It is a cold wintry night in the year 1524, the fifteenth of the high and mighty Lord, Henry, Eighth of that name, “by the grace of God King of Great Britain, France, and Ireland,” as the heralds vainly style him. All day long the clouds have been hanging over the forest of Avalon, heavy and dull as lead, and now towards eventide they descend in snow, an east wind arises, which blows the flakes before it, with such frantic violence, that their direction seems almost parallel to the earth, penetrating every nook of the forest, filling each hollow. Darkness descends upon the earth, as the storm increases; it is dark everywhere, but darkest in the depths of the sombre wood, amidst the tangled copse, beneath the bare branches of the huge oaks, which wave wildly as if in torture, and anon fall with a crash which startles the boldest beasts of the forest. A road leads through the heart of this mighty wood, leads towards the famous Abbey-town of Glastonbury, where as folks say Joseph of ArimathÆa arrived long ago, and planting his staff, which grew like Aaron’s rod, and put forth buds, determined the site of the future Benedictine Monastery. Do they not yet show the strange foreign thorn tree which grew from that holy staff?[3] But we are in the wood, and happy were it for us, if we could but rest before the huge fire which imagination pictures in that far off great chamber of the Abbey. Through the darkness comes a step softly falling on the snow; it draws nearer, and dim outlines become distinct. It is a woman and she carries an infant. A woman and her child out to-night! the Saints preserve them, especially S. Joseph of Glastonbury; with what a timid glance too she looks behind her from time to time. Does she fear pursuit? See how she clasps the child to her breast, how she wraps her robe around it, regardless of the exposure of her own person: poor mother, what has brought her out in this wild night? Alas, her strength seems failing: see she stumbles, almost falls, the wind blows so fiercely that she can hardly stand against it,—she stumbles again. We, as invisible spectators, stand beneath the shade, or what would be in summer the shade of a spreading beech; around its base there is a mossy bank, gently rising, or rather would be were it not covered with snow. She approaches the tree and falls on the slope as one who can do no more, who gives up the struggle. Still she shelters the poor babe. An hour passes away, she lies as if dead, only there is a ceaseless cry from the child, and from time to time a faint moan from the mother. Look, there is a light in the wood; it is moving, and now a heavy step, crushing the frozen snow; it is a countryman, and he carries a horn lantern. A dog, a shepherd’s dog, runs by his side. Will the man pass the tree?—yes he may but the dog will not; see he is “pointing,” and now he runs to his master, and takes hold of the skirts of his smock. “What have we here? S. Joseph help us! a woman! Why mistress what doest thou here? Get up, or thou wilt be frozen stiff and stark before morning.” Only a moan in answer: he stoops down and gently, for a rustic, looks at her face; he does not know her, but he sees by the dress and by something indescribable in the face, that she is one of “gentle blood.” “Canst thou not move?” Another moan. He strives to raise her, and the dog looks wistfully on, as if in full sympathy. Thy canine heart, poor Tray, is softer than that of the men who drove her forth to-night. Ah, that is right; she takes courage, strives to rise,—no, she is down again. “I cannot,” she says, “my limbs are frozen; take the child, save my Cuthbert.” “I would fain save you both,” says the man, but he strives in vain to do so, it is beyond his power to carry them, and she can move no further; she but rises to sink again on the bank, her limbs have lost their power. “Take my child,” she says once more, “and leave me to die; heaven is kinder than man, and the good angels are very near.” The yeoman, for such he is, hesitates, “No one shall say that Giles Hodge forsook thee in thy strait, yet, there is the keeper’s cottage within a mile, if I run and take the babe, I may come back and save thee.” “Go, go, for heaven’s sake, my boy must live, his precious life must be saved, then come back for me; he is the heir of”— Here her voice failed her. “She speaks the words of wisdom,” says Giles, and he takes the babe, leaving the shawl wrapped round the mother. “Nay, the shawl, take the shawl for the babe.” “I can carry it ’neath my smock, and ’twill come to no harm, thou wouldst die without it.” She starts up, imprints one fervent kiss upon the babe ere it leaves her; alas, it is the last feeble outcome of strength. Giles runs along the road, as fast as the ground, heavy with snow, and the wind, will permit him; he reaches the house of Stephen Ringwood, the deputy keeper; it is now Curfew time, and the honest woodman is just putting out his fire to go to bed. “Stephen, Stephen,” shouts Giles, as he knocks at the door. A loud and heavy barking from the throats of deep-chested dogs. “Who is there?” “Thy old crony, Giles Hodge; open to me at once.” The door opens. “What Saint has sent thee here! and a babe too?” “Oh, Stephen, come directly, and help me bring the mother in; she is out in the snow, spent with toil, and if we arrive not soon she will be dead.” “I have some warm milk on the fire; here, Susan, give some to the babe and give me the rest,” and putting it into a horn, the two started back, leaving the infant with the keeper’s wife. They reach the tree again. How still she is. Giles trembles, bless his tender heart. It is no discredit to thy manhood, Giles. “Yes, she is dead, she has given her last kiss to the babe.” They put together some short poles and cord they have brought, which make a sort of litter. “Carry her gently, Stephen,” says Giles as he wipes his eyes with the sleeves of his smock, “carry her gently, she said the good angels were near her, and I believe they are watching us now, if they are not on the road to paradise with her soul.” Decorative footer
Decorative header CHAPTER I.
ALL-HALLOW EVEN. It was the All-Hallow Even of the year 1538, and the first Evensong of the festival of All Saints had been sung, in the noble Abbey Church of Glastonbury, with all those solemn accessories, which gave such dignity, yet such mystery, to the services of the mediÆval Church of England. The air was yet redolent with the breath of incense, the solemn notes of the Gregorian psalmody yet seemed to echo through the lofty aisles, as the long procession of the Benedictine brethren left the choir, and passed in procession down the church, the Abbot in his gorgeous robes closing the procession. A noble looking old man was he, that Richard Whiting,—last and not least of the hundred mitred Abbots who had filled that seat of honour and dignity since the first conversion of England. A face full of sweet benignity—one which inspired reverence while it commanded love. His life had been distinguished throughout by the virtues which had ever found congenial home at Glastonbury—piety towards God, and love towards man. And now the lay congregation who filled the noble nave and aisles, beyond the transept, were leaving the church; the lights were slowly extinguished, and the gloom of the wintry evening was filling the church, save where the one solitary light burnt all night before the high altar. In the porch, after the doors were closed, stood the sacristan and a young acolyte—one of the choristers, for since a large school was attached to the monastery, they had the assistance of a youthful choir. It was a bright happy face, that of the boy, upon which the moon shone brightly, as he bade “good night” to the sacristan—saying that he had leave to spend the evening at home, and should not return till morning—then passed with light footsteps through the Abbey precincts, and then across a green, to some distant cottages which skirted the common land. Let us describe him more fully. He was somewhat sunburnt in complexion, with brown hair, and had those blue eyes, beneath long dark eye-brows, which give a sort of dreamy expression to the face, but the features were redeemed from the charge of effeminacy by the bold open brow, the firm thin lips, and by the nose which was slightly aquiline. His dress was studiously simple, yet very unlike that of modern days, but if my youthful readers have ever met a “blue coat boy” they will have no difficulty in picturing the attire of the period. To sum up, he was a lad whose appearance inspired interest, as we hope his fortunes, to be herein depicted, will do, for they were passing strange. It was a picturesque house before which he stopped—a cottage overgrown with ivy, not unlike those cottages, now alas fast vanishing, which may be met in many an Oxfordshire village—and which strolling artists delight to paint, lovely to look at, but not so comfortable, it may be, as the new style of brick and slate tenements, which painters would disdain to transfer to canvas. The fire within shone brightly through the windows, and the flickering light made the heart of Cuthbert, for such was his name, leap with the anticipation of the joys of the ingle-nook,—the endearments of home. He lifted the latch without knocking, and entered; an aged man and woman sat by the fire, a comely old couple, who were eager, in spite of their infirmities, to greet the darling of their old age. And was not there a meal spread on the table near the fire? It was not “tea,” that beverage was yet unknown, but there was plenty to tempt a boy’s appetite, and the frosty air had sharpened Cuthbert’s. And when it was over, and the old man sat in his high-backed arm-chair, the grandmother went out and the lad went into the “chimney corner” to his favourite seat. “Chimney corner!” what a nook of delight on the winter’s evening, when the snow-flakes steal gently down the chimney and hiss as they meet the blazing logs! Well does the writer remember filling such a seat many winters ago. “Grandfather, do you remember that this night is Hallow-e’en, when all the ghosts are abroad? I want you to tell me something about them—the old tales which used to make my flesh creep when I was younger.” “Why, boy, it is thought to be a night when the dead can’t rest quiet in their graves, though why they should not rest on a holy night like this I can hardly tell.” “Did you ever see a ghost? Oh, here is grandmother with nuts, apples, and ale! Why do we always eat nuts and apples on Hallow-e’en?” “They always have been eaten to-night, that is all I know; sometimes they tie up an apple with a string to the beam, and when they have tied the hands, set the young ones to eat it with the help of their teeth only—catch who catch can.” “And about the nuts?” “Oh, lads and maidens who are in love with each other will take two nuts, and call them lad and lass: if they burn quietly together they conclude that they will have a happy wedded life, but if lad or lass bounce out of the fire, that there will be strife and quarrels between them, in which case, dear boy, I think they had better not go together to the altar; better live apart than have nought but strife and quarrels.”[4] “But I wanted to ask you about something more wonderful than this; the boys were saying, when we were talking about Hallow-e’en in the cloisters, that if you went into the church porch at midnight, you would see the fetches[5] of all the folk who are to die this year come and choose the place for their graves.” “I have heard the tale, and don’t believe it; it is all nonsense, my boy.” “Anyhow I promised that I would go and see to-night.” “Nay, my child, you must be in bed and asleep at midnight, and I do not think you would dare to try.” “That is what they said, the other boys I mean, and they dared me to go.” “I don’t think you would catch a ghost, but I think you would catch your death of cold, it is freezing sharply to-night.” Cuthbert thought it best to drop the subject, lest he should be forbidden to make the adventure, upon which he had set his heart, not without some trepidation, but still with the longing to be the hero of the occasion, who should test the truth of the legend—for he had bound himself to his schoolfellows to make the experiment, and there was much speculation as to the probable results. After a very pleasant evening the hour of bed-time approached. Our ancestors thought Curfew (8 p.m.) the proper time for retiring, and nine was looked upon as a very late hour. So, soon after Curfew had rung from the tower of the Abbey, the embers of the fire were “raked out,” and the old couple retired to their rooms, after seeing Cuthbert safe in his little chamber, which opened upon the roof. The rudeness of the furniture in those days has been somewhat exaggerated by modern writers; indeed we are apt to conclude, because in this nineteenth century such progress has been made in the arts of civilization as puts us quite upon a different footing from our grandfathers, that a similar difference existed between those grandfathers themselves and their ancestors. But it was not so, there was scant difference between the sixteenth and eighteenth centuries in this respect. So in Cuthbert’s room there was a comfortable bed, on a carved wooden bedstead, a chair, a table, a chest for clothes, and the like, much as in the present day.[6] The lad did not undress, but, after he had said his prayers, lay down on the bed in his clothes, and did what he could to keep himself awake, till the time came for his adventure. He counted the hours as the Abbey clock struck, until eleven boomed forth, when he rose, put on his doublet, opened the door, and went very softly down stairs. He listened at his grandfather’s room as he went by—they were fast asleep, he heard their breathing. He descended to the “living” room, opened the outer door carefully, and stole forth. Once on the green, the freshness of the air and the bright moonlight revived him; he felt his spirits rise in spite of the involuntary chill which now and then crept over him. He reached the grave-yard of the parish church, for this had been selected as the scene of the experiment, since the monks would be singing the night office in the Abbey. And as he went through the church-yard to the porch, he could not help looking timorously from side to side, it seemed so strange to be alone with the dead, when the living were asleep; he was glad to get inside, the shadows of the yew trees looked so ghastly on the cold graves, and the chill moon looked upon the last low resting places with such a ghostly light. He tried the door of the church; it was locked, as usual at that hour. There was a broad bench on each side the porch; he sat and waited. And I think he fell asleep and dreamt, but this was the story he told. When the clock tolled the hour of midnight the last sound of the bell was prolonged, as if the organ in its softest tones had taken up the note; the music grew louder, until the introit of the Mass for the dead pealed out distinctly. “Requiem Æternam dona eis Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis.” Then as he started up in amazement, the door swung open, and the “fetches or doubles” of those who were to die that year, that is, their ghostly likenesses, came out to seek their graves. And there were many whom the boy knew, but last of all came out from the church the form of his benefactor, Richard Whiting, Lord Abbot of Glastonbury. And around his neck there hung a ghastly cord, and close by his side followed Prior and Sub-Prior, and cords were about their necks too. Then the boy grew faint, and knew no more till he awoke, or recovered from his faint, whichever it was, and returning home, undressed, shivering as he did so, and went to bed. When he afterwards told this tale, there were many who refused to believe that he had ever left his bed, and always insisted that he had dreamt the scene in the porch. But if it was a dream, it was not without inspiration. Coming events cast their shadows before. [4] See Note B.
