“Thou mayst have the first move,” said Gilbert, “for then I can say that for that reason thou didst beat me!”
“Fie upon thee! Thou must not give up so soon. Thou dost not know,” and Johanna started off the game by moving a pawn. “Besides, of course it does not really give an advantage, as thou knowest.”
As the game proceeded, they grew silent except for expressions of surprise or dismay from one or the other, as pieces were unexpectedly endangered or captured.
“Watch thy queen!” warned Johanna, “she is in danger!”
Gilbert’s brow was wrinkled up in perplexity. “Ay, but what can I do? I cannot interpose my knight, for that will leave my king in check.”
“Stupid!” laughed Johanna, “I cannot have thee lose thy queen, so I shall help thee. Play thy castle so. Then I shall not take her, for I should but lose my own.”
“Ay,” said Gilbert with a sigh, “I knew thou wert a better player.”
“Check!” was Johanna’s only response. Gilbert moved the endangered king.
“Check again!”
“And next time checkmate!” groaned Gilbert.
“Ay, thou art indeed cornered, but never mind! Thou mayst play with me again, and then perhaps thou wilt have the luck.”
After Gilbert had left and it drew near to bedtime, Johanna began to show signs of uneasiness. She leaned her face against the window and looked out into the garden.
“How dark it is getting!”
Sir Frederick laughed. “Why, how now, it is but barely dusk!”
“And will it get much darker than this?”
“Of course, of course, child. Hast thou never seen the blackness of midnight?”
Johanna looked at him in surprise. “Nay, for then am I a long time asleep.” With that she arose, and bidding her parents good night went up to her room.
There Caroline awaited her. “Hast done everything I said?” demanded Johanna.
Caroline was trembling. “Ay, but surely thou hast given up thy wild idea.”
“Nay,” answered Johanna firmly. “’Tis not often adventures come our way, and we must take them as they come.”
Thus spoke a foolish Johanna, but in the Tilney blood there was a recklessness and a love of adventure, and moreover she did honestly hope that she might find out something that would help her father. The whispers about his implication in the robbery had come to her ears, and knowing how unfounded they were, she marveled now that the loss of the key had come in a certain measure to shake her father’s position. All was not as it should be, and here was her chance, perhaps, to help.
Late that night the Blackfriars chapel bell was still ringing, when two figures emerged from the Tilney gate and slipped silently along the garden wall. Then, crossing the alley quickly, they crept stealthily along and soon emerged beside the parish church. The market place was still and empty. Caroline clung to Johanna, and together they made their way directly to the foot of the steeple. There they stopped.
“There be nothing here, and it is very dark,” whispered Caroline. “Let us fly back!”
Johanna turned, and as she did so, her foot hit against something. She stooped and her hand found the bunch of keys left there by Dismas. She picked them up, for she seemed to know what they were instinctively. “I knew there was a reason for coming. I felt—” But here there was a shriek from Caroline, and Johanna’s words were muffled, for a darkness enveloped her, and she was lifted up.
When she next knew what was happening, she found herself in a small boat with Caroline weeping beside her. She had been almost suffocated in the heavy cloak that had been thrown around her, but the cool night air revived her. A man sat near them, and another was pulling hard at the oars.
“Where art thou taking us?” Johanna demanded in as bold a voice as she could summon up.
The man turned, and Johanna was indeed frightened when she made out in the darkness the form and features of one of the hated Easterlings whom she had seen about the town.
“Come, now, thou hadst best row back with us, or my father—”
The Easterling laughed. “Thy father will have more to think of now than his packs of wool. We were in good luck, were we not, Heinrich, for we caught two birds?”
“Ay,” answered the other, “but we must hurry. The wind and tide are right for sailing.”
Caroline’s loud sobs next caught Johanna’s attention. “Hush! Hush! Hush!” Johanna urged. “’Twill do thee no good!”
“They are going—to—sail—off—with—us,” sobbed Caroline.
