The Coming of the King

by Joseph Hocking

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  WHAT HAPPENED ON THE BEDFORD ROAD

  I could scarce believe after I passed through Barnet that it was indeedI, Roland Rashcliffe, who bestrode Black Ben. All the long weary monthswhich had passed since last I had ridden along that road seemed like apainful dream. Then the summer was in the full glory of its loveliness.The trees were clothed in their green garments, flowers bloomedeverywhere, while the heavens resounded with the song of the birds. Thesky was, I remember, of perfect blue, while the lambs sported in thefields as we rode along; and even although I was a prisoner, the woman Iloved was by my side, and we were excited at the thought that we werejourneying to the presence of the king. Besides, I was then strong andvigorous; my nerves felt like steel, and my heart beat high with hope.Now all was different. A year and nine months had passed away, and wewere in March. Not a sign of spring appeared, although I saw the farmerssowing oats and barley. Showers of sleet and snow were swept across thecountry by cold, biting east winds. The song of the birds was nowhere tobe heard. The cold hand of winter still gripped the earth, and thecattle stood shivering by the hedge as if longing for the shelter oftheir houses.

  Then, moreover, the country was rejoicing at the coming of the king. Menwere glad because they had escaped the strict morality of the Puritanreign, and expressed the hope of happier times under an indulgent king.But that, too, had changed. Those who had built their hopes for ahappier time under Charles had been disappointed, Cromwell had left thecountry strong and great. Under Charles II it was becoming weak anddespised. Louis XIV of France regarded Charles as a kind of vassal,while Holland looked upon us with contempt. Heavy taxes were levied topay for the king's extravagances, and even his best friends looked uponhim as a weak, pleasure-loving, sensual man. He longed to be regarded asan absolute monarch, yet would he not take the trouble to rule thenation righteously. Men saw everywhere that the resources of the landwere being drained for no good purpose.

  The glad, happy times for which people had hoped, had degenerated intowild, lawless orgies. Virtue among women was not believed in; in men theidea of it was scorned. The Church had become the tool of those inauthority, and was made to condone the most frightful abuses. Those wholonged for a pure morality and the advancement of true religion, weresneered at as Puritans, and were denied preferment. Nonconformists werepersecuted everywhere. Every prison in the country was full of them, andthe only charge brought against them was that they sought to pray andpreach in another fashion than that ordained by law. The expresseddetermination of the Episcopal clergy was to stamp out dissent by theiron heel of force. Dissenters were hunted from place to place andpersecuted on every hand, and those who in any way sympathized with themwere boycotted and persecuted.

  All this made my work the harder, for I reflected that Constance was aNonconformist, and her father had been hanged as a regicide. Moreover, Ihad no plan of action. I determined to find Constance's hiding-place,and yet I must do so without giving any one else a clue to where shewas. Even when I had found her, I knew not how I could help her. My bodyhad been enfeebled by long months of imprisonment, and although atstarting out I was buoyed up by the hope of seeing Constance again, Iquickly realized that I could not reach Bedford that day, as I hadhoped.

  Still, I was neither dismayed nor cast down. I knew my strength wouldsoon come back to me, for every breath I drew was the breath of libertyand hope. I bestrode Black Ben, surely the best horse ever a man rode.At my side hung a good blade, my pistols were ready to hand, and Ipossessed enough money for my needs. I had also obtained new clothesaccording to the fashion of the times. I again presented a braveappearance.

  I was told that footpads beset the road to the north, but no manmolested me.

  Towards evening on the second day of my journey I drew near to Bedford,when I set myself to thinking seriously what I should do. I knew that inless than an hour I should see the river coil its way through the town,seeing I was but five miles away. I could not ride fast, for my day'sjourney had wearied me, and so allowed Black Ben to amble along at will.I was just entering a lonely part of the road, when I saw a man ofvenerable appearance standing in the road.

  He held up his hand at my approach, at the which I stopped.

  "You have not seen a woman leading two little children, have you?" hesaid.

  I shook my head.

  "Have you seen a little girl about ten, accompanied by a boy of twelve?"he asked.

  "No," I replied.