Decorative header CHAPTER II.
RETROSPECT. Three centuries and more have rolled away since the dissolution of the monasteries, which once rose in architectural beauty in each district of mediÆval England, gladdening the eye of the wayfarer with the assurance of hospitality, and of the poor with that of help and protection. Their pious founders built in marble— “Built as they Who hoped those stones should see the day When Christ should come; and that those walls Might stand o’er them till judgment calls.” Alas! for such hopes; the tyrant Tudor, taking advantage of the palpable declension of the inmates from their first love, levelled them with the ground, and left the country shorn of such glorious fanes as arose over the conquerors at Battle, or the tombs of the mighty dead at Glastonbury. Yet still they had welcomed the wayfarer and the stranger, tended the sick, taught the young, found labour for the poor, were good masters to their tenants, built bridges, made roads, and were the centres of civilization in their several districts. Two rebellions ruthlessly extinguished in blood—the pilgrimage of grace, and the later rising in Devon and Cornwall—testified to the popular sense of loss when the servile courtier, ever the tyrant at home, had succeeded to the gentle old monks. For all that is now done for the poor, and too often in a wooden kind of way by workhouses, hospitals, and the like, was then done by the monasteries, and their suppression was a cruel wrong to the poor. Reformed, they needed to be, or they had never fallen, but that the treasures given by their founders in trust for God and His poor should pass into the hands of Henry’s fawning courtiers was too monstrous an iniquity. The legendary history of Glastonbury has been told by the author before,[7] its supposed foundation by S. Joseph of ArimathÆa, devoutly believed in in that credulous age, and the holy thorn-tree which blossomed from the staff which he there struck into the ground; there King Arthur was buried, and his body found after the lapse of ages; there, like a city set on a hill, the lamp of faith had been kept burning for forty generations, if alas, tarnished (which we sadly own) by superstition and credulity. Amongst other good works, they educated the young of Christ’s flock, for at Glastonbury there was a school of two or three hundred boys, who were taught by the learned Benedictines of the Abbey; for the Benedictines were the scholars of the day. The discipline was somewhat severe, and the life hard, as modern boys would think it. The hour of rising, summer or winter, was four; they breakfasted at five, after the service of Lauds in the chapel, upon beef and beer on ordinary days, and on a dish of sprats or herrings instead of meat on fast days. Then to their lessons, and we shall grieve our younger readers when we tell that Solomon was held in much respect, and therefore the rod was freely used in case of idleness or insubordination; but of the latter there was very little under monastic discipline. There was a short space for recreation before the chapter Mass at nine o’clock, which all attended, after which work was resumed until Sext, which was followed by a simple but hearty dinner. There was again another period of work in the afternoon, after Nones, but as it was necessary that the boys should not be behind the world in physical prowess, ample leisure was afforded for exercise and rough sports. Modern schoolboys complain of compulsory football; their remote ancestors had little choice in such matters, whether schoolboys or rustic lads on the village green. By Act of Parliament, tutors in the one case, or magistrates in the other, were bound to see that the lads under their jurisdiction, omitting idle sports, did exercise themselves in archery, the broad-sword exercise, the tilt yard, and such-like martial pastimes. Fighting, or mock-fighting—and the imitation was not altogether unlike the reality—was alike the amusement and the chief accomplishment of life, especially in England, which had then, not without cause, the reputation of being the “fiercest nation in Europe.” “English wild beasts,” an Italian writer calls them, yet who would not prefer the manly and honest Englishman to the Italian of the day, with his poisoners and bravoes? And our readers must imagine how the Glastonbury boys were excited by such stories as that of the four hundred London apprentices, who went out as volunteers to the garrison of Calais, and kept all the neighbouring districts of France in terror, until they were overwhelmed by six times their number, and died fighting with careless desperation to the last. So, even in the calm atmosphere of a monastery school, the world intruded. As for their book-lore, they learned Latin practically, for they were forced to use it during a great part of the day in conversation, while they read daily in the Fathers and classical authors. Fabyan’s Chronicles and other old English historians supplied their history, and they were fairly instructed in the rudiments of mathematics. Altogether it was a sound education which the monastic school supplied. We will now proceed with our story, after a digression which may be easily omitted by those who dislike to understand what they read.
The reader has, we doubt not, already identified the hero of the midnight adventure in the church porch, with the babe of our prologue. Honest old Giles Hodge had told the whole story to the Abbot, within whose jurisdiction the babe was found, and with whom he sought an early interview. Strict search had been made after the surviving parent, if perchance there was one upon whom that epithet could be bestowed. But no trace was found; only the delicate apparel of the lady, and the fine linen in which the child was wrapped, led to the conclusion that they were members of some “gentle house.” Upon the linen there were marks: a crest which had been picked out, and two initials yet remaining, “C. R.” “The poor little foundling shall be our care,” said the good Abbot, “but here alack, we have no nursery, and your good wife, who has so recently lost her own babe, must be his foster mother if she be willing. I will provide for his maintenance hereafter, whether in the cloister or the world, unless his friends claim him.” “And what name shall we give him, your reverence?” “Let me see, C must be his Christian name; let us call him Cuthbert, better patron than S. Cuthbert he could not have; the R must yet be a mystery—he will not need two names yet.” So the years rolled by; Cuthbert grew up strong and hearty, but no one ever came to claim him. And he was still known only by one name, a peculiarity little commented upon where his story was so well known. He grew up a general favourite, especially, it was supposed, with the Abbot; and yet the self-restrained austere old man showed little traces of such weakness, save to very observant eyes. He loved the young, one and all, and often visited the school. He knew every face there, and it was a great delight to him to watch them at their sports, perhaps recalling his own younger days, when Henry the Seventh was King. In time little Cuthbert was chosen to be a chorister, and soon afterwards, by the Abbot’s desire, he was made an “acolyte,”—one who served at the altar,—and there his reverent and unassuming demeanour won him yet further regard. But my readers must not think him the least bit of a milksop; they know, I trust, that the bravest lad is he who fears God, and fears nought besides. Cuthbert was not one of those lads who talked much about religion, if there were such then, nor again one who courted notice by obtrusive acts of devotion—his religion was of a manlier type. And meanwhile, as we shall show, he gained the respect of his companions by his proficiency in manly sports and exercises; he was one of the best archers, one of the best at fencing and sword play; in the tilt yard he was always up to the mark. In the same way some of the best boys I remember at a certain school were conspicuous at football and cricket, the modern equivalents.
It was a fine evening in May, and all the lads of Glastonbury School were in the archery ground. A silver arrow had to be contended for as a prize—the prize of the year—and there were many competitors. All Glastonbury looked on at the sport; many were there who had been great archers themselves in their youth, and who, like Nestor of old, were never tired of talking of the great things that had been done when they were young. For full two hundred years had gunpowder been in common use, yet all that time the bow held its own; an arrow would fly much farther than the bullets of that day, nay of much later days, for it was actually ordered by Act of Parliament, in the directions to the villages, for the maintenance of “buttes,” that no person of full age should shoot with the light-flight arrow at a less distance than two hundred and twenty yards, that is a whole furlong: under that distance the heavy war arrow had to be used in all trials of skill.[8] And now four lads of fourteen stand forth to contend for the prize; the target is a furlong off, the arrows, light ones, in regard to the age of the competitors. We will introduce them to our readers in proper order. There stands Gregory Bell, son of the squire of a neighbouring village, tall and slim, but tough in muscle, and very sound in wind and limb; his round face and laughing black eyes will be remembered many a day. His long-bow is long indeed,—three fingers thick, and six feet long, well got up, polished, and without knots; few English boys could bend it now, it came of practice. He draws the bow—the light arrow cleaves the air—he has struck the first circle of blue, not the bull’s-eye itself—a cheer from his schoolfellows. “Well done, Gregory, well done, old fellow.” “The lad will do well enough,” said an old bowman, “yet not like his father; but where be the bowmen of Crecy now? At the last bout we had with them, the French turned their backs upon us at long range, and bid us shoot, whereas had we been the men our sires were, they would have paid dearly for their fool-hardy challenge.” Then stood up Adam Banister, a round thick-set youth, with brown hair and rosy face. “Good luck to thee, Banister,” was the cry. How easily he drew his ponderous bow: the arrow whizzed—alas, only the second circle was attained. And now the third champion. It is Nicholas Grabber. Let our readers mark him, he will often figure in these pages. A lad of average height, with a head of very bright red hair, which seems positively to shine; his face is deeply freckled, but his appearance not altogether unprepossessing, save for a certain expression of slyness which would indicate a mixture of the fox in his character; those who believed in the transmigration of souls might recognize the retriever in Gregory, the bull in Banister, the fox in Grabber, and—well we will leave them to designate the fourth after reading his history, for it was Cuthbert. One after the other they discharge their arrows; the first shaft strikes the bull’s-eye, but amid shouts of admiration, the second, that of Cuthbert, pierces as near the centre. “Hurrah!” “Grabber!” “Cuthbert!” and the names were repeated again and again by the crowd. “Move the target fifty yards further, and let them shoot yet again.” They were rivals, these two boys, and not such good friends as they should have been. Grabber envied Cuthbert his place in the Abbot’s favour, which he had utterly failed to attain; for had he not run away, and had not his father sent him back to school, coupled between two foxhounds, under the charge of the huntsman, a story never forgotten by his schoolfellows.[9] However, he was a good shot, a ringleader in boyish mischief, and not without his friends. Again the arrows flew, but at this distance Grabber failed the bull’s-eye, just alighting on the rim. A few moments of breathless anticipation, and Cuthbert’s shaft, soaring through the air, attains the very centre, amidst shouts of wonder and admiration.[10] Grabber turned away disgusted, as Cuthbert advanced to receive the silver arrow from the chief forester, who superintended the “buttes.” Then rang out the Abbey bell for Compline, and the field was deserted to the townsfolk, who kept up the pastimes of archery, cudgel playing, bowls, and the like, till darkness set in. Decorative footer
Decorative header CHAPTER III.
