The Armourer's Prentices, Charlotte M. Yonge [large screen ebook reader TXT] 📗

“For strangers then did so increase,
    By reason of King Henry’s queen,
And privileged in many a place
    To dwell, as was in London seen.
Poor tradesmen had small dealing then
    And who but strangers bore the bell,
Which was a grief to Englishmen
    To see them here in London dwell.”

Ill May Day, by Churchill, a Contemporary Poet.

Time passed on, and Edmund Burgess, who had been sent from York to learn the perfection of his craft, completed his term and returned to his home, much regretted in the Dragon court, where his good humour and good sense had generally kept the peace, both within and without.

Giles Headley was now the eldest prentice. He was in every way greatly improved, thoroughly accepting his position, and showing himself quite ready both to learn and to work; but he had not the will or the power of avoiding disputes with outsiders, or turning them aside with a merry jest; and rivalries and quarrels with the armoury at the Eagle began to increase. The Dragon, no doubt, turned out finer workmanship, and this the Eagle alleged was wholly owing to nefarious traffic with the old Spanish or Moorish sorcerer in Warwick Inner Yard, a thing unworthy of honest Englishmen. This made Giles furious, and the cry never failed to end in a fight, in which Stephen supported the cause of the one house, and George Bates and his comrades of the other.

It was the same with even the archery at Mile End, where the butts were erected, and the youth contended with the long bow, which was still considered as the safeguard of England. King Henry often looked in on these matches, and did honour to the winners. One match there was in especial, on Mothering Sunday, when the champions of each guild shot against one another at such a range that it needed a keen eye to see the popinjay—a stuffed bird at which they shot.

Stephen was one of these, his forest lore having always given him an advantage over many of the others. He even was one of the last three who were to finish the sport by shooting against one another. One was a butcher named Barlow. The other was a Walloon, the best shot among six hundred foreigners of various nations, all of whom, though with little encouragement, joined in the national sport on these pleasant spring afternoons. The first contest threw out the Walloon, at which there were cries of ecstasy; now the trial was between Barlow and Stephen, and in this final effort, the distance of the pole to which the popinjay was fastened was so much increased that strength of arm told as much as accuracy of aim, and Stephen’s seventeen years’ old muscles could not, after so long a strain, cope with those of Ralph Barlow, a butcher of full thirty years old. His wrist and arm began to shake with weariness, and only one of his three last arrows went straight to the mark, while Barlow was as steady as ever, and never once failed. Stephen was bitterly disappointed, his eyes filled with tears, and he flung himself down on the turf feeling as if the shouts of “A Barlow! a Barlow!” which were led by the jovial voice of King Harry himself, were all exulting over him.

Barlow was led up to the king, who hailed him “King of Shoreditch,” a title borne by the champion archer ever after, so long as bowmanship in earnest lasted. A tankard which the king filled with silver pieces was his prize, but Henry did not forget No. 2. “Where’s the other fellow?” he said. “He was but a stripling, and to my mind, his feat was a greater marvel than that of a stalwart fellow like Barlow.”

Half a dozen of the spectators, among them the cardinal’s jester, hurried in search of Stephen, who was roused from his fit of weariness and disappointment by a shake of the shoulder as his uncle jingled his bells in his ears, and exclaimed, “How now, here I own a cousin!” Stephen sat up and stared with angry, astonished eyes, but only met a laugh. “Ay, ay, ’tis but striplings and fools that have tears to spend for such as this! Up, boy! Dye hear? The other Hal is asking for thee.”

And Stephen, hastily brushing away his tears, and holding his flat cap in his hand, was marshalled across the mead, hot, shy, and indignant, as the jester mopped and mowed, and cut all sorts of antics before him, turning round to observe in an encouraging voice, “Pluck up a heart, man! One would think Hal was going to cut oft thine head!” And then, on arriving where the king sat on his horse, “Here he is, Hal, such as he is come humbly to crave thy gracious pardon for hitting the mark no better! He’ll mend his ways, good my lord, if your grace will pardon him this time.”

