Everett-Green Evelyn
A Clerk of Oxford, and His Adventures in the Barons' War
CHAPTER XVII
THE BELL OF ST MARTIN'S
It was the day of the bi-weekly fair, and the High Street was considerably crowded as Hugh walked along it on his way back towards his quarters in the Castle. He had passed by the vendors of hay and straw gathered near the East Gate with their horses and carts, and was picking his way through the motley crowd who were chaffering on the one side of the street with the sellers of poultry, meat, and fish, and on the other with the sellers of gloves, hosiery, and those other articles of which mercers were the vendors. The street was encumbered with stalls set up by country folks for the sale of greengrocery, scullery-wares, and fruit or cakes. At Carfax itself the sellers of white bread set up their stalls and called their wares; opposite All Saints' Church stood the tables of sellers of gloves, earthenware, and ale. Altogether it was a busy and animated scene, and although Hugh was well accustomed to it, he could not but look about him with amusement, and pause now and again to listen to a piece of unwontedly animated bargaining.
Clerks and scholars, and even some of the higher dignitaries of the place, were abroad in the streets; and as the evening was approaching, those who still wanted to buy were pressing forward eagerly.
Hugh was detained for a time by meeting with one of the Masters who had something to say to him, and the pair stood for some little time beneath the shadow of All Saints' whilst they conversed.
Meantime the aspect of the streets changed considerably: tables and stalls were broken up and taken away by the country folk, who streamed off through the various gates; town tradesmen took in their wares, and began to close their shops; and the purchasers hurried home with their goods, talking and laughing, and comparing notes upon their bargains.
The shadows were falling in the narrow thoroughfares as at length Hugh pursued his way eastward. There were plenty of passengers still afoot, but the crowd had thinned somewhat. As he passed by the bull-ring in Carfax, he thought he heard the sound of a small tumult from the direction of the North Gate, where the cordwainers and mercers congregated on market days; but he paid little heed to it, and continued his way to the Great Bayly, where the drapers were putting up their shutters for the night.
Suddenly the great bell of St. Martin's overhead boomed out through the startled air, and immediately all was hurry and confusion.
The tolling or ringing of the bell of St. Martin's was always the signal for the citizens to rally against the University, and showed that some collision between clerks and townsmen had occurred. Hugh quickened his steps, having no desire to be mixed up in one of those senseless outbreaks of anger and jealousy which were constantly disturbing the peace of Oxford.
Just lately these riots had been more frequent than ever, the disturbed state of public feeling seeming in this place to take the form of incessant rioting in the streets. Several persons, both citizens and clerks, had recently been killed, and a number more injured more or less severely during the past weeks; and Hugh had heard the Constable of the Castle speak in no measured terms of the need to take stronger measures against the delinquents.
Within the last few months a new Chancellor had been appointed to the University, the celebrated Thomas de Cantilupe, who had just arrived at the University (where he had previously taken the degree of Doctor of Canon Law), and he had joined issue with the Constable for the preservation of order. Indeed he had already adventured himself into the streets to interpose between some riotous spirits of North and South who had come to blows, and had himself received some injury in seeking to pacify the insensate youths.
It was said that he was about to make some fresh regulations, in the hope of putting a stop to this perpetual nuisance; but so far his decision had not been made public, as he had been obliged to keep to his rooms till his bruises should be healed.
Hugh, however, had heard and seen enough to feel indignant at any fresh outbreak, and he quickened his steps in order to avoid any contact with a gathering crowd. Already citizens were hurrying towards Carfax, eager to learn what was betiding; several brushed past Hugh as he walked; and then, before his very eyes, a strange and terrible thing happened.
Suddenly he was aware that in a dark doorway close at hand a cowled figure was standing. Then the figure moved, and Hugh saw the glancing blade of a long, murderous stiletto flash out. It was plunged up to the hilt in the body of a citizen hurrying by towards Carfax, and the hapless man fell dead at Hugh's feet without so much as a groan.
The young man stood stupified with astonishment and horror; then in a moment he realized the peril of his own position.
"Seize him! seize him!" yelled a dozen furious voices; "he has slain one of our townsmen! Seize the murderer! Do to him as he hath done! Take him red-handed in the act, and we will see that justice is done upon him!"
"My good friends," said Hugh, looking at the angry faces surrounding him, and striving to keep his head in face of this very real peril, "I am innocent of the death of this unhappy man. I do not even know who he is. The murderer was a man disguised in the habit of a monk, loitering in yon doorway. Search, and you will find him yet, and I can testify to the blow he struck!"
