Come Rack! Come Rope!

  CHAPTER VII

  I

  It was not until after dawn on Wednesday, the twenty-fifth of January,as the bells were ringing in the parish church for the Conversion of St.Paul, that the two draggled travellers rode in over the bridge ofFotheringay, seeing the castle-keep rise grim and grey out of theriver-mists on the right; and, passing on, dismounted in the yard of theNew Inn. They had had one or two small misadventures by the way, andyoung Merton, through sheer sleepiness, had so reeled in his saddle onthe afternoon of Monday, that the priest had insisted that they shouldboth have at least one good night's rest. But they had ridden allTuesday night without drawing rein, and Robin, going up to the room thathe was to share with the young man, fell upon the bed, and asleep, allin one act.

  * * * * *

  He was awakened by the trumpets sounding for dinner in the castle-yard,and sat up to find young John looking at him. The news that he broughtdrove the last shreds of sleep from his brain.

  "I have seen Mr. Melville, my master, sir. He bids me say it is uselessfor Mr. Bourgoign, or anyone else, to attempt anything with Sir Amyasfor the present. Mr. Melville hath spoken to Sir Amyas as to hisseparation from her Grace, and could get no reason for it. But the sameday--it was of Monday--her Grace's butler was forbidden any more tocarry the white rod before her dishes. This is as much as to signify,Mr. Melville says, that her Grace's royalty shall no longer protect her.It is their intention, he says, to degrade her first, before theyexecute her. And we may look for the warrant any day, my master says."

  The young man stared at him mournfully.

  "And M. de Preau?"

  "M. de Preau goes about as a ghost. He will come and speak with yourReverence before the day is out. Meanwhile, Mr. Melville says you maywalk abroad freely. Sir Amyas never goes forth of the castle now, andnone will notice. But they might take notice, Mr. Melville says, if youwere to lie all day in your chamber."

  * * * * *

  It was after dinner, as Robin rose from the table in a parlour, where hehad dined with two or three lawyers and an officer of Mr. FitzWilliam,that John Merton came to him and told him that a gentleman was waiting.He went upstairs and found the priest, a little timorous-looking man,dressed like a minister, pacing quickly to and fro in the tiny room atthe top of the house where John and he were to sleep. The Frenchmanseized his two hands and began to pour out in an agitated whisper atorrent of French and English. Robin disengaged himself.

  "You must sit down, M. de Preau," he said, "and speak slowly, or I shallnot understand one word. Tell me precisely what I must do. I am here toobey orders--no more. I have no design in my head at all. I will do whatMr. Bourgoign and yourself decide."

  * * * * *

  It was pathetic to watch the little priest. He interrupted himself by athousand apostrophes; he lifted hands and eyes to the ceilingrepeatedly; he named his poor mistress saint and martyr; he cried outagainst the barbarian land in which he found himself, and thebloodthirsty tigers with whom, like a second Daniel, he himself had toconsort; he expatiated on the horrible risk that he ran in venturingforth from the castle on such an errand, saying that Sir Amyas wouldwring his neck like a hen's, if he so much as suspected the nature ofhis business. He denounced, with feeble venom, the wickedness of thesemurderers, who would not only slay his mistress's body, but her soul aswell, if they could, by depriving her of a priest. Incidentally,however, he disclosed that at present there was no plan at all forRobin's admission. Mr. Bourgoign had sent for him, hoping that he mightbe able to reintroduce him once more on the same pretext as at Chartley;but the incident of Monday, when the white rod had been forbidden, andthe conversation of Sir Amyas to Mr. Melville had made it evident thatan attempt at present would be worse than useless.

  "You must yourself choose!" he cried, with an abominable accent. "If youwill imperil your life by remaining, our Lord will no doubt reward youin eternity; but, if not, and you flee, not a man will blame you--leastof all myself, who would, no doubt, flee too, if I but dared."

  This was frank and humble, at any rate. Robin smiled.

  "I will remain," he said.

  The Frenchman seized his hands and kissed them.

  "You are a hero and a martyr, monsieur! We will perish together,therefore."

  II

  After the Frenchman's departure, and an hour's sleep in that profundityof unconsciousness that follows prolonged effort, Robin put on his swordand hat and cloak, having dressed himself with care, and went slowly outof the inn to inspect the battlefield. He carried himself deliberately,with a kind of assured insolence, as if he had supreme rights in thisplace, and were one of that crowd of persons--great lords, lawyers,agents of the court--to whom for the last few months Fotheringay hadbecome accustomed. He turned first to the right towards the castle, andpresently was passing down its long length.

