“We are all fools at times,” she answered grimly. “We wanted to have persons of our own faith about us, and he was highly commended to us by Protestants abroad, as having seen service in the cause. He applied to us just at the right moment, too. And at the first we felt a great liking for him. He was so clever in arranging things, he kept such excellent order among the servants; he was so ready, so willing, so plausible! Oh!” she added bitterly, “he had ways that enabled him to twist nine women out of ten round his fingers! Richard was fond of him; I liked him; we had talked more than once of how we might advance his interests. And then, like a thunderbolt on a clear day, the knowledge of his double-dealing fell upon us. We learned that he had been seen talking with a known agent of Gardiner, and this at a time when the Bishop was planning our ruin. We had him watched, and just when the net had all but closed round us we discovered that he had been throughout in Gardiner’s pay.”
“Ah!” I said viciously. “The oddest thing to me is the way he has twice escaped me when I had him at the sword’s point!”
“The third time may bring other fortune, Master Francis,” she answered smiling. “Yet be wary with him. He is a good swordsman, as my husband, who sometimes fenced with him, will tell you.”
“He can be no common man,” I said.
“He is not. He is well-bred, and has seen service. He is at once bold and cunning. He has a tongue would win most women, and a hardihood that would chain them to him. Women love bold men,” my lady added naïvely. And she smiled on me — yet humorously — so that I blushed.
There was silence for a moment. The sail flapped, then filled again. How delicious this morning after that night, this bright expanse after the dark, sluggish channels! Far away in front a great barge, high-laden with a mighty stack of rushes, crept along beside the bank, the horse that drew it covered by a kind of knitted rug. When my lady spoke next, it was abruptly. “Is it Anne?” she asked.
I knew quite well what she meant, and blushed again. I shook my head.
“I think it was going to be,” she said sagely, “only Mistress Dymphna came upon the scene. You have heard the story of the donkey halting between two bundles of hay, Master Francis? And in the multitude of sweethearts there is safety.”
“I do not think that was my case,” I said. Instinctively my hand went to my breast, in which Petronilla’s velvet sword-knot lay safe and warm. The Duchess saw the gesture and instantly bent forward and mimicked it. “Ha! ha!” she cried, leaning back with her hands clasped about her knees, and her eyes shining with fun and amusement. “Now I understand. You have left her at home; now, do not deny it, or I will tell the others. Be frank and I will keep your secret, on my honor.”
“She is my cousin,” I said, my cheeks hot.
“And her name?”
“Petronilla.”
“Petronilla?” my lady repeated shrewdly. “That was the name of your Spanish grandmother, then?”
“Yes, madam.”
“Petronilla? Petronilla?” she repeated, stroking her cheek with her hand. “She would be before my time, would she not? Yet there used to be several Petronillas about the court in Queen Catherine of Aragon’s days, I remember. There was Petronilla de Vargas for one. But there, I guess at random. Why do you not tell me more about yourself, Master Francis? Do you not know me well enough now?”
“There is nothing to tell, madam,” I said in a low voice.
“Your family? You come, I am sure, of a good house.”
“I did, but it is nothing to me now. I am cut off from it. I am building my house afresh. And,” I added bitterly, “I have not made much way with it yet.”
She broke, greatly to my surprise, into a long peal of laughter. “Oh, you vain boy!” she cried. “You valiant castle-builder! How long have you been about the work? Three months? Do you think a house is to be built in a day? Three months, indeed? Quite a lifetime!”
Was it three months? It seemed to me to be fully three years. I seemed to have grown more than three years older since that February morning when I had crossed Arden Forest with the first light, and looked down on Wootton Wawen sleeping in its vale, and roused the herons fishing in the bottoms.
“Come, tell me all about it!” she said abruptly. “What did you do to be cut off?”
“I cannot tell you,” I answered.
A shade of annoyance clouded her countenance. But it passed away almost on the instant. “Very well,” she said, with a little nod of disdain and a pretty grimace. “So be it. Have your own way. But I prophesy you will come to me with your tale some day.”
