The Armourer's Prentices, Charlotte Mary Yonge [christmas read aloud TXT] 📗

you. And this very night--"

"The sooner the better."

She not only clasped his hand in thanks, but let him raise her face to his, and take the reward he felt his due. Then she said she must return, but Ambrose would bring him all particulars. Ambrose was as anxious as herself and her mistress that the thing should be done, but was unfit by all his habits, and his dainty, scholarly niceness, to render such effectual assistance as the soldier could do. Giles offered to scale the gate by night himself, carry off the head, and take it to any place Mrs. Roper might appoint, with no assistance save such as Ambrose could afford. Aldonza shuddered a little at this, proving that her heart had gone out to him already, but with this he had to be contented, for she went back into the house, and he saw her no more. Ambrose came back to him, and, with something more like cheerfulness than he had yet seen, said, "Thou art happy, Giles."

"More happy than I durst hope--to find her--"

"Tush! I meant not that. But to be able to do the work of the holy ones of old who gathered the remnants of the martyrs, while I have indeed the will, but am but a poor craven! It is gone nearer to comfort that sad-hearted lady than aught else."

It appeared that Mrs. Roper would not be satisfied unless she herself were present at the undertaking, and this was contrary to the views of Giles, who thought the further off women were in such a matter the better. There was a watch at the outer entrance of London Bridge, the trainbands taking turns to supply it, but it was known by experience that they did not think it necessary to keep awake after belated travellers had ceased to come in; and Sir Thomas More's head was set over the opposite gateway, looking inwards at the City. The most suitable hour would be between one and two o'clock, when no one would be stirring, and the summer night would be at the shortest. Mrs. Roper was exceedingly anxious to implicate no one, and to prevent her husband and brother from having any knowledge of an act that William Roper might have prohibited, as if she could not absolutely exculpate him, it might be fatal to him. She would therefore allow no one to assist save Ambrose, and a few more devoted old servants, of condition too low for anger to be likely to light upon them. She was to be rowed with muffled oars to the spot, to lie hid in the shadow of the bridge till a signal like the cry of the pee-wit was exchanged from the bridge, then approach the stairs at the inner angle of the bridge where Giles and Ambrose would meet her.

Giles's experience as a man-at-arms stood him in good stead. He purchased a rope as he went home, also some iron ramps. He took a survey of the arched gateway in the course of the afternoon, and shutting himself into one of the worksheds with Ambrose, he constructed such a rope ladder as was used in scaling fortresses, especially when seized at night by surprise. He beguiled the work by a long series of anecdotes of adventures of the kind, of all of which Ambrose heard not one word. The whole court, and especially Giles number three, were very curious as to their occupation, but nothing was said even to Stephen, for it was better, if Ambrose should be suspected, that he should be wholly ignorant, but he had-- they knew not how--gathered somewhat. Only Ambrose was, at parting for the night, obliged to ask him for the key of the gate.

"Brother," then he said, "what is this work I see? Dost think I can let thee go into a danger I do not partake? I will share in this pious act towards the man I have ever reverenced."

So at dead of night the three men stole out together, all in the plainest leathern suits. The deed was done in the perfect stillness of the sleeping City, and without mishap or mischance. Stephen's strong hand held the ladder securely and aided to fix it to the ramps, and just as the early dawn was touching the summit of St. Paul's spire with a promise of light, Giles stepped into the boat, and reverently placed his burden within the opening of a velvet cushion that had been ripped up and deprived of part of the stuffing, so as to conceal it effectually. The brave Margaret Roper, the English Antigone, well knowing that all depended on her self-control, refrained from aught that might shake it. She only raised her face to Giles and murmured from dry lips, "Sir, God must reward you!" And Aldonza, who sat beside her, held out her hand.

Ambrose was to go with them to the priest's house, where Mrs. Roper was forced to leave her treasure, since she durst not take it to Chelsea, as the royal officers were already in possession, and the whole family were to depart on the ensuing day. Stephen and Giles returned safely to Cheapside.


CHAPTER XXV. OLD HAUNTS


"O the oak, and the birch, and the bonny holly tree, They flourish best at home in my own countree."

When the absence of the barbarous token of the execution was discovered, suspicion instantly fell on the More family, and Margaret, her husband, and her brother, were all imprisoned. The brave lady took all upon herself, and gave no names of her associates in the deed, and as Henry VIII. still sometimes had better moods, all were soon released.

