CHAPTER III THE PURSUIVANT

The apparitor had taken his departure, and Chiddingly had resumed its normal condition of rural happiness and peace.

The fields were ripening unto harvest, the rustics went forth to their daily toil whistling merrily beside their horses, and at eventide the maidens went to see to the kine with their bright milk-cans in their hands. The rooks filled the air with their raucous voices, as they fluttered about the great rookery which begirt Chiddingly Place.

On the Sunday following the departure of the Queen's officer, all the people of Chiddingly, save a few who were bedridden, flocked into the parish church as if to testify by their presence the love that they bore to their pastor.

Chiddingly was a musical village, and here, at least, the Canticles, which were "to be said or sung," were always sung to the accompaniment of a flageolet, which the parish clerk played vigorously.

And on this especial Sunday the "Te Deum" was sung so heartily that the Vicar marvelled, while Mistress Susan's bright eyes glowed with pride and then glistened with the unbidden tear which strong emotion called forth.

The service over, the Squire and his fair daughter walked through the lines of the villagers, who, according to their custom, awaited their exit to make their salutations to them, cap in hand. There was nothing servile in this—it was but the public exhibition of the love and fidelity in which the family of the Jefferays was held by the Chiddingly people. At the entrance porch of the hall Susan's quick eye noted a stable lad standing beside a pony from which he had dismounted.

What was it that so suddenly brought a flush into Susan's cheeks as she marked that the lad wore the livery of the De Fynes of Herstmonceux—a glow which deepened as the boy doffed his cap and offered her a letter?

"You come from Lewes?" said Susan inquiringly.

"Yes, my lady," replied the lad.

"Wait awhile, and I will let you know if there is any reply; go to the kitchen after you have stabled your pony—the maids will get you some dinner," said Susan.

The lad bowed low and took his departure, glad to follow out Susan's instructions.

Susan turned to her father, who had looked on smilingly.

"Pardon me, dear father," she said, "I will be with you anon."

William Jefferay nodded assent. Susan hastened to her own room and quickly opened her letter.

Yes, it was from Geoffrey de Fynes; she had half hoped to have seen him this day, why had he written instead?

So, with a heart surmising evil, she proceeded to read the letter. As she did so, her cheeks paled and her hands trembled. Then she rang a small silver bell which stood at her side, and her maid Janet appeared in answer to the summons.

"Ask my father to come hither to me, Janet," she said, and the maid hastened away.

Her father presently entered her room, his face still wreathed with smiles.

But the expression of his face changed suddenly as he looked upon his daughter, who held out the letter to him.

"What is it, Susan," he said quickly, "what has happened?"

"Read, father!" she replied in a troubled voice.

The writer of the letter was a member of a great Sussex family—a family whose wrongs moved the pity of all men. The head of the house of Geoffrey de Fynes had suffered a traitor's death in the year 1545, since which time the family had been degraded "in blood and honours."

Yet never had Justice so surely missed its mark as when young Lord Dacres lost his head at Tyburn!

Young Geoffrey de Fynes at the present time held the office of Secretary to the High Sheriff of the County; just now his duties had called him to Lewes.

He was a frequent visitor at Chiddingly Place, and between him and Susan a strong attachment had sprung up, though no betrothal had taken place.

William Jefferay took the letter from his daughter's hand and read it carefully; it was as follows—

"This from the hand of one who loves thee well, and whose chief object in life is to do thee service. Hence I write this letter, and I do so with a clear conscience, though the writing of it might cause the loss of my post, and make me an inmate of Lewes gaol! Yet I dare not do otherwise, for thy happiness is dearer to me than aught else in this life!

"Now to come at once to the point.

"It has come to my knowledge that a warrant has been issued by the Crown for the apprehension of the Vicar of Chiddingly.

"A Pursuivant, with three men-at-arms, will leave Lewes for Chiddingly three days hence, soon after daybreak. They will travel on horseback, and their object is to arrest the Vicar, bring him hither, and afterwards convey him to London.

"Thou mayest show this letter to thy father, but to none other. Between you some plan may be devised whereby he shall escape the malice of his foes. I suggest that he flee to the Continent, but thy father will be his best counsellor."

