Captain Ravenshaw; Or, The Maid of Cheapside. A Romance of Elizabethan London

"I'll take oath 'tis no deer," said one. "Come on; the keeper is abroad in this walk; I tell you I spied the candle in's window to light him home."

"I'll have a shot at it, for all that," said another.

Poachers, thought Holyday; and they were speaking of him. He flung himself down, just in time to hear the twang of a crossbow where the voices were, and the whizz of a bolt through the air where his body had been.

"'Fore God, thou hast laid the thing low," said a third voice. Recognising it, Holyday leaped up with a cry, and ran forward, calling out:

"Sir Nicholas! oh, Sir Nick, thou poaching rascal, 'tis I!"

"God save us, 'tis a ghost; a human ghost!" cried the first speaker.

"'Tis a white thing on two legs, sure," answered the vicar, with trepidation.

"'Tis the devil come for you; he spoke your name," said their companion, affrightedly; and instantly came the sound of feet running away like mad.

Holyday pursued, shouting, "'Tis I, Ralph Holyday!" But the poachers, hearing the name, and thinking it to be the spirit of Holyday come to announce his own death, were soon quite out of hearing.

Losing their direction, and knowing his wornout legs were no match for their fresher ones, Holyday sank to the earth, ready to weep with vexation.

"I see," he wailed. "'Tis a mockery devised to torment me. To lift me out of the mire of despair into the very arms of my friend, and then to fling me back deeper! A fine joke, no doubt, on the part of Heaven; but why one poor scholar should provide all the mirth, I do not clearly perceive. Was it indeed Sir Nick, or was it but an illusion of mine ears? 'Tis all the same. Well, I will sit shivering here till daylight; what else can I do?"

But suddenly came the rain, a wind-driven deluge, showing its full fury at the outset. In a trice the scholar was drenched; the drops seemed to beat him down; there was no surcease of them. He ran for cover, and presently gained that of another part of the wood. But even the trees could not keep out this downpour. Water streamed from the branches upon his head and body. He was flung upon, buffeted, half-drowned. Never had he received such a castigation from man or nature. He thought the elements were arrayed against him, earth to trip and bruise him, air to chill him, fire to delude him, water to flog him to death. But on he went, moved always by a feeling that any spot must be better than that whereon he was. At last he saw another light.

"Nay, nay," said he; "I am not to be fooled so again. Go to, Jack-with-the-lantern! I chase no more will-o'-the-wisps."

But he bethought him that such a rain would put out any false fire; moreover, he was in a wood, on high ground. And then, as he approached, the light took the form of a candle in a window. He remembered what the poacher had said. This must be the keeper's lodge; if the candle was still in the window, the keeper had not yet come home, – the rain had caught him too. The keeper being still abroad, his door might not be fastened. With a sense of having reached the limit of endurance of the rain's pelting, – for his thin shirt was no protection, – he dashed blindly for the window, which was on the leeward side of the lodge. He felt his way along the front of the house to the entrance, pushed the door open, and stepped into a low, comfortable apartment, like the kitchen and living room of a yeoman's cottage. Out of the rain and wind at last, his grateful legs bore him across the room to a bench. He sat down, nestling back to a great deer-skin that hung against the bare wall of wood and plaster.

At one side of the room was a door to another apartment; at the back was a ladder-like set of wooden steps leading to a trap-way in the ceiling. Holyday had scarce observed these details by the candle in the window, when a coarse female voice, as of one suddenly roused from sleep, called out from the other room: "Is't thou, Jack? Time thou wert home! – hear the rain."

Holyday kept silence. Then he heard a bed creak as under the movements of a heavy body. The woman was coming out to see what had made the noise. And he, clad only in the briefest of shirts! A double terror shook him; he sprang across the room and blew out the candle. The door opened, and a heavy, unshod tread sounded upon the floor.

"Ecod, the light's out!" said the woman. "And the door open." She found her way in the dark to the door which Holyday had neglected to close upon entering. "'Twas the wind, I wis. Fool Jack, to leave the door ill-fastened! Well, he is served right, for the wind hath blown out his candle. I must make another light, forsooth."

