Kitabı oku: «The Armourer's Prentices», sayfa 17

“Methinks I have seen thy face before,” said Sir Thomas, looking keenly at him.  “I have beheld those black eyes, though with a different favour.”

Ambrose blushed deeply.  “Sir, it is but honest to tell you that my mother’s brother is jester to my Lord Cardinal.”

“Quipsome Hal Merriman!  Patch as the King calleth him!” exclaimed Sir Thomas.  “A man I have ever thought wore the motley rather from excess, than infirmity, of wit.”

“Nay, sir, so please you, it was his good heart that made him a jester,” said Ambrose, explaining the story of Randall and his Perronel in a few words, which touched the friends a good deal, and the Dean remembered that she was in charge of the little Moresco girl.  He lost nothing by dealing thus openly with his new master, who promised to keep his secret for him, then gave him handsel of his salary, and bade him collect his possessions, and come to take up his abode in the house of the More family at Chelsea.

He would still often see his brother in the intervals of attending Sir Thomas to the courts of law, but the chief present care was to get the boys into purer air, both to expedite their recovery and to ensure them against being dragged into the penitential company who were to ask for their lives on the 22nd of May, consisting of such of the prisoners who could still stand or go—for jail-fever was making havoc among them, and some of the better-conditioned had been released by private interest.  The remainder, not more than half of the original two hundred and seventy-eight, were stripped to their shirts, had halters hung round their necks, and then, roped together as before, were driven through the streets to Westminster, where the King sat enthroned.  There, looking utterly miserable, they fell on their knees before him, and received his pardon for their misdemeanours.  They returned to their masters, and so ended that Ill May-day, which was the longer remembered because one Churchill, a ballad-monger in St. Paul’s Churchyard, indited a poem on it, wherein he swelled the number of prentices to two thousand, and of the victims to two hundred.  Will Wherry, who escaped from among the prisoners very forlorn, was recommended by Ambrose to the work of a carter at the Dragon, which he much preferred to printing.

CHAPTER XIX
AT THE ANTELOPE

 
“Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen
   Full many a sprightly race,
Disporting on thy margent green,
   The paths of pleasure trace.”
 

—Gray.

Master Hope took all the guests by boat to Windsor, and very soon the little party at the Antelope was in a state of such perfect felicity as became a proverb with them all their lives afterwards.  It was an inn wherein to take one’s ease, a large hostel full of accommodation for man and horse, with a big tapestried room of entertainment below, where meals were taken, with an oriel window with a view of the Round Tower, and above it a still more charming one, known as the Red Rose, because one of the Dukes of Somerset had been wont to lodge there.  The walls were tapestried with the story of St. Genoveva of Brabant, fresh and new on Mrs. Streatfield’s marriage; there was a huge bed with green curtains of that dame’s own work, where one might have said

 
“Above, below, the rose of snow,
Twined with her blushing foe we spread.”
 

so as to avoid all offence.  There was also a cupboard or sideboard of the choicer plate belonging to the establishment, and another awmry containing appliances for chess and backgammon, likewise two large chairs, several stools, and numerous chests.

This apartment was given up to Mistress Randall and the two girls, subject however to the chance of turning out for any very distinguished guests.  The big bed held all three, and the chamber was likewise their sitting-room, though they took their meals down stairs, and joined the party in the common room in the evening whenever they were not out of doors, unless there were guests whom Perronel did not think desirable company for her charges.  Stephen and Giles were quartered in a small room known as the Feathers, smelling so sweet of lavender and woodruff that Stephen declared it carried him back to the Forest.  Mrs. Streatfield would have taken Jasper to tend among her children, but the boy could not bear to be without Stephen, and his brother advised her to let it be so, and not try to make a babe of him again.

The guest-chamber below stairs opened at one end into the innyard, a quadrangle surrounded with stables, outhouses, and offices, with a gallery running round to give access to the chambers above, where, when the Court was at Windsor, two or three great men’s trains of retainers might be crowded together.

One door, however, in the side of the guest-chamber had steps down to an orchard, full of apple and pear trees in their glory of pink bud and white blossom, borders of roses, gillyflowers, and lilies of the valley running along under the grey walls.  There was a broad space of grass near the houses, whence could be seen the Round Tower of the Castle looking down in protection, while the background of the view was filled up with a mass of the foliage of Windsor forest, in the spring tints.