  It looked, indeed, a royal prison. A low wall on his right protected theroad from the huge outer moat that ran, in the shape of a fetterlock,completely round all the buildings; and beyond it, springing immediatelyfrom the edge of the water, rose the massive outer wall, pierced hereand there with windows. He thought that he could make out the tops ofthe hall windows in one place, beyond the skirting wall, the pinnaclesof the chapel in another, and a row of further windows that might belodgings in a third; but from without here nothing was certain, exceptthe gigantic keep, that stood high to the west, and the strong towersthat guarded the drawbridge; this, as he went by, was lowered to itsplace, and he could look across it into the archway, where four menstood on guard with their pikes. The inner doors, however, were closedbeyond them, and he could see nothing of the inner moat that surroundedthe court, nor the yard itself. Neither did he think it prudent to askany questions, though he looked freely about him; since the part he mustplay for the present plainly was that of one who had a right here andknew what he did.

  He came back to the inn an hour later, after a walk through the villageand round the locked church: this was a splendid building, with flyingbuttresses and a high tower, with exterior carvings of saints andevangelists all in place. But it looked desolate to him, and he was themore dejected, as he seemed no nearer to the Queen than before, and withlittle chance of getting there. Meanwhile, there was but one thing to bedone, and that the hardest of all--to wait. Perhaps in a few days hemight get speech with Mr. Bourgoign; yet for the present that, too, asthe priest had told him, was out of the question.

  III

  Five days were gone by, Sunday had come and gone, and yet there had beenno news, except a letter conveyed to him by Merton, written by Mr.Bourgoign himself, telling him that he had news that Mr. Beale, theClerk of the Council, was to arrive some time that week, and that thispresaged the approach of the end. He would, therefore, do his utmostwithin the next few days to approach Sir Amyas and ask for the admissionof the young herbalist who had done her Grace so much good at Chartley.He added that if any question were to be raised as to why he had been solong in the place, and why, indeed, he had come at all, he was to answerfearlessly that Mr. Bourgoign had sent for him.

  On the Sunday night Robin could not sleep. Little by little the hideoussuspense was acting upon him, and the knowledge that not a hundred yardsaway from him the wonderful woman whom he had seen at Chartley, theloving and humble Catholic, who had kneeled so ardently before her Lord,the Queen who had received from him the sacraments for which shethirsted--the knowledge that she was breaking her heart, so near, forthe consolation which a priest only could give, and that he, a priest,was free to go through all England, except through that towered gatewaypast which he walked every day--this increased his misery and hislonging.

  The very day he had been through--the Sunday on which he could neithersay nor even hear mass (for, because of the greatness of that which wasat stake, he had thought it wiser to bring with him nothing that couldarouse suspicion)--and the hearing of the bells from the church callingto Protestant prayers, and the sight
of the crowds going andreturning--this brought him lower than he had been since his firstcoming to England. He lay then in the darkness, turning from side toside, thinking of these things, listening to the breathing of the youngman who lay on blankets at the foot of his bed.

  About midnight he could lie there no longer. He got out of bednoiselessly, stepped across the other, went to the window-seat and satdown there, staring out, with eyes well accustomed to the darkness,towards the vast outline against the sky which he knew was the keep ofthe castle. No light burned there to relieve its brutality. It remainedthere, implacable as English justice, immovable as the heart ofElizabeth and the composure of the gaoler who kept it.... Then hedrew out Mr. Maine's rosary and began to recite the "SorrowfulMysteries."...

  He supposed afterwards that he had begun to doze; but he started,wide-awake, at a sudden glare of light in his eyes, as if a beacon hadflared for an instant somewhere within the castle enclosure. It was goneagain, however; there remained the steady monstrous mass of building andthe heavy sky. Then, as he watched, it came again, without warning andwithout sound--that same brilliant flare of light, against which thetowers and walls stood out pitch-black. A third time it came, and allwas dark once more.

  * * * * *

  In the morning, as he sat over his ale in the tavern below, he listened,without lifting his eyes, engrossed, it seemed, in a little book he wasreading, to the excited talk of a group of soldiers. One of them, hesaid, had been on guard beneath the Queen's windows last night, andbetween midnight and one o'clock had seen three times a brilliant lightexplode itself, like soundless gunpowder, immediately over the roomwhere she slept. And this he asserted, over and over again.