  He sighed deeply, whereupon I asked him if he were in trouble.

  "Ay, I am in deep trouble," he said, "for I fear evil hath happened tomy wife and dear ones. When we parted this morning, I said I would tryand get work among the farmers, so as to earn enough to buy them bread,while they said they would make known our condition to some friends whoare still faithful. We also arranged to meet here at five o'clock. Is itnot about that time, young master?"

  "It is past that hour," I replied.

  "Then I fear evil hath happened to them," he said, and I saw the tearswell up into his eyes.

  "But surely this is strange," I said; "you do not look like a man whoshould be seeking work of the farmers. You look rather to be a man oflearning and of quality."

  "I am an unworthy preacher of the Word; but I have been driven from myvicarage, and now nought but starvation stares me in the face."

  "What parish were you in?" I asked.

  "I was the incumbent of St. Martin's," he replied. "I would not conform,so I was e'en driven out."

  "Why would you not conform?" I asked.

  "E'en because I felt it would be a sin so to do. I had received myordination from God, and I could not profess to belief in thePrayer-book, which was full of Popish errors. But God's will be done. Iwas of the Presbyterian persuasion, and I fear that, like theEpiscopalians, I desired uniformity. But that is all over now. I seethat the Independents and the Quakers are men of God even as we are, andour persecutions have linked us together."

  "And what hath become of you since you were driven from your parish?"

  "Ah, God knows! We have lived how we could, and it hath been terriblyhard. Sometimes for days together we have scarcely had food. Our clothesare worn out too, and sometimes we have been terribly cold. Thank God,the winter cannot last much longer now! Even now I do not think it isquite as cold as it was a week ago;" but the man shivered as he spoke.

  "But have you no property at all?" I asked.

  "I have but ten pounds a year, and my wife hath nothing at all. All ourlittle savings were soon eaten up, for the children are hearty, thankGod! Directly after Bartholomew's Day we were cast forth from ourdwelling, and since then we have had nought but trouble. I have nofriends but those in my own parish, and Master Gilloch, the new vicar,and Master Graystone, the magistrate, have done their utmost to make itimpossible for us to get help. Moreover, times are bad, and those whowould help us cannot. I thought while I was in prison that I sufferedenough, but I think it hath been worse since I came out."

  "Have you been in prison?" I asked.

  "Ay," he replied, "in truth I have. For what could I do? Could I besilent when God had commanded me to preach? 'Woe is me if I preach notthe Gospel.' I know now what our brother John Bunyan felt, although ayear ago I did but little sympathize with him. The Word of God was likefire in his bones, and he could not help declaring it, so he was castinto prison. After I was ejected from my parish I still preached, and Iwas cast into prison, and kept there for three months; but I stillpreach, and, thank God! I still comfort those who are distressed. Butfor the Word of Life I could not bear my troubles, and who am I that Ishould keep it from others?"

  "But what was the occasion of your being imprisoned?" I asked.

  "Oh, we had met, a few of us, in a barn, some half a mile from theking's highway. We met to read God's word and for prayer. As we read Iwas mightily moved upon to expound the meaning of God's word, and whileI was in the act of expounding and exhorting, the constables came, anddragged three of us to gaol. One of the magis
trates who judged me wasMaster Gilloch, who is now the minister in my old parish, and, as I say,I was kept three months in the company of the worst men and women I evermet. But God had use for me, for while there I was the means of leadingmore than one to accept the Gospel."

  "And what did your wife and children do while you were in prison?" Iasked.

  "Oh, a godly farmer gave them a home, until the squire, MasterGraystone, a man who had often eaten bread at my table, came and toldthe farmer that if he did not drive them from his house he should e'entake his farm from him. Nevertheless, the Lord mercifully provided forthem. Since I came out of prison I have been able to provide bread forthem by selling my books, and by writing a few letters for those whoknew not the craft of writing."

  "And have you no special friend now?" I asked, for, as may be imagined,Constance was in my mind all the time.

  "Ay, but that friend hath to help in secret," he cried.

  I wanted to ask more concerning this, but I saw he turned away his headas he spoke, and seemed desirous of being silent.

