jack Pudding and whatever served their turn,and the very name of Quipsome Hal drew crowds. Yea, 'twas a merry life!Ay, I feel thee wince and shrink, my lad; and so should I haveshuddered when I was of thine age, and hoped to come to better things."

  "Methinks 'twere better than this present," said Stephen rather gruffly.

  "I had my reasons, boy," said Randall, speaking as if he were pleadinghis cause with their fa
ther and mother rather than with two such younglads. "There was in our company an old man-at-arms who played the luteand the rebeck, and sang ballads so long as hand and voice served him,and with him went his grandchild, a fair and honest little maiden, whomhe kept so jealously apart that 'twas long ere I knew of her followingthe company. He had been a franklin on my Lord of Warwick's lands, andhad once been burnt out by Queen Margaret's men, and just as thingslooked up again with him, King Edward's folk ruined all again, and slewhis two sons. When great folk play the fool, small folk pay the scot,as I din into his Grace's ears whenever I may. A minion of the Duke ofClarence got the steading, and poor old Martin Fulford was turned out toshift as best he might. One son he had left, and with him he went tothe Low Countries, where they would have done well had they not beenbitten by faith in the fellow Perkin Warbeck. You've heard of him?"

  "Yea," said Ambrose; "the same who was taken out of sanctuary atBeaulieu, and borne off to London. Father said he was marvellous likein the face to all the kings he had ever seen hunting in the Forest."

  "I know not; but to the day of his death old Martin swore that he was ason of King Edward's, and they came home again with the men the Duchessof Burgundy gave Perkin--came bag and baggage, for young Fulford hadwedded a fair Flemish wife, poor soul! He left her with his father nighto Taunton ere the battle, and he was never heard of more, but as he wasone of the few men who knew how to fight, belike he was slain. Thus oldMartin was left with the Flemish wife and her little one on his hands,for whose sake he did what went against him sorely, joined himself tothis troop of jugglers and players, so as to live by the minstrelsy hehad learnt in better days, while his daughter-in-law mended and made forthe company and kept them in smart and shining trim. By the time I fellin with them his voice was well-nigh gone, and his hand sorely shaking,but Fire-eating Nat, the master of our troop, was not an ill-naturedfellow, and the glee-women's feet were well used to his rebeck.Moreover, the Fire-eater had an eye to little Perronel, though hermother had never let him train her--scarce let him set an eye on her;and when Mistress Fulford died, poor soul, of ague, caught when weshowed off before the merry Prior of Worcester, her last words were thatPerronel should never be a glee-maiden. Well, to make an end of mytale, we had one day a mighty show at Windsor, when the King and Courtwere at the castle, and it was whispered to me at the end that my LordArchbishop's household needed a jester, and that Quipsome Hal had beenthought to make excellent fooling. I gave thanks at first, but said Iwould rather be a free man, not bound to be a greater fool than DameNature made me all the hours of the day. But when I got back to theGarter, what should I find but that poor old Martin had been strickenwith the dead palsy while he was playing his rebeck, and would nevertwang a note more; and there was pretty Perronel weeping over him, andNat Fire-eater pledging his word to give the old man bed, board, and allthat he could need, if so be that Perronel should be trained to be oneof his glee-maidens, to dance and tumble and sing. And there was thepoor old franklin shaking his head more than the palsy made it shakealready, and trying to frame his lips to say, `rather they both shoulddie.'"

  "Oh, uncle, I wot now what thou didst!" cried Stephen.

  "Yea, lad, there was nought else to be done. I asked Master Fulford togive me Perronel, plighting my word that never should she sing or dancefor any one's pleasure save her own and mine, and letting him know thatI came of a worthy family. We were wedded out of hand by the priestthat had been sent for to housel him, and in our true names. The Fire-eater was fiery enough, and swore that, wedded or not, I was bound tohim, that he would have both of us, and would not drag about a helplessold man unless he might have the wench to do his bidding. I verilybelieve that, but for my being on the watch and speaking a word to twoor three stout yeomen of the king's guard that chanced to be crushing apot of sack at the Garter, he would have played some villainous trick onus. They gave a hint to my Lord of York's steward and he came down anddeclared that the Archbishop required Quipsome Hal, and would--of hisgrace--send a purse of nobles to the Fire-eater, wherewith he was to beoff on the spot without more ado, or he might find it the worse for him,and they, together with mine host's good wife, took care that the roguedid not carry away Perronel with him, as he was like to have done. Toend my story, here am I, getting showers of gold coins one day andnought but kicks and gibes the next, while my good woman keeps housenigh here on the banks of the Thames with Gaffer Martin. Her Flemishthrift has set her to the washing and clear--starching of the lawyers'ruffs, whereby she makes enough to supply the defects of my scanty days,or when I have to follow my lord's grace out of her reach, sweet soul.There's my tale, nevoys. And now, have ye a hand for Quipsome Hal?"