Stephen never thought of its being beautiful, but he revelled in the refreshment of anything so like home, and he had nothing to wish for but his brother, and after all he was too contented and happy even to miss him much.

Master Streatfield was an elderly man, fat and easygoing, to whom talking seemed rather a trouble than otherwise, though he was very good-natured.  His wife was a merry, lively, active woman, who had been handed over to him by her father like a piece of Flanders cambric, but who never seemed to regret her position, managed men and maids, farm and guests, kept perfect order without seeming to do so, and made great friends with Perronel, never guessing that she had been one of the strolling company, who, nine or ten years before, had been refused admission to the Antelope, then crowded with my Lord of Oxford’s followers.

At first, it was enough for the prentices to spend most of their time in lying about on the grass under the trees.  Giles, who was in the best condition, exerted himself so far as to try to learn chess from Aldonza, who seemed to be a proficient in the game, and even defeated the good-natured burly parson who came every evening to the Antelope, to imbibe slowly a tankard of ale, and hear any news there stirring.

She and Giles were content to spend hours over her instructions in chess on that pleasant balcony in the shade of the house.  Though really only a year older than Dennet Headley, she looked much more, and was so in all her ways.  It never occurred to her to run childishly wild with delight in the garden and orchard as did Dennet, who, with little five-years-old Will Streatfield for her guide and playfellow, rushed about hither and thither, making acquaintance with hens and chickens, geese and goslings, seeing cows and goats milked, watching butter churned, bringing all manner of animal and vegetable curiosities to Stephen to be named and explained, and enjoying his delight in them, a delight which after the first few days became more and more vigorous.

By and by there was punting and fishing on the river, strawberry gathering in the park, explorations of the forest, expeditions of all sorts and kinds, Jasper being soon likewise well enough to share in them.  The boys and girls were in a kind of fairy hand under Perronel’s kind wing, the wandering habits of whose girlhood made the freedom of the country far more congenial to her than it would have been to any regular Londoner.

Stephen was the great oracle, of course, as to the deer respectfully peeped at in the park, or the squirrels, the hares and rabbits, in the forest, and the inhabitants of the stream above or below.  It was he who secured and tamed the memorials of their visit—two starlings for Dennet and Aldonza.  The birds were to be taught to speak, and to do wonders of all kinds, but Aldonza’s bird was found one morning dead, and Giles consoled her by the promise of something much bigger, and that would talk much better.  Two days after he brought her a young jackdaw.  Aldonza clasped her hands and admired its glossy back and queer blue eye, and was in transports when it uttered something between “Jack” and “good lack.”  But Dennet looked in scorn at it, and said, “That’s a bird tamed already.  He didn’t catch it.  He only bought it!  I would have none such!  An ugsome great thieving bird!”

“Nay now, Mistress Dennet,” argued Perronel.  “Thou hast thy bird, and Alice has lost hers.  It is not meet to grudge it to her.”

“I!  Grudge it to her!” said Dennet, with a toss of the head.  “I grudge her nought from Giles Headley, so long as I have my Goldspot that Stephen climbed the wall for, his very self.”

And Dennet turned majestically away with her bird—Goldspot only in the future—perched on her finger; while Perronel shook her head bodingly.

But they were all children still, and Aldonza was of a nature that was slow to take offence, while it was quite true that Dennet had been free from jealousy of the jackdaw, and only triumphant in Stephen’s prowess and her own starling.

The great pleasure of all was a grand stag-hunt, got up for the diversion of the French ambassadors, who had come to treat for the espousals of the infant Princess Mary with the baby “Dolphyne.”  Probably these illustrious personages did not get half the pleasure out of it that the Antelope party had.  Were they not, by special management of a yeoman pricker who had recognised in Stephen a kindred spirit, and had a strong admiration for Mistress Randall, placed where there was the best possible view of hunters, horses, and hounds, lords and ladies, King and ambassadors, in their gorgeous hunting trim?  Did not Stephen, as a true verdurer’s son, interpret every note on the horn, and predict just what was going to happen, to the edification of all his hearers?  And when the final rush took place, did not the prentices, with their gowns rolled up, dart off headlong in pursuit?  Dennet entertained some hope that Stephen would again catch some runaway steed, or come to the King’s rescue in some way or other, but such chances did not happen every day.  Nay, Stephen did not even follow up the chase to the death, but left Giles to do that, turning back forsooth because that little Jasper thought fit to get tired and out of breath, and could not find his way back alone.  Dennet was quite angry with Stephen and turned her back on him, when Giles came in all glorious, at having followed up staunchly all day, having seen the fate of the poor stag, and having even beheld the King politely hand the knife to Monsieur de Montmorency to give the first stroke to the quarry!

