Part 8

They passed out of the city gates into the open country beyond, the soldier striding along at a pace which would have been too much for his already wearied companion, had not the renewed hope, and prospect of assistance where he had least expected it, excited him, so as to make him almost forget his fatigue. They discussed the whole situation of affairs as they went along, and Dick at first seemed much relieved, but presently his voice sank to the old hoarse whisper.

"What if it is _too late_! TOO LATE! Judas repented, Judas went and flung the pieces down, and tried to save Him, but the blood was on his head and on his children's! You see I know it all; the old man read it out of a book that night I was watching, and then the little one told the whole story upon the cliff. The blood is on my head, I tell you, and if I cannot save them, I shall do as Judas did. I will! I must!"

Bertrand strove to calm the agitated man by preaching to him some of the Lollard doctrines, but found his memory much at fault, and he longed for either his young or his old master to pour the balm of consolation into the heart of this their former enemy, whom he had begun to pity sincerely. But this talk served to beguile the time, till they arrived at a lonely cottage in the forest. A light twinkled in the window to welcome them, and both were glad to enter the cheerful-looking room, and warm themselves at the bright fire.

Joan had a warm supper ready for her husband, though it was quite late, and she was glad to divide it with the man whom she thought most able to help her husband in his distress. She was what might be called a picture of comfort, for the middling class of those times.

She was dressed in petticoat of dark blue cloth, surmounted by a waist or bodice of crimson, that showed in full perfection her well-rounded form. Above this again was a snowy kerchief and cap, so jauntily arranged as to display to the best advantage the clean white skin of her throat and neck, and the brilliant bloom of her round fat cheeks. A pair of bright black eyes looked out over a rather short nose, somewhat on the retrousse order, unless when she happened to laugh, when the visual orbs disappeared, and you became rather interested in her well-set teeth, which she took care should every one appear.

On a solid oaken table, which she drew as close as possible to the fire, she spread a steaming supper, talking all the while, as she moved from the board to the fire, sometimes to her husband, sometimes to his guest, and sometimes to the cooking utensils, the fire, or the meat.

"There!" as she set down one smoking dish before Bertrand's hungry gaze; "there's not such another pair of hares in the county. Lie still on your backs, ye fools; lie still, I say, like Christians! Little Dick caught them himself, with his new net, in the forest."

At the sound of his name, up popped a little black head, from a bed on the floor in the farthest corner.

"Ay, father, that net is a brave one; I will have two pair the morn!"

"Down with your head, ye saucy brat!" said his mother, making a pretense of throwing at his head the gridiron she had just taken from the fire. "Whist! ye little fool! would'st have Moll and Meg awake, and clamoring for supper? Be still, and there'll be a bone for you the morn."

The child's head disappeared, and she continued apologetically, "The naughty lad said he would not sleep till he saw his dad, the brats are so fond of their father; but I did not think the little fool would keep his word;" and the good dame put her hands on her hips, the gridiron still in one hand, and a long wooden spoon in the other, and laughed at her son's disobedience, before she could go on dishing out the meal.

She then turned to the dogs, who were lying under the table. "Out, ye brutes! away, ye hounds! ye had no share in catching the game, and ye shall have none of the meat." But even as she spoke, she belied her words, by throwing them some very liberal bones.

"A truce to your tongue, woman," said her husband at last; "the meat is good, but the sauce tasteless; we have other business on hand to-night!"

"And ye'll have no business done except I help you," she replied, not in the least cast down by the rebuff. "There was never a matter yet, but it was made or marred by a woman. If ye will not go my way, I will have naught to do with it. Eat your fill, and sleep your fill, then in the morn ye shall talk your fill, for then your heads are clearest. Ye may well trust to me, for from me ye get your victuals, and, as the proverb says: 'Always keep friends with the larder.' Yon lazy loon has not brought me enough meat to feed the cat these many days, with all his dreams and vagaries; but he had better bestir himself at daybreak, if ye want a breakfast, for it is hard getting a meal out of an empty cupboard, not to mention that I would not give it to you if I could, seeing ye will not work."

All this was said in as harsh a tone as the good dame could possibly force herself to use; for though she tried to make it appear that she was cross and stingy, she was the most liberal provider, as she was the most absolutely good-natured little woman in all the big county of York.

*CHAPTER XV.*

_*Plots and Counterplots.*_

Christmas had come and gone without bringing any change to the prisoners, except that they saw less and less of Lady Katharine, whom the abbess, using as an excuse the severity of the weather, confined more and more to the house. But all this served only to excite the quick-witted Kate to renewed exertion, and day and night she planned and schemed how she might best free herself and friends. Her bright face and lively manners, as well as the genuine sympathy and kindness she showed to those around her, had endeared her to all with whom she came in contact--all except the head of the house.

