CHAPTER XXIII.
THE LAST MASS.
The north wall of the church at Coton End is only four paces from thehouse, the church standing within the moat. Isolated as the sacredbuilding, therefore, is from the outer world by the wide-spreadingChase, and close-massed with the homestead, Sir Anthony had someexcuse for considering it as much a part of his demesne as the mill orthe smithy. In words he would have been willing to admit adistinction; but in thought I fancy he lumped it with the rest of hispossessions.
It was with a lowering eye that on this Sunday morning he watched fromhis room over the gateway the unusual stream of people making for thechurch. Perchance he had in his mind other Sundays--Sundays when hehad walked out at this hour, light of heart and kind of eye, with hisstaff in his fist and his glove dangling, and his dog at his heels;and, free from care, had taken pleasure in each bonnet doffed andeach old wife's "God bless ye, Sir Anthony!" Well, those days weregone. Now the rain dripped from the eaves--for a thaw had come in thenight--and the bells, that could on occasion ring so cheerily, soundedsad and forlorn. His daughter, when she came, according to custom,bringing his great service-book, could scarcely look him in the face.I know not whether even then his resolution to dare all might not, atsound of a word from her, or at sight of her face, have melted likeyesterday's ice. But before the word could be spoken, or the eyesmeet, another step rang on the stone staircase and brother Ferdinandentered.
"They are here!" he said in a low voice. "Six of them, Anthony, andsturdy fellows, as all Clopton's men are. If you do not think yourpeople will stand by you----"
The knight fired at this suggestion. "What!" he burst out, turningfrom the window, "if Cludde men cannot meet Clopton men the times areindeed gone mad! Make way and let me come! Though the mass be neversaid again in Coton church, it shall be said to-day!" And he swore agreat oath.
He strode down the stairs and under the gateway, where were arranged,according to the custom of the house on wet days, all the servants,with Baldwin and Martin Luther at their head. The knight stalkedthrough them with a gloomy brow. His brother followed him, a faintsmile flickering about the corners of his mouth. Then came Ferdinand'swife and Petronilla, the latter with her hood drawn close about herface, Anne with her chin in the air and her eyes aglow. "It is not abit of a bustle will scare her!" Baldwin muttered, as he fell inbehind her, and eyed her back with no great favor.
"No--so long as it does not touch her," Martin replied in a cynicalwhisper. "She is well mated! Well mated and ill fated! Ha! ha!"
"Silence, fool," growled his companion angrily. "Is this a time forantics?"
"Ay, it is!" Martin retorted swiftly, though with the same caution."For when wise men turn fools, fools are put to it to act up to theirprofession! You see, brother?" And he deliberately cut a caper. Hiseyes were glittering, and the nerves on one side of his face twitchedoddly. Baldwin looked at him, and muttered that Martin was going tohave one of his mad fits. What had grown on the fool of late?
The knight reached the church porch and passed through the crowd whichawaited him there. Save for its unusual size and some strange faces tobe seen on its skirts, there was no indication of trouble. He walked,tapping his stick on the pavement a little more loudly than usual, tohis place in the front pew. The household, the villagers, thestrangers, pressed in behind him until every seat was filled. Even thetable monument of Sir Piers Cludde, which stood lengthwise in theaisle, was seized upon, and if the two similar monuments which stoodto right and left below the chancel steps had not been under theknight's eyes, they too would have been invaded. Yet all was donedecently and in order, with a clattering of rustic boots indeed, butno scrambling or ill words. The Clopton men were there. Baldwin hadmarked them well, and so had a dozen stout fellows, sons of SirAnthony's tenants. But they behaved, discreetly, and amid such asilence as Father Carey never remembered to have faced, he began theRoman service.