THE SECRET CHAMBER. The Compline service was over, and the lads, many of whom slept in the abbey, while others lodged in the town, were retiring to their beds, when a lay brother arrested Cuthbert’s progress, and said in a low voice, “The Abbot requires thy presence.” Somewhat startled,—for the summons was an unusual one at that hour, although he often acted in turn with other lads as a page-in-waiting on the Abbot, an office none would then despise,—Cuthbert followed the laic. Threading various passages, they reached the Abbot’s lodgings, and there the messenger knocked and retired, leaving Cuthbert to obey the summons, “Enter.” Richard Whiting, the last of that long line of mitred Abbots, sat near the window of his study, which was a plainly furnished room, simple as the personal tastes of the Abbot. He was now but a weak and infirm old man, yet of many good brethren the best;—“small in stature, in figure venerable, in countenance dignified, in manner most modest, in eloquence most sweet, in chastity without stain; not without that austerity of expression which we often notice in the portraits of these great mediÆval ecclesiastics.” “My son,” he said, “I have somewhat to say to thee ere perchance I be taken from thee.” “Taken from me, Father?” “Yes, the clouds are gathering thick around our devoted house, and the shelter thou hast long received may fail thee and all others here, ere long.” Cuthbert looked amazed. “Tidings have reached me, my child, that I must be taken to London, there to answer to certain treasons of which they falsely accuse me; the bolt may fall at any moment, and I have to discharge two duties, the first towards thee.” The Abbot took up a little chest from the sideboard. “Thou hast long been my son, and hast not needed thy natural parents, but dost thou not oftentimes wonder who they were?” “They come to me in dreams.” “And as yet only in dreams, my child; perchance thou art an orphan, but in that chest are the few relics of thy poor mother, which we possess; these are the little clothes which swathed thee when thou wast found in Avalon forest—there a ring which encircled thy mother’s finger, and a full description of the circumstances of thy arrival here.” “But what use would they be to me didst thou leave me alone in the world, Father?” “Thou wilt never be alone, God will be ever with thee, He is the Father of the fatherless; should aught happen to drive thee hence, thee and others, take refuge with thy foster-parents until one seek thee, bearing this ring which thou seest on my finger, to him thou mayest safely commit thyself, and the secrets I am about to entrust thee for him.” Here the tapestry moved in the wind, and a knock was heard at the door, which stood ajar; a fact the Abbot had not noticed. To Cuthbert’s surprise there stood Nicholas Grabber. “Quid vis fili?” was the Abbot’s interrogation. “The lay brother Francis said that thou wantedst me.” “It was an error, I sent for Cuthbert, and he is here. Pax tecum, go to rest.” “My son,” said the Abbot, when Grabber was gone, “I am about to reveal to thee a mystery which thou alone mayest share, until the friend I have mentioned seeks thee, and presents thee with this ring, which thou now seest on my finger; it will not be till I am gone.” Cuthbert felt his spirits sink within him at the sad words of his protector, but he restrained himself, and listened reverently as to the words of a saint. “Shut the door carefully, and draw the bolt.” Cuthbert did so. “Now touch the rose which thou seest in the carving of the cornice there, the fourth rose in order from the door, and the third from the floor.” The wainscotting of the room was divided into small squares; in each one a rose—S. Joseph’s rose—formed the centre. “The third and the fourth, canst thou remember?” “Third from the floor, fourth from the door.” “Now press the centre of the bud sharply with thy thumb.” Cuthbert did so, and a bookcase, which seemed a fixture in the wall, and which none could have suspected to have been aught but a fixture, flew open in the manner of a door, and revealed a flight of circular steps, such steps as we see in old towers to this day. “Follow me,” said the Abbot, as he took a lamp and descended the steps. Thirty steps down, and as the Abbot’s room was on the ground-floor, they must have been below the foundations of the Abbey when they came upon a solid iron door; the Abbot touched a spring, bidding Cuthbert observe the manner in which it worked, and entered. “Fasten the door carefully back by this stay,” said the Abbot, “for should it sway to, we are dead men; the lock is a spring lock, and opens only from the outside, nor is there other exit save into the vaults of the dead. Dost thou see this chest? Here is the key, open it.” Cuthbert turned the lock, raised the ponderous lid, and let it rest against the wall behind, then gazed upon the contents. There were the most precious jewels of the Abbey, gemmed reliquaries, golden and jewelled pixes, chalices of solid gold, coined money, and the like, but beyond all this enormous wealth were rolls of parchment, and bundles of letters. “My son, I have marked in thee from childhood a nature free from guile, and incapable of treachery, therefore do I place this confidence in thee. Those golden and jewelled treasures are not the most important things in the chest, but the parchments, the letters. They contain secrets, which, if made known, might cost many lives—lives of some of the truest patriots and most faithful sons of Holy Church.[11] I need not detail their nature to thee, nor why I may not destroy them now. The secret thou hast learned is not for thee, thou wilt keep it until the arrival of the hour and the man.” “His name?” “I will but tell thee this much, he will be known to thee as the Father Ambrose.” “Have I never yet met him?” “Never, he has lived abroad; and now, my child, I will tell thee why I have chosen thee for the repository of this secret. He, who will be thy guardian and guide, when I am no more, who has undertaken the care of thy future, will also share alone with thee this knowledge. Ordinarily it has been confined to the Abbot, Prior, and Sub-Prior of this Abbey, and by them handed down to their successors. They share my danger, and may not survive me; otherwise they may be taken when inquisition is made for these papers, and put to torture to make them declare the hiding-place, and the like danger would hang over all high in office, but not, I trust, over one so young as thou art. Therefore thou must live quietly at thy stepfather’s home, until the day come when thy future guardian shall arrive, and may He, Who is the Father of the orphan, ever guard thee, my Cuthbert. But let us hasten to leave these vaults; I am old, and the damp air affects my aged breath.”
Decorative header CHAPTER IV.
THE ARREST. No event of importance followed immediately upon the disclosure of the secret chamber;—the summer passed swiftly and pleasantly away, the orchards were already laden with the golden riches of autumn, ere the bolt, so long foreseen, fell. We can hardly, ourselves, enter into the difficulties and trials which beset the Abbot of Glastonbury. We are accustomed to the spectacle of a Church, divided, at least externally, but to men who had grown up with the belief, that outward unity was essential to the preservation of Christianity, the absolute command to abjure the Papal Supremacy, to break off all relations with Rome, and acknowledge the King as the “Head of the Church of England,” was a matter of life or death. So Sir Thomas More and Bishop Fisher, not to mention hosts of others, died sooner than comply, while the more timid, shocked at the scandal, for such it was to them, gave outward obedience, and in their hearts prayed fervently that “this tyranny might be over past.” Let it not, however, be inferred that therefore they were right in contending for the supremacy of Rome, only in the right, inasmuch as it is far nobler to die, than to deny one’s belief, or to swear falsely to what one does not believe in one’s heart. And so while we reject their teaching on this point, we can feel the deepest sympathy with the sufferings of these noble, yet mistaken souls. On the first visitation of his monastery, three years previously, the Abbot had taken the Oath of Supremacy, feeling that it was not a cause for which a man was bound to die, but he had never been a happy man since, he was too old to change his convictions. Therefore he absented himself from the place in Parliament, which was his as a mitred Abbot, who was ranked as the equal of a Bishop, and strove to hide his sorrows in obscurity. No fault was then alleged against him, the earlier visitors reported that his house was, and had long been, “full honourable.” But the eye of the “Malleus Monachorum,” the arch enemy of the monks, Thomas Cromwell, was upon him, and at last this vigilant enemy, equally cruel and unscrupulous, found the pretext he desired, for sending the Abbot of Glastonbury, as also the Abbots of Reading and Colchester to the gibbet and the quartering block. Most of the Abbots had been led to save themselves by a voluntary surrender of their house and estates; those who did not thus bend to the storm, had to be destroyed on one pretence or another.
