“Canst remember all we did have to eat?” he asked Tom True Tongue.
“I do remember the host of savory dishes, but it would be beyond me to put a name to them. I can close my eyes and smell the spices and the herbs that flavored the rich gravies, and for many a day my mouth will water at the thought of them.”
“There were boar’s head and swan and roasted rabbit and pork pies and teal and woodcock,” and Tod sighed heavily, “and tarts and hot custards, but alackaday! I had forgot that it was on business that I came, and I come away with but a day of pleasure behind me.”
“Will the business not keep?” asked Tom True Tongue.
“I have a feeling that it will not keep as long as I would have it.”
“Canst thou not tell me what it is that bothers thee?”
“If thou wilt not tell any man, I will tell thee it in part at least. Dismas, the young rascal, did wrest the five keys of the town coffer from the five men that did hold them.”
“Then Dismas did win the wager!” gasped Tom True Tongue. In his astonishment he dropped the oar, and the skiff which he had been poling carefully close to the bank was swept out into midstream where the current was swift and sent twirling like a leaf.
“Don’t upset us!” cautioned Tod. “I have had moisture enough inside and out for one day.”
Tom steadied the skiff and soon was past the worst of the danger.
“Then off he goes with the keys!” continued Tod.
“And how about the town funds?”
“They are safe in the coffer, of course!”
“Well, then, can they not burst the coffer open?”
“They can but for one reason—”
“And that—”
“Is that they be the set of fools that Dismas said they would be,” and both Tod and Tom roared lustily.
“And so thou goest to Bolingbroke to tell Dismas that?” asked Tom.
“Ay,” answered Tod, “to let him know that his foolery has worked and to take the keys back with me to the foolish townsfolk.”
CHAPTER XI
Marflete and Skilton Plot Together
It was in the middle of May, and a time of warm days. The gossip had changed, for now it was of the great fair that was to be held on Corpus Christi Day. As soon as Dame Pinchbeck heard the news, she hurried to count the savings so carefully stowed away under the brick in the big fireplace. How much could she think of spending at this great festival? Such a chance as she would have to make fine purchases! She stooped over to remove the brick and take out the bag beneath. The brick fell from her hands as she raised them in dismay. The money bag was gone!
She sank down on the settle conveniently at hand, for indeed her knees would not support her. Just then Goodman Pinchbeck came rolling over the cobbles, his face as ruddy and beaming as his goodwife’s was pale and distressed. He removed his clogs by the door, and stepped briskly into the room.
Dame Pinchbeck cleared her throat, for she could not find her voice, and Roger turned toward her, thinking something amiss in the absence of a ready flow of words.
“What now! What’s amiss?” he said. “Thou dost look as if thou wert ill!”
“The money bag!” gasped Dame Pinchbeck huskily.
“Thou dost mean it is not there?” and he too removed the brick and looked into the hole beneath. “As empty as a peasant’s hut on fair day!” he ejaculated.
“Fair day!” gasped Dame Pinchbeck. “Speak not of fair day! Here is our fair day coming, and we with never a farthing to spend. Thou seemest to take our loss lightly, forsooth.”
“Dost think the chapman could have taken it?” But Roger did not turn to look at her, and there was a gleam of mischief in his eye as he said this.
“I know not what has happened. Indeed it seems to me strange things are happening all around us, and not a soul does aught but let his jaw fall in a silly way just as thou art doing now, forsooth.” Dame Pinchbeck had found her voice again, and the rest had given it added power. “What have the men of the town done since they discovered that the coffer had been thieved? Naught indeed, save rub their chins and talk of putting their hands in their own pockets to make up the loss. Were I bailiff, I would have ransacked every crack and cranny of this old town and beat every man who looked stupid until he took up the hue and cry himself. Alackaday! Dost think now that we have been robbed that I shall fold my arms and say ‘So be it!’ Not I. And come fair day, I shall have my moneys to spend, or shall attend a fine gathering at the gallows.”