The December light fell faintly through the east window on the Fatherat his ministrations, on his small acolytes, on the four Cluddebrasses before the altar. It fell everywhere--on gray dusty wallsbuttressed by gray tombs which left but a narrow space in the middleof the chancel. The marble crusader to the left matched the canopiedbed of Sir Anthony's parents on the right; the Abbess's tomb in thenext row faced the plainer monument of Sir Anthony's wife, a vacantplace by her side awaiting his own effigy. And there were others. Thechancel was so small--nay, the church too--so small and old and grayand solid, and the tombs were so massive, that they elbowed oneanother. The very dust which rose as men stirred was the dust ofCluddes. Sir Anthony's brow relaxed. He listened gravely and sadly.
And then the interruption came. "I protest!" a rough voice in rear ofthe crowd cried suddenly, ringing harshly and strangely above theFather's accents and the solemn hush. "I protest against thisservice!"
A thrill of astonishment ran through the crowd, and all rose. Everyman in the church turned round, Sir Anthony among the first, andlooked in the direction of the voice. Then it was seen that theClopton men had massed themselves about the door in the southwestcorner--a strong position, whence retreat was easy. Father Carey,after a momentary glance, went on as if he had not heard; but hisvoice shook, and all still waited with their faces turned toward thewest end.
"I protest in the name of the Queen!" the same man cried sharply,while his fellows raised a murmur so that the priest's voice wasdrowned.
Sir Anthony stepped into the aisle, his face inflamed with anger. Theinterruption taking place there, in that place, seemed to him a doubleprofanation.
"Who is that brawler?" he said, his hand trembling on his staff; andall the old dames trembled too. "Let him stand out."
The sheriff's spokesman was so concealed by his fellows that he couldnot be seen; but he answered civilly enough.
"I am no brawler," he said. "I only require the law to be observed;and that you know, sir. I am here on behalf of the sheriff; and I warnall present that a continuation of this service will expose them togrievous pains and penalties. If you desire it, I will read the royalorder to prove that I do not speak without warrant."
"Begone, knave, you and your fellows!" Sir Anthony cried. A loyal manin all else, and the last to deny the queen's right or title, he hadno reasonable answer to give, and could only bluster. "Begone, do youhear?" he repeated; and he rapped his staff on the pavement, and then,raising it, pointed to the door.
All Coton thought the men must go; but the men, perhaps, because theywere Clopton, did not go. And Sir Anthony had not so completely losthis head as to proceed to extremities except in the last resort.Affecting to consider the incident at an end, he stepped back into hispew without waiting to see whether the man obeyed him or no, andresumed his devotions. Father Carey, at a nod from him, went on withthe interrupted service.
But again the priest had barely read a dozen lines before the same manmade the congregation start by crying loudly, "Stop!"
"Go on!" shouted Sir Anthony in a voice of thunder.
"At your peril!" retorted the intervener.
"Go on!" from Sir Anthony again.
Father Carey stood silent, trembling and looking from one to theother. Many a priest of his faith would have risen on the storm and inthe spirit of Hildebrand hurled his church's curse at the intruder.But the Father was not of these, and he hesitated, fumbling with hissurplice with his feeble white hands. He feared as much for his patronas for himself; and it was on the knight that his eyes finally rested.But Sir Anthony's brow was black; he got no comfort there. So theFather took courage and a long breath, opened his mouth and read on,amid the hush of suppressed excitement, and of such anger and stealthydefiance as surely English church had never seen before. As he read,however, he gathered courage, and his voice strength. The solemnwords, so ancient, so familiar, fell on the stillness of the church,and awed even the sheriff's men. To the surprise of nearly every one,there was no further interruption; the service ended quietly.
So after all Sir Anthony had his way, and stalked out, stiff andunbending. Nor was there any falling off, but rather an increase inthe respect with which his people rose, according to custom, as hepassed. Yet under that increase of respect lay a something which cutthe old man to the heart. He saw that his dependents pitied him whilethey honored him; that they thought him a fool for running his headagainst a stone wall--as Martin Luther put it--even while they feltthat there was something grand in it too.