That was the last exploit.  There was to be a great tilting match in honour of the betrothal, and Master Alderman Headley wanted his apprentices back again, and having been satisfied by a laborious letter from Dennet, sent per carrier, that they were in good health, despatched orders by the same means, that they were to hire horses at the Antelope and return—Jasper coming back at the same time, though his aunt would fain have kept him longer.

Women on a journey almost always rode double, and the arrangement came under debate.  Perronel, well accustomed to horse, ass, or foot, undertook to ride behind the child, as she called Jasper, who—as a born Londoner—knew nothing of horses, though both the other prentices did.  Giles, who, in right of his name, kindred, and expectations, always held himself a sort of master, declared that “it was more fitting that Stephen should ride before Mistiness Dennet.”  And to this none of the party made any objection, except that Perronel privately observed to him that she should have thought he would have preferred the company of his betrothed.

“I shall have quite enough of her by and by,” returned Giles; then adding, “She is a good little wench, but it is more for her honour that her father’s servant should ride before her.”

Perronel held her tongue, and they rode merrily back to London, and astonished their several homes by the growth and healthful looks of the young people.  Even Giles was grown, though he did not like to be told so, and was cherishing the down on his chin.  But the most rapid development had been in Aldonza, or Alice, as Perronel insisted on calling her to suit the ears of her neighbours.  The girl was just reaching the borderland of maidenhood, which came all the sooner to one of southern birth and extraction, when the great change took her from being her father’s childish darling to be Perronel’s companion and assistant.  She had lain down on that fatal May Eve a child, she rose in the little house by the Temple Gardens, a maiden, and a very lovely one, with delicate, refined, beautifully cut features of a slightly aquiline cast, a bloom on her soft brunette cheek, splendid dark liquid eyes shaded by long black lashes, under brows as regular and well arched as her Eastern cousins could have made them artificially, magnificent black hair, that could hardly be contained in the close white cap, and a lithe beautiful figure on which the plainest dress sat with an Eastern grace.  Perronel’s neighbours did not admire her.  They were not sure whether she were most Saracen, gipsy, or Jew.  In fact, she was as like Rachel at the well as her father had been to a patriarch, and her descent was of the purest Saracen lineage, but a Christian Saracen was an anomaly the London mind could not comprehend, and her presence in the family tended to cast suspicion that Master Randall himself, with his gipsy eyes, and mysterious comings and goings, must have some strange connections.  For this, however, Perronel cared little.  She had made her own way for many years past, and had won respect and affection by many good offices to her neighbours, one of whom had taken her laundry work in her absence.

Aldonza was by no means indocile or incapable.  She shared in Perronel’s work without reluctance, making good use of her slender, dainty brown fingers, whether in cooking, household work, washing, ironing, plaiting, making or mending the stiff lawn collars and cuffs in which her hostess’s business lay.  There was nothing that she would not do when asked, or when she saw that it would save trouble to good mother Perronel, of whom she was very fond, and she seemed serene and contented, never wanting to go abroad; but she was very silent, and Perronel declared herself never to have seen any living woman so perfectly satisfied to do nothing.  The good dame herself was industrious, not only from thrift but from taste, and if not busy in her vocation or in household business, was either using her distaff or her needle, or chatting with her neighbours—often doing both at once; but though Aldonza could spin, sew, and embroider admirably, and would do so at the least request from her hostess, it was always a sort of task, and she never seemed so happy as when seated on the floor, with her dark eyes dreamily fixed on the narrow window, where hung her jackdaw’s cage, and the beads of her rosary passing through her fingers.  At first Mistress Randall thought she was praying, but by and by came to the conviction that most of the time “the wench was bemused.”  There was nothing to complain of in one so perfectly gentle and obedient, and withal, modest and devout; but the good woman, after having for some time given her the benefit of the supposition that she was grieving for her father, began to wonder at such want of activity and animation, and to think that on the whole Jack was the more talkative companion.