Then the letter of Geoffrey de Fynes drifted off into other matters which concerned Susan only.

"When you have finished reading that letter I counsel you to destroy it—for Geoffrey's sake," said William Jefferay to his daughter, as he handed it back to her.

"Oh, father," said Susan, "what is to be done?"

"I know not," replied her father, "unless we can persuade the Vicar to flee."

"We have tried that already, and I fear he is immovably resolved to stay among his people—he is strong in his innocence, and cannot be brought to realize the danger he is in," said Susan.

"We shall see him to-night after the service; he comes here to sup with us: we will show him De Fynes's letter if needs be, or at least tell him its contents. I think this will convince him of the deadly peril in which he stands," replied Jefferay.

"God grant it!" cried Susan. "I shall know no rest nor peace now till I know that his safety is assured. Ralph will be here to-morrow; he is coming to spend my birthday with us. Oh! it is a heaven-sent interposition, for he can conduct the Vicar to the coast," she continued.

"Nay, Susan," replied her father, "it is a post of danger, and it will need discretion as well as valour; I shall see him to Newhaven myself, if we can persuade him to flee."

For a long time they talked together, maturing their schemes.

"How good and noble it was of Geoffrey de Fynes to send us this warning!" said Susan; "would that he were here to aid us with his counsel!"

"There you are wrong, dear girl," replied Jefferay; "he has compromised himself enough already, and now we must keep him out of our plot altogether."

"Yes, I see that it must be so," answered Susan, with a sigh.

The afternoon service took place as usual, the parishioners attending once more in full force, little thinking of the danger that hung over the head of their beloved Vicar.

Every word of the simple service seemed to Susan's excited imagination to be invested with an especial significance, and her sweet voice trembled with emotion as she sang the words, "Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace." So also the psalm for the day cheered her with its ringing words, "Why do the heathen rage?" and she came out of the church both comforted and refreshed.

In the evening the Vicar came down to the Place in the best of spirits; the hearty services of the day had filled his heart with joy, and the evident good-will, respect, and affection of his people for him had deeply moved his gentle soul.

It was not till supper was over, and the three friends were seated together in the library, that Jefferay, laying his hand affectionately upon the Vicar's shoulders, said—

"You are very happy to-night, Vicar; alas! that I should have bad news for you—news that will mar your happiness, I fear."

Then, as the Vicar looked into his face, without fear or trepidation, William Jefferay recounted all that had happened, and finally showed him De Fynes's letter.

"The Lord's will be done!" said the Vicar solemnly.

"It will be done, it always is done, but not always in the manner we expect," answered Jefferay.

Then Susan intervened.

She drew near to the Vicar's side, took his hand in hers, and said—

"Dear Vicar, we have decided that you must flee before this threatened storm, for it would break our hearts were you taken from us by cruel men, and not ours only, but the hearts also of many of your poor people here."

The Vicar shook his head.

"The hireling fleeth because he is an hireling; the good shepherd giveth his life for the sheep," he said.

"No, my dear girl," he continued, as he laid his hand affectionately on her head, "I cannot go—do not urge me!"

Then William Jefferay took another line.

"Listen, my friend," he said, "we want to preserve your life for better times; and my brother Sir John tells me that all men at Court foresee that the present state of things cannot last."

Then, dropping his voice to almost a whisper, he continued—

"The Queen's health is failing; the friends of the Princess Elizabeth are gathering about her, and are taking heart. This may be treason, but, as God lives, I believe it is true! Save yourself, then, Vicar, for better times and future labour among the people whose souls God has committed into your charge!

"Now let me tell you my plans. To-morrow The Golden Horn sets sail from Newhaven for Ostend. I have interest with the captain, and I can answer for him that he will accept you as a passenger. We can leave Chiddingly at break of day, ere people are moving, and I will conduct you to Newhaven."

"I will give you my answer to-morrow," pleaded the Vicar.

But his two faithful friends would not be thus appeased.

"No, Vicar, that will be too late, for The Golden Horn puts to sea early in the day, and we should lose our great opportunity."