During the rest of the day he went about his usual employments, butprobably with little zest. He had done what he had done without anyvery clear idea how he was going to proceed. Between his loyalty inall else and his treason in this, it would not have been easy for aSolomon to choose a consistent path. And Sir Anthony was no Solomon.He chose at last to carry himself as if there were no danger--as ifthe thing which had happened were unimportant. He ordered no changeand took no precautions. He shut his ears to the whispering which wenton among the servants, and his eyes to the watch which by some secretorder of Baldwin was kept upon the Ridgeway.
It was something of a shock to him, therefore, when his daughter cameto him after breakfast next morning, looking pale and heavy-eyed, and,breaking through the respect which had hitherto kept her silent,begged him to go away.
"To go away?" he cried. He rose from his oak chair and glared at her.Then his feelings found their easiest vent in anger. "What do youmean, girl?" he blustered, "Go away? Go where?"
But she did not quail. Indeed she had her suggestion ready.
"To the Mere Farm in the Forest, sir," she answered earnestly. "Theywill not look for you there; and Martin says----"
"Martin? The fool!"
His face grew redder and redder. This was too much. He loved order anddiscipline; and to be advised in such matters by a woman and a fool!It was intolerable!
"Go to, girl!" he cried, fuming. "I wondered where you had got yourtale so pat. So you and the fool have been putting your headstogether! Go! Go and spin, and leave these maters to men! Do you thinkthat my brother, after traveling the world over, has not got a head onhis shoulders? Do you think, if there were danger, he and I would nothave foreseen it?"
He waved his hand and turned away expecting her to go. But Petronilladid not go. She had something else to say and though the task waspainful she was resolved to say it.
"Father, one word," she murmured. "About my uncle."
"Well, well! What about him?"
"I distrust him, sir," she ventured, in a low tone, her color rising."The servants do not like him. They fear him, and suspect him of Iknow not what."
"The servants!" Sir Anthony answered in an awful tone.
Indeed it was not the wisest thing she could have said; but theconsequences were averted by a sudden alarm and shouting outside. Halfa dozen voices, shrill or threatening, seemed to rise at once. Theknight strode to the window, but the noise appeared to come, not fromthe Chase upon which it looked, but from the courtyard or the rear ofthe house. Sir Anthony caught up his stick, and, followed by the girl,ran down the steps. He pushed aside half a dozen women who hadlikewise been attracted by the noise, and hastened through the narrowpassage which led to the wooden bridge in the rear of the buildings.
Here, in the close on the far side of the moat, a strange scene waspassing. A dozen horsemen were grouped in the middle of the fieldabout a couple of prisoners, while round the gate by which they hadentered stood as many stout men on foot, headed by Baldwin and armedwith pikes and staves. These seemed to be taunting the cavaliers anddaring them to come on. On the wooden bridge by which the knight stoodwere half a dozen of the servants, also armed. Sir Anthony recognizedin the leading horseman Sir Philip Clopton, and in the prisonersFather Carey and one of the woodmen; and in a moment he comprehendedwhat had happened.
The sheriff, in the most unneighborly manner, instead of challenginghis front door, had stolen up to the rear of the house, and, withoutsaying with your leave or by your leave, had snapped up the poorpriest, who happened to be wandering in that direction. Probably hehad intended to force an entrance; but he had laid aside the plan whenhe saw his only retreat menaced by the watchful Baldwin, who was notto be caught napping. The knight took all this in at a glance, and hisgorge rose as much at the Clopton men's trick as at the danger inwhich Father Carey stood. So he lost his head, and made matters worse."Who are these villains," he cried in a rage, his face aflame, "whocome attacking men's houses in time of peace? Begone, or I will haveat ye!"