It was the sixteenth Sunday after Trinity, in the year of grace 1539. The day was a bright day of early autumn, one of those sweet balmy days, when summer seems to put out all her parting beauties ere she yields her dominion to winter,—the air was laden with fragrance, and there was a dreamy haze upon the scenery around, which seemed typical of heavenly peace. But there was a sad despondent feeling, which weighed like lead, upon the hearts of all the elders present at the High Mass on that day, in the great Abbey Church, whose majestic ruins yet strike the beholder with awe. After the Creed, the Abbot ascended the pulpit and gazed round upon the congregation, as upon those to whom he was about to preach for the last time; he took for his text the parting words of S. Paul at Miletus,—“And now behold, I know that ye all, among whom I have gone preaching the kingdom of God, shall see my face no more.” As he uttered the words there was an audible expression of feeling on the part of the monks in the choir, the boys in the transepts, and the citizens in the spacious nave: was the text prophetical? One or two sobs might be heard. Danger was at hand, and he knew it, and after a brief exordium he told it out plainly: the Royal Commissioners, with charge to bring him before the Council, were already on their way. “Very sorry am I,” said he, “for you, my brethren, and especially my younger friends, of whom I see so many around. They will destroy this House of God, as they have so many others, they will spare you in the flesh, but if you are taken hence, and sent into a cold-hearted and wicked world, for which you are unfitted, having begun in the spirit, ye may be consumed in the flesh, and what shall I say, or what shall I do, if I cannot save those whom God has entrusted to my charge?” Here a common utterance broke forth from the brethren which could not be suppressed. “Let us die together in our integrity, and heaven and earth shall witness for us how unjustly we be cut off.” “Would that it might be even so,” continued the preacher, “that so dying we might pass in a body to our Father’s home above, but they will not do us so great a kindness. Me and the elder brethren they may indeed kill, but you who are younger will be sent back into the world ye have once forsaken, where divers temptations assail you. Alas, who is sufficient for these things?” Here he paused, and then continued, “This may be the last time we meet within these sacred walls: the last time that they re-echo the tone of thanksgiving, which has arisen for nigh fifteen centuries on this spot.[12] But it is meet that we prepare for the stroke, and that we may do so the better, let us ask pardon for all the faults we may have committed against each other, and let each forgive, that so we may say the divine prayer, ‘Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us.’” A solemn pause followed, during which there came a strange interruption, a sweet soft sound as of angels’ voices singing in harmony: not from the organ came that strange music, nor from any visible orchestra, but all felt it as it thrilled into their hearts. The venerable preacher was so moved that he sank down in tears, and for a long time could not resume his discourse, while all in the choir sat as if astonished, yet rejoicing in the token, as they believed it was, of God’s presence amongst them. And the burden of the song seemed, “O rest in the Lord, wait patiently on Him.” That sermon ended in broken words of faith, love, and hope—words of deep emotion never forgotten by any present—and then the Celebration proceeded, with its stores of rich comfort and celestial joy.[13]
The following day the Abbot left early in the morning for a small country house belonging to the Abbey about a mile-and-a-half away. This he did that the scandal of an open arrest, and a probable conflict, might be averted, for he felt that his people might not peacefully bear the spectacle of their venerated Father led away like a criminal. But he made no concealment of his retreat, so when the Commissioners arrived, later in the morning, they had no difficulty in learning the place, and they followed him to the country house. In an old oak-panelled apartment sat the once powerful Abbot, writing calmly a few parting directions, chiefly concerning the disposal of such personal property as might serve as mementoes to those who loved him, when they should see his face no more. He was calm and resigned, although once, as he wrote, tears issued from fountains which had been long dry, and rolled down his aged and worn cheek,—he was but human. In the window seat, his eyes fixed upon the road which led from the Abbey, sat Cuthbert. Suddenly he rose hastily. “Father,” he said, “they are coming; a number of mounted men are in sight, wilt thou not fly? We may yet hide thee, they will be ten minutes ere they arrive; fly for our sakes, for my sake—thy adopted child.” “My son, I cannot; life has little yet to tempt me, and far better for me that I should bear witness to my faith with my blood, and receive the martyr’s palm which God hath already granted to many of my brethren, than live a few more miserable years, and see the wild boar rooting up the vineyard of the Lord, and the beasts of the field devouring it.” After a pause he continued,— “Dost thou see them plainly? Who is their guide?” “Shame upon him, it is Nicholas Grabber; rather should they have cut my feet off than have forced me to do the like.” “Nay, my child, I left word where I was, and strict directions that no concealment should be attempted.” “Yet some other guide were more fitting than one of thine own children, shame upon him. Oh, my more than father, do fly; they will drag thee to a shameful death, like thy brethren of Reading and Abingdon. Is it not written, ‘When they persecute you in one city flee ye into another?’” “Too late, my son, they are at the gate.” “We will hide thee; there must be some place to hide in here, some secret chamber.” “They are on the stairs, my son; do not let them see thee weep, be manly.” Cuthbert strove to repress his emotion and to maintain outward composure, when the door opened and three men entered, rude of aspect. “My name is Layton,” said the foremost, “and these two worthy men be Masters Pollard and Moyle; we be pursuivants of the King, and in his name, and by virtue of his warrant, we have charge to arrest thee, unless thou clear thyself by thy answers to certain questions.” “What are they?” said the Abbot, calmly. “Hast thou taken the Oath of Supremacy?” “I have, to my great sorrow.” “To his great sorrow, mark that, Master Pollard; and why to thy great sorrow?” “Because it was a treason to the Church.” “Then thou wilt not renew it?” “Never.” “That is enough to hang thee, proud Abbot, but thy talk interests me, and I would fain hear a little more from thee; what dost thou think of the King’s divorce?” “I am not fain to answer thee on that matter.” “But the law enables us to compel an answer from every man, and construes silence as treason; loyal men need not conceal their thoughts, and there is no room in England for disloyalty.”[14] “Construe my silence as treason if thou wilt, I have naught to say on the matter.” “There is something more for me to say. Dost thou love life, Master Abbot? For if so, in spite of thy treasons just uttered, thou mayst save it; we know full well that the names of the men who supplied money and arms for the late most unnatural and parricidal rebellion in the north, which men call the Pilgrimage of Grace, are known to thee, only reveal the secret, and thou art safe.” “Get thee behind me, Satan; dost thou think I would save my life at the expense of others, and take reward to slay the innocent?” The Abbot’s manner was so firm and decided, the answer so bravely given, that the villain started. “I will patter with thee no more, thou hoary sinner,” he said at last; “thou hast the papers concerning this rebellion concealed somewhere, and we know it; we will pull thy Abbey down, stone by stone, if we find them not: thy answers are cankered and traitorous, and to the Tower thou shalt go, the Tower of London. Ah, who is that boy?” “Thou mayst take me too,” said Cuthbert, as he stood before them, emerging from the curtained recess of the window with flashing eyes and burning cheeks, “for all that the Lord Abbot hath said, I say also.” “Ah, thou young cockatrice, we see well what a dam hath hatched thee—another treason to the account of the wily priest here.” “Cuthbert,” said the Abbot, “thou art running into needless danger—God calls thee not to suffer.” “What is good for thee, Father, must be good for me also.” “We may as well take him up to town too,” said Master Pollard. “Nay, it is not our business,” said Layton; “if we arrested every young fool this traitor hath taught, we should go up to town with three hundred boys behind us, and should need their nurses to take care of them; the ground-ash were fitter for this young master’s back, but we have no time to waste on his folly, let us be moving, we have to search the chambers at the Abbey, perchance we may come across these papers.” Need we say they searched in vain. 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Decorative header CHAPTER V.
THE ROAD-SIDE INN. The evening of Tuesday, the twelfth of November, in the year of grace fifteen hundred and thirty-nine, was closing in. The day had been very fine, such a day as we sometimes enjoy, even in November; the golden sunbeams had brightened the foliage which yet hung upon many of the trees of the forest, and turned the russet plumage into gold. Now and then, in the calm atmosphere, a leaf would flutter down, and break the oppressive silence of the forest of Avalon. It is broken more seriously; hark, that is the tread of many feet, and those voices are the voices of lads out for a day in the woods. See here they come into this lonely haunt, where no road or path exists, startling yon raven from his perch; see how sulkily he flies away, as if to say, “What right have these intruders here?” A large chestnut-tree has dropped its fruit on the ground, and amidst the dead leaves the lads are searching, and loading their pockets with the spoil; there are about twenty of them, evidently a band of the Glastonbury boys, and amidst them we recognise two old acquaintances, Cuthbert and Nicholas Grabber. “It is time to be moving,” says Cuthbert; “we promised the Prior to be home in time to sing vespers.” “Sing vespers! how pious we are!” said Nicholas, and the irreverent fellow clasped his hands together affectedly, and began to chant in a ridiculous voice the Psalm “Dixit Dominus.” “Stop that,” said several voices at once, and Nicholas obeyed, finding the general feeling was against such mockery, as it ought to be with sensible and manly boys. “Well, thank God, there will not be many more services in the Abbey; I am for freedom, for shaking off the yoke of bondage under which the old monks have kept us: those visitors who have been taking an inventory of the goods and chattels at the place, are only a token that the end is near; and it can’t come too soon for me.”[15] “More shame for you to say so, after you have been educated at the cost of the Abbey, and eaten and drunk its fare for many years,” said Cuthbert. “And poor fare I have found it: I daresay the Abbot’s favourites get better,” replied Nicholas. “‘Abbot’s favourites,’ what do you mean?” said Cuthbert, colouring. “Let those who find the cap fit, put it on.” “He means it for you, Cuthbert,” said two or three voices at once. “I suppose one can’t help being liked,” said Gregory Bell. “Nay, but one should not curry favour at the expense of others.” “That isn’t fair,” cried Adam Banister; “no one can say Cuthbert is a sneak.” “Sneak! who guided the commissioners to find the Abbot? that was the part of a sneak,” said Cuthbert; “but I know one way in which I could avoid favour; by running away from school and being brought back tied between two foxhounds, on all fours.” A general burst of laughter, and then Nicholas lost all self-control, and struck Cuthbert in the face. “A blow!” “A fair blow!” “A fight!” “A fight!” Yes, a fight was inevitable under the circumstances; according to the moral (or immoral) code of the fifteenth century, no one could receive a blow from an equal without returning it, unless he wished to be exiled from the society, whether of boys or men. Nothing was clearer to their eyes than that the duty of all good Christians was to fight each other. So the blow was returned, straight between the eyes. But a fight was too good a thing to be lost in that irregular manner: a ring was formed, two seconds selected, Gregory Bell for Cuthbert, and a cousin, like-minded with himself, for Grabber. Now we are not going to enter into the details of the fight—those who like a scene of the kind will find one well described in “Tom Brown’s School Days,”—suffice it to say in this instance, that the contest was long and desperate, not to say bloody, and that in spite of Grabber’s greater physical strength and weight, the skill and endurance of Cuthbert gave him the advantage, as indeed I think he deserved to have it. So intent were the twenty lads upon the scene, that they did not notice how the sun went down amidst rising clouds, how the wind began to sigh through the forest; darkness was gathering over the spectators and combatants, who had now fought many rounds, lasting nearly an hour, when at last, to the great joy of many present, Grabber, at the conclusion of a round, in which he had exhausted all his strength, got a knock-down blow, and was unable to “come up to time,” so amidst deafening cheers, Cuthbert was hailed as the victor. He advanced to Grabber who was supported on the knee of his second. “Give me your hand, Nicholas, and let us forgive and forget. I hope you are not much hurt.” Grabber sullenly refused. “That shows a bad heart; a fellow should never bear malice for a fair thrashing, one can only do his best after all,” said Gregory. And the majority shared his opinion. “We must make haste out of the woods, or we shall lose our way and be here all night.” Three or four boys remained with Grabber, for he was not without his sympathizers,—we are sorry to say there are black sheep even in the best schools,—and these would not leave the spot with the rest, but said they could find their own way home. The others struck boldly towards the west, which was easily distinguished, owing to the reddened and angry clouds, which showed where the monarch of the day had gone down. But soon these also disappeared, and the road was not yet attained; darkness fell upon the scene, and the lads who were with Cuthbert wandered about lost, utterly lost, until a distant light gladdened their eager sight, and with a joyous cry they bent their course towards it. In a few minutes they emerged from the woods on the high-road from London, where a well-known inn, “The Cross Keys,” hung out a lamp as a guide to travellers. They all knew their way now, and would fain have started home at once, only Cuthbert was faint after his late exertions, and a cup of “Malmsey” seemed the right thing. “You had better let him have a good wash; cold water will revive him, and remove the blood from his face too,” said the landlord, who saw the lad had been fighting, and a fight was too common a thing, we are sorry to say, to excite any further comment or enquiries, on his part. So they adjourned to the pump, where, with the help of a rough towel, Cuthbert soon made himself presentable, although he still bore very evident traces of the conflict. This necessary task accomplished, the boys entered the inn, ordinarily a forbidden place to them, and the landlord brought a cup of wine for Cuthbert. But while they were there a body of armed men entered the house. They wore the uniform of the King’s guard: there was no regular army in those days, every man was a soldier in time of need, but there was a small body of men kept about the King’s person, who were sent from time to time on special services, and were called the King’s “beef-eaters.” And these were some of them. “Landlord, bring us some mulled sack,” said one who appeared to be their leader, “and tell us, have you seen that fox the Abbot of Glastonbury pass this way to-day on his road home?” “He has not yet returned from London?” “Nay, but he is on his way,—we have no listening ears have we?” The boys were separated by a partition. “Are you for Abbot or King?” “I am a friend to the King.” “Well said, so should every good Englishman be; and we have charge to arrest this wily Abbot on his return, as a foe to King Harry, and take him to Wells to be tried for his life.” “Has he not been tried and acquitted?” “He has been solemnly condemned in a Court where Thomas Cromwell sat as prosecutor, jury and judge: but that is not quite the law, so he has been dismissed home, and we have been sent by an after thought to take him to Wells for a regular trial.”[16] “On what charge?” “Robbing the Abbey Church.” “Good heavens!” “Why, I thought thee a friend of the King.” “So I am, but what can all this mean?” “That he hid the Abbey plate, so that the King’s visitors could not find it, when they wanted to make an inventory, and confiscate patens and chalices for the King’s use.” “But it was his own.” “Only in trust, you see.” “Still he might hide it in trust for the Abbey, that would not be robbery.” “Friend, I should advise thee to consider it robbery in these days; it is better for all men who do not want their necks stretched to think as the King and his minister, Thomas Cromwell, think; don’t fear but we shall find men to bring him in guilty.” The poor inn-keeper was silent; perhaps he remembered that one of his predecessors had been hanged for saying he would make his son heir to the “Crown,” meaning the “Crown Inn.” The boys stole out unobserved. “What shall we do?” “Go and meet the Abbot and warn him, he will pass Headly Cross.” “But then we may but share his fate,” said several. “I shall go if I go alone,” said Cuthbert. “And so shall I,” said Gregory Bell. “Well, two are as good as the lot of us, and better; more likely to pass unobserved,” said Adam Banister; “the rest of us had better get home, and tell the monks all we have heard and seen.”
