THEY gave good-day to Mistress Poll and passed on their way wonderfully refreshed in body and spirit. Still they kept by the river. The sun was now shining clear out of a pure and limpid heaven. Above and all about the birds were singing. They could almost hear the sap running in the trees; yellow daffodils shone in the grass; the little green buds were bursting from brake and thicket. By now a wild sense of freedom was in their veins and they had a great delight in the company of each other. Yet behind all things—the glamour of the earth, the golden sky, the grave majesty of nature—lay a dark, terrifying cloud.
Not for a moment could they forget that their lives hung by a thread. They were ever looking back to see if their pursuers were yet in sight. They raked each bush they came near to see if it held an enemy. At every bend in the river they made ready to be sprung upon.
And, as they were soon to learn, there was only too much reason for these fears. It happened that they had made another two miles or so when they came to a tall hedgerow running at right angles to the river. And Gervase, looking along it in his constant vigilance, saw to his dismay a small party of mounted men, wearing the conspicuous scarlet livery of Sir John Feversham. They were no more than fifty yards away, and were coming slowly down the hedgerow on the other side, beating the bushes as they came and examining them closely.
Providence for the moment was with Gervase and Anne. The height of the hedge and an abrupt bend of the river served to hide them from view. Instantly they took cover by flinging themselves full length in the grass in which they stood. There was nothing else to be done; their pursuers were so near that flight was impossible.
All that remained for them was the hope that they had not been seen as yet, and that their pursuers would not come over to their place of concealment. But as thus they lay close in dire suspense, they were not aware of a more instant danger. Within a few yards of them, on their own side of the hedge, a man with a dog was approaching.
As yet the man had not seen them, but alas! the dog had already discovered them. It ran straight to where they lay concealed in the grass, and to their horror began to fondle Anne and lick her face. In the next moment a man on a horse was bending over them.
Thrusting the dog away from her, Anne looked up and saw the man, and as she did so her heart died within her. It was John Markham the falconer. His eyes were fixed upon the prostrate form of Gervase. In the very fascination of terror she watched his hand stray to the hilt of his dagger.
Both the fugitives lay in the grass staring up helplessly into the grim eyes of the falconer. They could neither move, speak nor act. A chill of horror was upon their souls. But the dog, Anne’s old friend and companion, was overjoyed and continued to lick and fondle her.
Of a sudden John Markham’s hand forsook the hilt of his dagger. And in the same instant his face changed from the tawny bloom of health to a hue far otherwise. His rather slow brain had realized who it was that lay by the side of the escaped prisoner.
The falconer grew white as death. He was the devoted servant of a good and honored master. But beyond all things he was the slave of his young mistress. All was mad turmoil at the Castle. As yet none had had thought to spare for Mistress Anne. Her absence had not been noted, perhaps not even by the Constable himself. All that was known was that the condemned man had made his way out of his prison, in a manner bordering upon the miraculous, within some two hours of the time fixed for his execution.
Here was the explanation of the mystery! In a moment of harrowing bitterness of soul John Markham read the terrible truth.
“Oh my mistress!” was wrung from his lips.
John Markham’s was a slow brain, but now his high devotion lent it swiftness and subtlety. In that instant he had learned all. She whom he had adored with a passionate fidelity had given everything that was hers to one whom by all the terms of his honorable service he was pledged to retake.
“Oh my mistress!” A tear sparkled upon the falconer’s cheek.
The fugitives lying in the grass made no reply. And in his anguish of mind the falconer seemed as helpless as they. In the next moment came a shout from the other side of the hedge.
“Hulloa, Markham, what have you there!”
The words broke the spell for the man who loved his young mistress devotedly. “The dog seems to have found a rabbit,” was his answer.
“Naught better than that!” came in tones of disappointment. “We were hoping he had found something else.”
The falconer called off the dog, and then immediately rode away to join his companions.
Gervase and Anne lay in the grass until the Constable’s men were out of sight. For the moment the danger was past. But they were possessed by fear they could not overcome. More and more they marveled at the singular Providence that held them in its care. Gervase had no knowledge of the falconer; thus all that had happened was to him a mystery. With Anne it was otherwise. Yet over and above a feeling of gratitude for the man’s fidelity was the sting of remorse and a sharp pang of regret for the glad, glorious and free life of yesterday.