For a long time the earnest discussion continued, and the hour waxed late before the reluctant consent was given. To the loving heart of Susan that hard-won victory brought great joy.

"To-morrow, then, at three o'clock we meet here; the horses will be ready to start the moment you arrive," said William, as the guest took his departure from the Place.

"I shall be here—God willing," replied the Vicar.

The next day saw William Jefferay's plan carried out—with the addition that, on Susan's suggestion, Jefferay should accompany the Vicar to Holland and see him safely and comfortably settled there.

That same day, Monday, Ralph arrived from London, and it was not long ere the confiding Susan had revealed to him all that had passed, and that on Wednesday the Queen's Pursuivant would visit Chiddingly to find "the bird flown"!

Now Ralph was a fine, strong English youth, endowed by nature with a very combative disposition and an inordinate love of adventure.

He had thoroughly approved of the action of the Chiddingly rustics when they dipped the apparitor in the horse-pond, though he had taken no part in the affair.

The threatened visit of the Pursuivant aroused his indignation to a white heat, and, unfortunately, at this moment he lacked the restraining influence of his father's presence at home, nor did he take counsel on the matter with Susan.

That very day Ralph called about him a few of his young confidants among the Chiddingly rustics, and at nightfall ten of them met him in conference in the taproom of the "Six Bells" Inn.

The meeting was "secret and confidential"; none but the ten stalwarts were admitted to it, and these pledged themselves to secrecy by a solemn oath which Ralph administered with all due gravity.

Then the meeting having been duly constituted, and Ralph accepted as their leader by common consent, the "young Squire" (as he was known among the rustics) set forth in sufficiently guarded language the nature of the matter which had brought them together, omitting all reference by name to Geoffrey de Fynes.

Headstrong and thoughtless as Ralph was, he saw the necessity for secrecy on that point.

It was a remarkable and typical assembly.

These young men were fine young Englishmen, who, though they lacked great intelligence, possessed the bravery and independence of their fore-fathers.

They were absolutely loyal to their Queen, and would have shed their blood for her and for their country against Spain, or France, or any other foreign foe with complete devotion.

But there was growing up in their hearts a deadly hatred for the Spanish nation in general, and for King Philip in particular—nor did the Sussex people ever forget or forgive the religious intolerance which had kindled the fires at Lewes, Mayfield, and many another place.

So Ralph found ready material at hand when he proposed to take vengeance on the Pursuivant as they had done upon the apparitor, reckless of the anger of the "powers that be."

Before the conspirators separated that night it was resolved that the Pursuivant and his party should be waylaid on Wednesday morning at a point in the woods well known to them all—about four miles from Chiddingly.

The warrant should be taken from the Pursuivant and be torn to pieces; there should be no bloodshed if it were possible to prevent it; the obnoxious visitors should be unhorsed and left to find their way back to Lewes on foot.

The horses would be driven into the woods; they were Lewes horses, and would surely find their way home in due time; and, if not, there was abundant pasture for them in the glades of the forest.

The rustics, under Ralph's leadership, would leave the village at daybreak on Wednesday morning; they would thus reach the place appointed for the attack an hour or so before their foes, and would have time to make all necessary preparations.

Thus the scheme was elaborated, and every detail arranged by the resourceful lad, Ralph Jefferay.

To him the whole adventure was a matter of supreme delight—little recked he of the danger attending it!

On the morrow (Tuesday) he mounted his cob and rode to the spot he had selected for the attack.

There were no high-roads in Sussex, but between the villages and the county town well-known beaten tracks existed. These were well-nigh impassable in winter—at other seasons a fair amount of traffic passed along them.

Between Chiddingly and Lewes lay dense woods—the relics of the mighty forest of the Andreadsweald of ancient days. Sometimes the trackway led through forest glades of much beauty; at other times it was a narrow pass between giant oaks and elms whose rich foliage would occasionally meet over the head of the traveller, forming a delicious shade in the hot months of summer.

It was to a place of this latter kind that Ralph came on that fine July morning.

He felt perfectly certain that the Pursuivant would take this route on the following day; any other would involve a détour of several miles in making the journey from Lewes to Chiddingly.