It was a wild place, Headly Cross, where two woodland roads crossed each other. Report said that a cruel murder had been committed there years agone, and that the place was haunted; every one believed in haunted places then. But as there was a choice of routes, and the Abbot might come either way, it was the right thing to await him where the roads converged. And there Cuthbert and Gregory waited all alone, as the dark hours rolled away, until they heard the “Angelus” ring from a distant tower, and knew it was nine o’clock, when decent people, in those days, went to bed. The chime had hardly died away, when they heard the tread of horses, and soon three riders came in view in the dim light of the stars; and the boys recognised the Abbot, with two attendants, one his faithful serving man, the other a stranger. Cuthbert dashed forward. “My Lord Abbot,” he said, “one moment, it is I, Cuthbert, and here is Gregory Bell.” “Cuthbert and Gregory Bell; why are you here, boys?” “We have heard a plot against you: men are waiting at the ‘Cross Keys’ to arrest you, and take you for trial at Wells; they say it will cost your life.” “On what charge?” “Concealing the Abbey plate.” The Abbot smiled sadly. “My children,” he said, “this can hardly be true, yet if it be as you say, I will not fly a jury of my countrymen.” “Neither could he,” said the stranger on his left hand, “if he would; my duty is to see him safe to Glastonbury, unless relieved beforehand by royal authority.” “You see, my Cuthbert and Gregory, that your devotion is all in vain; neither would I avail myself of it if I could. Mount on the pillion behind me, Cuthbert; my good Ballard here will take Gregory behind him, and you may return with us to Glastonbury, if such return be permitted.” “It never will be, never will be,” said Cuthbert, with sinking heart. And how that young heart beat, as they approached the “Cross Keys,” and as a line of men, forming across the road, stopped the cavalcade. “My Lord Abbot, we arrest you in the King’s name.” “On what charge?” “Robbery of the Abbey Church.” “This is a base pretence, to deprive me of the credit of martyrdom for my convictions: but there was One who suffered more for me.” And the Abbot yielded himself peacefully to those who sought his life. [15] Advantage was taken of the Abbot’s compulsory absence to take the necessary steps for the dissolution of the monastery. (Froude.)
Decorative header CHAPTER VI.
THE TRIAL. The period of English history of which we are now writing has been aptly called “The Reign of Terror.” England under Thomas Cromwell, and France under Robespierre, were alike examples of the utter prostration which may befall a mighty nation beneath the sway of one ruthless intellect. To make the King absolute, and himself to rule through the King, was the one aim of the man whom Fox, the Martyrologist, grotesquely calls “The valiant soldier of Christ:”—for this end he smote down the Church and the nobility: Bishop Fisher and the Carthusians represented the ecclesiastical world, the Courtenays and the Poles the aristocracy, Sir Thomas More the new-born culture of the time; and Cromwell chose his victims from the noblest and the best. The piety of Fisher, once the King’s tutor, to whom his mother had committed her royal boy on her death-bed, could not save him; nor his learning, Sir Thomas More; nor her grey hairs, the Countess of Salisbury. Spies were scattered through the land; it was dangerous to speak one’s mind in one’s own house; nay, the new inquisition claimed empire over men’s thoughts; we have seen that the concealment of one’s sentiments was treason. Will my more youthful readers wonder then that men could be found to convict upon such charges as those preferred against the aged Abbot of Glastonbury? They need wonder at nothing that occurred while Bloody Harry was King, and Thomas Cromwell Prime Minister. The juries themselves sat with a rope around their necks; when the Prior and the chief brethren of the Charter-house waited upon Cromwell to explain their conscientious objections to the Oath of Supremacy, loyally and faithfully, he sent them from his house to the tower; when the juries would not convict the ecclesiastics, he detained them in court a second day, and threatened them with the punishment reserved for the prisoners, unless they found a verdict for the crown; finally, he visited the jurymen in person, and by individual intimidation forced the reluctant men to find a verdict of guilty, whereupon the unfortunate monks were hanged, drawn, and quartered, with every circumstance of barbarity, suspended, cut down alive, disembowelled, and finally dismembered.[17] Thursday, the fourteenth of November, 1539, was a gloomy day: black leaden clouds floated above, the ground was sodden with moisture, the leaves, fallen leaves, no inapt emblem, rotted in the slime, a heavy damp air oppressed the breath; the day suited the deed, for on that day the aged Abbot of Glastonbury was formally arraigned at Wells, together with his brethren the Prior and Sub-Prior, on the charge of felony,—“Robbery of the Abbey Church with intent to defraud the King.” They might well have proceeded against him under the Act of Supremacy, but variety has charms, and this new idea of felony commended itself to the mind of Cromwell, as a good device for humbling the clergy. Lord Russell, one of Henry’s new nobility who supplied the places left vacant by so many ruthless executions, whose own fortunes were built on the plunder of the Church, sat as judge, and there were empannelled, we are told, “as worshipful a jury as was ever charged in Wells.” The indictment set forth that the prisoners had feloniously hidden the treasures of the Abbey, to wit, sundry chalices, patens, reliquaries, parcels of plate, gold and silver in vessels, ornaments, and money, with the intent of depriving our sovereign lord the King of his rightful property, conferred upon him by Act of Parliament. “What say you, Richard Whiting, guilty or not guilty?” The aged prisoner looked around him with wondering eyes; he scanned the crowded array of spectators, then the jury, who looked half ashamed of their work, and finally rested his eyes upon his judge. “How can I plead guilty where there can be no guilt? These treasures were committed to my care to keep for God and Holy Church; it is not meet to cast them to swine; no earthly power may lawfully take to itself the houses of God for a possession, or break down the carved work thereof with axes and hammers. Am I tried before an assembly of Christian men, or before heathen, Turks, infidels, and heretics?” “It is not meet for a prisoner to revile his judges,” said Russell; “as an Englishman you are bound by the Acts of Parliament.” “Talk not to me of Parliament; you have on your side but the Parliament of this sinful generation, and against you are all the Parliaments who have sat from the Witan-agemot downwards, who have granted and confirmed to us of Glastonbury, those possessions which you would snatch from a house which has been the light of this country for a thousand years; to resist such oppression and sacrilege is not guilt, and I plead in that sense, ‘Not Guilty.’” “Thou showest but little wisdom in pressing thine own opinion against the consent of the realm.” “I would fain hold my peace; but that I may satisfy my conscience, I will tell thee that while thou hast on thy side but a minority in a single kingdom, the whole of the Christian world, save that kingdom, is dead against you, and even the majority here condemn your proceedings, although the fear of a barbarous death silences their tongues.” “Of whom art thou speaking?” “Of all the good men present.” “Why hast thou persuaded so many people to disobey the King and Parliament?” “Nay, I have sinned in dissembling my opinions, but now I will speak. I disallow these changes as impious and damnable (general sensation); I neither look for mercy nor desire it; my cause I commit to God, I am aweary of this wicked world, and long for peace.” He sank upon the bench behind him, as did his fellow prisoners, and none of them took any further obvious interest in the proceedings. Formal evidence was brought to prove the discovery of treasure hidden in secret places, but all this fell very flat upon the audience, the fact was tacitly admitted on both sides, the difference of opinion only existed as to the guilt thereof. There was no room for doubt in Lord Russell’s mind; he summed up the evidence against the prisoners, and reminded the jurymen that their own loyalty was on trial, a very forcible hint in those days, and one which few men dared disregard. They retired; returned with downcast looks, and gave a verdict in accordance with the evidence: theirs not to argue the point of law, the fact was sufficient. “Prisoners at the bar,” said the judge, “you have been convicted on the clearest evidence of an act of felony—of seeking to deprive the King of the property willed to him by the high estates of the realm, in trust for the nation. Into your motives I need not enquire, but no man can be a law unto himself; born within these realms you are subject to the authorities thereof, and for your disobedience to them you must now die. The only duty remaining to me is to pronounce upon you the awful sentence the law provides against your particular crime—that you be taken hence to the prison whence you came, and from thence be drawn on the morrow, upon a hurdle, to the summit of Glastonbury Tor, that all men far and wide may witness the royal justice, where you are to be hanged by the neck, but not until you are dead, for while you are still living, your bodies are to be taken down, your bowels torn out and burnt before your faces; your heads are then to be cut off, and your bodies divided, each into four quarters, to be at the King’s disposal, and may God have mercy upon your souls.”[18] A dead silence followed, broken at last by the Abbot’s voice. “We appeal from this judgment of guilty and time-serving men to the judgment of God, before Whose bar we shall at length meet again.”