Less than a week had gone since she had last ridden in the fields with the falconer, mounted on her blood horse Cytherea, with her pied merlin upon her fist. Since then the whole of life had changed. There had come the terrible breaking of the imperious will, which after all was not more than the will of a woman. And hard upon that, and doubtless because of it, there had come this wild and complete surrender to the impulse of pity which had banished her completely and forever from the world in which she had dwelt.
Long after John Markham and his companions had passed out of sight she lay in the grass sobbing hysterically. Such a wild storm of tears came upon her as seemed to shake the slender form in pieces. And Gervase was powerless to comfort her.
After a time her pitiful distress abated, and then they found the courage to go on. For some miles they followed the river, yet with a redoubled wariness. Their adventure had shaken them terribly. They did not know which way to go or what to do. They wandered aimlessly, but with every sense a-stretch and with terror gnawing at their hearts. Soon they were hungry again, yet they had not so much as a penny with which to buy food. Their spirits drooped. The April sun was still shining out of a clear sky, the birds were still singing gaily from every bush, the carpet of spring flowers was still spread vividly before them, but the world was now a different place.
At noon they saw a village in the distance away to the right. It was perilous to enter it, but hunger drove them hard. Thus they turned their steps towards it in the hope that by some good chance they might obtain a little food.
The village proved to be a rather large one. And in the middle of the main street was the shop of a baker. They felt they were taking their lives in their hands by showing themselves in a public place, since they had had such clear evidence that the hue and cry was upon their heels, but the pangs of hunger rendered them desperate.
Happily the baker seemed to dwell in complete ignorance of the recent happenings at Nottingham Castle, which to be sure was fifteen miles away. But in another respect the fugitives were less fortunate. The man of flour proved to be a very shrewd and surly fellow.
He would only part with one of his loaves, even a stale one, on the express condition that it was paid for in current coin of the realm. Would he accept a dagger with a hilt wrought curiously in silver in exchange for twenty pieces of that precious metal? No, he would not. Would he for ten? No, he would not. He had no use for a dagger, silver-hilted or otherwise. The only thing he had a use for was an honest true penny when it came to a matter of a quartern loaf.
All Gervase’s persuasiveness could do nothing with this sturdy Saxon. One of his quartern loaves was worth a penny, as had been those of his father before him; a penny was its price in the open market, and he would defy the devil himself to get one for less. In such circumstances there was nothing for Anne and Gervase to do but to return bitterly hungry to the village street.
They feared to show themselves in it, but alas; the spur of hunger is a most instant thing. Sad indeed and footsore already with their wandering, they walked through the village. Both were tired and thirsty and also faint for lack of food. They kept close under the houses, expecting at any moment to be sprung upon by the men in the scarlet livery.
In the middle of the road, coming slowly towards them, was a ragged nut-brown vagabond playing a flageolet for pence. He was very far from being a skilful performer. Indeed his tunes upon his cracked instrument were as ragged as himself. But apparently they did not lack the approval of the public. For while Gervase and Anne stood looking wistfully at this draggle-tail, a well-dressed man riding a good horse tossed the fellow a coin as he passed.
Adversity is a great thing for the mind. Gervase at once took the idea that he himself could perform quite as villainously if only he could come by an instrument. If only he might barter the silver-hilted dagger for a flageolet, even of the most lamentable kind, it might be possible in the present condition of the public taste to keep body and soul together.
He gave the idea to Anne, who approved it heartily, always assuming that he had some little skill upon the instrument.
“Why, yes,” said Gervase. “I learned to play on the flageolet when I was at Paris. ’Tis the only thing I learned there; at least it is the only thing I learned there that is likely to serve us now.”
But how were they to come by such a thing? That was a problem indeed. Under the spur of their necessity they went after the ragged fellow and were fain to interrupt him in the midst of his discoursing of the infamous melody of “Jumping Joan.”
He did not thank them for their interruption.
“Barter my pipe for a silver-hilted dagger, quotha? I would not barter my pipe for all the pearls in the head o’ the Virgin Queen. Stand out o’ my light and let me proceed.”
He was a rude fellow and a fierce one, and he was like to stride over them in his haste to get clear of the suggestion.
“Barter my pipe!” they could hear him mutter as he passed down the road. It was as though he had been asked to barter his religion. He poured out a string of curses and then returned to his villainous melody.
Feeling almost desperate, they dragged themselves along the street until they came to a door with a bush hanging over it which showed it was the village ale-house. Here on a bench outside the door they flung themselves down. The seat was hard and narrow, yet infinitely delicious to their weariness.