Aldonza had certainly not taught him the phrases he was so fond of repeating.  Giles Headley had undertaken his education, and made it a reason for stealing down to the Temple many an evening after work was done, declaring that birds never learnt so well as after dark.  Moreover, he had possessed himself of a chess board, and insisted that Aldonza should carry on her instructions in the game; he brought her all his Holy Cross Day gain of nuts, and he used all his blandishments to persuade Mrs. Randall to come and see the shooting at the popinjay, at Mile End.

All this made the good woman uneasy.  Her husband was away, for the dread of sweating sickness had driven the Court from London, and she could only take counsel with Tibble Steelman.  It was Hallowmas Eve, and Giles had been the bearer of an urgent invitation from Dennet to her friend Aldonza to come and join the diversions of the evening.  There was a large number of young folk in the hall—Jasper Hope among them—mostly contemporaries of Dennet, and almost children, all keen upon the sports of the evening, namely, a sort of indoor quintain, where the revolving beam was decorated with a lighted candle at one end, and at the other an apple to be caught at by the players with their mouths, their hands being tied behind them.

Under all the uproarious merriment that each attempt occasioned, Tibble was about to steal off to his own chamber and his beloved books, when, as he backed out of the group of spectators, he was arrested by Mistress Randall, who had made her way into the rear of the party at the same time.

“Can I have a word with you, privily, Master Steelman?” she asked.

Unwillingly he muttered, “Yea, so please you;” and they retreated to a window at the dark end of the hall, where Perronel began—“The alderman’s daughter is contracted to young Giles, her kinsman, is she not?”

“Not as yet in form, but by the will of the parents,” returned Tibble, impatiently, as he thought of the half-hour’s reading which he was sacrificing to woman’s gossip.

“An it be so,” returned Perronel, “I would fain—were I Master Headley—that he spent not so many nights in gazing at mine Alice.”

“Forbid him the house, good dame.”

“Easier spoken than done,” returned Perronel.  “Moreover, ’tis better to let the matter, such as it is, be open in my sight than to teach them to run after one another stealthily, whereby worse might ensue.”

“Have they spoken then to one another?” asked Tibble, beginning to take alarm.

“I trow not.  I deem they know not yet what draweth them together.”

“Pish, they are mere babes!” quoth Tib, hoping he might cast it off his mind.

“Look!” said Perronel; and as they stood on the somewhat elevated floor of the bay window, they could look over the heads of the other spectators to the seats where the young girls sat.

Aldonza’s beautiful and peculiar contour of head and face rose among the round chubby English faces like a jessamine among daisies, and at that moment she was undertaking, with an exquisite smile, the care of the gown that Giles laid at her feet, ere making his venture.

“There!” said Perronel.  “Mark that look on her face!  I never see it save for that same youngster.  The children are simple and guileless thus far, it may be.  I dare be sworn that she is, but they wot not where they will be led on.”

“You are right, dame; you know best, no doubt,” said Tib, in helpless perplexity.  “I wot nothing of such gear.  What would you do?”

“Have the maid wedded at once, ere any harm come of it,” returned Perronel promptly.  “She will make a good wife—there will be no complaining of her tongue, and she is well instructed in all good housewifery.”

“To whom then would you give her?” asked Tibble.

“Ay, that’s the question.  Comely and good she is, but she is outlandish, and I fear me ’twould take a handsome portion to get her dark skin and Moorish blood o’erlooked.  Nor hath she aught, poor maid, save yonder gold and pearl earrings, and a cross of gold that she says her father bade her never part with.”

“I pledged my word to her father,” said Tibble, “that I would have a care of her.  I have not cared to hoard, having none to come after me, but if a matter of twenty or five-and-twenty marks would avail—”

“Wherefore not take her yourself?” said Perronel, as he stood aghast.  “She is a maid of sweet obedient conditions, trained by a scholar even like yourself.  She would make your chamber fair and comfortable, and tend you dutifully.”

“Whisht, good woman.  ’Tis too dark to see, or you could not speak of wedlock to such as I.  Think of the poor maid!”