  "Perchance the hearts of the squire and the vicar may grow softer," Isaid.

  "Ay, young master, there seems but little chance of that. Why, only lastnight a few pious souls were met together for prayer, and as they prayedthe constable entered, and they were dragged away to gaol. The trial isto be held to-morrow, but they will get no mercy."

  "To-morrow?" I said. "At what time?"

  "At such time as it may suit the magistrates, but it is given out forten o'clock."

  "And what will you do to-night?"

  "I know not what to do--ah! praise God, here are my wife and childrencoming!"

  I turned and saw a woman, accompanied by four children, coming towardsus, and as they saw us they seemed to quicken their footsteps as if forgladness. The man with whom I had been speaking, kissed them allaffectionately, and then each looked to the other as if for news.

  "I have obtained enough for food to-night," said the man. "We can e'encall at Elizabeth Jory's and get bread, and we can all sleep in thecottage in the wood."

  "I am very cold," whimpered one of the children.

  "But I can soon light a fire. Do not be afraid, my dear ones. The Lordwill provide. But how have you fared, good wife?"

  The woman shook her head. "She dares not come till to-morrow night," shesaid.

  "The Lord will provide till then," said the man; but his voice waspiteous, and I saw the tears well up in her eyes.

  "You have a friend who will help you to-morrow night?" I said eagerly;but to this the woman made no reply, rather she turned away her headlike one afraid.

  "You said the Lord would provide," I said, as I took some coins from mypouch. "Perchance He hath sent me to help you. Here is something thatwill meet your needs till your friend cometh."

  "Are you one of the Lord's children?" asked the man, as he looked at mysomewhat gay attire.

  "I trust so," I said, for in truth I knew not what better to say.

  "But are you one who hath also suffered for God's work? Forgive myasking, for while your attire is that of a Court gallant, your face isas if set towards the city of God."

  "I have suffered imprisonment for not obeying the king," I made answer.

  He looked at me steadily. "Surely I have seen you before," he said, "andyet your face is strange to me. Have you by chance ever visited thisneighbourhood before?"

  "Yes," I replied.

  "Long ago, young master? Oh, you need not fear to tell me. If you havesuffered because of your disobedience to the king, you should be one ofGod's children."

  "I was in the Chapel of Herne twelve months ago last June," I replied.

  "Surely, surely you cannot be he who helped our friend out of----" Hestopped and gazed eagerly at me as if afraid to say more.

  "My name is Roland Rashcliffe," I said, whereupon he grasped my hand injoy.

  "This is the Lord's doing, and it is marvellous in our eyes," he said.

  "Know you aught of her?" I said, wellnigh overcome with the hope thatwas in my heart.

  "Know aught of her!" he cried. "Why----"

  "Husband, husband!" interrupted the woman.

  The man ceased speaking for a moment. "Thank you, wife," he said, aftera pause; "the road is full of pitfalls, and a promise should befaithfully kept."

  "But I desire to be your friend," I cried eagerly. "Here, take thismoney, and if further help fails you, will you let me know, and I willgive you more."

  "Young master, I believe the Lord hath touched your heart," he cried,"and surely He hath brought you to us. May God bless you, and make you ablessing! But I am not a beggar, neither have I asked you for aught."

  "But be pleased to take this," I cried. "You will give me joy by takingit. I have plenty, and I desire to help you."

  I saw that pride and desire struggled in the man's heart, and I verilybelieve the former would have conquered had not one of the childrencried bitterly:

  "Father, I am so cold, and so hungry," she said; "let us go to thecottage, and light the fire."

  "Thank you, young master," he said as he took the money; "perchance Ishall be able to repay you some day."

  "You have repaid me already," I replied. "You have made me happy byenabling me to give your children food and fire to-night. Will you tellme where your cottage is, and then, perchance, I can come and see youagain."

  Again he looked steadily at me, and it was some time before he spoke."You see that stile there?" he said. "If you follow the footpath intothe wood for half a mile you will see my cottage."

  "See that the children have good food and a fire to-night," I said witha laugh, for my heart had grown light and joyful with hope.