Holyday, standing perfectly still near the window, heard the woman grumbling about the task of striking a light. He felt himself blushing terribly in the dark; he was surely undone. But with a timely inspiration, and glad for once that his feet were bare, he went tiptoe back to where he had sat, stepped over the bench, and slipped behind the deer-skin, flattening himself as much as possible against the wall as he stood.

The woman got the candle aflame, looked around the room, replaced the light in the window, and went back to the other chamber. Hearing the bed creak again as it received her weight, Holyday came out from his hiding-place. What should he do in order to profit for the rest of the night by the comforts of this abode without discovery? He knew who this woman was, and who Jack, her husband, was. He had fallen foul of this keeper before he had left for London, and the keeper was a fellow who would take revenge when occasion offered. Pondering on the situation, Holyday was almost of a mind to face the stormy night again rather than risk capture by the man in such circumstances. Before he could make up his mind, he heard a gruff voice outside ordering a dog to its kennel. It was Jack's voice. Master Holyday fled panic-stricken up the narrow stairs, through the open trap-door.

He was in a place of darkness. He forgot that the height of the cottage – which served but to house an under-keeper and his wife, and was not the principal lodge pertaining to this chase – forbade that the upper story should be more than a mere loft; but of this he was speedily reminded by a bump of his head against a rafter. The loft was warm and probably unoccupied, for Jack rarely had a guest. The rain upon the roof made a din in Holyday's ears. He felt his way to one end of the place, and lay down, near a small window. He heard Jack entering below, swearing at the storm, fastening the door, and finally joining his spouse in the sleeping-chamber. There was some conversation in low tones, and then the house was still.

Holyday's foot struck against the end of a wooden chest. Crawling to it, he opened the top, and found what he had hoped for, – soft garments in which to lie. He tore off his wet shirt, rolled himself up in what seemed to be a woman's gown, – Jack's wife required dresses of ample capacity, – and sank away in sweetest comfort to oblivion.

He woke from a dream of delicious warmth and wondrous light, and found the sunshine in his face. His window was toward the south. The sun had passed the line of noon. Holyday gathered himself up; surveyed the garment of russet wool he had slept in; and finally dressed himself in it in proper manner. It hung loose upon him, but it covered his nakedness.

A creak of the stairway drew his eyes toward the trap. There rose into view the frowsy head and fat face of Jack's wife.

"Ecod, I knew I heard somebody!" she cried, staring at Holyday fiercely. "And dressed in my clothes, too! Oh, thou thief, I'll tear thy skin from thee!"

She came up the steps as fast as her bulk allowed. But Master Holyday, with one glance at her great clenched fists, kicked open the casement behind him, fell upon all fours, and backed out of the window, from which he dropped as the woman reached it. He alighted on a bank of flowers, scrambled to his feet, and, holding his skirt above his knees, trusted all to his bare legs. He heard the woman's furious threats from the window, but tarried not to answer. Plunging through the forest with the new strength derived from his long sleep, he was soon far from the cottage. Easing into a walk, he crossed heath and fields till he came in sight of a pleasant mansion on a green hill. Between him and the hill lay a road, which he must needs cross to reach Sir Nicholas's house. He gained this road, and, seeing nobody about, walked along it some distance so as to skirt the base of the hill. Unexpectedly, from a lane he was passing, came a resonant voice:

"Well, God-'a'-mercy! what transformation have we here?"

Holyday turned, and beheld Captain Ravenshaw.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE CAPTAIN FORSWEARS SWAGGERING

"My follies and my fancies have an end here."

– Wit without Money.

When Ravenshaw came to his senses, after losing them on the floor of the hall, he gazed around in wonder. He was in a soft bed, in a handsome room which he had never seen before. Bright sunlight streamed through an open casement which let in also the music of birds. Beside his bed lay his clothes, neatly arranged; his sword and dagger; and Master Holyday's puppet-play, which he had carried in his doublet. At sight of the manuscript, full remembrance rushed upon his mind. Though his bodily craving was to sink back on his pillow, and a fierce ache was in his head, he leaped out of bed. There was too much to be learned and done.

He pounced upon the ewer and basin he saw at hand, and speedily soused himself into a more live and less fevered state. While putting on his clothes, wondering where on earth he was, he looked out of the window upon a sweet prospect of green hills, fields, a few distant sun-touched roofs, and a far-off steeple among trees. It was plain that he looked from a house on a low hill, and that noontime had arrived.