"Sir Anthony!" Clopton cried, interrupting him, "in Heaven's name donot carry the thing farther! Give me way in the Queen's name, and Iwill----"
What he would do was never known, for at that last word, away at thehouse, behind Sir Anthony, there was a puff of smoke, and down wentthe sheriff headlong, horse and man, while the report of an arquebuserang dully round the buildings. The knight gazed horrified; but thedamage was done and could not be undone. Nay, more, the Coton men tookthe sound for a signal. With a shout, before Sir Anthony couldinterfere, they made a dash for the group of horsemen. The latter,uncertain and hampered by the fall of their leader, who was not hit,but was stunned beyond giving orders, did the best they could. Theylet their prisoners go with a curse, and then, raising Sir Philip andforming a rough line, they charged toward the gate by which they hadentered.
The footmen stood the brunt gallantly, and for a moment the sharpringing of quarter-staves and the shivering of steel told of as prettya combat as ever took place on level sward in full view of an Englishhome. The spectators could see Baldwin doing wonders. His men backedhim up bravely. But in the end the impetus of the horses told, thefootmen gave way and fled aside, and the strangers passed them. Alittle more skirmishing took place at the gateway, Sir Anthony's menbeing deaf to all his attempts to call them off; and then the Cloptonhorse got clear, and, shaking their fists and vowing vengeance, rodeoff toward the forest. They left two of their men on the field,however, one with a broken arm and one with a shattered knee-cap;while the house party, on their side, beside sundry knocks andbruises, could show one deep sword-cut, a broken wrist, and half adozen nasty wounds.
"My poor little girl!" Sir Anthony whispered to himself, as he gazedwith scared eyes at the prostrate men and the dead horse, andcomprehended what had happened. "This is a hanging business! In armsagainst the Queen! What am I to do?" And as he went back to the housein a kind of stupor, he muttered again, "My little girl! my poorlittle girl!"
I fancy that in this terrible crisis he looked to get support andcomfort from his brother--that old campaigner, who had seen so manyvicissitudes and knew by heart so many shifts. But Ferdinand, thoughhe thought the event unlucky, had little to say and less to suggest;and seemed, indeed, to have become on a sudden flaccid and lukewarm.Sir Anthony felt himself thrown on his own resources. "Who fired theshot?" he asked, looking about the room in a dazed fashion. "It wasthat which did the mischief," he continued, forgetting his own hastychallenge.
"I think it must have been Martin Luther," Ferdinand answered.
But Martin Luther, when he was accused, denied this stoutly. He hadbeen so far along the Ridgeway, he said, that though he had returnedat once on hearing the shot fired, he had arrived too late for thefight. The fool's stomach for a fight was so well known that thisseemed probable enough, and though some still suspected him, theorigin of the unfortunate signal was never clearly determined, thoughin after days shrewd guesses were made by some.
For a few hours it seemed as if Sir Anthony had sunk into his formerstate of indecision. But when Petronilla came again to him soon afternoon to beg him to go into hiding, she found his mood had altered. "Goto the Mere Farm?" he said, not angrily now, but firmly and quietly."No, girl, I cannot. I have been in fault, and I must stay and pay forit. If I left these poor fellows to bear the brunt, I could never holdup my head again. But do you go now and tell Baldwin to come to me."
She went and told the stern, down-looking steward, and he came up.
"Baldwin," said the knight when the d
oor was shut, and the two werealone, "you are to dismiss to their homes all the tenants--who haveindeed been called out without my orders. Bid them go and keep thepeace, and I hope they will not be molested. For you and Father Carey,you must go into hiding. The Mere Farm will be best."
"And what of you, Sir Anthony?" the steward asked, amazed at this actof folly.
"I shall remain here," the knight replied with dignity.
"You will be taken," said Baldwin, after a pause.
"Very well," said the knight.
The man shrugged his shoulders, and was silent.
"What do you mean?" asked Sir Anthony in anger.
"Why, just that I cannot do it," Baldwin answered, glowering at himwith a flush on his dark cheek. "That is what I mean. Let the priestgo. I cannot go, and will not."
"Then you will be hanged!" quoth the knight warmly. "You have been inarms against the Queen, you fool! You will be hanged as sure as youstay here!"
