“Thou art truly brave for such a little maid,” Redfern answered. “I will do thee no harm and of that thou mayst rest assured.”
“And thou wilt take us back at once?” pursued Johanna.
Redfern had become a changed person from the sullen, silent man he had earlier appeared to be. His grizzled face had softened and Johanna was surprised to see a smile lurking around his grim mouth.
“What is thy name?” Redfern asked.
“Johanna Tilney,” was the prompt reply.
“Sayest thou so, and thy father, can thy father be Sir Frederick Tilney?”
“Ay,” nodded Johanna.
“Is he Mayor of the Staple?”
“Ay.”
“That dog is wiser than it is possible for us to understand. Now do I know that to be true.”
“How is that?” asked Johanna.
“He must know thee to be a Tilney.”
“And why should he?” asked Johanna curiously.
“Thy father saved his life, as the dog saved mine,” Redfern answered shortly. “Canst thou remember a year past a dog was brought to trial for sheep stealing? ’Twas Angus, but by no sign would he admit me for his master. They could not make him pick me out from among the shepherds gathered there. Thus did he save my life. But when they could not find who was the master, one man suggested that the dog at least could be done away with. I was about to cry out, for I could not let aught happen to my Angus, when Sir Frederick stepped up beside the dog, and laying his hand on his head, he declared him to be too fine a dog to suffer for the misdeeds of a bad master. He spoke the truth. He is too fine a dog for such as I.”
“Why, it is strange beyond belief,” Johanna expostulated. “And is it true that thou hast aught to do with sheep stealing?”
The surly expression again returned to Redfern’s face. “What I am and what my calling is has naught to do with it. Because thou art the daughter of Sir Frederick Tilney I shall return ye both safe and ask no ransom.”
So saying, Redfern picked up his staff, blew on his fingers a sharp whistle that brought Angus quickly to heel, and with a curt “Follow me!” strode off. Johanna and Caroline followed, still wondering at the strangeness of the outcome of their adventure.
Johanna was even gay now, and she enjoyed to the utmost the flowers and ferns that grew in abundance along the way. It was a marvelous adventure, and Angus was no small part of it all. Redfern delighted in showing off the dog’s great intelligence. He would drop his staff unnoticed by Angus, walk on a considerable distance, and then order him off to find it. A short time Angus would be gone, and then he would surely return, the staff in his mouth, and he plunging through the woods in a great elastic gallop.
It was not until some distance had been covered that Johanna had a sudden and most disturbing thought. The keys! She had left them behind, concealed in the rushes in the shepherd’s hut. How stupid that she should have forgotten them so entirely! What could she do now? Certainly Redfern would not return, and was it wise to tell him how important they were? How she wished that she might send Angus back to get them for her! This was a good thought. She hurriedly caught up with Redfern.
“I have left something important in the hut,” she informed him breathlessly. “Dost think—would it be possible that Angus—”
“Thou dost expect a good deal from that dog,” laughed Redfern, pleased, however, that she did. “What hast thou left?”
“I have left a bunch of keys concealed in the rushes, and they are important—to my father,” she added.
“We shall try him,” agreed Redfern. He called the dog to him. He pointed to Johanna, then back to the hut, then motioned him away. Angus ran a short distance, then not seeming to understand fully, he returned and looked up at his master. Again Redfern went through the gestures. It was not until the third time that Angus seemed to be satisfied. Then he started off and did not come back again. The three of them sat down to wait.
The sun had traveled quite a way above the fens, and still there was no sign of the returning Angus. Johanna became uneasy. “Thou dost not think he would start with them perhaps, and drop them somewhere, somewhere where they could never be found?” she asked anxiously.
“I know not. It was thine idea to send him back. We must wait and see.”
Five more minutes passed, and still no Angus. “Canst thou not now whistle for him?” suggested Johanna.
Redfern crooked his finger in his mouth and whistled. Still no dark form plunging through the underbrush was to be seen.
“It would have been better to leave them where they were,” sighed Johanna. “Then I should have known where to send for them. Why am I so full of foolish notions?”