Here they sat until the landlord came to them. They marked his appearance with great trepidation as to what manner of a man he was. Like that of the baker, his aspect was large and stubborn but not genial.
“I give you good morrow, Master Innkeeper,” said Gervase in his frank and pleasant fashion.
“Good morrow to you, young man,” said the innkeeper cautiously.
“Do you care to buy a dagger with a hilt wrought curiously in silver?”
“That I do not,” said the innkeeper; “I would not care to buy anything except a halter for my wife.”
“What will it profit your wife,” asked Gervase, “if you provide her with a halter? You are not going to hang her, I hope.”
“Hang her! God bless me, no! It is simply that to-morrow I am going to lead her in her shift with a halter round her neck as far as Derby market-place and sell her to the highest bidder. Happen, young man, you don’t want a wife yourself?”
“What is the price you ask for her?”
“A gold angel will buy her, and she’s worth double the money.”
“But why do you part with her? Has she a fault in her temper, or is it that she is not as virtuously given as she might be?”
“No, her temper is excellent; and as for her virtue, the vicar of the parish will answer for that.”
“Then in that case,” said Gervase, “a gold angel seems little enough to pay for her.”
“Yes, she’s a great bargain,” said the innkeeper; “you can make your mind easy, young man, on that score.”
“One might take her for a month on trial, I suppose?” said Gervase.
“No,” said the landlord decisively; “if you decide to have her you must pay your gold angel and take her off my hands at once. But as I say, you will have a bargain. Her virtue and her temper are excellent, and if you remind her what a rope’s end feels like at every new moon I’ll warrant that you’ll have no trouble with her at all.”
“Well, I hope she can cook a meal,” said Gervase. “It is an excellent thing in a woman if she is able to cook a meal.”
“I’ll answer for her cooking, young man. You couldn’t find a better hand at that sort of thing if you tried all over the county o’ Derby.”
“Skilled in making bread?”
“Bless my soul, yes!”
“And in making cheese, I hope?”
“Ask Master Radlett the bailiff what he thinks of her cream cheeses.”
“Can she brew ale?”
“Aye, and cider too and also perry.”
“Well, she’s a paragon, I’m bound to admit.”
“Aye, she’s a nonesuch, there’s not the least doubt about that,” said the innkeeper. “Her bread and her cider are things to remember.”
“Things to dream upon, in fact?”
“Yes, young man; and if you doubt me you had better try them for yourself.”
Now it was here that Gervase affected a lordly indifference, a lofty disdain. “Well, Master Innkeeper, I don’t mind very much if I do,” he said, and his air was almost one of condescension.
“You shall do so young man,” said the innkeeper proudly.
And in an exceedingly loud voice he addressed some unseen presence within the precincts of the inn kitchen. “Marian, bring out at once one of your newest and largest loaves for a young gentleman in a tarnished doublet of black velvet.”
“You have forgotten the cider,” said Gervase, with an air of profound indifference. “A large pot would be the best, I think.”
“Also a full pint pot o’ your last year’s cider, Marian.”
“And perhaps a little of the cream cheese would not be amiss in the circumstances. It is wise as a rule to make quite sure in a matter of this kind.”
“That’s true,” said the innkeeper heartily. “There is nothing betwixt here and Derby that can hold a candle to her cream cheese. Bring out a ripe cream cheese, Marian.”
Anne began to tremble with excitement at the mere mention of these viands, but Gervase sat as cool and collected as any man could have done in the circumstances.
Presently a crone about seventy years of age brought forth a loaf of bread, a cheese and a jug of cider. She laid them on the bench by the side of Gervase.
With much deliberation the young man broke the bread in half and divided the cheese into two portions with his dagger. He handed one share to his companion solemnly. “I ought to tell you, Master Innkeeper,” Gervase explained, “that my sister here is about as good a judge of food as there is to be found in the Midland Counties. Tell me what you think of the cheese, my dear Philomela?”
It was as much as ever Anne could do not to appear ravenous. “I think the cheese is splendid,” she said.
“Ha! I knew it would be so!” said the landlord. “And what do you think o’ the bread and the cider, you pretty young doxey?”
“I have never tasted anything like them,” said Anne.
“Ha! I knew it would be so!” said the landlord, with an air of pride that was wonderful.