A door opened, and in was thrust the head of a man whose blue coat betokened a servant, and whose manner declared a rustic.

"Dod, then your worship be up!" said this fellow, awkwardly entering. "Young mistress did vow she heard somewhat stirring. I ask your worship's pardon. If your worship had called – " He set about trussing the points of the captain's doublet and hose.

"Who art thou?" asked Ravenshaw.

"Your servant, sir. To tell truth, sir, Master Etheridge's servant, sir; but yours while you be here, your worship."

"Master Etheridge? Master Bartlemy Etheridge, meanest thou?"

"Yes, sir, by your leave, sir. He bade me attend in the gallery here, sir, to serve your worship an you called."

"This is his house, then?"

"Yes, sir; his country-seat, your worship, – not that he hath any town house, begging your pardon."

"How came I here?"

"Dod, upon a stable door we found loose at Marshleigh Grange last night. I'fecks, I'll never forget such rain; and to be roused out of bed in the black o' the night, too! But as to fetching your worship hither, the young mistress wouldn't come if you were left; so master must needs bid us seek somewhat to bear you hither upon. And never once you woke, e'en when me and Dick took off your clothes and put you to bed."

A strange warmth glowed in the captain's soul. Lost in his thoughts, he passed out to the gallery as soon as he was dressed. It was a wide, airy gallery, with doors along the sides, and a window at each end. In one of the windows sat a figure, which rose the instant he appeared. It was Millicent. For a second he paused, fearing she would meet him with her old scorn, or flee down the stairs. But she stood motionless, returning his look with some timidity, blushing and pensive.

"So," said he, quietly, "you would not come if I were left."

"I was much your debtor," she faltered.

"And you, watching here, heard me stirring, and sent the manservant?"

"Why, I was watching here," she replied, confusedly, "lest my father should come unawares. We were seen and followed, Master Holyday and I, and my uncle thinks my father would go first to Master Holyday's house, and then come hither. But let him come what way he will, I can see him afar from this window."

"And how if you see him?"

"There is an old chest in my aunt's chamber that my uncle hath made ready, with holes bored in it for air. They will lock me in, and feign that the key is lost, and that the chest hath not been opened this year."

"Your uncle hath stood your friend indeed in this."

"Yes, he and – others, – more than I deserve. My uncle is no coward, in truth, – save to his wife, and when he is in London against her will and knowledge." She smiled faintly.

"He must have shown courage enough to Master Jerningham to fetch you off safe – and me, too, when I was o'erthrown at last by their drug."

"Why, of a truth, my uncle came to that place with so many men – every Jack on the estate, and all that could be roused quickly in the village – that Master Jerningham would have done ill to contest. The heart was taken out of him, I think; four of his men were killed, and of the rest, those that had come with me fled when they saw their leader slain."

"Four men killed, troth!" said Ravenshaw, "of whom I shall be asked to give account."

"But you will not be asked," she replied, quickly. "'Twas in self-defence – and in defence of me. But there will be no question made of the affair. Master Jerningham seemed as much to desire that as – as my uncle. He hath his own reasons; he said he and his men would keep silence. So my uncle agreed to say nothing; those drunken beggars and the rascals that betrayed me will hold their tongues for their own sake; and Master Jerningham said he would dispose of the slain."

"But the slain have friends, – that gentleman will surely be inquired after."

"Master Jerningham said he could explain his disappearance, and the other men's. I know not how, but I would warrant he spoke in good faith."

"More false dealing, belike. I'll go and see."

"Nay! whither would you go?" Her face showed alarm.

"Back to that house. I must see how matters stand there. I must seek out the knaves that betrayed you, and learn what hath befallen Master Holyday. Where did they leave him?"

"Alas! I know not where 'twas. They beat him down in the wood, and left him, – tied to a tree, one said; and they robbed him of his clothes. I should not know where to look for the place."

"Be of good cheer. I'll find him, though I search the forest through; and, if he be alive, I'll not eat or sleep till you are wed."

"Then 'twas indeed your planning?" she queried, looking not too well pleased. "I had begun to think as much, after last night."

"Why, troth, I – ah – did give the plan my countenance," admitted the captain. "But we durst not let you know I was privy to it; you thought so ill of me – and rightly. But the bringing you to Marshleigh Grange was pure treason against us. I was too trustful; but I will undo my error if Holyday be alive."