“Ay, why indeed?” Caroline echoed. “If it had not been for thy foolish notions, we would not now be here. Who but thou would have ever thought to creep out in the dead of night?”
“Courage is apt to lead us into hazards,” asserted Redfern, “and it takes a bold man to be a bad one.”
“Art thou a bad one?” asked Johanna. “I do not think thou art as bad as that Easterling who did kidnap us; and it was he, was it not, who did tell thee to hold my father up for a ransom?”
“He did not say it was Sir Frederick Tilney who was to suffer. All he said was that thy father was Mayor of the Staple, and told me that if I used my wits, I could get a goodly sum for taking thee. I could say that I had rescued thee from him.”
“And that thou didst do. It makes me tremble to think what might have happened to us. I am sure my father will want to reward thee well.”
“Nay, I shall take no reward, for have I not already said that I owe him much? See! Here comes Angus! I hear him running through the crisp dry leaves.”
In another moment Angus burst into view. He did indeed have something in his mouth. They all, even Caroline, who showed interest in spite of her dulling weariness, hurried to meet him. He sprang over the intervening space and fell on his haunches, dropping what he held in his mouth at Johanna’s feet.
It was not the bunch of keys that lay there, but a large bone, which had been curiously shaped and chipped at one end, so that it resembled a key. Johanna looked at it in amazement, for it seemed to her that it was indeed one of the keys in her bunch which had been changed to a different substance. Redfern burst into a great laugh.
“If that dog is not a clever one, I’ll say there be no king in England. He carried that bone away with him the day he was allowed to go free. He walked out of the town with his great head in the air, well knowing that he had done his best for me that day.” Redfern took the dog’s heavy muzzle in his hand, and held it up so that he could look him in the eye. “Thou knewest how to save thy master, didst thou not? And now,” he added, “off he goes, and digs it up again, and brings it to thee. He seems to remember that day, and this but goes to prove it.”
Johanna picked up the great bone and held it in her hand. It was quite smooth and shiny, almost like a piece of ivory, when she had rubbed away the dirt that clung to it.
Caroline was quite scornful. “Throw it away, mistress,” she urged. “’Tis naught but a dirty bone and not fit for thee to handle.”
“Nay,” answered Johanna, “for now I do bethink me it will do well enough for me to keep, that I may remember this adventure and Angus. As for the bunch of keys, my father can send back for them when I do tell him of them.”
“How much longer will it be before we shall be home?” asked Caroline. “I am so footsore that it seems as if I could go no farther.”
“I shall take ye to the path beside the Lindis whence ye can see your own housetop, belike, and there shall I leave ye to go on by yourselves,” answered Redfern. “’Tis now but early morning, and it may be they have not yet come to miss ye.”
“Nay,” answered Johanna, “that cannot be, for we all be early risers, and by now the market place will be astir with the news, and my poor father and mother will be dazed with the horror of it. Come, let us hasten, even though our shoes are but poor protection to our
bruised feet.”
Even as she spoke, there came to them the pealing of the bell of St. Botolph’s church.
CHAPTER XV
The Uproar in Boston
Meanwhile what had been happening in Boston? A day had intervened since Dame Pinchbeck’s call upon Dame Marflete, a day spent by Dame Pinchbeck in mulling over the various bits of information Dame Marflete had let drop. Now indeed she knew where the savings from their wallet had gone. Her goodman had risked them all in Sir Frederick’s venture and had not seen fit to tell her of his purpose. Ah, well! If he would have his little conspiracy without saying aught to her, she might as well have one of her own without taking him into it. And hers? Hers had to do with what she had overheard Marflete say about his coffer. It puzzled her more than a little. Here was the town coffer robbed, and here was Marflete telling Skilton that his coffer was exactly the same except for the locks, and lastly, there was the strange key that Marflete had devised. There could not be two ways about it. Marflete was the thief. The strange key was not to open his coffer, but the town coffer. There seemed but one person to whom it occurred to her to relate her suspicions and that was Sir Frederick. In spite of the scoffing tone she had used to her goodman about him, she really held him in great esteem, and she knew that he was the one to whom she must go.