  IV

  On the following Saturday John Merton came up into the room where thepriest was sleeping after dinner and awakened him.

  "If you will come at once with me, sir, you can have speech with Mr.Bourgoign. My master has sent me to tell you so; Mr. Bourgoign has leaveto go out."

  Robin said nothing. It was the kind of opportunity that must not beimperilled by a single word that might be overheard. He threw on hisgreat cloak, buckled his sword on, and followed with every nerve awake.They went up the street leading towards the church, and turned down alittle passage-way between two of the larger houses; the young manpushed on a door in the wall; and Robin went through, to find himself ina little enclosed garden with Mr. Bourgoign gathering herbs from theborder, not a yard from him. The physician said nothing; he glancedsharply up and pointed to a seat set under the shelter of the wall thathid the greater part of the garden from the house to which it belonged;and as Robin reached it, Mr. Bourgoign, still gathering his herbs, beganto speak in an undertone.

  "Do not speak except very softly, if you must," he said. "The Queen issick again; and I have leave to gather herbs for her in two or threegardens. It was refused to me at first and then granted afterwards. Fromthat I look for the worst.... Beale will come to-morrow, I hear....Paulet refused me leave the first time, I make no doubt, knowing thatall was to end within a day or two: then he granted it me, for fear Ishould suspect his reason. (Can you hear me, sir?)"

  Robin nodded. His heart thumped within him.

  "Well, sir; I shall tell Sir Amyas to-morrow that my herbs do nogood--that I do not know what to give her Grace. I have seen her Gracecontinually, but with a man in the room always.... Her Grace knows thatyou are here, and bids me thank you with all her heart.... I shall speakto Sir Amyas, and shall tell him that you are here: and that I sent foryou, but did not dare to ask leave for you until now. If he refuses Ishall know that all is finished, and that Beale has brought the warrantwith him.... If he consents I shall think that it is put off for alittle...."

  He was very near to Robin now, still, with a critical air pushing theherbs this way and that, selecting one now and again.

  "Have you anything to say to me, sir? Do not speak loud. The fellow thatconducted me from the castle is drinking ale in the house behind. He didnot know of this door on the side.... Have you anything to say?"

  "Yes," said Robin.

  "What is it?"

  "Two things. The first is that I think one of the fellows in the inn isdoubtful of me. Merton tells me he has asked a great number of questionsabout me. What had I best do?"

  "Who is he?"

  "He is a servant of my lord Shrewsbury's who is in the neighbourhood."

  The doctor was silent.

  "Am I in danger?" asked the priest quietly. "Shall I endanger herGrace?"

  "You cannot endanger her Grace. She is near her end in any case. Butfor yourself--"

  "Yes."

  "You are endangering yourself every instant by remaining," said thedoctor dryly.

  "The second matter--" began Robin.

  "But what of yourself--"

  "Myself must be endangered," said Robin softly. "The second matter iswhether you cannot get me near her Grace in the event of her execution.I could at least give her absolution _sub conditione_."

  Mr. Bourgoign shot a glance at him which he could not interpret.

  "Sir," he said; "God will reward you.... As regards the second matter itwill be exceedingly difficult. If it is to be in the open court, I mayperhaps contrive it. If it is to be in the hall, none but known personswould be admitted.... Have you anything more, sir?"

  "No."

  "Then you had best be gone again at once.... Her Grace prays for you....She had a fit of weeping last night to know that a priest was here andshe not able to have him.... Do you pray for her...."

  V

  Sunday morning dawned; the bells pealed out; the crowds went by thechurch and came back to dinner; and yet no word had come to the inn.Robin scarcely stirred out all that day for fear a summons should comeand he miss it. He feigned a little illness and sat wrapped up in thecorner window of the parlour upstairs, whence he could command bothroads--that which led to the Castle, and that which led to the bridgeover which Mr. Beale must come. He considered it prudent also to dothis, because of the fellow of whom Merton had told him--a man thatlooked like a groom, and who was lent, he heard, with one or two othersby his master to do service at the Castle.