It was late in the same evening, the curfew had already rung, the rain was still falling at intervals in the streets of Glastonbury, as if nature wept at the approaching dissolution of the venerable fane which had been the ornament of western England so long. In spite of the weather, many groups formed from time to time outside the gatehouse of the Abbey, for there the three prisoners had been brought from Wells, and there, in the chamber over the gateway, in strict ward, they were passing the last night the royal mercy permitted them to live. A youth, repulsed from the door which gives admittance to the upper chambers, retired with despairing gesture; his face bore marks of intense emotion, the tears had worn furrows therein, and from time to time a sob escaped him. A companion pressed up to his side. “Will they not let you in?” “No, Gregory, I have begged in vain these three times.” “Why not try the sheriff, he is said to be merciful?” “I can but try, I will go to his house at once.” As due to his office, the high sheriff of the county was charged with the details of the morrow’s tragedy; he liked the task but little, still he viewed it as a simple matter of duty, and could not flinch from it. He was resting after the fatigues of the day, and in truth, thinking very uneasily over the events of the trial. “What if, after all, he is in the right—that appeal to the judgment bar above was very solemn—when that great assize takes place, in whose shoes would it be best to stand, in the place of the judge or the felon of to-day?” A domestic entered—“A lad craves a moment’s speech.” “Who is he?” “I know him not, but he has been weeping bitterly, as one may see by his face.” The sheriff hesitated, but he was in a merciful mood; he suspected the object of the visitor, and it was a good sign for the success of the suppliant that he permitted the visit. “Well, my lad,” said he, as Cuthbert entered, “what is the matter now?” “I have a boon to crave, your worship; you will not refuse it me?” “Let me first hear what it is.” “The Abbot has been my adopted father, my best friend from childhood; let me see him once more, let me receive his parting blessing, ere wicked hands slay him.” “Wicked hands, my lad, you forget yourself, and where you are.” “Pardon me, I meant no offence; I know it is no fault of your worship.” “It is but a slight boon, after all,” said the sheriff, “and one which may be conceded;” and as he spoke he wrote a few lines on a slip of parchment. “They will give you admission for half-an-hour, if you show them this at the gateway.” “May I not stay longer?” “It would not be kind to those who are to die; they need their time to make their peace with God.” “That is already made, your worship.” “I trust so,” said the sheriff, with a sad faint smile at the boy’s earnestness. “Who art thou, my lad?” he said. “The Abbot’s adopted son.” “But who were your real parents?” “I know not.” “What name do they call you?” “Cuthbert, I have none other.” “Poor lad,” said the sheriff, as the boy departed, “it seems almost like a familiar face, yet I have never met him before; some accidental likeness, I suppose.” Decorative footer
Decorative header CHAPTER VII.
GLASTONBURY TOR. A dead silence reigned around the precincts of the once mighty Abbey, many of the monks had fled, fearing lest they should share the fate which had befallen their superiors, and having no decided predilection for martyrdom; but many still shuddered in their cells, or wandered aimlessly about the doomed cloisters, so soon to be a refuge for bats and owls. Only a few lights burned here and there in the darkness of that November night, but one shone steadily from the window of the strong room over the gatehouse, where the three fated monks awaited their doom. Scantily furnished was that chamber; three wooden chairs with high backs grotesquely carved, a massive table in the centre, a huge hearth decorated with the Abbey arms, upon which smouldered two or three logs, for fuel was cheap, and the night was cold and damp. Against the wall hung a crucifix, and there, with their faces towards the memorial of the martyrdom which redeemed a world, knelt the three. We cannot follow their mental struggles, which found relief in prayer—in intense prayer, in burning words of supplication, which wafted their spirits on high, and gave them strength to say “not my will but Thine be done.” A step on the stairs, but they rose not from their knees; they felt that one had entered and was kneeling behind them, and at length they heard sobs escape from their visitor, which he could not repress. They rose slowly from their devotions, and the Abbot grasped Cuthbert’s hands and raised him from the floor. “My child,” he said, “dost thou grieve for me?” A sob was the only answer. “Listen, my child, which is best, heaven or earth, Paradise or Glastonbury?” Still no answer. “And they but rob us of a few brief years, which to aged men like us must be years of suffering; they separate us from the ranks of the Church Militant, but not from those of the Church Triumphant, that is beyond their power; they may kill the body, but after that they have no more that they can do.” “But the shame, the disgrace!” “Is it greater than the Son of God bore on Calvary? Nay, my son, let us not grieve that it has pleased Him, of Whom are all things, to ordain this painful road, which He Himself has trodden before us; nay, sob not, nor sorrow as those without hope, but live so that thou mayest rejoin us in the regions of Paradise.” Cuthbert gazed upon the calm majestic face of the old man, and it seemed to him irradiated by a light from above. He repressed his grief, and listened to the last words of his friend. “It is written that in the last days perilous times shall come, and we have fallen upon them; happy then that God removes us to His secret chambers, where He shall hide us until the iniquity of a world be overpast, and His redeemed come with triumph to Zion. Before us now is the via Dolorosa of a brief hour, but from the gibbet we shall scale the skies. For thee, my son, is the life-time of trial and temptation, wherefore I pray for thee, and will pray for thee when thou shall see my face no more. Remember, dear child, he that endureth to the end, the same shall be saved, and let neither men nor devils rob thee of thy crown.” “By God’s help I will endure.” “I believe that thou wilt strive, yea, and prevail. But one more thought to earthly things, and I resign the world for ever. Thou rememberest the secret chamber?” “I do, Father.” “And the ring which is now on the finger of him who shall claim thy promise?” “Well, my Father.” “Await him, my son, in Glastonbury, not in the Abbey, that will be destroyed by wicked hands, but in the house of thy foster father, Giles Hodge, whose name thou must take, and be content to pass as his foster son till the time comes, and thy services are claimed. He who bears the ring will provide for thy future.” “Oh, think not of that.” “I have thought of it, and now, my child, thou mayest again join us in prayer.” “The half-hour has passed,” said a rough voice at the door. “Thy blessing, Father.” “It is thine, my child: Benedicat et custodiat te Deus omnipotens, Pater, Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus, nunc et in sÆcula sÆculorum.”
Upon the summit of the hill men are working all through the storms of the night, erecting a huge gibbet, from the cross-beam of which three ropes are now dependent; beneath is a huge block, like a butcher’s block, and a ghastly cleaver and saw rest upon it; hard by stands a caldron of pitch, which but awaits the kindling match to boil and bubble. Through the dark shadows of the clouds, or in the bright light of the moon when the winds open a path for her rays, ghostly figures flit about. It is well that they should work in darkness,—it were better that such work were not done at all. Thus they execute the will of the ruthless Tudor, the Nero of English history; well, he and his victims have long since met before a more awful bar. The winds blow ceaselessly all through the night, but in the morn the clouds are breaking; in the east a faint roseate light appears, and soon brighter streaks of crimson fringe the clouds, which hang over the dawn; anon the monarch of day arises in his strength, the shadows flee away, and from the summit of the hill a vast extent of sea and land is beheld, rejoicing in his beams. A crowd gathers around the gatehouse, some few royal parasites to jeer, men at arms to guard the prisoners, and prevent any attempt at rescue, more sad and tearful faces of women, or sternly indignant visages of bearded men. “Here they come.” The trampling of horse, a train of strong wooden hurdles, each drawn by a single horse, appears; hard carriages these on which to take the ride to eternity, but many an innocent victim has fared no better. The doors are opened, and the Abbot appears first: a blush overspreads his aged cheeks, as the indignity thus palpably presents itself, but uttering, “And this, too, I offer to Thee,” he lies down upon the hurdle, and they bind his hands and feet to the crossbars, carefully, that they may not touch the ground, for those in charge of the execution would not willingly offer additional pain—some of them are sick at heart as they fulfil the will of the tyrant Tudor. The Prior and Sub-Prior submit to the same painful restraint, and the via Dolorosa is entered. All through the streets of the town, where the Abbot has often ridden in triumphant processions, the highest in dignity of all far and wide, the hurdles jolt along: the aged frames of the sufferers are fearfully shaken by the rude joltings, but they remember that via Dolorosa which led to Calvary, and accept the pain for the sake of the Divine Sufferer, in Whom our sufferings are sanctified. There are those present who are paid to raise hisses and hootings, and to revile the passing victims, but they are awed by the attitude of the spectators in general, and forfeit their wages. Up the hill with labouring steps the horses tread: at length the rounded summit appears, and the gibbet looms in sight. The sufferers see it not, owing to their prostrate condition, until they are beneath it. “It is easier to bear than the cross, brethren,” says Abbot Richard. The victims are unbound from the hurdles, and one after the other resigns himself to the rude hands of the executioners; for now, under this reign of terror and bloodshed, ecclesiastics are led forth in their habits to die without being first stripped of their robes, and degraded. There is a meaning in this, it is not of mercy.[19] The Abbot yields himself first, calmly reciting the words of the 31st Psalm, “In manus tuas, Domine, commendo Spiritum meum.” The two pray for him until their own turn comes. “Go forth, O Christian soul, from this world, in the Name of God the Father Who created thee, of God the Son, Who redeemed thee, of God the Holy Ghost Who hath sanctified thee; may thy place be this day in peace, and thine abode in Mount Sion.” Their faces did not grow pale, neither did their voices tremble—they declared as they died that they were true subjects of the king in all things lawful, and obedient children of Holy Church. So one after the other they suffered—we spare the reader the sickening details, which Englishmen could look on in those days, and which innocent men were called upon to suffer, but which we shudder even to read. But we will conclude with a letter written by Lord Russell to Cromwell on the 16th of November, being the day following the tragedy. “My Lorde—thies shal be to asserteyne, that on Thursday the xiii. daye of this present moneth, the Abbot was arrayned, and the next daye putt to execution, with ii. other of his monkes, for the robbyng of Glastonburye Churche; on the Torre Hill, the seyde Abbottes body beyng devyded in fower partes, and his heedd stryken off, whereof oone quarter stondyth at Welles, another at Bathe, and at Ylchester and Brigewater the rest, and his hedd upon the abbey gate at Glaston.”[20]
As the traveller, in modern times, passes swiftly along the Great Western line between Weston and Bridgewater, he may see, on his left, a round conical hill, rising abruptly from the flat plain, a plain which was once a sea, a hill which was once an island. This is Glastonbury Tor. Fair and beautiful it looks in the summer sunlight, but it was once the scene of the foul judicial murder which we have endeavoured to describe.[21] Decorative footer
Decorative header CHAPTER VIII.
ON THE TRACK. “We grieve not o’er our abbey lands, e’en pass they as they may, But we grieve because the tyrant found a richer spoil than they; He cast aside, as a thing defiled, the remembrance of the just, And the bones of saints and martyrs he scattered to the dust.” Neale. It was in vain that Bishop Latimer besought the tyrant, mad after the spoils which a venal parliament had given him, to let at least some of the monasteries remain as the houses of learning. Few countries could boast of such shrines as those which adorned like jewels the shires of England—but all were ruthlessly sacrificed, from the fane which rose over the mighty dead at Battle, to the humblest cell which but sheltered half-a-dozen poor brethren or sisters. Such was the value of the noble library at Glastonbury that Leland, an old English antiquarian, tells us, when first he beheld it, “The sight of its vast treasures of antiquity so struck me with awe, that I hesitated to enter.” Yet we learn from Bale, that such noble collections were sold to grocers for waste paper, and that he knew a man who had bought for that purpose two large monastic libraries at the dissolution, and added that he had been using their contents for ten years, and had hardly got through half his store. So strongly built were many of the Abbeys, that they had to be blown up with gunpowder, after they were stripped of all that could be sold; the lands were given to greedy favourites, Cromwell himself is said to have secured thirty Abbeys, and the ready money was spent at court in gambling and dissolute living. So, in a few years, all the wealth which flowed into the hands of the crown was dissipated, and instead of the remission of taxation, by the hope of which many had been bribed to assent to the fall of the monasteries, the burdens laid upon the people were heavier than before.