“Nonsense,” whispered Johanna, “we are going up the river.”
“I did hear them say something about sailing. I am sure I did.”
“Anyway,” whispered Johanna, “whatever happens, I have the keys! I have held them so tight that my fingers are sore.”
Soon the rower made in for the shore, and the other man stepped out and pulled the boat in.
“Out with ye!”
The girls got unsteadily to their feet, and were lifted ashore. Caroline gave a great cry, as a large black animal came bounding toward them. It was Angus, and he was followed by Redfern. Angus sniffed around, and for a second Johanna felt a cold nose against her hand.
“There be two of them,” said one of the Easterlings. “Good luck to thee!” and pushing the boat off, in another minute the Easterlings were gone.
“What wouldst thou do with us?” Johanna asked.
Redfern grunted. “How wouldst thou like to be lost in the fens?” Johanna gasped, and Caroline fell again to crying. “But if ye can walk, I’ll take ye to a shelter, and there ye may rest what remains of the night. I have no grudge against ye.”
Johanna took heart at these words. “Come, Caroline, we shall go with him, and in the morning we shall see what we shall do.”
Redfern started off, and the girls followed along over the rough ground as well as they could. Angus walked beside them, wagging a friendly tail.
CHAPTER XIV
The Town Coffer Takes a Ride
Sir Frederick’s expression of downright distrust and contempt only served to make Marflete more anxious than ever to carry out the scheme he and Skilton had devised. He reasoned within himself that there was little chance of detection, for the keys were certainly gone for good, and if, through bad fortune, anything should happen to their plans, Skilton was something of a dull wit and he, Marflete, could easily clear himself. The night following the council meeting and the very same night in which Johanna was carried off by the Easterlings, Marflete and Skilton again met in the mart yard early in the evening.
Gilbert Branche had left the Tilney house at dusk and was making his way back to the “Golden Fleece.” He had had a talk with Sir Frederick after they had dined, and Sir Frederick had told him of his wish that he should keep his eyes open and discover if he could any extraordinary happenings that seemed to be going on in the town. Gilbert spoke of the possibility of the coffer still being untouched, but Sir Frederick was unconvinced.
“However,” he admitted, “if I had had my way I should indeed have had the chest burst open. Witham is an honest man but very close. It would hurt him mightily to see a fine chest demolished and I believe he is in hope even now of finding the keys. I see him walking about with his eyes on the ground as if he believes he will some day pick them up, one here and one there.” Sir Frederick smiled grimly. “There were brains behind the taking of those keys. Of that I am sure.”
Gilbert’s mind was full of this conversation as he walked along, and chancing to see a dim, rather slinking, figure ahead of him making toward the lower end of town he decided to follow.
As Marflete, for it was indeed he, entered the mart yard, Skilton stepped out from behind one of the rude pens which had a rough shed at one end. Together they disappeared into the darkness of this shelter. Gilbert had followed unobserved, and creeping around at the back, pressed himself close against the back boarding. Even in this retreat Marflete and Skilton spoke in whispers, and Gilber
t could not catch a word that conveyed anything whatever to him. Gilbert waited until the two men left the mart yard, each taking a different direction, then he himself came out into the empty dark lane. Suddenly he was surprised to see another figure step out of the shadow beside him. He stopped short and waited. The other also stopped. After a moment it spoke.
“What art thou doing here?”
Gilbert was at a loss as to what to answer, but he looked closely into the face of the speaker.
“Who art thou?” he asked.
“Stephen, the apprentice to Roger Pinchbeck, the ropemaker, and thou art Gilbert Branche.”
“Ay,” answered Gilbert, “and now do I remember thee, for thou dost spend much time around the shipyard and the quay. What art thou doing here?”
“Listening, even as thou wert,” answered Stephen, “but I wager I heard more from the roof than thou didst standing below.”
“What didst thou hear?”
“If thou wilt come with me, thou wilt see strange happenings this night, and it may be that together we may be able to do something to thwart them.”