  "O uncle! Father would have honoured thee!" cried Stephen.

  "Why didst thou not bring her down to the Forest?" said Ambrose.

  "I conned over the thought," said Randall, "but there was no way ofliving. I wist not whether the Ranger might not stir up old tales, andmoreover old Martin is ill to move. We brought him down by boat fromWindsor, and he has never quitted the house since, nor his bed for thelast two years. You'll come and see the housewife? She hath a supperlaying out for you, and on the way we'll speak of what ye are to do, mypoor lads."

  "I'd forgotten that," said Stephen.

  "So had not I," returned his uncle; "I fear me I cannot aid you topreferment as you expected. None know Quipsome Hal by any name but thatof Harry Merryman, and it were not well that ye should come in there asakin to the poor fool."

  "No," said Stephen, emphatically.

  "Your father left you twenty crowns apiece?"

  "Ay, but John hath all save four of them."

  "For that there's remedy. What saidst thou of the Cheapside armourer?His fellow, the Wrymouth, seemed to have a care of you. Ye made in tothe rescue with poor old Spring."

  "Even so," replied Ambrose, "and if Stevie would brook the thought, Itrow that Master Headley would be quite willing to have him bound as hisapprentice."

  "Well said, my good lad!" cried Hal. "What sayest thou, Stevie?"

  "I had liefer be a man-at-arms."

  "That thou couldst only be after being sorely knocked about as horse-boyand as groom. I tried that once, but found it meant kicks, and oaths,and vile company--such as I would not have for thy mother's son, Steve.Headley is a well-reported, God-fearing man, and will do well by thee.And thou wilt learn the use of arms as well as handle them."

  "I like Master Headley and Kit Smallbones well enough," said Stephen,rather gloomily, "and if a gentleman must be a prentice, weapons are notso bad a craft for him."

  "Whittington was a gentleman," said Ambrose.

  "I am sick of Whittington," muttered Stephen.

  "Nor is he the only one," said Randall, "there's Middleton and Pole--ay,and many another who have risen from the flat cap to the open helm, ifnot to the coronet. Nay, these London companies have rules againsttaking any prentice not of gentle blood. Come in to supper with my goodwoman, and then I'll go with thee and hold converse with good MasterHeadley, and if Master John doth not send the fee freely, why then Iknow of them who shall make him disgorge it. But mark," he added, as heled the way out of the gardens, "not a breath of Quipsome Hal. Downhere they know me as a clerk of my lord's chamber, sad and sober, andhigh in his trust and therein they are not far out."

  In truth, though Harry Randall had been a wild and frolicsome youth inhis Hampshire home, the effect of being a professional buffoon hadactually made it a relaxation of effort to him to be grave, quiet, andslow in movement; and this was perhaps a more effectual disguise thanthe dark garments, and the false brown hair, beard, and moustache, withwhich he concealed the shorn and shaven condition required of thedomestic jester. Having been a player, he was well able to adapthimself to his part, and yet Ambrose had considerable doubts whetherTibble had not suspected his identity from the first, more especially asboth the lads had inherited the same dark eyes from their mother, andAmbrose for the first time perceived a considera
ble resemblance betweenhim and Stephen, not only in feature but in unconscious gesture.

  Ambrose was considering whether he had better give his uncle a hint,lest concealment should excite suspicion; when, niched as it wereagainst an abutment of the wall of the Temple courts, close to somesteps going down to the Thames, they came upon a tiny house, at whoseopen door stood a young woman in the snowiest of caps and aprons over ashort black gown, beneath which were a trim pair of blue hosen and stoutshoes; a suspicion of yellow hair was allowed to appear framing thehonest, fresh, Flemish face, which beamed a good-humoured welcome.

  "Here they be! here be the poor lads, Pernel mine." She held out herhand, and offered a round comfortable cheek to each, saying, "Welcome toLondon, young gentlemen."

