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

Stephen replied with an account of both Ambrose and Aldonza, and likewise of Tibble Steelman, explaining how ill the last had been in the winter, and that therefore he could not be with the party.

“I would I had a token to send him,” said Lucas; “but I have nought here that is not either in the Dutch or the French, and neither of those tongues doth he understand. But thy brother, the good Ambrose, can read the Dutch. Wilt thou carry him from me this fresh tractate, showing how many there be that make light of the Apostle Paul’s words not to do evil that good may come?”

Stephen had been hearing rather listlessly, thinking how little the good man suspected how doubtful it was that he should bear messages to Ambrose. Now, on that sore spot in his conscience, that sentence darted like an arrow, the shaft finding “mark the archer little meant,” and with a start, not lost on Lucas, he exclaimed “Saith the holy Saint Paul that?”

“Assuredly, my son. Brother Cornelis, who is one whose eyes have been opened, can show you the very words, if thou hast any Latin.”

Perhaps to gain time, Stephen assented, and the young friar, with a somewhat inquisitive look, presently brought him the sentence “Et non faciamus mala ut veniant bona.”

Stephen’s Latin was not very fresh, and he hardly comprehended the words, but he stood gazing with a frown of distress on his brow, which made Lucas say, “My son, thou art sorely bestead. Is there aught in which a plain old man can help thee, for thy brother’s sake? Speak freely. Brother Cornelis knows not a word of English. Dost thou owe aught to any man?”

“Nay, nay—not that,” said Stephen, drawn in his trouble and perplexity to open his heart to this incongruous confidant, “but, sir, sir, which be the worst, to break my pledge to my master, or to run into a trial which—which will last from day to day, and may be too much for me—yea, and for another—at last?”

The colour, the trembling of limb, the passion of voice, revealed enough to Lucas to make him say, in the voice of one who, dried up as he was, had once proved the trial, “’Tis love, thou wouldst say?”

“Ay, sir,” said Stephen, turning away, but in another moment bursting forth, “I love my master’s daughter, and she is to wed her cousin, who takes her as her father’s chattel! I wist not why the world had grown dark to me till I saw a comedy at Ardres, where, as in a mirror, ’twas all set forth—yea, and how love was too strong for him and for her, and how shame and death came thereof.”

“Those players are good for nought but to wake the passions!” muttered Lucas.

“Nay, methought they warned me,” said Stephen. “For, sir,”—he hid his burning face in his hands as he leant on the back of a chair—“I wot that she has ever liked me better, far better than him. And scarce a night have I closed an eye without dreaming it all, and finding myself bringing evil on her, till I deemed ’twere better I never saw her more, and left her to think of me as a forsworn runagate rather than see her wedded only to be flouted—and maybe—do worse.”

“Poor lad!” said Lucas; “and what wouldst thou do?”

“I have not pledged myself—but I said I would consider of—service among Fulford’s troop,” faltered Stephen.

“Among those ruffians—godless, lawless men!” exclaimed Lucas.

“Yea, I know what you would say,” returned Stephen, “but they are brave men, better than you deem, sir.”

“Were they angels or saints,” said Lucas, rallying his forces, “thou hast no right to join them. Thine oath fetters thee. Thou hast no right to break it and do a sure and certain evil to avoid one that may never befall! How knowst thou how it may be? Nay, if the trial seem to thee over great, thine apprenticeship will soon be at an end.”

“Not for two years”

“Or thy master, if thou spakest the whole truth, would transfer thine indentures. He is a good man, and if it be as thou sayest, would not see his child tried too sorely. God will make a way for the tempted to escape. They need not take the devil’s way.”

“Sir,” said Stephen, lifting up his head, “I thank you. Thus was what I needed. I will tell Sir John Fulford that I ought never to have heeded him.”

“Must thou see him again?”

“I must. I am to give him his answer at the Seven Stars. But fear not me, Master Lucas, he shall not lead me away.” And Stephen took a grateful leave of the little Dutchman, and charged himself with more messages for Ambrose and Tibble than his overburdened spirit was likely to retain.

Lucas went down the stairs with him, and as a sudden thought, said at the foot of them, “’Tis at the Seven Stars thou meetest this knight. Take an old man’s counsel. Taste no liquor there.”

“I am no ale bibber,” said Stephen.

“Nay, I deemed thee none—but heed my words—captains of landsknechts in kermesses are scarce to be trusted. Taste not.”

Stephen gave a sort of laugh at the precaution, and shook himself loose. It was still an hour to the time of meeting, and the Ave-bell was ringing. A church door stood open, and for the first time since he had been at Gravelines he felt that there would be the calm he needed to adjust the conflict of his spirits, and comprehend the new situation, or rather the recurrence to the old one. He seemed to have recovered his former self, and to be able to perceive that things might go on as before, and his heart really leapt at finding he might return to the sight of Dennet and Ambrose and all he loved.

His wishes were really that way; and Fulford’s allurements had become very shadowy when he made his way to the Seven Stars, whose vine-covered window allowed many loud voices and fumes of beer and wine to escape into the summer evening air.

The room was perhaps cleaner than an English one would have been, but it was reeking with heat and odours, and the forest-bred youth was unwilling to enter, but Fulford and two or three Badgers greeted him noisily and called on him to partake of the supper they had ready prepared.