I went then and took Master Bertie’s place at the tiller; and, he lying down, I had the boat to myself until noon, and drew no little pleasure from the placid picture which the moving banks and the wide river presented. About noon there was a general uprising; and, coming immediately afterward to a little island lying close to one bank, we all landed to stretch our legs and refresh ourselves after the confinement on board.
“We are over the border now and close to Emmerich,” said Master Lindstrom, “though the mere line of frontier will avail us little if the Spanish soldiers can by hook or crook lay hands on us! Therefore, we must lose no time in getting within the walls of some town. We should be fairly secure for a few days either in Wesel or Santon.”
“I thought Wesel was the point we were making for,” Master Bertie said in some surprise.
“It was Wesel I mentioned the other day,” the Dutchman admitted frankly. “And it is the bigger town and the stronger. But I have more friends in Santon. To Wesel the road from Emmerich runs along the right bank. To Santon we go by a cross-country road, starting from the left bank opposite Emmerich, a road longer and more tedious. But we are much less likely to be followed that way than along the Wesel road, and on second thoughts I incline to Santon.”
“But why adopt either road? Why not go on by river?” I asked.
“Because we should be overtaken. The wind is falling, and the boat,” our late host explained, more truly than politely, “with the women in it is heavy.”
“I understand,” I said. “And you feel sure we shall be pursued?”
For answer he pointed with a smile to his plate-chest. “Quite sure,” he added. “With that before them they will think nothing of the frontier. I fancy that for you, if the English Government be in earnest, there will be no absolutely safe place short of the free city of Frankfort. Unless indeed you have interest with the Duke of Cleves.”
“Ah!” said the Duchess. And she looked at her husband.
“Ah!” said Master Bertie, and he looked very blankly at his wife. So that I did not derive much comfort from that suggestion.
“Then it is Santon, is it?” said my lady.
“That first, at any rate. Then, if they follow us along the Wesel road, we shall still give them the slip.”
So it was settled, neither Van Tree nor the girls having taken any part in the discussion. The former and Dymphna were talking aside, and Mistress Anne was sitting low down on the bank, with her feet almost in the water, immersed to all appearance in her own thoughts. There was a little bustle as we rose to get into the boat, which we had drawn up on the landward side of the island so as to be invisible from the main channel; and in the middle of this I was standing with one foot in the boat and one on shore, taking from Anne various articles which we had landed for rearrangement, when she whispered to me that she wanted to speak to me alone.
“I want to tell you something,” she said, raising her eyes to my face, and then averting them. “Follow me this way.”
She strolled, as if accidentally, twenty or thirty paces along the bank; and in a minute I joined her. I found her gazing down the river in the direction from which we had come. “What is it?” I said anxiously. “You do not see anything, do you?” For there had been a hint of bad news in her voice.
She dropped the hand with which she had been shading her eyes and turned to me. “Master Francis, you will not think me very foolish?” she
said. Then I perceived that her lip was quivering and that there were tears in her eyes. They were very beautiful eyes when, as now, they grew soft, and appeal took the place of challenge.
“What is it?” I replied, speaking cheerfully to reassure her. She had scarcely got over her terror of last night. She trembled as she stood.
“It is about Santon,” she answered with a miserable little catch in her voice. “I am so afraid of going there! Master Lindstrom says it is a rough, long road, and when we are there we are not a bit farther from those wretches than at Wesel, and — and — —”
“There, there!” I said. She was on the point of bursting into tears, and was clearly much overwrought. “You are making the worst of it. If it were not for Master Lindstrom I should be inclined to choose Wesel myself. But he ought to know best.”
“But that is not all,” she said, clasping her hands and looking up at me with her face grown full of solemn awe; “I have had a dream.”
“Well, but dreams — —” I objected.
“You do not believe in dreams?” she said, dropping her head sorrowfully.
“No, no; I do not say that,” I admitted, naturally startled. “But what was your dream?”