“Tut! Tut!” expostulated Roger, good-naturedly. “My business is good, and given time, I shall fill the bag again. Sir Frederick is stirring up the business of shipbuilding, and my ropes are in great—”
“Sir Frederick! Always Sir Frederick! Sir Frederick this and Sir Frederick that! There are others in this town think not so well of thy Sir Frederick. And more than that, thy ropes would do well enough were they to hang the thieves. If I did not know thee pretty well, Roger Pinchbeck, I would say thou wert easily led by the nose, but again I know thee to plant thy feet so that not even a floodtide could move thee.”
“Come now, say naught of our loss, and thou shalt even have a surprise some day!”
“I do believe thou knowest something about it, more than thou hast said. Hast thou thyself taken the bag? Tell me that!”
“Nay, nay, do not fret thyself. It will do thee no good, and see, for thy fairing I have even this in my pouch,” and he drew forth three silver pieces which he laid on the bench beside her. Without more words he betook himself to the workroom, where two young apprentices were at work separating great lengths of hemp and twisting them into rope by means of a large whirl, like a spinning wheel.
“Here, Stephen,” he called to one of them. “They are ready for that coil of rope at the shipyard. Do thou fetch it thither in the barrow.”
“Is it for Sir Frederick’s ship?” asked Stephen, a bright-faced lad of fourteen or so, whose quick movements showed he had not a lazy bone in his stocky, well-shaped body.
“Ay, but do thou not delay to look her over today, for work presses us here and we have no time to waste.”
“’Tis a fine ship she’ll be, and I be glad that the ropes that I have handled will be the ones to sail her,” Stephen said, as he set about carrying out Pinchbeck’s orders. “Dost think Sir Frederick will let me have a venture in her? I have a small amount put by, and I can think of naught I had rather do than send it out in her to come back in a small part of her cargo.”
“Ho! Ho!” laughed Nathaniel, the second apprentice. “Dost think to be a second Dick Whittington, and some day mayhap mayor of London? Ho! Ho! Why dost not send out that black-snouted pig of thine and mayhap it will make a fortune for thee, even as Dick Whittington’s cat is said to have done?”
Stephen turned, and stuck out his tongue at Nathaniel. “Ho! Ho! Ay,” he mimicked laughingly, “mayhap some day I may be mayor of Boston and I’ll make thee crier that every one may hear thy bright sayings!”
“Stop thy bickering and be off!” shouted Pinchbeck, and off went Stephen, his barrow lurching and bouncing over the cobbles, and he whistling merrily.
Although the silver pieces and Pinchbeck’s unconcern did something toward putting Dame Pinchbeck’s worries to rest, still there was much that she did not understand, and what she did not understand, she did not let pass out of her mind, but she worked slowly at it much as a dog worries at a bone, knowing there to be marrow within. She set a great kettle of pork over the fire to stew in its rich gravy, while she deftly rolled out a lump of dough and prepared a deep kettle. In a short space the pork pie was thrust into the hot brick oven above a bed of red embers, and Dame Pinchbeck sat down at her spinning wheel to work while it cooked.
As she sat there, she heard men’s voices outside. One she knew was that of Alan Marflete. She recognized the high-pitched tone of it, and the way it rose and fell in great unevenness. The high-pitched words reached her, but the lower ones were lost in the general medley
of sounds. “Coffer heavy” were two words that she caught, and again in a moment the whole phrase, “same except for locks.” She leaned forward slightly so that she could peer out through the low doorway. Marflete it was indeed, and his companion was Peter Skilton who lived over the way. Dame Pinchbeck had no fondness for Alan Marflete. With all his church-going and gifts to the convents, he was not a favorite in the town, and Dame Pinchbeck was not the only one who saw in his face a crafty smugness and a selfish calculating look.
“He has the need of prayers,” Dame Pinchbeck thought, “and I doubt if even they can make an honest man of him. I wonder what is in his mind now.”
The two men passed out of hearing, but outside the Skilton house they stopped.
“Art ready to undertake it?” Marflete asked.
“I have no fondness for Sir Frederick, for he watches me like a hawk to see that I do not get my wool for nothing.”