Ralph inspected narrowly the trees which grew on both sides of the track; eventually he seemed to find what he needed, namely, two stout young saplings facing each other with about twenty feet intervening between them.

Then he rode slowly home, and in the evening his rustic friends assembled again, at his summons, in the taproom of the inn, where he gave them his final instructions.

To Susan he said nothing of the scheme on foot; he would not involve her or any member of his family in the dangers of the enterprise.

One great regret filled his heart—the absence of his brother William.

The twins were rarely apart from each other, and this visit to Chiddingly lacked but this one thing for Ralph's perfect happiness; his brother had been compelled to remain in London, where his uncle, Sir John, required his services and personal attendance.

A dim grey light filled the eastern horizon on the Wednesday morning as Ralph made his way to the stables, where he saddled his stout cob.

He bore no weapon—not even the customary rapier without which he rarely went abroad—for this enterprise was to be carried through without bloodshed; upon that point he was determined.

His followers would all carry single-sticks, a formidable weapon enough in the hands of a Sussex rustic! Round his waist he had begirt himself with a long and strong cord—destined for a special purpose.

Presently he mounted his horse and proceeded at a gentle pace towards the woods; his men, he knew, were gone on ahead.

A bright red light suffused the eastern sky, the sun was about to rise, and the twittering of countless birds from every copse filled the air with sweet music.

A summer mist lay on the meadowland, and big drops of dew bedecked the leaves of the hazel bushes, gleaming under the rosy light like rubies.

Suddenly the sun rose above the horizon into a cloudless sky, and the day had begun.

It was a lovely morning, not a cloud flecked the bright azure of the sky.

On his left hand ran the long line of the Sussex downs in graceful outline—rising at Firle Beacon to a lofty height of some seven hundred feet.

Before him lay the dense forest, the deep embowered shades of Chiddingly woods.

Ralph was in high spirits, and as his stout cob gaily cantered along the trackway he broke into song, as if in emulation of the sweet-toned larks rising into the deep-blue sky on quivering wing.

He was now nearing the point of the rendezvous, and he checked his song as he caught sight of one of his stalwarts trudging along in front of him.

"You are in good time, Roger," he cried to the man as he overtook him.

"Yes, Mr. William, and the others are all in front of me. I am the rear-guard."

"Good," cried Ralph, "but tell me, Roger, why do you call me Mr. William?—alas, he is not here."

"I beg your pardon, sir," replied the man with a laugh. "I thought for the moment that Mr. William had joined us—it was your grey cap which misled me."

Ralph pulled the cap from his head and looked at it with an air of astonishment.

"It is true," he said, "I have put on my brother's cap; it was dark when I left home, and I did not mark the colour of it."

Then he rode rapidly ahead, and in a few minutes he arrived at the rendezvous.

The spot was admirably chosen for the object in view. Here the track narrowed to a breadth of sixteen or seventeen feet, and the branches of a giant oak spread right over it.

On each side of the track grew a stout young sapling, as if nature was conspiring on behalf of the stalwarts. Ralph drew a whistle from his doublet and blew a shrill note.

In a minute a rustling noise arose in the dense wood, and there emerged from it nine of his men.

Ralph dismounted, and putting his bridle rein into the hands of one of the men, said—

"Take him to the hut and tie him up carefully; see that you shut the door after you."

"Aye, aye, sir," said the man.

Then Ralph began to unwind from his body the stout cord he had brought with him, with the assistance of his men. One end of it was securely fastened to the sapling on the right of the road, at a height of one foot from the grassy soil.

The other end was made sure at the foot of a tree on the left-hand side, and the rope was drawn taut. The rough grass which grew luxuriantly on the trackway obscured it sufficiently from view.

Every man of the band carried a short cord round his waist, and Ralph carefully inspected these cords to see that they were ready for immediate use.

"Now listen, all of you, to my final instructions," said Ralph, as the men gathered round him.

"You, Tom and Jim, will mount the oak-tree, climb along that limb which crosses the track, and be ready to drop on the Pursuivant at the moment he passes beneath you. Bring him to the ground and bind his arms and legs with your cords.