“I thought we took the road to Santon. And mind,” she added earnestly, “this was before Master Lindstrom had uttered a word about going that way, or any other way save to Wesel. I dreamt that we followed the road through such a dreadful flat country, a country all woods and desolate moorland, under a gray sky, and in torrents of rain, to — —”
“Well, well?” I said, with a passing shiver at the picture. She described it with a rapt, absent air, which made me creep — as if even now she were seeing something uncanny.
“And then I thought that in the middle of these woods, about half-way to Santon, they overtook us, and there was a great fight.”
“There would be sure to be that!” I muttered, with shut teeth.
“And I thought you were killed, and we women were dragged back! There, I cannot tell you the rest!” she added wildly. “But try, try to get them to go the old way. If not, I know evil will come of it. Promise me to try?”
“I will tell them your dream,” I said.
“No, no!” she exclaimed still more vehemently. “They would only laugh. Madam does not believe in dreams. But they will listen to you if you say you think the other way better. Promise me you will! Promise me!” she pleaded, her hands clasping my arm, and her tearful eyes looking up to mine.
“Well,” I agreed reluctantly, “I will try. After all, the shortest way may be the best. But if I do,” I said kindly, “you must promise me in return not to be alarmed any longer, Anne.”
“I will try,” she said gratefully; “I will indeed, Francis.”
We were summoned at that minute, for the boat was waiting for us. The Duchess scanned us rather curiously as we ran up — we were the last. But Anne kept her word, and concealed her fears so bravely that, as she jumped in from the bank, her air of gayety almost deceived me, and would have misled the sharpest-sighted person who had not been present at our interview, so admirably was it assumed.
We calculated that our pursuers would not follow us down the river for some hours. They would first have to search the island, and the watch which they had set on the landing-stage would lead them to suspect rather that we had fled by land. We hoped, therefore, to reach Emmerich unmolested. There Master Lindstrom said we could get horses, and he thought we might be safe in Santon by the following evening.
“If you really think we had better go to Santon,” I said. This was an hour or two after leaving the island, and when we looked to sight Emmerich very soon, the hills which we had seen in front all day, and which were grateful to eyes sated with the monotony of Holland, being now pretty close to us.
“I thought that we had settled that,” replied the Dutchman promptly.
I felt they were all looking at me. “I look at it this way,” I said, reddening. “Wesel is not far from Emmerich by the road. Should we not have an excellent chance of reaching it before our pursuers come up?”
“You might reach it,” Master Lindstrom said gravely. “Though, again, you might not.”
“And, Wesel once reached,” I persisted, “there is less fear of violence being attempted there than in Santon. It is a larger town.”
“True,” he admitted. “But it is just this. Will you be able to reach Wesel? It is the getting there — that is the difficulty; the getting there before you are caught.”
“If we have a good start, why should we not?” I urged; and urged it the more persistently, the more I found them opposed to it. Naturally there ensued a warm discussion. At first they all sided against me, save of course Anne, and she sat silent, though she was visibly agitated, as from minute to minute I or they seemed likely to prevail. But presently when I grew warmer, and urged again and again the strength of Wesel, my own party veered round, yet still with doubt and misgiving. The Dutchman shrugged his shoulders to the end and remained unpersuaded. But finally it was decided that I should have my own way. We would go to Wesel.
Every one knows how a man feels when he comes victorious out of such a battle. He begins on the instant to regret his victory, and to see the possible evils which may result from it; to repent the hot words he has used in the strife and the declarations he has flung broadcast. That dreadful phrase, “I told you so!” rises like an avenging fury before his fancy, and he quails.
I felt all this the moment the thing was settled. But I was too young to back out and withdraw my words. I hoped for the best, and resolved inwardly to get the party mounted the moment we reached Emmerich.
I soon had the opportunity of proving this resolution to be more easily made than carried out. About three o’clock we reached the little town dominated, as we saw from afar, by an ancient minster, and, preferring not to enter it, landed at the steps of an inn a quarter of a mile short of the gates, and marking a point where we might take the road to Wesel, or, crossing the river, the road to Santon. Master Lindstrom seemed well known, but there were difficulties about the horses. The German landlord listened to his story with apparent sympathy — but no horses! We could not understand the tongue in which the two talked, but the Dutchman’s questions, quick and animated for once, and the landlord’s slow replies, reminded me of the foggy morning when in a similar plight we had urged the master of the Lion’s Whelp to put to sea. And I feared a similar result.