“No, sir knight, I thank you,” said Stephen. “I am bound for my quarters, I came but to thank you for your goodness to me, and to bid you farewell.”

“And how as to thy pledge to join us, young man?” demanded Fulford sternly.

“I gave no pledge,” said Stephen. “I said I would consider of it.”

“Faint-hearted! ha! ha!” and the English Badgers translated the word to the Germans, and set them shouting with derision.

“I am not faint-hearted,” said Stephen; “but I will not break mine oath to my master.”

“And thine oath to me? Ha!” said Fulford.

“I sware you no oath, I gave you no word,” said Stephen.

“Ha! Thou darest give me the lie, base prentice. Take that!”

And therewith he struck Stephen a crushing blow on the head, which felled him to the ground. The host and all the company, used to pot-house quarrels, and perhaps playing into his hands, took little heed; Stephen was dragged insensible into another room, and there the Badgers began hastily to divest him of his prentice’s gown, and draw his arms into a buff coat.

Fulford had really been struck with his bravery, and knew besides that his skill in the armourer’s craft would be valuable, so that it had been determined beforehand that he should—by fair means or foul—leave the Seven Stars a Badger.

“By all the powers of hell, you have struck too hard, sir. He is sped,” said Marden anxiously.

“Ass! tut!” said Fulford. “Only enough to daze him till he be safe in our quarters—and for that the sooner the better. Here, call Anton to take his heels. We’ll get him forth now as a fellow of our own.”

“Hark! What’s that?”

“Gentlemen,” said the host hurrying in, “here be some of the gentlemen of the English Cardinal, calling for a nephew of one of them, who they say is in this house.”

With an imprecation, Fulford denied all connection with gentlemen of the Cardinal; but there was evidently an invasion, and in another moment, several powerful-looking men in the crimson and black velvet of Wolsey’s train had forced their way into the chamber, and the foremost, seeing Stephen’s condition at a glance, exclaimed loudly, “Thou villain! traitor! kidnapper! This is thy work.”

“Ha! ha!” shouted Fulford, “whom have we here? The Cardinal’s fool a masquing! Treat us to a caper, quipsome sir?”

“I’m more like to treat you to the gyves,” returned Randall. “Away with you! The watch are at hand. Were it not for my wife’s sake, they should bear you off to the city jail; the Emperor should know how you fill your ranks.”

It was quite true. The city guard were entering at the street door, and the host hurried Fulford and his men, swearing and raging, out at a back door provided for such emergencies. Stephen was beginning to recover by this time. His uncle knelt down, took his head on his shoulder, and Lucas washed off the blood and administered a drop of wine. His first words were:

“Was it Giles? Where is she?”

“Still going over the play!” thought Lucas. “Nay, nay, lad. ’Twas one of the soldiers who played thee this scurvy trick! All’s well now. Thou wilt soon be able to quit this place.”

“I remember now,” said Stephen, “Sir John said I gave him the lie when I said I had given no pledge. But I had not!”

“Thou hast been a brave fellow, and better broken head than broken troth,” said his uncle.

“But how came you here,” asked Stephen. “In the nick of time?”

It was explained that Lucas, not doubting Stephen’s resolution, but quite aware of the tricks of landsknecht captains with promising recruits in view, had gone first in search of Smallbones, but had found him and the Ancient so deeply engaged in potations from the liberal supply of the Emperor to all English guests, that there was no getting him apart, and he was too much muddled to comprehend if he could have been spoken with.

Lucas then, in desperation, betook himself to the convent where Wolsey was magnificently lodged. Ill May Day had made him, as well as others, well acquainted with the relationship between Stephen and Randall, though he was not aware of the further connection with Fulford. He hoped, even if unable to see Randall, to obtain help on behalf of an English lad in danger, and happily he arrived at a moment when State affairs were going on, and Randall was refreshing himself by a stroll in the cloister. When Lucas had made him understand the situation, his dismay was only equalled by his promptitude. He easily obtained the loan of one of the splendid suits of scarlet and crimson, guarded with black velvet a hand broad, which were worn by the Cardinal’s secular attendants—for he was well known by this time in the household to be very far from an absolute fool, and indeed had done many a good turn to his comrades. Several of the gentlemen, indignant at the threatened outrage on a young Englishman, and esteeming the craftsmen of the Dragon, volunteered to accompany him, and others warned the watch.

There was some difficulty still, for the burgher guards, coming up puffing and blowing, wanted to carry off the victim and keep him in ward to give evidence against the mercenaries, whom they regarded as a sort of wolves, so that even the Emperor never durst quarter them within one of the cities. The drawn swords of Randall’s friends however settled that matter, and Stephen, though still dizzy, was able to walk. Thus leaning on his uncle, he was escorted back to the hostel.

“The villain!” the jester said on the way, “I mistrusted him, but I never thought he would have abused our kindred in this fashion. I would fain have come down to look after thee, nevvy, but these kings and queens are troublesome folk. The Emperor—he is a pale, shame-faced, solemn lad. Maybe he museth, but he had scarce a word to say for himself. Our Hal tried clapping on the shoulder, calling him fair coz, and the like, in his hearty fashion. Behold, what doth he but turn round with such a look about the long lip of him as my Lord of Buckingham might have if his scullion made free with him. His aunt, the Duchess of Savoy, is a merry dame, and a wise! She and our King can talk by the ell, but as for the Emperor, he speaketh to none