“That is all folly!  She would soon know you for a better husband than one of those young feather-pates, who have no care but of themselves.”

“Nay, mistress,” said Tibble, gravely, “your advice will not serve here.  To bring that fair young wench hither, to this very court, mind you, with a mate loathly to behold as I be, and with the lad there ever before her, would be verily to give place to the devil.”

“But you are the best sword-cutler in London.  You could make a living without service.”

“I am bound by too many years of faithful kindness to quit my master or my home at the Dragon,” said Tibble.  “Nay, that will not serve, good friend.”

“Then what can be done?” asked Perronel, somewhat in despair.  “There are the young sparks at the Temple.  One or two of them are already beginning to cast eyes at her, so that I dare not let her help me carry home my basket, far less go alone.  ’Tis not the wench’s fault.  She shrinks from men’s eyes more than any maid I ever saw, but if she bide long with me, I wot not what may come of it.  There be rufflers there who would not stick to carry her off!”

Tibble stood considering, and presently said, “Mayhap the Dean might aid thee in this matter.  He is free of hand and kind of heart, and belike he would dower the maid, and find an honest man to wed her.”

Perronel thought well of the suggestion, and decided that after the mass on All Soul’s Day, and the general visiting of the graves of kindred, she would send Aldonza home with Dennet, whom they were sure to meet in the Pardon Churchyard, since her mother, as well as Abenali and Martin Fulford lay there; and herself endeavour to see Dean Colet, who was sure to be at home, as he was hardly recovered from an attack of the prevalent disorder.

Then Tibble escaped, and Perronel drew near to the party round the fire, where the divination of the burning of nuts was going on, but not successfully, since no pair hitherto put in would keep together.  However, the next contribution was a snail, which had been captured on the wall, and was solemnly set to crawl on the hearth by Dennet, “to see whether it would trace a G or an H.”

However, the creature proved sullen or sleepy, and no jogging of hands, no enticing, would induce it to crawl an inch, and the alderman, taking his daughter on his knee, declared that it was a wise beast, who knew her hap was fixed.  Moreover, it was time for the rere supper, for the serving-men with the lanterns would be coming for the young folk.

London entertainments for women or young people had to finish very early unless they had a strong escort to go home with, for the streets were far from safe after dark.  Giles’s great desire to convoy her home, added to Perronel’s determination, and on All Souls’ Day, while knells were ringing from every church in London, she roused Aldonza from her weeping devotions at her father’s grave, and led her to Dennet, who had just finished her round of prayers at the grave of the mother she had never known, under the protection of her nurse, and two or three of the servants.  The child, who had thought little of her mother, while her grandmother was alert and supplied the tenderness and care she needed, was beginning to yearn after counsel and sympathy, and to wonder, as she told her beads, what might have been, had that mother lived.  She took Aldonza’s hand, and the two girls threaded their way out of the crowded churchyard together, while Perronel betook herself to the Deanery of St. Paul’s.

Good Colet was always accessible to the meanest, but he had been very ill, and the porter had some doubts about troubling him respecting the substantial young matron whose trim cap and bodice, and full petticoats, showed no tokens of distress.  However, when she begged him to take in her message, that she prayed the Dean to listen to her touching the child of the old man who was slain on May Eve, he consented; and she was at once admitted to an inner chamber, where Colet, wrapped in a gown lined with lambskin, sat by the fire, looking so wan and feeble that it went to the good woman’s heart and she began by an apology for troubling him.

“Heed not that, good dame,” said the Dean, courteously, “but sit thee down and let me hear of the poor child.”

“Ah, reverend sir, would that she were still a child—” and Perronel proceeded to tell her difficulties, adding, that if the Dean could of his goodness promise one of the dowries which were yearly given to poor maidens of good character, she would inquire among her gossips for some one to marry the girl.  She secretly hoped he would take the hint, and immediately portion Aldonza himself, perhaps likewise find the husband.  And she was disappointed that he only promised to consider the matter and let her hear from him.  She went back and told Tibble that his device was nought, an old scholar with one foot in the grave knew less of women than even he did!