“Has he ever suspected thee of dealings with that man Redfern?”
“Nay,” answered Skilton, looking around uneasily. “See that thou dost not breathe aught of that. I thought to be involved last year when his dog was caught, for he was ready to own himself the master. Dost remember how the dog growled and acted surly with every one but Sir Frederick? Even a dog shows love for him. Thou and I stand alone in our dislike.”
“Ay,” muttered Marflete.
“If we, with the help of circumstances, can tighten the mesh around him now, I’ll not be the one to hold off,” and Skilton straightened up with purpose in the movement.
“But we must not be seen too often in consultation,” cautioned Marflete. “Do we both think out a scheme and meet tonight.”
“Ay,” answered Skilton, “and make it in the lower mart yard after the sun is set.”
Marflete moved on up the street, and Skilton disappeared into his house.
During the noontime meal Roger Pinchbeck eyed his wife curiously to see if she was still pondering on the incident of the morning, and she on her part watched him while she talked of other things. When the last pewter mug and wooden trencher were in their places on the shelf, Dame Pinchbeck betook herself off. It was to Dame Marflete’s that she went, and here she found Dame Spayne and Dame Marflete with tongues already clacking.
“How now, friend,” Dame Marflete greeted her. “We are indeed glad to see thee, for it is a long time since thou hast come this way, and we should like to hear what thou hast to say about the happenings in this town.” Dame Marflete was a large-boned woman with a long neck. She spoke in a fretful way with a note of reproach in it, as if she rather held it up against Dame Pinchbeck that she should not have come to her sooner. This note was strengthened as she added, “But then belike thou hast been talking with those of better standing. Lady Tilney mayhap? I understand thou and thy goodman are much thought of by the Tilneys.”
Dame Pinchbeck did not answer at once. She cared as little for Dame Marflete as she did for Alan Marflete, and it was such talk as this that she liked least, for be it said of Dame Pinchbeck that she had no envy of those with more worldly goods than she had. All she asked of her world was that it should not deprive her of what was hers by right, and if less fell to her lot than to that of some one else, she bore the more favored one no ill-will. It was otherwise with Dame Marflete, who went on in this wise:
“We were saying that it does not seem right that the Tilneys should have the finest wool for their spinning and dress themselves in satins and jewels, while the rest of us content ourselves as best we can with homemade stuffs and silver brooches.”
“I would not change places with them now,” put in Dame Spayne, “not for all the jewels in their coffers, or their silver plate either. Dark clouds are lowering over their house, and I should not be surprised to see it crumble into ruins about their heads.”
“How so?” inquired Dame Pinchbeck. “What makes thee talk in such a fashion?”
Dame Spayne settled her kerchief around her pretty face and pouted a little. “From things my goodman has let drop it would seem as if there were much talk about Sir Frederick. He looks wan and anxious, too, and has not the air of well-being he was wont to have.”
“I like facts,” demanded Dame Pinchbeck. “Canst thou tell just what they say about him?”
Dame Marflete held up one bony hand, and beginning with the thumb she set about counting off. “First there be this shipbuilding he is about, and his friendship with this merchant from Lynn. The son has been over also, and looks no brighter or more promising a lad than our own Thomas, and many’s the time we have asked that Thomas be taken on as apprentice there, and a likely match would he make for Johanna, but Sir Frederick cannot see it that way, and needs must go as far away as Lynn to find a youth to his liking, and our Thomas—”
“We are not talking of ‘thy Thomas’ now,” interposed Dame Pinchbeck.
“Ay,” assented Dame Spayne, “we all know thy Thomas.”
Dame Marflete struck her forefinger. “Then there be the robbing of the coffer, and that all came about because they would not take my goodman’s advice. He wished them to use a coffer that he has, a stronger one indeed, but the locks be different, and it was Sir Frederick who opposed it the most strongly.”
Dame Pinchbeck’s face took on a look of keener interest. “’Twas not the coffer with the queer key, was it?” she asked curiously.