Mother Beatrice decidedly disliked and perhaps feared her. She felt that the girl read her character, mocked her pretensions, and was ever on the watch to thwart her plans. She was in her way decidedly, in more senses than one. She had long hoped, by the influence of Lord Hardwick, either to increase the splendor and power of her present convent, or to be removed to a less secluded one near London; and as she knew him to be very fond of his niece, however anxious he might be for her conversion, she did not dare to use harsh measures toward the willful girl, who was setting a dreadful example to the simple nuns, and did not seem inclined to abandon a single one of her heretical notions. Such a grand conquest, too, as it would be if she could only subdue her! She was very matter-of-fact, and not much given to indulge in day-dreams; nevertheless she had caught herself more than once imagining the time when the noble Lady Katharine Hyde should bow her proud head to receive at her hands the black veil of the order, while Earl Hardwick was in the little parlor signing the deeds of conveyance of the whole estate to the Convent of Our Lady of the Seven Sorrows.

But Mother Beatrice would have felt even less secure had she known what was going on in her own proper domain. She had not dared to seclude the young girl from all society, but she did not know how well acquainted she had become with all the sisters, and how she was using them for her own purposes. The little plotter was trying, as she had told Geoffrey, to find the weak spot in the citadel, and she believed she had at length discovered it.

If the one who guards the gate can be won over to the side of the enemy, there is little hope for the garrison, however strong; and though Lady Katharine could make no impression on deaf old Ursula, who wielded her symbols of office with as much authority as the mother superior herself, yet in the person of the assistant who had been granted her on account of her infirmity, she found an excellent point of attack.

The convent porteress was not a nun, for it was her business to attend to all the out-door affairs, and thus keep up that connection between the recluses and the world they had abandoned which was necessary and convenient. It was her duty to purchase stores of provisions and clothing, to attend to the poor who came regularly to the door to receive their dole of charity, and to see that the tenantry of the convent lands paid their dues.

The young girl who assisted her in these often arduous tasks, and who hoped some time to take her place when sister Ursula had exchanged her seat in the entrance-gate for a more quiet resting-place in the crypt of the convent church, was the eldest daughter of dame Joan Redwood, a buxom lass of twenty summers, who had inherited much of her mother's good nature, but very little of her good sense. She was not a little superstitious, and very vain. Although the dress she wore was not entirely conventual, it gave no opportunity for displaying trinkets or bright colors; yet she loved nothing better than to gather a little store of bright kerchiefs and ribbons, in which she arrayed herself when quite alone, and marched up and down her little cell with the greatest complacency, though she never dared carry it any farther.

This had not escaped Kate's quick eyes, and she laid her plot accordingly. She surprised her one day when making her finest toilet, and having first frightened her with the idea that she would immediately report it to the abbess, she soothed her by the gift of a necklace of red beads, and made her her devoted follower from that moment.

The next day being a market day, the first face that presented itself at the wicket of the convent-gate was dame Redwood herself. She was standing beside a sturdy little pony, half hidden by two enormous panniers.

Her daughter's face was covered with blushes, caused partly by pleasure, and partly by the fear of a certain good-natured sort of scolding, which the dame thought it her duty to bestow whenever she had not seen any of her children for a time. She therefore put on her most demure look, and smoothed every fold in her apron before she descended from her post of observation to open the gate.

"A laggard as usual!" said the dame, shaking the snow from her wooden shoes, and running her quick little eyes all over her daughter's person to find the next best point of attack; and before they had gone far they encountered Lady Katharine's present, which the vain girl had put on under her kerchief, but had not sufficiently concealed. She pounced upon it, greatly to poor Phoebe's confusion.

"Ye idle spendthrift!" she said, "ye have been spending the half-noble your father gave ye for your new kirtle on these follies, have ye? Then ye shall go barebacked for all he shall ever give ye again!"

"Nay, mother, do not be angry; the half-noble is safe in the green purse. These are a gift from a noble lady, oh! so beautiful! and she is shut up here because she is a heretic. I don't know what that is, but she seems to me as good as the mother herself."

Now, mistress Redwood's errand to the convent, though ostensibly to sell her eggs, cheese, and milk to the cook, was really to find out what was going on in the house where the prisoners were confined, how they were treated, and, if possible, to open communication with them; thus fulfilling her contract with her husband and Bertrand, who having eaten and slept, had concluded, very wisely, to leave the first steps of the undertaking entirely to her. She did not wish to question her daughter directly, for fear of being overheard, or her remarks repeated; but she knew Phoebe very well, and was well aware that but little pressing was necessary to make her tell all she knew on the subject. She was a little surprised to hear that there was another Lollard prisoner there, and wished to find out something more about her; so she tossed up her head with an air of incredulity.