Angry and excited, the crowd would scarce hear him. No such figure as he described was to be found. No one had seen a monk in the street, nor could Hugh declare in what direction he had fled after committing the crime, so bewildered had he been by the suddenness of the deed, and by its tragic sequel. His words were received with hisses of scornful discredit; the angry townsmen, some of whom were neighbours to the murdered man, clamoured more and more fiercely for the blood of the destroyer. Overhead the bell of St. Martin's swung in the air, increasing the excitement with every clang. The street was full of wrathful burghers; yells, curses, threats, rent the air. Hugh believed that in another moment the crowd would fall upon him and tear him in pieces, and had almost given himself over as lost, when a loud voice dominated the others in the throng, and yelled out lustily, —
"Take him to the Bocardo prison; lock him up there for the night, and then let the Mayor and the Chancellor deal with him. They will avenge us of the death of our neighbour. Let us not fall upon him ourselves, or we shall, perchance, have our liberties again curtailed."
Many grumbled, and showed a disposition to resist this counsel, crying out that it were better to deal with the miscreant then and there, for that clerks and bachelors were always let off far too easily by the authorities. But the older men of the city knew well that the slaying of a clerk was regarded with severity by those in authority, and had sometimes been punished by the King himself in the withdrawal of certain liberties and privileges from the city charter. If a clerk fell in open fight, that was one thing; but for the citizens deliberately to doom him to death, and to dispatch him with their own hands without form of trial, was another; and it was this sort of summary justice which brought the citizens into trouble.
"To the Bocardo then, to the Bocardo!" cried the wiser of the onlookers; and despite the mutterings of the malcontents, Hugh was hustled along, not without receiving many sly blows and kicks by the way, in the direction of the North Gate, where the Bocardo prison was situated.
It was getting very dark by this time. Breathless, spent, and bewildered, the clothes half torn from his back, his purse and clasp and finger-ring filched from him by thieving hands, Hugh was thankful when the gloomy gateway was reached, and he felt himself thrust up a dim stairway and flung with scant ceremony into a dark and ill-smelling room.
A faint ray of light stole in through a grating overhead, and revealed a small stone chamber with a truss of straw in one corner as its only plenishing. He was given over to the custody of a surly-looking fellow, who merely answered his questions with a grunt. Hugh greatly regretted the loss of his purse, as he felt sure that a gold piece would have worked wonders upon his custodian. He wanted to send a message to Leofric, to Edmund, to the Constable himself; but at the very mention of this wish the man broke into curses, and said he had other things to do than run errands for prisoners. He could wait till he was brought out for trial, and then see what was said to his fine tales!
With that the jailer deposited a pitcher of water and a modicum of bread within the door, and going out banged and locked it behind him, leaving Hugh to meditate in silence and darkness upon the thing that had befallen him.
Little sleep was there for him that night, and the tardy daylight brought small increase of comfort. He listened eagerly for any sounds from without that should tell of approaching deliverance; but hour after hour passed, and nobody came near him save the sullen jailer, who put down the rough fare of his prisoner, and did not deign so much as to answer a single question.
Such treatment was hard to bear, and Hugh, unaccustomed to it, chafed not a little against the helplessness of his position. He wondered whether his friends were in ignorance of what had befallen him. Surely if they knew they would do something for his release. It seemed monstrous that he should lie under the imputation of this foul crime. Surely no man of any standing in the city would believe him capable of it. And yet how could he prove his innocence, when his foes would make it appear that he had been caught red-handed in the act?
His was certainly no enviable position, nor did his thoughts tend to increase his peace of mind. He recalled his previous uneasiness with regard to a tall grey-cowled monk, and could not but believe that the figure lurking in the doorway had been that of the same person as he had seen so often in the streets before or behind him. He remembered what Leofric had said as to a monk at Eynsham spying upon him there. A thrill of fear ran through his heart lest Linda should once more be endangered – and through him. And then, again, had not he seen that scarred and bearded face amid the rabble crowd that thronged and maltreated him? Had not that man, so often seen of late, been one of his foremost foes? He felt in a maze of perplexity and dread. Was he to be the victim of some new plot, which had for its object to separate him and his beloved?
He paced his narrow cell hour after hour in mute misery and disquietude. When would he be brought to trial? When would his friends find him? He could hear the familiar sounds in the streets below. He could hear the sentries at the gate relieving one another. Why did nobody come near him? How long was he to be left thus?
Gradually the hope of seeing any face (save that of the jailer) upon this day faded from Hugh's mind. The light began to flicker and grow dim. The prison chamber became dark as night. At last even the outline of the grating above his head became indistinguishable. Hugh, with a groan of disappointment and weariness, threw himself upon his sordid bed, and after a time found oblivion from his woes in sleep.