Dame Marflete’s face reddened. “What queer key dost thou mean? I know naught about a queer key. If thou meanest the one my goodman fashioned himself from an old sheep thigh a long time ago, that be of no use to any one and has disappeared this long time.”
“And why did Sir Frederick oppose the use of thy coffer?” pursued Dame Pinchbeck.
“I know not, unless it could be less easily robbed perhaps,” and Dame Marflete’s tone insinuated much. “There are those who believe that Sir Frederick has spent more than he estimated on his ships, and he has not really enough to start them out. He wished some of his townsmen to go into the venture with him and put their savings into it. My goodman is one who will not be led in this wise, and of that I am sure.”
Dame Spayne sighed. “I wish I could be as sure of my goodman, but he is not satisfied with small and sure earnings, but he would venture all he has with the hope of rolling up a big sum.”
Dame Pinchbeck said nothing, but she had found out all and more than she had come for, and she was well content with her shrewdness.
That evening in the gray shadows of the mart yard Alan Marflete and Peter Skilton revealed their plan. They believed the town coffer to be unmolested. They could not explain the loss of the keys, but then, as Marflete pointed out, he had known keys to disappear in unaccountable ways before. He had made a key, carefully chipped, and rubbed it down out of a piece of sheep thigh, and it was made to turn the five locks of his own coffer, and a year ago it had mysteriously disappeared. The last time he had had it was in the very same place they were tonight during the rumpus about the sheep dog that was thought to be a sheep stealer.
“What I propose,” went on Marflete, “is for us to exchange the coffers. We shall take the town coffer to my house, and there we can break it open, and we shall replace it with mine which I know to be empty.”
Skilton grunted. “Thou art a clever rogue, art thou not? Thou didst think to have the town use thy coffer, for which thou didst make a key to keep thyself.”
“Hist! Thou art as much of a rogue thyself with thy smuggling of wool into the town, but let us not quarrel now, for by carrying out this plan we shall accomplish two things: we shall be the richer and Sir Frederick will never be cleared of suspicion.”
“What I was considering,” Skilton rejoined, “was—would it not be better to take the town coffer out of the town? We could open it and dispose of the chest, and the money we could bury at some marked spot. Take it to my cart, and I can drive out with it covered over with hides. I have a little business with Redfern the day after tomorrow, and am to meet him up beyond Kirkstead. But what if the keys should t
urn up after we have made the change in the coffers?”
“There is no danger,” Marflete assured him. “It has been several weeks now and nothing has been done. What with the excitement of the fair, the robbery is all but forgot. There will be a council meeting tomorrow, and after that I will let thee know if it be safe to move.”
CHAPTER XII
The Mysterious Note
As he had promised earlier, the next day Sir Frederick did take Johanna outside the town walls through the warehouses and past the traders’ benches to where below the quay was the small shipyard. Johanna kept close to her father’s side, for she was conscious of the eyes of the men upon her as she passed. She could not enjoy the sights she was seeing or ask the many questions she would have liked to ask, as she saw at close hand the many things she had so often looked at from the top of the garden wall—the barges, plying back and forth, the porters carrying great loads on their heads, and most of all, the cog or cargo ship, broadly built with blunt prow and stern, belonging to the Easterlings, which was riding at anchor in midstream and turning slightly in the strong current of the Lindis.
“That vessel has been here more than a month, has it not, Father?”
“Ay,” he answered, “the shipmaster is named Ranolf, and I like not him or his crew. Methinks they are about some dishonest business, but I have my eye upon them, and do not think to let them smuggle any wool through. Already have I fined them somewhat for certain packs that were not weighed and sealed.”
By this time they had reached the shipyard, and there, indeed, was the “White Swan” well under way. Now was Johanna free to ask questions, and she learned that it was a small ship, even for those times, for its hold would carry only one hundred and twenty-five tons of Bordeaux wine, for thus did they then measure the capacity of ships. There were some that could carry five hundred tons, but these were among the largest.
The “White Swan” had castles at stern and stem, and a kind of palisade was built up around these, and underneath were cabins for the sailormen.
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