  "Thanks to you, they shall," he cried; and I saw the tears tricklingdown his wan cheek. "Oh, may the Lord forgive me for ever doubting Hisword! Did not David say, 'I have been young, and now am old, yet have Inever seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread.' No, Ishall not be forsaken, and the Lord will provide. Ay, and the word ofthe Lord shall triumph too. The eyes of the wicked may stand out withfatness, yet will I not fret myself because of evildoers. I will trustin the Lord, and do good, and I will dwell in the land and follow afterfaithfulness. I will delight myself in the Lord, and He will give me thedesires of my heart."

  "And what may your name be?" I asked.

  "Forgive me if I have seemed afraid to trust you," he said, "but itbehoveth those who are surrounded by enemies to behave with caution. ButI believe that the Lord hath sent you to me. My name, young master, isJohn Day, who for ten years ministered to his flock in the parish churchat St. Martin's."

  All my weariness and fatigue had gone as I rode into Bedford. I wasafraid of nothing, for I believed that God had led me hither. Again andagain I went over in my mind the conversation between Master John Dayand myself, and the more I thought of it, the more I was convinced thatthe friend who had helped them was the woman I loved. It accorded withwhat my father had told me concerning her, and although Master Day hadbeen afraid to tell me aught, he had said enough to confirm my hopes.

  I did not think it best to go to _The Bull_ at Bedford, but seeing aninn called _General Fairfax_, I made my way thither. If an innkeeper wasbold enough to keep an inn bearing such a name, I reflected, it might bethat I should be safer there than elsewhere. Not that I fearedrecognition. As Caleb Bullen had said, my appearance had been so changedduring my prison life that scarce any one would know me. When I was inBedford last, I was brown and strong; now I was pale, and looked weakand ill. Moreover, my clothes were so different from what I wore thenthat they altered my appearance much. Besides, I had but little to fear.No warrant was out against me, neither had I done anything to causethose in authority to take note of me.

  The inn, moreover, was of a quieter order than the others, neither wereany troublesome questions asked of me.

  After supper I found my way into the room where several men sat withtheir mugs of ale before them, and I found that they were talking aboutthe trial which was to tak
e place on the following morning.

  "How many are to be tried?" asked one. "Know you, James Bilsom?"

  "Ay, I think there be a score or more."

  "They will be all sent to prison, I'll wage."

  "There can be no doubt about that. Parson Gilloch is most terrible andbitter against these Dissenters; as for Squire Graystone, he fair hatesthem. Not that I can see they have done aught wrong. They do but prayand preach as they did before the coming of the king. As for theirpiety--well, if I lay a-dying I'd rather have one of them to pray withme than I'd have the parson, for all his long white gown."

  "But still, the king is king, and law is law."

  "Ay, I suppose so. Still, although I was no lover of Old Nol, we werebetter off in his days. There was less thieving, less drinking, lessloose living, and more piety. Of that I am free to confess."

  "Say not so too loud, for if Parson Gilloch hears of it he will e'enmake you smart. Why, think of what hath befallen the Dissenters."

  "Ay, a man can hardly call his soul his own, that he cannot. Are yougoing to the trial to-morrow?"

  "Nay, I cannot sleep after I have been to these trials. I cannot helpthinking of the women and children. It is terrible hard for them."

  "Ay, it is; how they manage to live I know not."

  "Think you there is any truth in the stories about Sir John Leslie'sdaughter?"

  "Nay, I think not. If there were she'd have been found before this."

  "I don't know. She's a clever maid. Why, think how she guarded hersister, and got her out of the country. I do hear she's joined SirCharles in Holland."

  "Ay, but she can't be in these parts now. How can she be? Every house iswatched; besides, how can she get meat to eat?"

  "I don't know; but I tell you, she hath all her wits, and she's morethan a match for Parson Gilloch. Peter Blewitt swears it was she that hesaw before she tripped him up and blew out his candle."

  After this they talked much in this fashion, but they said nought thatgave me any clue to the secret of her hiding place, although they gaveme much food for reflection.

  The next morning I made my way to the Chapel of Herne, in the hopes thatI might hear something which might help me in the work I had set myselfto do.