"A pretty young lady, indeed! That is a story for old folks, not me. And where should a pretty young lady in Our Lady's convent get red bead necklaces to throw around to whoever will pick them up? Tell me where you got it, Phoebe, and I'll not be hard on you."

"I said but the truth, mother--I did, indeed," said poor Phoebe, only bent on proving her innocence, and, forgetting a strict rule which forbade what was seen or heard indoors being repeated without, she told her mother--for the latter still appeared incredulous--all she knew of Lady Katharine Hyde. She also told her, in the hope of distracting attention from the subject in hand, about the arrival of the two heretic boys who were said to have done very wicked things, and were shut up safely in the dungeon under the east tower.

The dame was getting the very information she most wanted, so she demanded, forgetting her caution: "And have ye seen the lads? And is one pale and sickly, with light hair?"

"Nay, mother, I cannot tell: Sister Ursula never sends me with their food. I only saw them the day father brought them here, and then there were so many in the court-yard, and such a trampling of horses, and I had to bring so many tankards of beer for the soldiers, that I minded naught beside."

At this moment there was another summons at the gate, and when Phoebe had opened it a poor woman entered, bearing in her arms a sick baby, and leading by the hand a miserable-looking child just able to walk. They had come for medical assistance from the nuns, who were famous as leeches in those days. A few moments after one of the nuns appeared with Lady Katharine, who was herself well skilled in the art for one of her age, as it was then every lady's duty to be able to order, as well as prepare, the simple medicines then in use, for her family and peasantry; and this was a part of the education which a convent was expected to bestow on those brought up within its walls.

While the two were standing behind the grated window where they received all such applications, Lady Katharine's eyes were wandering round the busy scene in the court-yard, whose occupants had been increased by the arrival of other peasants--some beggars, more sick. This little glimpse of the world was a rare favor for her, and a great treat, so she resolved to make the most of it. Sister Agnes was deaf herself, and was talking to a deaf old woman, so she felt wonderfully at liberty. She noticed dame Redwood, and with her natural quick perception of character determined that she was a person she could trust. In a moment she had devised a plan of operations. She called to her a little child who was standing near.

"Dost thou see yonder stout woman, little one, standing by the gray pony?"

"Ay, lady," said the child; "she is talking to my mother."

"Then run and tell her I have somewhat for the pain in her back."

When her astonished patient came at the summons, she drew her to the farthest corner of the window.

"Good woman, are you a mother?"

The woman looked down at the bright face, now pale with excitement, which was lifted up so beseechingly to her, and a tear glistened in her black eyes, for she easily recognized her from her daughter's story.

"Ay, lady, that am I. Two knaves and two lassies at home, beside a well-grown wench that serves here under Sister Ursula."

"Are you Phoebe's mother? Oh! then think how you would long to see her or the others, if they were shut up in a dreary castle far away from you and all that love them! Would not your heart be very sad for them, and would not you pray to God that some one in that distant place might be kind to them, help them in their troubles, and nurse them when they were sick?"

"That would I, indeed!" said the dame, her motherly heart quite overflowing at this appeal; "and none the less gladly would I help them, lady," she continued, lowering her voice, "if they are of the new faith, for by our Lady, I think not so much of the old as I did a few weeks ago."

"Say you so?" said the young girl joyfully. "Then I have found the very friend I want; but it is not so much for myself that I need your aid as for two poor lads who are shut up here. One is sick, and cannot eat the food they give them, though even that is little enough, and I fear he will die here all alone. He has no mother, but only a father, who knows not what has become of his children."

"Can you see them and talk with them, lady?"

"Not so often as I used; they watch me more closely. It is through great danger that, when I walk in the garden, I can speak to them at a window." She went on to tell her in as few words as possible, how they had become acquainted, for she feared interruption, and she received in reply the welcome news that Bertrand was actually at her cottage plotting their release.

"I will bring the best I have for the poor child to-morrow," said the dame; "but how shall I get leave to see you, lady, when I come?"

"Might not the pain in your back be rather worse to-morrow morn?" replied Lady Katharine mischievously, "and who but Kate Hyde can fit a plaster for it? See also that you bring a bottle for the medicine."