"I marvel why you should have plotted so for me."

"To save you from wedding Sir Peregrine Medway; and to put you out of Master Jerningham's ken, as well. You said any husband was better – "

"But why chose you Master Holyday?"

"Faith, is he not young, and a gentleman, and comely? And he will be well provided for upon his marriage, e'en though he bring a wife without dowry. And then I was pleased at the chance of benefiting him, too. I could think of no better remedy than a husband, and no better husband than he."

Millicent was silent a moment, her brows a little bent as if she would say something she knew not how to say; then seeing him move, as if to depart, she resumed:

"You spoke of Master Jerningham as well as Sir Peregrine."

"Yes; I knew of his intent toward you. What I said last night was true. He employed me to – what will you think of me?"

"But you did not," she said, holding his glance.

"No," he answered, in a low voice.

"Why did you not?"

"Faith, I cannot tell – I was formerly a gentleman – and you were – troth, when I talked with you in the garden, I could not. And when I came again, though I kept my false name, knowing how people held my true one, 'twas indeed to plan your escape from that old knight."

"I know not how I can ever prove my gratitude, – and for last night." She paused, and dropped her eyes; her heart beat fast while she awaited his answer.

"You have put the debt on my side," he said. "You would not come from that place if I were left. And but now you were attentive to my waking."

Evidently the answer fell short of her hopes.

"Oh," she said, a little pettishly, "I am on the watch here lest my father come, as I told you. As for your waking, yonder clodpate is a stupid fool. My uncle thought, being drugged, you might sleep all day and longer; but I said you were no ordinary man."

"Troth," said Ravenshaw, smiling, "I somewhat broke the drug's power by resisting till your uncle came. And now that I am so soon awake, the sooner may I seek your husband that shall be." He turned toward the stair-head.

"But hear me, I pray! If you go back there, you hazard your life again."

He touched his sword and dagger, which he had girded on in the bedchamber. "I still carry these," quoth he; "and I must thank you for recovering them."

"Nay," said she, blushing again; "the sword never left your hand. There was but your dagger to seek. But go not back there, I beg of you!" She could scarce conceal the depth of her solicitude.

"Why, why, mistress, fear not for me. There is no danger."

"I entreat you not to go."

"Nay, the more you concern yourself for my safety, the more am I bound to go and serve you."

"Take men with you, then."

"Nay, your uncle must keep his men here to protect you. But one to show me the way, – the old beggar that summoned your uncle last night, – perchance he came hither with us."

"No, he stayed with his comrades; my uncle paid him for his service."

"I must e'en thank your uncle for that; and for his care of me."

"I will take you to him, and my aunt," she replied, eagerly, seeing a chance of delaying his departure and gaining time for dissuasions.

But he seemed to read her thought; he took a sudden resolution, and said: "Nay, I'll thank him when I return. Farewell, and – "

"You will return – soon?" she said, with quivering lip.

"Ay, with Master Holyday – or news of him," he answered, and turned to the servant: "Show me the way to Marshleigh Grange, and make haste."

Avoiding her glance, he hurried down the stairs ere she could frame a further objection. The servant, wonder-eyed, followed him. When he was out of the house, he shook his head, and said within himself: "Another minute in her presence, and 'twould have been she that bade me go, I that begged to stay."

He dared not look back; had he done so, as he hastened down the hillside, he might have seen that she had changed her window for one which looked toward his road. When he disappeared in the lane to which his man conducted him, she dropped her face upon her arms.

The lonely plain whereon the Grange stood was nearer than he had supposed. When he reached the house, there was no sign of life about it. He called and knocked; and finally was admitted to the hall by Jeremy. The old man was its only occupant, living or dead. He was engaged in washing out sundry stains that reddened the floor.

"Hath your master taken them away?" asked Ravenshaw, bluntly, nodding toward the stained places.

"Ay, but a short while since," said the old man, unconcernedly. "I trow they are to have sea burial. He came and had them carried aboard a ship. He and they are e'en now bound seaward."

"That is strange. Where is the woman, Mistress Meg?"

"He hath ta'en her along on the ship. Troth, she swore she would not stay another night under this roof. There was much talk atwixt 'em. She is to be a queen on an island where 'tis always summer."