Stephen led Gilbert by back alleys and dark ways through which they had to grope their way, to a small group of outhouses. It was not until they had climbed up into the loft of one of these that Stephen made any attempt at explanations.
“This place belongs to Skilton, the weaver,” he explained when he and Gilbert had stretched themselves out on a pile of straw. “He was one of the two men we have just seen. The other was Alan Marflete.”
“What are they scheming to do?” asked Gilbert in a whisper.
“Carry something out of town in Skilton’s cart tomorrow morning early. I could not make out what it is to be, but I got that much of the plan. We shall watch here until they come and then we shall see what it is, forsooth.”
The boys continued to talk in whispers. They had much to say about the nature of the plot that they were watching unfold, about the sea and ships, about a multitude of things. Time passed quickly but their words became less lively, and at last Stephen said, “It will do no harm for us to sleep a little, for they will wake us when they come.”
It was almost daylight when they were aroused by sounds beneath them. Stephen sat up, and Gilbert, who was already stretched out with his eye to a knot hole, raised his head and put his finger on his lip. They peered down through the cracks. There was Skilton piling hides into his cart. Then instead of leaving the shed as the boys had thought, giving them the chance to investigate, he went into the stall beyond and set about putting the harness on the big work horse. The boys looked at each other. When the horse was fastened into the cart, Skilton did leave a moment to go into the house.
“Will there be time to go down and take a look?” asked Gilbert.
“Nay,” cautioned Stephen. “We woke too late. To think that we slept when they came in earlier! Now we must follow him.”
Skilton returned, and climbing on to the horse, rattled out into the yard and off toward Bridgegate.
Gilbert and Stephen scrambled quickly down, and dodging out between the hogsheads and barrels, climbed a wall at the back and took another alley toward the quay.
“We must take my boat,” Stephen said, “and I think we may be able to overtake him.”
“Didst notice the barrow that leaned against the wall of the shed?” asked Gilbert. “The wheel of it was wound in tufts of wool.”
“That deadened the sound of it on the stones,” Stephen replied. “What they brought in it must have been heavy.”
Pushing the boat into the river, the boys set about making what speed they could upstream. “How do we know he will not get rid of what he has before we are able to overtake him?”
“I heard the place they plan to meet again,” answered Stephen. “Skilton is going to Kirkstead where he has business, but he will stop on his way back at a certain place beside the river. I know the place well. Here Marflete plans to meet him. He will ride out on horseback later.”
“Then we shall make for that place and await their coming, shall we not?”
“Ay, we can conceal the boat and ourselves, if we make haste. It is much farther by the river, and will take a long time paddling against the current.”
This same morning, when Johanna and Caroline awoke, light was just peeping in through the cracks in the hut. They had stumbled in only a few hours before, too weary and exhausted to do anything but fall down on the pile of rushes in the corner and fall asleep. Now Johanna sat up and looked around her while Caroline burst out again into sobbing.
Even as they sat there looking around in the dim light, discerning nothing but stone walls, rush-strewn floor, and a rude bench set near the open doorway, against the light of the doorway loomed a huge form. It was Angus.
Caroline buried her head in her arm to stifle a shriek, but Johanna jumped up.
“Don’t be silly, Caroline,” she commanded. “It is only the dog, and he is quite the nicest dog I have ever seen. Come here,” she called to him.
Angus walked over to them slowly and deliberately. Such a huge, clumsy creature he was that even Johanna was a little overcome by his proximity. “Good dog,” she murmured, and put her hand out toward him. Angus sank down on his haunches at her feet, a great bulk of dog with bright eyes peering out from under a heavy crop of hair.
“He is so big,” moaned Caroline. “If he should jump at us he would knock us over.”
“He won’t jump at us,” scoffed Johanna. “Can’t you see that he is making friends?”
Johanna knelt beside him and laid her hand on his head. Just then there was a low whistle outside. Up jumped Angus, and turning quickly toward the door, he did indeed brush against Johanna and sent her tumbling back over Caroline. She burst out laughing.