However it was only four days later, that, as Mrs. Randall was hanging out her collars to dry, there came up to her from the Temple stairs a figure whom for a moment she hardly knew, so different was the long, black garb, and short gown of the lawyer’s clerk from the shabby old green suit that all her endeavours had not been able to save from many a stain of printer’s ink.  It was only as he exclaimed, “Good aunt, I am fain to see thee here!” that she answered, “What, thou, Ambrose!  What a fine fellow thou art!  Truly I knew not thou wast of such good mien!  Thou thrivest at Chelsea!”

“Who would not thrive there?” said Ambrose.  “Nay, aunt, tarry a little, I have a message for thee that I would fain give before we go in to Aldonza.”

“From his reverence the Dean?  Hath he bethought himself of her?”

“Ay, that hath he done,” said Ambrose.  “He is not the man to halt when good may be done.  What doth he do, since it seems thou hadst speech of him, but send for Sir Thomas More, then sitting at Westminster, to come and see him as soon as the Court brake up, and I attended my master.  They held council together, and by and by they sent for me to ask me of what conditions and breeding the maid was, and what I knew of her father?”

“Will they wed her to thee?  That were rarely good, so they gave thee some good office!” cried his aunt.

“Nay, nay,” said Ambrose.  “I have much to learn and understand ere I think of a wife—if ever.  Nay!  But when they had heard all I could tell them, they looked at one another, and the Dean said, ‘The maid is no doubt of high blood in her own land—scarce a mate for a London butcher or currier.”

“‘It were matching an Arab mare with a costard monger’s colt,’ said my master, ‘or Angelica with Ralph Roisterdoister.’”

“I’d like to know what were better for the poor outlandish maid than to give her to some honest man,” put in Perronel.

“The end of it was,” said Ambrose, “that Sir Thomas said he was to be at the palace the next day, and he would strive to move the Queen to take her countrywoman into her service.  Yea, and so he did, but though Queen Katharine was moved by hearing of a fatherless maid of Spain, and at first spake of taking her to wait on herself, yet when she heard the maid’s name, and that she was of Moorish blood, she would none of her.  She said that heresy lurked in them all, and though Sir Thomas offered that the Dean or the Queen’s own chaplain should question her on the faith, it was all lost labour.  I heard him tell the Dean as much, and thus it is that they bade me come for thee, and for the maid, take boat, and bring you down to Chelsea, where Sir Thomas will let her be bred up to wait on his little daughters till he can see what best may be done for her.  I trow his spirit was moved by the Queen’s hardness!  I heard the Dean mutter, ‘Et venient ab Oriente et Occidente.’”

Perronel hooked alarmed.  “The Queen deemed her heretic in grain!  Ah!  She is a good wench, and of kind conditions.  I would have no ill befall her, but I am glad to be rid of her.  Sir Thomas—he is a wise man, ay, and a married man, with maidens of his own, and he may have more wit in the business than the rest of his kind.  Be the matter instant?”

“Methinks Sir Thomas would have it so, since this being a holy day, the courts be not sitting, and he is himself at home, so that he can present the maid to his lady.  And that makes no small odds.”

“Yea, but what the lady is makes the greater odds to the maid, I trow,” said Perronel anxiously.

“Fear not on that score.  Dame Alice More is of kindly conditions, and will be good to any whom her lord commends to her; and as to the young ladies, never saw I any so sweet or so wise as the two elder ones, specially Mistress Margaret.”

“Well-a-day!  What must be must!” philosophically observed Perronel.  “Now I have my wish, I could mourn over it.  I am loth to part with the wench; and my man, when he comes home, will make an outcry for his pretty Ally; but ’tis best so.  Come, Alice, girl, bestir thyself.  Here’s preferment for thee.”

Aldonza raised her great soft eyes in slow wonder, and when she had heard what was to befall her, declared that she wanted no advancement, and wished only to remain with mother Perronel.  Nay, she clung to the kind woman, beseeching that she might not be sent away from the only motherly tenderness she had ever known, and declaring that she would work all day and all night rather than leave her; but the more reluctance she showed, the more determined was Perronel, and she could not but submit to her fate, only adding one more entreaty that she might take her jackdaw, which was now a spruce grey-headed bird.  Perronel said it would be presumption in a waiting-woman, but Ambrose declared that at Chelsea there were all manner of beasts and birds, beloved by the children and by their father himself, and that he believed the daw would be welcome.  At any rate, if the lady of the house objected to it, it could return with Mistress Randall.