Wondering if the old man had lost his wits, the captain asked, "And you are alone here?"

"Ay, and well enough, too. I have no mind to go a-voyaging. I shall have all the milk, now, and all the eggs; and no foolish woman prating ever of ghosts and witches. I'll have some peace and quiet now."

"The beggars have gone, then?"

"Ay; when they came sober, and saw slain men upon the floor, they fled as if the hangman were after 'em. Ha! I knew enough to hide the chickens over night." The old man chuckled triumphantly.

From what further information he could draw, the captain made out that Jerningham's own men had embarked with him, and that Cutting Tom's followers had gone their way unheeded. Not till days afterward was he assured that Jerningham had indeed set sail for some far country. To the bishop and others, the voyager had accounted for the absence of Ermsby and Gregory by a tale of their having preceded the vessel to Gravesend, where they were to come aboard. He and his ship were never heard of again.

The captain left the Grange, thinking next to inquire of Sir Nicholas the vicar. If Holyday had not contrived to find his way to his old friend's abode, the parson would doubtless help search the woods for him. Ravenshaw's attendant knew where Sir Nicholas lived. The way passed near his master's house. The captain made him lead at a rapid pace. It was when they were emerging from a lane into the road that Ravenshaw came upon Master Holyday, attired in the loose-hanging garb of the keeper's wife.

The captain, after the briefest salutations, grasped the scholar's arm, and ran with him up the hill toward Master Etheridge's house. Millicent, seeing them coming, and recognising only Ravenshaw, made haste to join her aunt and uncle, who had gone to discuss her situation out of her presence. She found them in the orchard at the rear of the house.

To that place, having inquired of the first servant he met, the captain dragged the breathless and protesting scholar. Millicent's wonder, at sight of Holyday's distressed face, was almost equal to that of her portly uncle and his stately, angular spouse.

"Good-morrow, madam," said Ravenshaw, with a bow which at once surprised the dame's severity into fluttering graciousness. "And to you, sir." He then turned to Millicent. "Know you not Master Holyday, mistress? I met him by chance; he was hastening hither for news of you."

But Millicent's astonishment at the poor scholar's appearance had given place to a look of decided disapproval. Holyday himself stood red-faced and sullen.

"You are welcome, sir," said Master Bartlemy Etheridge, in an uneasy voice. His countenance was worked into a painful attempt to convey something to the captain's mind privately; in his concern upon that score, he paid no heed to Master Holyday, whom his wife greeted with a curtsey.

"I am much bounden to you, sir," said Ravenshaw. "For your care of me, and your hospitality, my gratitude shall balance my want of desert. At our last meeting – "

"Meeting, sir?" broke in Uncle Bartlemy, in despair at the evident failure of his facial exertions. "I'll take oath I never met you before; it must have been some other gentleman of my appearance."

"Our meeting last night, sir, I meant," said Ravenshaw, with a smile; "though, indeed, 'twas a brief matter on my part."

"Oh, last night, forsooth; oh, yes, yes, yes," said the old gentleman, with a look of infinite relief. "Troth, yes, certainly, indeed. And you, Master Holyday, God save you. 'Tis long since I have seen you; you have changed much."

As Uncle Bartlemy's gaze was upon the scholar's dress, Holyday's assumption was that the remark was concerned therewith.

"Faith, sir," said he, resentfully, "'tis fine manners in you to jeer; my wearing this gown comes of my willingness to marry your niece."

"Oh, indeed!" quoth Millicent.

"Troth," went on the poet, miserably, "it hath been ill upon ill, e'er since I ran away with her. If such a night be the beginning of our marriage, what shall be the end of it, in God's name?"

"There shall be no end of it," retorted Millicent; "and no beginning, either. Last night, say you? Ay, you showed bravely then. You are well suited in a woman's gown, I think. A fine husband you would be, to protect a wife!"

The scholar's face cleared somewhat; turning to Ravenshaw, he said:

"Give me my puppet-play. I'll go back to London. You see she will not have me."

"Softly, softly!" cried the captain. "Would you mar all at the last, mistress? Reflect, I pray; your only true safety lies in marriage ere your father finds you. You will not bring all my plans to nothing? I do entreat you – "