How long he slept he knew not, but he was suddenly awakened by the sound of a stealthy movement outside the door. He started up and held his breath. Yes, he was certain of it. Somebody was outside, feeling over the walls and door as if in search of the fastening; and presently he heard a key softly fitted into the lock.
His heart beat fast as he heard the door open and a soft rustle bespeak the entrance of some human intruder. Then followed a deep silence, broken by the sound of a voice – a voice which like new wine sent the blood coursing through the young man's veins.
"Hugh – my beloved – art thou there?"
"Linda!" he cried, in wild amaze, and the next moment had groped his way across the intervening space, and had encircled her with his arm – "Linda, my heart's joy! how comest thou here?"
"Hush, dearest! speak low, lest we be heard. I have come to set thee free – to fly with thee beyond the reach of pursuit. Dearest, wilt thou trust thyself with me?"
He pressed her hand to his lips. He thrilled from head to foot. But how had she come to him in this dread place? He was enwrapped by the sense of mystery.
"Linda, sweetheart, how hast thou made thy way hither? Art thou a being angelic, to whom closed doors offer no obstacle? How hast thou penetrated hither?"
"That will I tell thee anon, dear love. Dost thou not know that love will ever find out the way?" She spoke in low, whispering tones, and he followed her example, guessing well the need for caution and secrecy. "Thou hast friends without these prison walls, and thy friends are working for thee. Nevertheless thy case is somewhat perilous; and if thou canst not make good thy flight, there are grave fears for thy life, since there be many to swear thee guilty of the crime, and both Constable and Chancellor are greatly resolved to make an example of any disturber of the peace, be he citizen or clerk."
"What then shall I do?" asked Hugh.
"Listen, beloved," she answered. "How I have got access to this place I will tell another time, for we may not linger here. But I have brought to thee the habit of a monk. I am likewise attired in cowl and gown. Once free of this prison, we can walk the city streets without fear; for the good friars of St. Francis go about their works of piety and charity by night as well as by day. Only we must not linger in the city, but must flee forth ere thine escape is discovered; for there will be hue and cry after thee, since thou hast at least two vindictive enemies, who are sworn to thy destruction – and to mine undoing!"
She shivered as she spoke, and Hugh muttered something between his teeth. He had been about to say that he would take her back at once to her aunt at Eynsham; but these last words seemed to show that she would not now be safe there.
"Are they molesting thee, sweetheart?" he asked.
"It is that evil Roger de Horn again," she said, with a slight tremor in her voice; "he has come back under another name. It is he who is the disturber of the city's peace. He has found me out, and I am no longer safe with mine aunt. If thou art in danger, beloved, so am I. Can we not both seek safety in flight?"
"Yes, if thou wilt marry me, so soon as we can find some holy man to join our hands in wedlock!" cried Hugh eagerly. "Then will I carry thee to my father's house, and I will seek to win my spurs in the service of King or Prince, whilst thou at home dost play a daughter's part to my sweet mother, who will, I trow, receive thee with open arms, when she shall know what thou hast done and dared for my sake."
All this had been spoken in rapid whispers, and now Hugh hastily donned the monkish garment, which was in fact the habit of a Franciscan friar, and entirely covered his whole person. The cowl was drawn over his head, and he was completely disguised, although in the pitchy darkness they could see nothing, and had to trust to the sense of touch.
Then the soft hands guided him down the narrow stairs – he had discarded his foot gear the better to personate a friar – his companion softly locked the door behind him, and the pair glided down and unfastened the outer door which opened upon the street.
Close at hand, in a tiny chamber, sat the guard of the gate, sunk in sodden sleep, an empty wine-flask lying at his side. The slender cowled figure stole toward him, and replaced the keys at his girdle, whence they had plainly been detached; and then, gliding forth again, she took Hugh by the hand, and they made their way along the shadow of the wall till the Castle loomed up before them.
"Sweetheart," said Hugh suddenly, "why should we go farther? Within these walls we shall find shelter and safety, and here we may be wed ere we fare forth into the world together. I know my friends will not desert me at this perilous moment, and Alys will be as a friend and sister to thee till I can make thee mine own. The sentry at the gate will know me and let me pass; or these habits will suffice to win us our way. Come, beloved; I would not have thee wander longer through the darkness of the night. Trust thy dear self to me, and all will be well."
"Ah no, no!" cried his companion urgently; "thou wilt only run thyself into greater peril. I have planned all. Come only with me. I will lead thee where thou shalt be safe. Only do not delay!"
At the sound of those words Hugh's heart suddenly stood still, and a qualm of fear and mistrust shook him from head to foot.