"Four of you will hide in the wood on the right-hand side of the track, and four on the left-hand. The horses will probably be caught by our rope and will come to ground, their riders being thrown headlong. That is your moment of attack; spring upon them and rope them securely.

"Should a horse escape the stretched rope, his rider must be brought to ground by your cudgels. Beware that no man escapes, or our plan will fail. Above all, remember there must be no bloodshed unless self-defence require it. Leave the rest to me; now, do you all understand?"

"Aye, aye, sir," answered the rustics in a joyful shout.

"Then get to your posts, all of you; our foes may be here at any moment," said Ralph.

For a time absolute silence brooded upon the sylvan scene, save for the humming of insects and the twittering of birds.

Ten minutes, a quarter of an hour, twenty minutes had passed, and yet there was no sign of approaching horsemen. Ralph's heart began to beat tumultuously.

"Perhaps," thought he, "the Pursuivant has taken the long route over the downs, and all our well-laid schemes will come to naught," and he groaned within himself.

He stepped forth from the wood into the track, and looked anxiously in the direction of Lewes.

No sound struck his ear, but at that moment a flash of light caught his eye!

The sun was shining upon bright steel halberds, and flashed yet brighter on the cuirasses of two musketeers. They were mounted on stout horses in war panoply, and behind them rose a tall officer in sombre uniform—it was the Pursuivant!

Instantly Ralph dived unperceived into the wood, and a low whistle told his men that the moment for action was nigh. The horsemen were approaching at a brisk trot; their arquebuses were attached to their saddles; in their left hands they bore long halberds; they rode as men all unconscious of danger.

Another moment and they were at hand!

Crash! crash! both horses had struck the fatal rope, and their riders were thrown violently upon the track. The Pursuivant, who was riding about three yards in the rear of his men, threw his horse upon its haunches in blank amazement.

Alas for him! he was at that moment exactly under the great oak limb which stretched across the track, and ere he could utter a sound two men dropped upon him, and he was caught in a strong embrace, while Ralph Jefferay stood at his horse's head, his hand on the bridle. Meanwhile the eight rustics had sprung from the wood, and ere the halberdiers could recover from their fall, they were imprisoned by vigorous arms, and stout ropes were being wound round their bodies.

As the fallen horses struggled to their feet, two rustics sprang to their heads and held them fast.

"What means this outrage?" shouted the Pursuivant; then, addressing Ralph, whom he recognized as the leader of the band, he added—

"Do you know, sir, that I am a Queen's officer, and that you stop me at the peril of your life!"

At a signal from Ralph, his two captors dismounted him from his saddle, and he came helplessly to the ground.

"Search him," said Ralph, disdaining to make any reply to the luckless officer.

His orders were instantly obeyed, and in a few moments the Pursuivant was relieved of a big official-looking document, which Ralph forthwith proceeded to open.

"Listen, my men," he said; "this is a warrant for the apprehension of the Vicar of Chiddingly. What shall we do with it?"

"Tear it in pieces and scatter it to the winds!" shouted the angry rustics.

"At the peril of your lives!" shouted again the enraged officer.

Ralph laughed scornfully in reply, and in another moment he had torn the formidable document to shreds, tossing them in the air as his followers had suggested.

"You will suffer for this, sir," growled the astonished officer.

"You are a bold man, Mr. Pursuivant," said Ralph. "You came hither on a message of death, and now your plans are frustrated and your life is in our hands! Have you thought of that, sir?"

"You would not dare!" replied the officer.

Ralph laughed aloud, and replied—

"You little know the daring of the people of Sussex when they know that God is on their side; yet your experience to-day might give you an inkling of the extent of their hardihood.

"But have no fear," he continued, "your life is safe, and you and your men can go back to Lewes to tell them how you have been outwitted by Sussex rustics.

"Yet it does not suit our purposes that your return should be too quickly made, so we shall tie you to these trees by the roadside and relieve you of your horses. Before nightfall there will, doubtless, be passers-by who will release you from your bondage, and then you may trudge homeward."