"Then I shall be hanged," replied the steward sullenly. "There neverwas a Cludde hanged yet without one to keep him company. To hear of itwould make my grandsire turn in his grave out there. I dare not do it,Sir Anthony, and that is the fact. But for the rest I will do as youbid me."
And he had his way. But never had evening fallen more strangely andsadly at Coton before. The rain pattered drearily in the courtyard.The drawbridge, by Baldwin's order, had been pulled up, and the planksover the moat in the rear removed.
"They shall not steal upon us again!" he muttered. "And if we mustsurrender, they shall see we do it willingly."
The tenants had gone to their homes and their wives. Only the servantsremained. They clustered, solemn and sorrowful, about the hearth inthe great hall, starting if a dog howled without or a coal flew fromthe fire within. Sir Anthony remained brooding in his own room,Petronilla sitting beside him silent and fearful, while Ferdinand andhis wife moved restlessly about, listening to the wind. But theevening and the night wore peacefully away, and so, to the surprise ofeverybody, did the next day and the next. Could the sheriff be goingto overlook the matter? Alas! on the third day the doubt was resolved.Two or three boys, who had been sent out as scouts, came in with newsthat there was a strong watch set on the Ridgeway, that the pathsthrough the forest were guarded, that bodies of armed men werearriving in the neighboring villages, and that soldiers had beendemanded--or so it was said--from Warwick and Worcester, and even froma place as far away as Oxford. Probably it was only the sheriff'sprudence which had postponed the crisis; and now it had come. The netwas drawn all round. As the day closed in on Coton and the sun setangrily among the forest trees, the boys' tale, which grew no doubt inthe telling, passed from one to another, and men swore and looked outof window, and women wept in corners. In the Tower-room Sir Anthonysat awaiting the summons, and wondered what he could to save hisdaughter from possible rudeness, or even hurt, at the hands of thesestrangers.
There was one man missing from hall and kitchen, but few in thesuspense noticed his absence. The fool had heard the boys' story, and,unable to remain inactive under such excitement, he presently stoleoff in the dusk to the rear of the house. Here he managed to cross themoat by means of a plank, which he then drew over and hid in thegrass. This quietly managed--Baldwin, be it said, had strictlyforbidden any one to leave the house--Martin made off with a grimchuckle toward the forest, and following the main track leading towardWootton Wawen, presently came among the trees upon a couple ofsentinels. They heard him, saw him indistinctly, and made a rush forhim. But this was just the sport Martin liked, and the fun he had comefor. His quick ear apprised him of the danger, and in a second he waslost in the underwood, his mocking laugh and shrill taunts keeping thepoor men on the shudder for the next ten minutes. Then the uncannyaccents died away, and, satisfied with his sport and the knowledge hehad gained, the fool made for home. As he sped quickly across the lastfield, however, he was astonished by the sight of a dark figure in thevery act of launching his--Martin's--plank across the moat.
"Ho, ho!" the fool muttered in a fierce undertone. "That is it, is it?And only one! If they will come one by one, like the plums in thekitchen porridge, I shall make a fine meal!"
He stood back, crouching down on the grass, and watched the unknown,his eyes glittering. The stranger was a tall, big fellow, a formidableantagonist. But Martin cared nothing for that. Had he not his longknife, as keen as his wits--when they were at home, which was notalways. He drew it out now, and under cover of the darkness creptnearer and nearer, his blood glowing pleasantly, though the night wascold. How lucky it was he had come out! He could hardly restrain the"Ho, ho!" which rose to his lips. He meant to leap upon the man onthis side of the water, that there might be no tell-tale traces on thefarther bank.
But the stranger was too quick for him in this. He got his bridgefixed, and began to cross before Martin could crawl near enough. As hecrossed, however, his feet made a slight noise on the plank, and undercover of it the fool rose and ran forward, then followed him over withthe stealthiness of a cat. And like a cat too, the moment thestranger's foot touched the bank, Martin sprang on him with his kniferaised--sprang on him silently, with his teeth grinning and his eyesaflame.
The Story of Francis Cludde Page 24