Four months had passed away since the tragical events recorded in our last chapter, and the blustering month of March was in mid-career; the winds swept over the ruined Abbey, now in great part roofless, and dismantled, the abode of bats and owls; they swept over the bare and rounded summit of Glastonbury Tor, stained so lately by a foul deed of blood. Many a violent storm of rain had beaten upon that blood-stained summit, and the traces of the butchery had long since vanished; but the peasants yet gazed up to the hill top with awe and wonder. But the storm which had desolated the proud Abbey had left the humble cottage of Giles Hodge untouched: there the old man and his wife lived in peace, like their neighbours, and went through their daily round, their trivial task— Each morning saw some work begun Each evening saw its close. Their foster son was often present to their remembrances, but he had not been with them in person since the martyrdom. They had wisely judged it best to remove him from the immediate neighbourhood of such harrowing recollections, and as old Giles had a brother who lived at Lyme Regis, a seafaring man, thither he had sent Cuthbert to spend the winter. The change of scene had wrought good. The poor boy had gone there broken-hearted, and suffering from the nervous excitement which he had passed through; the shock had been very great, but youth is elastic, and soon recovers from such a strain. The sea and its wonders, the romantic scenery around, all contributed to the beneficial change. Sometimes Cuthbert would go out fishing with his uncle, as he had learned to call the brother of his foster father; the fishing awakened all his interest: on the deep all the night, watching the moonbeams on the waves, the gradual breaking of the dawn, the “many dimpled smile of ocean:” all this was new to the land-bred youth, and exercised a most happy effect upon his health and spirits. But it must not be supposed that he forgot the Abbot, or that he was unmindful of the secret entrusted to him; he had told his foster father that he expected some communication from the friends of the late Abbot, and old Hodge had promised that if anyone arrived, and presented the ring which was to serve as a token, he would send for Cuthbert without any delay. And at last the message came, just when Cuthbert returned home with his “uncle,” after a most successful night at sea, bringing the scaly spoils of the deep in their boats. A rustic messenger had ridden across the country from Glastonbury, through Langport, Ilminster, Chard, and Axminster, a distance of from thirty to forty miles. Old Giles could not write, he only sent word by his envoy, “Come home, I have seen the ring, he expects thee to-morrow.”
We have not hitherto explained fully the social position of Giles Hodge. Well, he was a yeoman, having no lands of his own; only he had a farm of three or four pounds a year,[22] and hereupon he tilled as much as kept five or six men. He had walk for a hundred sheep, and his wife milked thirty kine. He was able and bound to provide one man and horse, with “harness” for both, when the king had need of him; for this species of feudal tenure yet lingered, and supplied the want of a standing army. In short, he was an English yeoman, “all of the olden time.” The fire was burning brightly on the hearth in old Giles’ cottage, which looked as pleasant as in days of yore; he and his old dame occupied their chairs on either side, for the day’s work was over, and they were resting after its fatigues, whilst they anxiously awaited the arrival of their foster son, their Cuthbert. It was only just dark, not yet seven o’clock; the evening meal was already prepared, and set forth with many a tempting dish upon a comely white cloth, to tempt the appetite of the darling of their old age. A knock at the door—the hearts of the old couple beat with anticipation—yet the knock! Would Cuthbert stop to knock? “Come in,” they cried. The latch lifted, and their parish priest entered, Doctor Adam Tonstal. “Good even to you, my worthy friends; I have come for a chat with you about a matter of importance.” “Nothing amiss about Cuthbert, I hope,” said the old dame, anxiously. “No, there is naught amiss, yet still my errand is about him. Are you not expecting him home?” “Yes, thank God, this very night; we thought when you knocked that it was he.” “Well, I know you will be glad to see him again, for he is a worthy lad, and there are few who have not a good word for him, but it will be just as well not to let anyone know of his arrival, and to get him away again as soon as possible. My object was to warn you against allowing him to return, and also to advise you not to tell anyone where he may be found.” “But why,” inquired Giles, aghast, as soon as he could get a word in; “what harm hath the poor lad done?” “Harm, forsooth!” then lowering his voice, “what harm had Richard Whiting done?” “But Cuthbert is too young to be answerable for such weighty matters.” “I know that, but not too young to be an object of interest just now. You see it is reported that he was deep in the Abbot’s secrets.” “They would indeed be weighty secrets, which the Abbot would entrust to a mere boy.” “Ordinarily your remarks would be just, but the case is peculiar. The Abbot was suspected to be in possession of lists of names, of papers, nay of treasure, in connection with the rising in the north, which had been entrusted to him after the disastrous collapse of the Pilgrimage of Grace: we are all friends here,” added the priest, fearing lest he might have committed himself, for had such an expression as “disastrous,” applied to the royal triumph, been reported to Cromwell, it might have been his death-warrant.[23] “We are alone, my wife and I, and we be no tale-bearers.” “Well then, it is said that there must be a secret chamber, somewhere in the Abbey, not yet discovered, in spite of all the search made for it by Sir John Redfyrne, the administrator of the property of the Abbey for the king; who is also an ally of Cromwell, that arch-heretic, and oppressor of the Church. You are sure there is no one in the house save yourselves?” “Quite sure, don’t fear; but what has this to do with Cuthbert?” “Only that a lad named Nicholas Grabber offers to make oath that he heard the Abbot reveal the secret to Cuthbert, when the two were in his private chamber, and bid him await the arrival of some mysterious person, with a ring: Grabber’s account is very defective, but he says the Abbot discovered his presence, and ordered him roughly away.” “As I live,”—said Giles. “Of course you know nothing,” said the priest, interrupting, “but I have learned through friends that a warrant is about to be issued against the lad: now if he is taken——” “But they can lay no crime to his charge, to know a secret is no crime.” “But they may, and probably will consider that secret of sufficient importance to the State to insist upon its disclosure, and if the poor boy, as will very likely be the case, refuse to tell, they will see what the thumb-screw, or failing that, even the rack, may effect.” “Good heavens! Saint Joseph forbid.” “Amen; but the best way is to keep Cuthbert out of the way.” “Too late; for here he is!” The door opened and our hero entered, all flushed with travel, and with the delight of meeting his old friends, whom he embraced warmly; after which he saluted the priest with a lowly reverence. “How well he is looking, poor lad,” said the dame: for his face was flushed with pleasure, or she might still have seen some traces of his recent trial. A more thoughtful expression sat on his features, such a period as he had gone through had done the work of years in sobering his boyish spirits, and bringing on, prematurely, the thoughts and cares of manhood. “Now, Cuthbert,” said the good priest, “I will take a turn on the green, while you tell all your news to your kind friends, and satisfy your hunger, and after that I will return for a little talk with you;” and he went out, but only to pace up and down the green, keeping the cottage still in sight. And we too will leave the good souls within to their endearments for the same space of time; they will soon know the extent of the danger in which their foster boy is placed. But the priest knows it, and he walks up and down, peering sometimes into the darkness beyond the green, in the direction of the town, scrutinizing the faces of the passers-by, until curfew rings from the tower of his own church. Then he re-enters the cottage. Cuthbert, hunger satisfied, is seated in the chimney-corner; the logs sparkle in the draughts of wind, which find their entrance through every cranny; the aged couple are seated as before. “Father, we have told Cuthbert that you think he ought not to stay here, but he says he is bound to remain over the morrow; that will not hurt, will it?” “Not if he is unseen, and the news of his coming has not got abroad.” “Did anyone see thee, child, as thou enteredst the town?” “Alas, I fear one did; Nicholas Grabber was hanging about the gate on the common.” “Nicholas Grabber; then, my boy, thou must not tarry an hour; it is he who hast already betrayed thee.” “Betrayed me! how?” said Cuthbert, alarmed. Then the priest told Cuthbert all that our readers have already learned from his lips, and the lad at once recognized his danger, for he remembered how Nicholas had lurked about the Abbot’s chamber that eventful night, when the secret was revealed to him. “You are right, Father,” he said, “I must go.” “Too late!” said the priest, “too late!” For at that moment the tramp of many feet was heard without, followed by a violent knocking at the door, which the priest fortunately had barred when he entered. “Hide him,” said the good man; “I will keep them at bay for a few minutes.” And the old people hurried Cuthbert out of the room. “The back door,” said the boy. “Nay, that is watched too; I hear them whispering without.” “Then I am lost.” “No! no! my boy,” said the old woman, “come up stairs, and get into the loft.” They went hastily up the stairs, into the old people’s bedroom. There was no ceiling, but that which plain boards overhead, separating them from the attic beneath the roof, afforded; knocking one of these aside with his staff, the old man bade Cuthbert mount on his shoulders, and get into the loft. The lad did so easily, for the roof of the room was low, and then replaced the boards, so that no one could see that there had been any disturbance thereof. The loft was often used for the storage of fruit, corn, flax, and the like, and there was a quantity of the latter material stored therein; on this Cuthbert lay. Meanwhile the priest below fulfilled his task. “Who are ye, disturbing an honest family after curfew?” “Officers of the law, constables; open, in the name of the law.” “There be many who avail themselves of that name, with very little title; robbers be about, and I must have surer warrant ere I admit you.” “Open, or we will break down the door.” “Nay, and thou come to that game, there be those within, good at the game of quarter staff; meanwhile we will blow the horn and rouse the watch.” “Thou old fool, we will break thy bones, as well as the door; we tell thee we are the constables—the watch.” “’Tisn’t old Hodge’s voice,” said another; “ask the fellow who he is.” “Who art thou, fool?” “That is for wise men like thee to find out.” “Well, then, here are Roger Hancock, John Sprygs, James Griggs, Denis Howlet, the four constables, and Laurence Craveall, a body servant of Sir John Redfyrne.” “I fear me, friend, thou art taking the names of better men in vain; more to the token, thou showest thyself a liar: for well do I know that neither Jack Sprygs nor Jim Griggs ever leave the ale-tap after curfew, until it is time to tumble, drunk, into their sinful beds.” “Break open the doors,” cried the two impugned worthies, in a rage. “I will loose the mastiff upon you.” But in spite of this direful threat, which it would have been difficult to fulfil, as no mastiff was in the house, the men commenced breaking down the door. At that instant old Hodge appeared, and signifying by a sign all was right, cried aloud— “What are you doing at my door?” “Breaking it down, with a search warrant for our justification.” “Thou mayst save thyself the trouble; I have nought here to hide;” and the old man withdrew the bars. Four ill-looking men, Jacks in office, entered, and behind them two faces appeared, whose owners preferred to stay without; the one was the valet of Sir John Redfyrne, the other Nicholas Grabber. The two constables whom he had so grievously aspersed fixed their eyes upon the priest. “So it was thou, was it, who kept us waiting?” “Your