Then, ere the enraged Pursuivant could find words for a reply, Ralph turned to his men and said—

"Quick, men, with the ropes; tie our prisoners securely to the trees by the roadside, beginning with the officer."

In a few minutes his orders were carried out. Then Ralph bowed with mock ceremony to the Pursuivant.

"Good-day, sir," he said; "I wish you a speedy release and a pleasant walk to Lewes!"

And at a signal from their leader the whole gang dived into the forest, driving the horses in front of them.

Ralph made his way to the hut where his horse had been stabled, and was soon trotting quietly homewards, his stalwarts following his example on foot by the well-known bypath of the forest.

No sooner had the gang disappeared than the bound men began to struggle desperately in a vain endeavour to escape from their bonds, soon to find all their efforts useless.

Then the Pursuivant spoke.

"You Lewes men ought to be able to recognize some of these ruffians—do you know their leader?"

"Yes, I know him," replied one of his men; "I have often seen him in Lewes—'tis Mr. William Jefferay."

"Are you sure?" said the Pursuivant, rejoiced at the news.

"Yes," replied the man, "I know him by his grey cap!"

"Good," said the officer; "you shall hang for this, Mr. William Jefferay, as surely as there is a sun in the heavens."

The day was wearing on, the sun rose high in the sky, and the bound men began to feel the pangs of thirst—yet no man passed that way to bring them release.

They had many times shouted loudly for help—but there was none to make reply.

Evening had come, and the wretched men began to fear that a night in the woods would be their fate—perhaps death itself from hunger and thirst! But Providence willed it otherwise.

To their joy a woodman, returning from his daily toil, came slowly down the track.

He started in amazement as he heard the cries of the prisoners, and came to the spot where they were bound.

"What now, my masters!" cried the woodman. "What means all this?"

"Don't waste time in talk, man," answered the luckless Pursuivant; "bring hither thy axe and cut these accursed ropes."

The man hesitated, and his weather-beaten features assumed a shrewd expression.

"You must first tell me who you be, and how you came to this pass; I may get myself into trouble."

"Fool!" cried the Pursuivant, now getting angry, "I am a Queen's officer, and these are my men—thy axe, I say, thy axe, and that quick!"

But the man was evidently the master of the situation, and he was not to be hurried.

Moreover, his sense of cupidity began to be awakened—there was, doubtless, something to be earned in this matter.

"Well, I doant know but what I med do you this little job," he said cautiously; "but what is it worth?"

The Pursuivant ground his teeth with rage.

"It will be worse for thee, fool, if thou hesitate any longer; come, bring thy axe and cut these ropes, I command you."

"Oh, that is it, is it?" said the man; "then I leaves you to yourself and bid you good e'en!"

And forthwith he began to walk away.

At this the bound men set up a loud howl of entreaty—their worst fears seemed about to be realized.

The woodman relented, and returned once more to the prisoners.

This time he came straight to the point.

"What will you give me if I cut your cords?" said he, and his eyes sparkled greedily.

The Pursuivant hesitated ere he replied; his first thought was tinged with bitter rage: he would make this fellow smart for his greedy impudence.

But reflection brought another thought: it did not matter what he gave this man; they were three to one—when once they were freed they could make him disgorge his ill-gotten gains!

So he replied, "Come hither, man; put thy hand in my doublet pocket and take my purse, with all that it contains."

The woodman obeyed, and soon found the purse; it was well lined, and his greed was satisfied.

But he was no simpleton, and the same thought which had inspired the Pursuivant's generosity had occurred to him also; he determined, therefore, on his line of action.

Approaching the tree to which one of the men-at-arms was bound, he raised his axe, and, with one blow, severed the rope.

"Now loose thy fellows," he cried, as he bounded into the forest.

The liberated man was long ere he freed his companions; by that time the woodman with the purse in his pocket was deep in the recesses of the forest.

The night was falling, yet a long march lay before the three men ere the lights of Lewes would gladden their eyes.

Yet, hungry, thirsty, and weary, they reached the county town that night, nor did the Pursuivant seek rest till the first step in his revenge was taken, and he had lodged his report with the authorities in the castle.