THE EDICT OF BUCKINGHAM

“I I, a hostage! and who gave me as such, pray?”

“There is not time for further inquisition; we have a long journey before us. Come, Mistress!”

“Nay, nay, I protest; I’ll not go with thee

“Mistress Penwick, I beg thee in my own behalf,” and the Duke bowed before her so courteously, he half won her good will, then “and I command thee in the name of the King,” and with these words he put forth his hand as it were to take that of Katherine. A sword swept lightly over the maid’s fingers, at which the two Dukes drew back with haughty indignation, which meant that reparation must be immediate for this insult to those who came upon his Majesty’s affairs; for indeed they feigned well that they were carrying out the King’s orders. La Fosse, having now regained his breath and some strength, essayed to draw Mistress Penwick from the scene that was about to ensue; but a young man flung himself between them and drove back the monk at the point of his sword, thus beginning the fight.

Katherine was well-nigh fainting from actual fear and apprehension. If she were a hostage, twas her duty to go and it might favour her cause. Doubtless these men were gentlemen, and what matter now who accompanied her to the King? Adrian had proven himself a knave. Poor, dear Cedric lay ill of his wound and he could not attend her if he would. These things flashed through her mind as she watched the flash of steel. Then on a sudden it came to her who these masqued figures might be. Her heart gave a great bound, and she sprang into the midst of those fighting and raised her voice, crying forth,

Cease, cease, fight no more; I will go with thee. A priest near her whispered,

“’Tis thy honour we fight for now, hold thy peace; ’tis not best for thee to go with them, ’twould be thy utter ruin and the undoing of our affairs!” His warning came too late; all had heard Katherine speak; and although two forms already lay upon the floor, there were other motives stronger than the thirst for blood, which on a sudden seemed quenched, and faces pale and blood-stained turned upon Buckingham as he coolly and with much dignity lifted Katherine’s cloak from the table and placed it about her shoulders, then had the audacity to offer his arm. She ignored it, turned to Constantine and fell upon her knees; he blessed her, then whispered hurriedly in her ear. She arose and passed down the bloody aisle, which was flanked on either side by an array of shining steel. As she approached the door, it was flung wide by a figure that startled her, so like was it to Lord Cedric’s, but the light fell aslant his countenance and as she swept by saw ’twas Sir Julian Pomphrey.

A chaise stood some little distance from the cloister, into which Katherine was placed with great courtesy by his Grace of Buckingham.

She sunk back among the cushions with half-closed eyes; heeding not those that rode at either window of the equipage; she was trying to collect her thoughts and by degrees they shaped themselves and she was thinking of that that had but transpired. First of all, she consoled herself like the selfish girl she was: Cedric would not die; ’twas a sweet consolation, and she smiled; her thoughts dwelling not for a moment on her own conduct that had brought him to suffer such pain. Then she lay back even more luxuriously as she thought that Sir Julian would not have opened the door for her, had she been going into danger. To tell the truth, she sighed happily in contemplation of further exploit. She grew bolder and bolder, fearing naught but some slight mischance that might prevent her being a Maid of Honour; for never, never could she go back to Cedric after she had made assertion of love in his ear, and his eyelids had trembled. Nay, nay, she could not bear to look him in the face again. Alas! she made vow she never would. If she was not made a lady of her Majesty’s household, she would seek the patronage of some titled woman, who could help her. Not for a moment did she think of the perils that surrounded and grew closer about her unprotected self with every turn of the wheels that carried her on.

It appeared now as if all barriers to the King’s presence had been levelled and Katherine’s hopes matured to confidence. She drew her cloak about her with sedulous care, as if in so doing she wrapped and hid from the whole world her own poor cunning. She found in her lonely condition no embarrassment, conceiving that her position as intermediary between her Church and the State was sufficient reason for her abrupt leaving of home. Sir Julian would doubtless explain matters to the Duke and Duchess, whom she believed were more than half of her faith. They would see she had been highly honoured by being entrusted with a great secret.

It appeared as if the chaise would never cease to lung and swagger over rough, unused roads, and when at last it did mend its way, Katherine had ceased thinking and fallen fast asleep, nor did she wake during hours of travel, until the great coach came to a sudden halt. She looked through the window. Dawn streaked the East with uncertain intention, knowing not whether to open the day with rain or sunshine. A little to the left was the dark outline of an inn, nestling upon the threshold of a forest, from the window of which fell aslant the way a line of light. The door of the equipage was opened, and a stately cavalier stood to assist her down the step. She leapt lightly to the ground, taking the proffered arm, as the way was dark and uneven.