But that night had given Ambrose a terrible cough, so that Dennet kept him in bed two days. Indeed he hardly cared to rise from it. His whole nature, health, spirits, and mind, had been so cruelly strained, and he was so listless, so weak, so incapable of rousing himself, or turning to any fresh scheme of life, that Stephen decided on fulfilling a long-cherished plan of visiting their native home and seeing their uncle, who had, as he had contrived to send them word, settled down on a farm which he had bought with Perronel's savings, near Romsey. Headley, who was lingering till Aldonza could leave her mistress and decide on any plan, undertook to attend to the business, and little Giles, to his great delight, was to accompany them.

So the brothers went over the old ground. They slept in the hostel at Dogmersfield where the Dragon mark and the badge of the Armourers' Company had first appeared before them. They found the very tree where the alderman had been tied, and beneath which Spring lay buried, while little Giles gazed with ecstatic, almost religious veneration, and Ambrose seemed to draw in new life with the fresh air of the heath, now becoming rich with crimson bells. They visited Hyde Abbey, and the well-clothed, well-mounted travellers received a better welcome than had fallen to the lot of the hungry lads. They were shown the grave of old Richard Birkenholt in the cloister, and Stephen left a sum to be expended in masses for his behoof. They looked into St. Elizabeth's College, but the kind warden was dead, and a trembling old man who looked at them through the wicket hoped they were not sent from the Commissioners. For the visitation of the lesser religious houses was going on, and St. Elizabeth's was already doomed. Stephen inquired at the White Hart for Father Shoveller, and heard that he had grown too old to perform the office of a bailiff, and had retired to the parent abbey. The brothers therefore renounced their first scheme of taking Silkstede in their way, and made for Romsey. There, under the shadow of the magnificent nunnery, they dined pleasantly by the waterside at the sign of Bishop Blaise, patron of the woolcombers of the town, and halted long enough to refresh Ambrose, who was equal to very little fatigue. It amused Stephen to recollect how mighty a place he had once thought the little town.

Did mine host know Master Randall? What, Master Randall of Baddesley? He should think so! Was not the good man or his good wife here every market day, with a pleasant word for every one! Men said he had had some good office about the Court, as steward or the like--for he was plainly conversant with great men, though he made no boast. If these guests were kin of his, they were welcome for his sake.

So the brothers rode on amid the gorse and heather till they came to a broad-spreading oak tree, sheltering a farmhouse built in frames of heavy timber, filled up with bricks set in zigzag patterns, with a high-pitched roof and tall chimneys. Barns and stacks were near it, and fields reclaimed from the heath were waving with corn just tinged with the gold of harvest. Three or four cows, of the tawny hue that looked so home-like to the brothers, were being released from the stack-yard after being milked, and conducted to their field by a tall, white-haired man in a farmer's smock with a little child perched on his shoulder, who gave a loud jubilant cry at the sight of the riders. Stephen, pushing on, began the question whether Master Randall dwelt there, but it broke off half way into a cry of recognition on either side, Harry's an absolute shout. "The lads, the lads! Wife, wife! 'tis our own lads!"

And as Perronel, more buxom and rosy than London had ever made her, came forth from her dairy, and there was a melee of greetings, and Stephen would have asked what homeless little one the pair had adopted, he was cut short by an exulting laugh. "No more adopted than thy Giles there, Stephen. 'Tis our own boy, Thomas Randall! Yea, and if he have come late, he is the better loved, though I trow Perronel there will ever look on Ambrose as her eldest son."

"And by my troth, he needs good country diet and air!" cried Perronel. "Thou hast had none to take care of thee, Ambrose. They have let thee pine and dwine over thy books. I must take thee in hand."

"'Tis what I brought him to thee for, good aunt," said Stephen, smiling.

Great was the interchange of news over the homely hearty meal. It was plain that no one could be happier, or more prosperous in a humble way, than the ex-jester and his wife; and if anything could restore Ambrose it would surely be the homely plenty and motherly care he found there.

Stephen heard another tale of his half-brother. His wife had soon been disgusted by the loneliness of the verdurer's lodge, and was always finding excuses for going to Southampton, where she and her daughter had both caught the plague, imported in some Eastern merchandise, and had died. The only son had turned out wild and wicked, and had been killed in a broil which he had provoked: and John, a broken-down man, with no one to enjoy the wealth he had accumulated, had given up his office as verdurer, and retired to an estate which he had purchased on the skirts of the Forest.

Stephen rode thither to see him, and found him a dying man, tyrannised over and neglected by