“He says he cannot get so many horses to-night,” said Master Lindstrom with a long face.
“Offer him more money!” quoth the Duchess.
“If we cannot have horses until the morning, we may as well go on in the boat,” I urged.
“He says, too, that the water is out on the road,” continued the Dutchman.
“Nonsense! Double the price!” cried my lady impatiently.
I suppose that this turned the scale. The landlord finally promised that in an hour four saddle-horses for Master Bertie and the Duchess, Anne and myself, should be ready, with a couple of pack-horses and a guide. Master Lindstrom, his daughter, and Van Tree would start a little later for Cleves, five miles on the road to Santon, if conveyance could be got. “And if not,” our late host added, as we said something about our unwillingness to leave him in danger, “I shall be safe enough in the town, but I hope to sleep in Cleves.”
It was all settled very hastily. We felt — and I in particular, since my plan had been adopted — an unreasonable impatience to be off. As we stood on the bank by the inn-door, we had a straight reach of river a mile long in full view below us; and now we were no longer moving ourselves, but standing still, expected each minute to see the Spanish boat, with its crew of desperadoes, sweep round the corner before our eyes. Master Lindstrom assured us that if we were once out of sight our pursuers would get no information as to the road we had taken, either from the inn-keeper or his neighbors. “There is no love lost between them and the Spaniards,” he said shrewdly. “And I know the people here,
and they know me. The burghers may not be very keen to come to blows with the Spaniards or to resent their foray. But the latter, on their part, will be careful not to go too far or to make themselves obnoxious.”
We took the opportunity of supping then, not knowing when we might get food again. I happened to finish first, and, hearing the horses’ hoofs, went out and watched the lads who were to be our guides fastening the baggage on the sumpter beasts. I gave them a hand — not without a wince or two, for the wound in my chest was painful — and while doing so had a flash of remembrance. I went to the unglazed window of the kitchen in which the others sat, and leaned my elbows on the sill. “I say!” I said, full of my discovery, “there is something we have forgotten!”
“What?” asked the Duchess, rising and coming toward me, while the others paused in their meal to listen.
“The letter to Mistress Clarence,” I answered. “I was going to get it when I was stabbed, you remember, and afterward we forgot all about it. Now it is too late. It has been left behind.”
She did not answer then, but came out to me, and turned with me to look at the horses. “This comes of your foolish scruples, Master Francis!” she said severely. “Where was it?”
“I slipped it between the leathers of the old haversack you gave me,” I answered, “which I used to have for a pillow. Van Tree brought my things down, but overlooked the haversack, I suppose. At any rate, it is not here.”
“Well, it is no good crying over spilt milk,” she said.
She called the others out then, and there was no mistaking Mistress Anne’s pleasure at escaping the Santon road. She was radiant, and vouchsafed me a very pretty glance of thanks, in which her relief as well as her gratitude shone clearly. By half-past four we had got, wearied as we were, to horse, and with three hours of daylight before us hoped to reach Wesel without mishap. But for most of us the start was saddened by the parting — though we hoped it would be only for a time — from our Dutch friends. We remembered how good and stanch they had been to us. We feared — though Master Lindstrom would not hear of it — that we had brought misfortune upon them, and neither the Duchess’s brave eyes nor Dymphna’s blue ones were free from tears as they embraced. I wrung Van Tree’s hand as if I had known him for months instead of days, for a common danger is a wondrous knitter of hearts; and he only smiled — though Dymphna blushed — when I kissed her cheek. A few broken words, a last cry of farewell, and we four, with our two guides behind us, moved down the Wesel road, the last I heard of our good friends being Master Lindstrom’s charge, shouted after us, “to beware of the water if it was out!”
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 57