“Ay, marry, and that will I,” said the king. “The springald bids fair to be King of Shoreditch by the time the other fellow abdicates. How old art thou, my lad?”

“Seventeen, an it please your grace,” said Stephen, in the gruff voice of his age.

“And thy name?”

“Stephen Birkenholt, my liege,” and he wondered whether he would be recognised; but Henry only said—

“Methinks I’ve seen those sloe-black eyes before. Or is it only that the lad is thy very marrow, quipsome one?”

“The which,” returned the jester, gravely, while Stephen tingled all over with dismay, “may account for the tears the lad was wasting at not having the thews of the fellow double his age! But I envy him not! Not I! He’ll never have wit for mine office, but will come in second there likewise.”

“I dare be sworn he will,” said the king. “Here, take this, my good lad, and prank thee in it when thou art out of thy time, and goest a-hunting in Epping!”

It was a handsome belt with a broad silver clasp, engraven with the Tudor rose and portcullis; and Stephen bowed low and made his acknowledgments as best he might.

He was hailed with rapturous acclamations by his own contemporaries, who held that he had saved the credit of the English prentice world, and insisted on carrying him enthroned on their shoulders back to Cheapside, in emulation of the journeymen and all the butcher kind, who were thus bearing home the King of Shoreditch.

Shouts, halloos, whistles, every jubilant noise that youth and boyhood could invent, were the triumphant music of Stephen on his surging and uneasy throne, as he was shifted from one bearer to another when each in turn grew tired of his weight. Just, however, as they were nearing their own neighbourhood, a counter cry broke out, “Witchcraft! His arrows are bewitched by the old Spanish sorcerer! Down with Dragons and Wizards!” And a handful of mud came full in the face of the enthroned lad, aimed no doubt by George Bates. There was a yell and rush of rage, but the enemy was in numbers too small to attempt resistance, and dashed off before their pursuers, only pausing at safe corners to shout Parthian darts of “Wizards!” “Magic!” “Sorcerers!” “Heretics!”

There was nothing to be done but to collect again, and escort Stephen, who had wiped the mud off his face, to the Dragon court, where Dennet danced on the steps for joy, and Master Headley, not a little gratified, promised Stephen a supper for a dozen of his particular friends at Armourers’ Hall on the ensuing Easter Sunday.

Of course Stephen went in search of his brother, all the more eagerly because he was conscious that they had of late drifted apart a good deal. Ambrose was more and more absorbed by the studies to which Lucas Hansen led him, and took less and less interest in his brother’s pursuits. He did indeed come to the Sunday’s dinner according to the regular custom, but the moment it was permissible to leave the board he was away with Tibble Steelman to meet friends of Lucas, and pursue studies, as if, Stephen thought, he had not enough of books as it was. When Dean Colet preached or catechised in St. Paul’s in the afternoon they both attended and listened, but that good man was in failing health, and his wise discourses were less frequent.

Where they were at other times, Stephen did not know, and hardly cared, except that he had a general dislike to, and jealousy of, anything that took his brother’s sympathy away from him. Moreover Ambrose’s face was thinner and paler, he had a strange absorbed look, and often even when they were together seemed hardly to attend to what his brother was saying.

“I will make him come,” said Stephen to himself, as he went with swinging gait towards Warwick Inner Yard, where, sure enough, he found Ambrose sitting at the door, frowning over some black letter which looked most uninviting in the eyes of the apprentice, and he fell upon his brother with half angry, half merry reproofs for wasting the fine spring afternoon over such studies.

Ambrose looked up with a dreamy smile and greeted his brother; but all the time Stephen was narrating the history of the match (and he did tell the fate of each individual arrow of his own or Barlow’s) his eyes were wandering back to the crabbed page in his hand, and when Stephen impatiently wound up his history with the invitation to supper on Easter Sunday, the reply was, “Nay, brother, thanks, but that I cannot do.”

“Cannot!” exclaimed Stephen.

“Nay, there are other matters in hand that go deeper.”

“Yea,