  Good Mistress Perronel did not look, exactly the stuff to make a glee-maiden of, nor even the beauty for whom to sacrifice everything, evenliberty and respect. She was substantial in form, and broad in face andmouth, without much nose, and with large almost colourless eyes. Butthere was a wonderful look of heartiness and friendliness about herperson and her house; the boys had never in their lives seen anything soamazingly and spotlessly clean and shining. In a corner stood anerection like a dark oaken cupboard or wardrobe, but in the middle wasan opening about a yard square through which could be seen the night-capped face of a white-headed white-bearded old man, propped againstsnowy pillows. To him Randall went at once, saying, "So, gaffer, howgoes it? You see I have brought company, my poor sister's sons--resther soul!"

  Gaffer Martin mumbled something to them incomprehensible, but which thejester comprehended, for he called them up and named them to him, andMartin put out a bony hand, and gave them a greeting. Though his speechand limbs had failed him, his intelligence was evidently still intact,and there was a tenderly-cared-for look about him, rendering hiscondition far less pitiable than that of Richard Birkenholt, who was sopalpably treated as an incumbrance.

  The table was already covered with a cloth, and Perronel quickly placedon it a yellow bowl of excellent beef broth, savoury with vegetables andpot-herbs, and with meat and dumplings floating in it. A lesser bowlwas provided for each of the company, with horn spoons, and a loaf ofgood wheaten bread, and a tankard of excellent ale. Randall declaredthat his Perronel made far daintier dishes than my Lord Archbishop'scook, who went every day in silk and velvet.

  He explained to her his views on the armourer, to which she agreed withall her might, the old gentleman in bed adding something which the boysbegan to understand, that there was no worthier nor more honourablecondition than that of an English burgess, specially in the good town ofLondon, where the kings knew better than to be ever at enmity with theirgood towns.

  "Will the armourer take both of you?" asked Mistress Randall.

  "Nay, it was only for Stephen we devised it," said Ambrose.

  "And what wilt thou do?"

  "I wish to be a scholar," said Ambrose.

  "A lean trade," quoth the jester; "a monk now or a friar may be a rightjolly fellow, but I never yet saw a man who throve upon books!"

  "I had rather study than thrive," said Ambrose rather dreamily.

  "He wotteth not what he saith," cried Stephen.

  "Oh ho! so thou art of that sort!" rejoined his uncle. "I know them! Acrabbed black and white page is meat and drink to them! There's thatDutch fellow, with a long Latin name, thin and weazen as never wasDutchman before; they say he has read all the books in the world, andcan talk in all the tongues, and yet when he and Sir Thomas More and theDean of Saint Paul's get together at my lord's table one would thinkthey were bidding for my bauble. Such excellent fooling do they make,that my lord sits holding his sides."

  "The Dean of Saint Paul's!" said Ambrose, experiencing a shock.

  "Ay! He's another of your lean scholars, and yet he was born a wealthyman, son to a Lord Mayor, who, they say, reared him alone out of a roundscore of children."

  "Alack! poor souls," sighed Mistress Randall under her breath, for, asAmbrose afterwards learnt, her two babes had scarce seen the light. Herhusband, while giving her a look of affection, went on--"Not that he cankeep his wealth. He has bestowed the most of it on Stepney church, andon the school he hath founded for poor children, nigh to Saint Paul's."

  "Could I get admittance to that school?" exclaimed Ambrose.

  "Thou art a big fellow for a school," said his uncle, looking him over."However, faint heart never won fair lady."

  "I have a letter from the Warden of Saint Elizabeth's to one of theclerks of Saint Paul's," added Ambrose. "Alworthy is his name."

  "That's well. We'll prove that same," said his uncle. "Meantime, if yehave eaten your fill, we must be on our way to thine armourer, nevoyStephen, or I shall be called for."

  And after a private colloquy between the husband and wife, Ambrose wasby both of them desired to make the little house his home until he couldfind admittance into Saint Paul's School, or some other. He demurredsomewhat from a mixture of feelings, in which there was a certain amountof Stephen's longing for freedom of action, and likewise a doubt whetherhe should not thus be a great inconvenience in the tiny household--aburden he was resolved not to be. But his uncle now took a more serioustone.

  "Look thou, Ambrose, thou art my sister's son, and fool though I be,thou art bound in duty to me, and I to have charge of thee, nor will I--for the sake of thy father and mother--have thee lying I know not where,among gulls, and cutpurses, and beguilers of youth here in this city ofLondon. So, till better befalls thee, and I wot of it, thou must behere no later than curfew, or I will know the reason why."

  "And I hope the young gentleman will find it no sore grievance," saidPerronel, so good-humouredly that Ambrose could only protest that he hadfeared to be troublesome to her, and promise to bring his bundle thenext day.