Was that indeed Linda's voice? Was it like his gentle, timid Linda to refuse such safe shelter for the perils of the road and the uncertainties which must lie before them? When the voice had spoken only in whispers, he had never for a moment doubted; but now – now – his brain felt on fire. He was bewildered – dismayed – apprehensive. If not Linda, who could it be? Who save her twin sister could personate her thus? And was it possible that any good purpose could be designed by those who were practising this fraud upon him? Would not Linda have been the first to snatch at the thought of seeking safety with the gentle Alys, of whom they often spoke together? She might have braved much to get her lover out of prison; but once free from those walls, and maiden modesty, as well as her natural timidity, would have urged her to accept this suggestion with gladness. Hugh knew the nature of his sweetheart too well to be deceived.
But the companion of his flight seized him by the hand and cried eagerly, —
"Come with me! come with me! all is ready – all is planned. There is no need for protection for me. I am safe with thee; and the priest already awaits to unite us in wedlock. Come; I will guide thee to the place."
"Nay, now I know well that thou art not Linda!" suddenly cried Hugh, throwing back his cowl and gazing intently at his companion by the light of a dying moon. "Who and what art thou, who hast come and succoured me under her name? Thou canst be none other than Lotta, for thou hast her voice and her form. What is the meaning of the masquerade?"
With a fierce gesture Lotta flung back her cowl, and stood before him with flashing eyes.
"So thou hast discovered me? I said that thou wouldest; that I could never play the part of puling love-lorn maiden such as Linda was ever wont to be! But I hold thee to thy plighted word. This very night shalt thou marry me. I have saved thy life, and thou art now my prey."
"Nay, Lotta," answered Hugh, with manly dignity of bearing, "I am grateful for thy help. I will not forget my debt, and I will be a true brother to thee to my life's end. But not even if I stood at the point of death would I forswear myself, and vow to love and cherish one I cannot thus love. I am the betrothed of thy sister. To thee I can be nothing but a brother; but I will remember always what thou hast done for me, albeit I will sooner return to my prison walls than be false to mine own true love."
"Fool!" hissed Lotta between her shut teeth, "dost think thou wilt ever wed her? I tell thee she has already been lured from Eynsham by means of thy signet-ring, stolen from off thy finger by Roger de Horn. The same priest who will wed thee and me will wed Linda and Roger ere the day be done. I have loved thee always, Hugh. Even now when thou goest far to make me hate thee, I love thee with a fierce and passionate love which brooks no bounds. From my window I have watched thee go to and fro in the city these many years. Though thou hast forgotten me, I have never forgotten thee; and now when thy life was threatened by evil men, I have offered to save thee at this price. Marry me, and they will cease to fear and hate thee, and will receive thee as kinsman and friend. Refuse, and thy life will pay the forfeit! And make haste in thy choice, for already we are waited for; and if thou dost longer delay, thou wilt be set upon in these dark streets, and not even my voice will avail to save thee."
There were urgency and passion in Lotta's voice, and a part of her words had filled the heart of Hugh with a great fear. Was it indeed true that Linda had been lured away? It might well be, since she would know the signet ring of her lover, and might take it to be a token from him. His heart seemed to stand still within him; his brain felt benumbed by horror. He attempted no reply to Lotta's rapid speech; and noting his silence, she suddenly grasped his arm and shook it in her impatience and urgency.
"Come!" she cried, "come! Better a bridegroom than a dead corpse; and I am as fair as Linda, and as meet a bride for thee. Come, I say, come!" She paused for a moment, and then in more urgent accents cried, "If thou dost not consent, thou art undone. Here come Tito and Roger to look for us."
And indeed at that moment Hugh plainly saw two figures creeping along towards them – the grey-cowled monk and the bearded man with the scarred face.
That was enough for him. His only reason for standing thus long in talk was his chivalrous dread of leaving a maiden alone in the streets of the city. Now that her brother and his comrade were close at hand, he did not hesitate a moment.
They were just beneath the Castle walls. The Gate was half-way between him and his foes. They might chance to reach it as soon as he, did they guess his intentions. But he knew the place well, and knew of a small postern close to the end of Bedford Lane (New Inn Hall Street now). Making therefore a quick dash in the opposite direction, he fled like a hunted hare, and a few loud knocks obtained him entrance from the soldier on guard.
"I am pursued! Shut it after me!" he cried; and the man instantly obeyed, for he thought he was succouring a holy friar from the attacks of some wanton roisterers, too drunk to reverence the habit of their quarry.
And thus it was that Hugh le Barbier escaped from prison and found his way within the Castle walls.