She had arrived at this conclusion and was leaving her house just as St. Botolph’s bell began to peal loudly and unexpectedly.
“By all the saints above! What has happened now?” she ejaculated. “What has happened now?”
Such an alarm could only mean fire, flood, or a raid upon the town. Which could it be?
“Fire!” screamed Dame Pinchbeck with sudden decision, and grabbing up the leather bucket which always stood ready for this emergency, she ran as fast as her stout legs could carry her down the alley and toward the square.
From all sides people came running, calling, questioning, dodging, hurrying. Children and pigs were underfoot. Men carried weapons, buckets, ropes, and staves. Women still had in their hands the article they held when the alarm came: a distaff, a long-handled ladle dripping grease, a brush broom, or even a butter churn. Some had taken time to pick out some cherished possession, an iron-wrought candlestick, a piece of silver or pewter plate. Into the market place all were pushing and jostling. It was not fire, it was not flood, it was kidnapping.
“Johanna Tilney! Johanna Tilney!” was passed from mouth to mouth. Every one arrived at the same conclusion almost at the same moment. “The Easterlings are gone! They must be followed.” Slowly the facts got around from one group to another, for the voice of the crier who stood on the market cross was striving against heavy odds. Caroline, Gilbert, and Stephen were also missing. Volunteers were called for, to man the fastest ship at hand to pursue the Easterlings. Off to the quay ran those who could be of service, while those who could not, returned to their work, sobered, stunned with amazement, and greatly troubled. The women wept and wrung their hands.
Dame Pinchbeck did not follow the crowd that rushed down to the quay, but joined Dame Marflete and her son Thomas. Thomas was a lanky lad with large ears, who shuffled awkwardly as he walked, and was stammering in his excitement.
“And didst thou not volunteer?” Dame Pinchbeck asked him.
“I w-w-was not at h-hand,” he stammered out, “b-b-but—”
“Nay,” his mother went on for him, “but if that young Gilbert Branche be kidnapped, too, why should he not rescue her? He is such a bright lad, forsooth.”
“And our lad Stephen, too,” Dame Pinchbeck added with real distress in her voice. “They did pick the finest young people in Boston.”
“All but my son Thomas now, Heaven be praised!” and Dame Marflete raised her eyes upward. “Thou belike didst outwit them. Canst remember any time when they did try to lay hands upon thee, lad?”
“Nay,” began Thomas, “b-b-but—”
“I thought as much. Thou didst outwit them.”
“I saw two men c-c-carrying something heavy in a b-b-barrow through our b-b-back—”
Dame Marflete sought to hush him without drawing Dame Pinchbeck’s attention, but Dame Pinchbeck pricked up her ears, and Thomas, now that he had something to tell, was eager to continue. It was not often that he knew anything others would listen to.
“Last night?” Dame Pinchbeck pursued.
“Ay,” answered Thomas, while Dame Marflete hastened her steps.
“And what didst thou do?”
“N-n-n-naught,” answered Thomas.
“’Twas wise!” Dame Marflete interposed quickly. “If thou hadst done anything, it would have been foolhardy, and thou wouldst have been kidnapped too. Thou art wise beyond thy years!”
Dame Pinchbeck only sniffed.
“And what thinkest thou it was being carried in a barrow?” and she watched him closely as she spoke.
“I think ’twas a l-large c-c-coffer,” stammered Thomas.
“Thou meanest it?” and Dame Pinchbeck almost shrieked in her excitement. “And didst thou not recognize the men that wheeled it?”
Dame Marflete caught her breath.
“N-n-nay, for it was very d-d-dark, and they did m-move c-c-close to the wall.”
“Of course, there’s not a doubt, but ’twas the Easterlings!” announced Dame Marflete, and here at the corner of the alley, she stopped suddenly, and laid a detaining hand on Thomas. She would light a candle here in thankfulness for his safety. Everywhere throughout the town there were images of saints or crucifixes set up to call forth devotional feelings in the passers-by. Dame Pinchbeck bowed her head, and then passed on.
“’Tis a foolish son knows not his own father, but he be foolish enough,” she thought to herself, as she remembered the conversation she had heard outside her window. “’Twas Marflete and his coffer, but what was he about?”