"Hear her now!" laughed the merry dame, delighted at this little bit of diplomacy. "Thou'lt never die for want of wit to know the way to live. The saints preserve me, but the pain shall be bad enough, and the bottle big enough, and the holy Mother Beatrice none the wiser for the business. And be sure, pretty lady, that naught would cure a pain in my back, if I had one in earnest, so soon as carrying you on it out of this dismal place."

The plotters were now obliged to separate, but each retired well pleased with her interview.

As for Lady Katharine, she could hardly conceal her triumph as she took her tapestry frame and sat down as demurely as possible at the Mother Superior's side in the convent parlor. "There!" she said to herself as she stitched away diligently at the eyes of a St. George whom she was trying to make look fiercely at a flaming dragon which lay, as yet, only in outline, at his feet. "There now! I have found out not only a weak point in the garrison, but a standpoint beyond; and what with friends within and friends without, and a messenger to go between the two, out upon you for a silly thing, Kate Hyde, if with all this you cannot balk Mother Beatrice in all her well-laid plans!"

*CHAPTER XVI.*

_*The Convent Ghost.*_

Dame Redwood hastened home with light panniers and a lighter heart; and so eager was she to tell her tale, that she made poor pony trot at a rate to which his old legs were quite unaccustomed. When she entered the cottage door and presented herself to her husband and his guest, her cheeks were several shades rosier than usual with exercise and excitement. Nevertheless, she would not vouchsafe them a word till she had scolded the children all round, brushed up the hearth, and put the dinner on the fire; after which she began, but would always stop at the most interesting points in her story to stir the porridge, or drive the dogs from the door. The little woman felt her importance, and was determined to make the most of it.

"Was ever man so plagued by woman!" was poor Dick's exclamation when she went off to get some water just as she had begun to tell how the boys had broken through the old door in their dungeon.

"Now there is an ungrateful man!" said the dame on her return. "Better say, never was man better served by woman. What would ye have done, I'd like to know, if it had been left in your hands? Ye would have blurted it out at the gate, and had the whole convent at your heels. I warrant ye would never have come home with whole bones, let alone the knowledge ye were seeking."

"A truce to your tongue, woman," said her husband impatiently. "Where did you say was the door the lad broke through?"

When she had told him he sat for a moment in deep thought, then brought his great fist down on the table with a blow which made every platter on the shelves rattle.

"How now, man!" said his wife with a start. "Wouldst thou bring the house down around our ears?"

"I mind not of the house now," he replied eagerly; "but this I know--if they are in the dungeon under the east tower, and have opened the door into the old cellarer's vault, by our Lady, there is not ten feet of solid earth betwixt us and them, as sure as I am Dick Redwood!"

Both of his auditors were much surprised at this sudden declaration, and the dame even forgot her stew-pans in her curiosity.

"Twenty-five years ago," continued the soldier, turning to his guest, "before ever I knew Joan Gilfoy yonder, I was ever ready for a light job that was well paid for, and knew how to hold my tongue about it when it was done. Often one would come to me and say: 'Dick, here is a bit of work and a noble for thee, and if thou forgettest all about it, at the end of the year thou shalt have another.' So I know many a thing about this country that few, if any, others do; but never did anything come to hand so well as this."

"How is it? Tell us now, for mercy's sake," said Bertrand as the soldier paused.

"Why, you see," replied the Captain, "in the old time, before Mother Beatrice's day, they led a different life at the convent from what they do now. But though the prioress was easy herself, she was not enough so for some of the sisters. They wanted to come out sometimes and take a walk in the woods by moonlight; so they got me and two others--dead and gone long ago in the French wars,--to mine a way for them, opening by one end into the entrance to the cellarer's vault, under the east tower, and by the other under the bank at the spring, where the convent wall runs along the edge of the precipice. It is many years now since they made the beer-vault on the other side for fear of the damp, and when the new prioress came, all the nuns' fine walks were stopped; so I warrant you there is not one in the convent now who knows aught of it. If the way be not too much stopped up with rubbish, I could walk, in half an hour, from here straight into the lads' prison--that is, if they know how to open the door, for the spring is on the other side."

"We will see to that matter at once," cried Bertrand, rising and snatching his cap; and in a few moments they were striding along, as if on a race, down one of the forest paths. They went on for some time till they came almost directly under the grim-looking convent walls rising from the top of a steep bank. They could see plainly the spot where the entrance had been, but to their great chagrin, found it was impossible to try whether it were still there, for the drifting snow had been piled up in the little dell in such huge drifts that they had to abandon all hope of removing them.

This was a great disappointment, but they both knew that the only thing to do was to wait for a thaw, and meanwhile Bertrand determined to send word to Sir John of the state of affairs, and make what preparations he could for conveying them to London as soon as they could escape.