“He is such a big dog, and I am so little beside him,” she laughed. Caroline raised herself on her elbow.
“And canst thou laugh even when we are in such a dangerous plight? Who knows what may happen to us today?”
Johanna sobered instantly. “I had almost forgot we were in trouble,” she whispered. “Last night seems so far away and vague. Stumbling through the darkness with hardly a word spoken to us and then forgetfulness in sleep! Poor Father will soon wake to miss us! We must discover what this man is about. But the keys,” exclaimed Johanna. “I had all but forgot them, too. They are hidden there in the corner.” She felt over in the rushes and drew them out, then dropped them into hiding again. “We must get back with them!”
Jumping to her feet, she smoothed out her rumpled dress and moved hastily toward the door. Just outside was Redfern, but Johanna barely looked at him, so surprised was she at what she saw before her.
The sun was just rising in a bank of rose and gold, and the whole world seemed to be afire. Soft pink mist hung over the fens, and the silver river was aglow. Even the dull rocks of the hillside seemed to take on a rosy light.
“’Tis a glorious world, is it not?” said Johanna. “To think that I have never seen it like this before, nor like last night either.”
Redfern looked at her, but did not speak. “Well now,” continued Johanna, “what dost thou intend to do with us? Hast thou anything to keep us from starving?”
Redfern opened a bag by his side and produced two good slices of coarse dark bread. These he gave to Johanna. “There is water there,” and he motioned to a clump of trees and a boulder.
Johanna was amazed at herself. She almost felt like singing as she ran through the ferns heavy with dew and drank the crystal-clear water. When she went back to the hut, she dragged Caroline forth. Angus was greatly interested and watched all her movements. Sometimes he followed so closely that it was as much as Johanna could do to keep from tumbling over him.
“What is thy dog’s name?” she asked Redfern.
“Angus,” was the short answer.
“He is friendly.”
“’Tis not always so,” Redfern admitted.
By this time Caroline had eaten, and feeling refres
hed, she seemed to have forgotten her fears somewhat also. Redfern watched the two girls with interest, Caroline tear-stained and frowsled, Johanna with red cheeks and eyes glistening with excitement.
Johanna was sitting near Redfern with Angus close beside.
“Boston lies off there where the mist is the thickest, does it not?” asked Johanna. “Thou must take us back there, for they will miss us and be fearful. Should we not start immediately?”
“How much will thy father pay to get thee back?” Redfern asked suddenly.
“So that is what thou art after, a ransom for me ’Tis not likely thou wilt get anything, for if thou hast been playing with those Easterlings, as belike thou hast, thou wouldst not dare to show thy face in Boston.”
Caroline’s face became full of consternation. “Nay, do not believe her. I do know her father would give a large sum to have her taken safely back.”
“Hush, Caroline,” warned Johanna. “Thou dost not know anything of what thou sayest. Leave this to me.”
“Thou hast a good deal of courage for thy size,” and Redfern looked Johanna over with growing admiration.
“I know thou canst not be entirely bad,” answered Johanna. “Thou hast a kindly look especially when thou dost look at Angus. Thou dost love thy dog.”
“Ay, he is the only friend I have.”
Angus seemed to know that he was speaking of him, for he raised his ears and looked over at his master.
“He has taken a strange liking to thee. Mostly he is surly with strangers. I understand it not. At a word from me he would be at the throat of any that I should so point out to him.” At these words Angus whined uneasily and raised himself so that his heavy muzzle rested against his master’s knee. “I’ll not put thee to the test, my Angus,” and Redfern rubbed his dog’s head roughly.
“I am not afraid,” asserted Johanna. “What sayest thou to this? If thy dog rush at me at thy command, then mayst thou take us back and get what ransom thou mayst ask, for I doubt not but my father will pay thee e’en though it should ruin him; but if he will not attack me, then must thou take us back safely for no payment.”
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