This made still more to tell Sir Frederick, but since this new and terrible trouble, there was no use in seeking him out. Even now he was making ready to set sail after the Easterlings, but she must tell some one and that right away. It would have to be Roger. She found him alone in the workroom, where he had returned after the first excitement had died away.
“What hast thou to say now?” she demanded.
“I do truly believe the Devil is at work,” Roger Pinchbeck replied grimly. “I do feel as if he were making us all dance until we be dizzy and fit only to fall in a heap and hold our heads!”
“Well, then, if that is the way thou dost feel, what hast thou to say to this new bewilderment?”
“New bewilderment!” and Roger Pinchbeck sank down heavily on a coil of rope.
“Would it be possible for two men to remove the town coffer from the Guild Hall?”
“The Easterlings again!” gasped Pinchbeck.
“Well, if the kidnapping be the work of the Easterlings, this, not so!” answered Dame Pinchbeck. “This be the work of two of our townsmen,” and she proceeded with her story while Roger Pinchbeck growled and grunted beneath his breath. “I was about to go to thy Sir Frederick with the tale, but now I cannot. It will have to wait.”
“Nay,” burst out Pinchbeck, “I shall seek out that rascal Marflete, and see if I can get aught from him. Mayhap he knows something of this kidnapping, too. I would not put it beyond him.”
Straightway to Marflete’s house went Roger Pinchbeck. It was Thomas he found, but a different Thomas from that of the early morning. He looked sullen and fearful.
“So thou sayest that thou didst see two men last night wheeling a barrow with a coffer on it?” Pinchbeck asked him.
“Nay, nay,” stammered Thomas, getting red to the very edges of his large ears. “I w-w-was but half-awake then, and there w-w-was no c-c-coffer and no b-b-barrow. ’Twas the Easterlings and, methinks, a k-k-keg of ale they were rolling. Taking it to their s-s-ship, they were. They need plenty to d-d-drink, as thou d-d-dost know, and I am sure now that that is w-w-what I did see.”
“And who has made thee so sure?” asked Pinchbec
k shrewdly, and he caught the stupid Thomas.
“My m-m-mother,” stammered Thomas without taking thought. “At least I m-m-mean that I did tell my m-m-mother and she did t-t-tell me that I w-w-was m-mistaken—”
“And where is thy father?” asked Pinchbeck, losing patience.
“He is away this morning. He r-r-rode away early on h-h-horseback.”
“’Twill be time enough when he returns,” and Pinchbeck lumbered off, thoughtfully twirling his liripipe.
Meanwhile, shortly after they had heard the bell pealing out its alarm, the girls, Redfern, and Angus came out into the highway and within sight of the town below on the river. Redfern called Angus to his side. “We must leave thee here and no harm can come to thee between here and thy home.”
“Why art thou afraid to come with us and receive the thanks that are thy due, even if thou wilt not take more?” asked Johanna, looking eagerly into Redfern’s face.
“Hast thou forgot that Angus at least is known hereabouts, and his master is in ill repute?”
“Wilt thou not trust to me that no ill will come to thee? I am sure for what thou hast done now, the good people of Boston will forgive thee what thou mayest have done before.”
Redfern shook his head. “Nay, we must be off, but good luck go with thee!”
“If ever thou or Angus have need of help such as I might give, remember thou hast only to ask it of me.” Johanna patted Angus as she spoke.
“Ay,” answered Redfern as he turned on his heel.
Not very long afterward the two weary girls gained Simon Gough’s bridge, and Simon Gough himself came out of the gatehouse and hurried toward them.
“The whole town is talking of thee, and where hast thou been?” he asked all in one breath. “Sir Frederick is like one distracted, and the word is that the Easterlings must have gone off with thee, as their ship set sail this morning before the town was awake. Never since I kept the bridge have I known of such strange doings in the town.”
“We have no strength to tell thee now, but we were kidnapped, and the Easterlings were indeed to blame. Spread the news that we are safe, and now we shall hasten on ere we do drop with fatigue.”
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