pardon, if I mistook you; doubtless you have good cause for your untimely errand.” “We have pulled down monks, and your turn may come next,” said the surly John Sprygs, “and then you may not have the chance of taking sober folks’ reputation away; but enough of this, where is that young rascal, Cuthbert Hodge, if that is his name, we have a warrant for his apprehension?” “Why, he has been away ever since November.” “But came home to-night; here is the witness. Nick Grabber, when didst thou last see Cuthbert Hodge?” “This evening, riding with another lad through the common gate, on the Langport Road.” “And does thy worshipful father permit thee, now thy school days are over, to spend thy time in Glastonbury as a spy?” said old Hodge. “My worshipful father has given me to the care of Sir John Redfyrne, as a page, old man, so thou hadst better keep a civil tongue in thine head, and it will be better for thy young bastard’s bones; he shall pay for it.” “I think, my son,” said the priest very quietly, “that when thou wast coupled between two hounds, as a truant, thou must have learnt from them to bite and snarl.” “We have no time for all this nonsense,” said the head constable, “where is this youngster?” “Since you say he is here, you had better find him.” “He has not gone out by the back door,” said Grabber. “Or you would have grabbed him.” “Even so, with right good will.” They proceeded to search the house, but all in vain, and they were at length about to conclude that the boy had left the place before their entrance, when Grabber remarked to one of the constables, that he might be above the boards of the bedroom. “When we were schoolfellows,” he said, “I have often heard him say that very good apples were kept there.” “The boy has got the right sow by the ear,” says James Griggs, and followed by the others, he went upstairs again, whereupon the old lady began to cry. “Ah,” said Nicholas, “the scent is hot, the old lady gives tongue.” A board was withdrawn, chests piled beneath, and John Sprygs cried out, “Now, young Nick, you go and grab him.” “After you,” said Nicholas, who remembered the weight of his young opponent’s fist that night in the woods. John Sprygs mounted, and was no sooner in the loft than he cried,— “The place is as dark as pitch, pass me up the torch.” “Nay! nay!” cried Giles Hodge, “the place is full of flax.” “We will take care of that; thou dost not want thy precious brat found.” Up went the torch which the men had brought with them, a flaring pine torch, to assist in the operations; in very wantonness Nick Grabber tossed it into the fellow’s hand, crying “Catch.” He missed it, and it fell into a heap of flax. The man started back to avoid the blaze which instantly sprang up, and so put the fire between him and the moveable planks—the only moveable ones—which served as a trap-door. “Come down, come down,” called out the appalled voices below. But the wretch could not face that sea of flame, until, maddened by desperation, he took a header as boys might say, at the opening through the fire, and falling head foremost on the bedroom floor, split his skull and died on the spot. The others could do nothing for him, the loft was one mass of flame, and shouting “Fire! Fire!” they ran to get water, in a vain attempt to save the cottage. But of this there was little hope; the roof was of thatch, and the building mainly of timber, so they saw in a few minutes that there was nothing for it but to help the aged couple to save their furniture. But what of Cuthbert? they had forgotten him, for the time, then they said,— “The boy couldn’t have been there, nor in the house, or he would be driven from his hiding-place now. See how unconcerned the old man looks; he wouldn’t look so if his precious boy were in danger.” [22] Multiply by twelve for the modern equivalent. See Note H.
Decorative header CHAPTER IX.
IN THE RUINS OF THE ABBEY. No, Cuthbert was not burnt, as the reader has already conjectured, or our tale would come to an untimely close, untimely as the death of our hero, and we will now explain the manner of his escape. Once in the loft, he remembered that in the innocent confidence of his boyhood, he had prated of its treasures to Grabber, who he doubted not was with his pursuers, and he felt that there was scant safety in his hiding place. But there was yet an avenue of escape: a little opening at the end of the loft, which the ill-fated constable had overlooked, like a dormer window, admitted light and air to the loft; if he could force himself through that, and it was only a very small opening, he would emerge on the roof, and in the darkness might descend and escape unseen. He tried and succeeded, and sliding down the long sloping roof, as he had often done when a small boy, alighted at the back of the house, while all the officers were within, those who had kept guard without, having joined the rest, when they judged by the uproar, that the lad was found. But one yet watched there,—the priest who rejoiced to see him. He had left the house when Grabber told the secret, from reluctance to witness the capture of the harmless boy. “Thank God, my boy,” he said, “thou hast outwitted them; go and hide in the Abbey ruins, I shall be there at midnight, I have business there, in the desecrated church; I will tell thy friends thou art safe; go at once.” The boy darted away for the Abbey, but soon he heard loud shouts of “Fire!” “Fire!” and saw the reflection of the flames in objects around. Full of anxiety for his foster parents, he could not help turning back, and would again have run into danger, for the officers, anticipating such a result, were looking everywhere amongst the crowd, and would surely have seen him, had not his wise friend, the good parish priest, also anticipated the same, and met him. “Nay, nay, my lad, thou canst do no good, and wilt only add to their troubles; go into the Abbey church and wait there till midnight; thou art not afraid?” “No,” said Cuthbert, “only take care of them,” and he retraced his steps to the Abbey. “The Boy darted away for the Abbey.” Page 92.
The moon had arisen, and illuminated the scene, when through a gap in the boundary wall Cuthbert entered the once sacred precincts; his heart was very heavy as he gazed upon the mutilated cloisters, doors torn from their hinges, windows dashed out, roofless chambers from which the lead had been torn,—gazed as well as a moon struggling amidst clouds would allow him to gaze, gazed and wept. The same ruins seen now, after the mellowing influences of time have toned down the painful features, excite interest unmingled, in the case of most visitors, with regret, and they say, “What a beautiful ruin;” but it was different then: a visit to Glastonbury, Tintern, or Furness, must have rent the heart of any one who could feel for the victims of injustice, or grieve over the wanton mutilation of all that was beautiful in architecture, or sacred in religion.[24] When our hero entered the once beautiful Abbey church, when he saw the ashes of the holy dead scattered abroad, their tombs defaced; above all, when he saw the altar which had been stripped and rent from its place, and this by a people who had not yet renounced their faith in the sacramental presence, by a king who at the same time sent men and women to the stake because they disbelieved in Transubstantiation,[25] he fell upon his face and sobbed, while the words escaped his lips, “How long, O Lord, how long?” All his early teaching had led him to revere what he saw thus desecrated, and he was shocked to the very core of his heart. He saw the moonbeams fall through broken windows and chequer the mutilated floor with light; he sought in vain a place of rest, until it occurred to him that the organ loft which was over the entrance to the monk’s choir, and which was reached by a winding staircase, would be the best place of refuge, in case he should be sought, which he deemed unlikely; there were but few who would harm him, and they were off the scent. I do not attempt to analyse his feelings towards Grabber, neither would it have been well for the latter to have met Cuthbert just then; warm-hearted and loving to his friends, nay, Christian in heart as Cuthbert was, it would have been hard at that time to put in action the spirit of forgiveness as one ought. Up the spiral staircase he crept into the loft; there some cushions were left by chance amongst the remains of the organ; he contrived to make a couch out of two or three of them and slept. How long he knew not, but at length he seemed to hear the bells ring out the midnight hour, and he began to dream that he was assisting at a solemn office for the dead. He awoke and raised himself up; the same sounds he had heard in his dream were actually ascending from below. “Requiem Æternam dona eis Domine et lux perpetua luceat eis.” Then followed the words of the psalm:— “Te decet hymnus Deus in Syon, et tibi reddetur votum in Jerusalem.”[26] He gazed around him in amazement. He discovered the familiar odour of incense, he perceived the glimmer of many tapers. He dared at last, not knowing whether he beheld ghosts or living men, to look over the edge of the gallery, and saw a company of monks in the familiar Benedictine habit, standing around an open grave, while beyond them the desecrated altar was set up, and furnished with its accustomed ornaments, and the Celebrant with his assistant ministers, stood before it. Then he was convinced that he beheld living men and no phantoms, and that he saw before him those who survived of his former preceptors and teachers, the monks of Glastonbury. Whom then were they burying? for whom did they chant the requiem Mass? And now the epistle was read, and afterwards the solemn sounds of the sequence arose:— “Dies irÆ Dies illa Solvet sÆclum in favilla Teste David cum Sibylla.” [27] He hesitated no longer, he glided down the stairs, and soon his boyish voice was heard in the sweet verse:— “Recordare Jesu pie Quod sum causa tuÆ viÆ Ne me perdas illa die.” [27] As he sang Cuthbert saw he stood by the good parochus. The gospel followed, telling of Him Who is the Resurrection and the Life; after which one of the brethren, a man with the aspect of one in authority, stood forth, and began a short address:— “We are met to-night, brethren, like the faithful of old, to render the last rites of the Church to the mutilated remains of our beloved brethren; gathered, at what risk ye know, from the places wherein the tyrant had exposed the sacred relics, which were once the home of the Holy Spirit, wherein Christ lived and dwelt; yea, and which shall rise again from the dust of death, when body shall unite with the redeemed regenerate soul, and soar from death’s cold house to life and light.” He was interrupted by a sob (it was from Cuthbert), but he went on. “And now we bury them in peace, we place the bones of the last Abbot,—and one more worthy has never presided over Glastonbury,—with those of his sainted predecessors: together they sleep after life’s fitful penance, together they shall arise, when the last trump shall echo over the vale of Avalon. Nor do we forget his faithful brethren, once the Prior and Sub-Prior of this holy house; they were with him in his hour of trial, they rest with him now, their mortal bodies, all that was mortal, here, but their souls, purified by suffering have, we doubt not, entered Paradise, where they hear those rapturous strains, that endless Alleluia which no mortal ear could hear and live. In peace; but secure as we feel for them, we have yet to implore God’s mercy for ourselves, and His suffering Church, upon which blows so cruel have fallen. In these holy mysteries, while we commend our dear brethren to His mercy, our supplications are turned (as saith Augustine) to thanksgivings; but for ourselves, oh, what need of prayer that we may breast the waves, as they did, and when the Eternal Shore is gained, who will count the billows which roar behind?” The service proceeded, and when all was over, the stone was replaced over the grave, which was made to appear as though nought had disturbed its rest in its bed, the tapers were extinguished, and but one solitary torch left alight. He who appeared the leader of the party, now approached Cuthbert. “My son,” he said, “dost thou know this ring?” “I do,” and Cuthbert bent the head. “Thou meetest me fitly here; and here, over his grave who loved thee, I take thee to be my adopted child; thou hast found another father in the place of him thou hast lost; fear not thy foes, I know thy danger, ere the dawn break thou shalt be in safety.” End of the First Part. Decorative footer
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