  Robin's own plan had been distinct ever since M. de Preau had broughthim the first message. He bore himself, as has been said, assuredly andconfidently; and if he were questioned would simply have said that hehad business connected with the Castle. This, asserted in a proper tone,would probably have its effect. There was so much mystery, involvingsuch highly-placed personages from the Queen of England downwards, thatdiscretion was safer than curiosity.

  * * * * *

  It was growing towards dark when Robin, after long and fruitless staringdown the castle road, turned himself to the other. The parlour was emptyat this hour except for himself.

  He saw the group gathering as usual at the entrance to the bridge towatch the arrivals from London, who, if there were any, generally cameabout this time.

  Then, as he looked, he saw two horsemen mount the further slope of thebridge, and come full into view.

  Now there was nothing whatever about these two persons, in outwardappearance, to explain the strange effect they had upon the priest. Theycould not possibly be the party for which he was watching. Mr. Bealewould certainly come with a great company. They were, besides, plainlyno more than serving-men: one wore some kind of a livery; the other, astrongly-built man who sat his horse awkwardly, was in new clothes thatdid not fit him. They rode ordinary hackneys; and each had luggagestrapped behind his saddle. All this the priest saw as they came up thenarrow street and halted before the inn door. They might, perhaps, beservants of Mr. Beale; yet that did not seem probable as there was nosign of a following party. The landlord came out on to the stepsbeneath; and after a word or two, they slipped off their horses wearily,and led them round into the court of the inn.

  All this was usual enough; the priest had seen such arrivals a dozentimes at this very door; yet he felt sick as he looked at the
m. Thereappeared to him something terrible and sinister about them. He had seenthe face of the liveried servant; but not of the other: this one hadcarried his head low, with his great hat drawn down on his head. Thepriest wondered, too, what they carried in their trunks.

  * * * * *

  When he went down to supper in the great room of the inn, he could notforbear looking round for them. But only one was to be seen--theliveried servant who had done the talking.

  Robin turned to his neighbour--a lawyer with whom he had spoken a fewtimes.

  "That is a new livery to me," he said, nodding towards the stranger.

  "That?" said the lawyer. "That? Why, that is the livery of Mr.Walsingham. I have seen it in London."

  * * * * *

  Towards the end of supper a stir broke out among the servants who sat atthe lower end of the room near the windows that looked out upon thestreets. Two or three sprung up from the tables and went to look out.

  "What is that?" cried the lawyer.

  "It is Mr. Beale going past, sir," answered a voice.

  Robin lifted his eyes with an effort and looked. Even as he did so therecame a trampling of horses' hoofs; and then, in the light that streamedfrom the windows, there appeared a company on horseback. They were toofar away from where he sat, and the lights were too confusing, for himto see more than the general crowd that went by--perhaps from a dozen totwenty all told. But by them ran the heads of men who had waited at thebridge to see them go by; and a murmuring of voices came even throughthe closed windows. It was plain that others besides those who wereclose to her Grace, saw a sinister significance in Mr. Beale's arrival.

  VI

  Robin had hardly reached his room after supper and a little dessert inthe parlour, before Merton came in. He drew his hand out of his breastas he entered, and, with a strange look, gave the priest a foldedletter. Robin took it without a word and read it through.

  After a pause he said to the other:

  "Who were those two men that came before supper? I saw them ride up."

  "There is only one, sir. He is one of Mr. Walsingham's men."

  "There were two," said the priest.

  "I will inquire, sir," said the young man, looking anxiously from thepriest's face to the note and back again.

  Robin noticed it.

  "It is bad news," he said shortly. "I must say no more.... Will youinquire for me; and come and tell me at once."

  When the young man had gone Robin read the note again before destroyingit.

  "I spoke to Sir A. to-day. He will have none of it. He seemed highlysuspicious when I spoke to him of you. If you value your safety morethan her Grace's possible comfort, you had best leave at once. In anycase, use great caution."

  Then, in a swift, hurried hand there followed a post-script:

  "Mr. B. is just now arrived, and is closeted with Sir A. All is over, Ithink."

  * * * * *

  Ten minutes later Merton came back and found the priest still in thesame attitude, sitting on the bed.

  "They will have none of it, sir," he said. "They say that one only came,in advance of Mr. Beale."

  He came a little closer, and Robin could see that he was excited.

  "But you are right, sir, for all their lies. I saw supper plates and anempty flagon come down from the stair that leads to the little chamberabove the kitchen."