Within the large, cheery room they entered, burnt a crackling fire; for the morning was damp and chilly. Katherine stole a glance at her companion and saw the handsome features of Monmouth. He had removed his masque and now stood uncovered before her.

“I hope Mistress Penwick has not suffered from her long ride?”

“Nay, sir; on the contrary, I feel refreshed.” Her manner told him plainly his address was not displeasing to her. His eyes rested amorously upon her; for ’twas naught but strong, healthful youth could predicate such reply and vouch for its assertion by such rich colouring of cheek, such rare sparkling of eyes and such ripeness of lips.

She sat at the chimney-nook, her satin gown trailing at her side, her cloak thrown over the back of the high chair. Their Graces were engaged aside with the landlord and servants.

“We will rest here until noon, anyway,” one said, “and if they have not arrived we will set out without them.” Katherine heard and thought ’twas Constance whom they were expecting; and when a table was drawn close to the fire and covers laid for four, there being but three to sit down, Katherine looked askance at the vacant place; the Dukes exchanged glances and his Grace of Buckingham turned to her quickly, introducing himself, then Monmouth, and explained that at the last moment Lady Constance had been prevailed upon to accompany them to London and was expected every moment.

Mistress Penwick had flushed at the presentation of two such noble names, but at his following assertion, which corroborated with Constance’ own words, made her not a little jealous; for the handsome young Monmouth had already shown his regard (God pity her innocence) for Lady Constance by giving her a valuable ring, and now had contrived to make her of their party that he might be constantly with her.

She straightway became very sober-minded, vouchsafing no remarks and inviting none. Her pique would have given way had she but heard the Duke’s conversation a few moments previous.

“Damme!” said young Monmouth, “I have kidnapped the wrong girl. ’Tis not my fault; thou saidst, Duke, to take any pretty girl from Crandlemar castle, and I have captured Lady Constance, whom, I took it, was the girl in question; and I made up my mind thou shouldst not choose beauty for me. I shall throw her on thy shoulders to dispose of.”

The Dukes, bent on provoking the maid to her former manner, began witty tales of wayside inns. Their demeanour was so noble, their stories so terse and pretty, their converse of such elegant and pure wording, she relaxed and fell into their mood and told what few convent stories she could boast. Their Graces were charmed by her beauty, her sweet resonant voice and the simple and innocent narratives, and not a little pleased by the result of their diplomacy.

When Mistress Penwick had gone from the grand salon the evening before, Lord Cedric was not long in discovering her absence; for his eyes and thoughts ever sought her. He had been greatly stirred by some unknown thing, perhaps that we call premonition (tis Gods own gift, if we would but heed its warning), but the game being well under way and Constance calling his attention to an immediate and imperative move, he was dissuaded from his inclination to arise and inquire of the maids absence. It was not for long, however, either the game or his kinswomans cunning could hold his Lordship from seeking her. Quietly he beckoned a lackey and whispered aside. A few minutes elapsed when the servant stood by his master, while beyond in the doorway was Janet, who for once in her life was quite pale. Swiftly Lord Cedric strode to her, saying,

“Hast thou looked for her everywhere, Janet?”

“Aye, my lord, in her own chamber and

“But perhaps she has gone to the kitchens or pantries, for hunger doth assail her not infrequent and at unusual hours.”

There was a bit of bitterness and sarcasm in his voice and he ground his heel as he turned about to give orders. In a moment servants were hunting in every direction throughout the castle. It was soon ascertained she was not within the great house. Cedric grew wild with passion and tore up and down like one gone mad. Sir Julian could not restrain him, a thing that had not happened heretofore. Angel, his old nurse, was called; she bade him ride forth for her.

At this a horse was made ready, and his lordship mounted and rode away. Sir Julian protesting all the while.

As the clatter of horses hoofs had fairly died away and Sir Julian stood just where Cedric had left him, debating with his several ideas, a soft touch was laid almost tenderly upon his arm; had it been the soft, slimy trailing of a serpent, twould not have so startled him. He turned suddenly and caught the slender hand, with no fine affection,

“I see it all quite plainly, thou art the cruel spider that hath woven a silken mesh for that innocent child, and thou shalt tell me before the sands of the hour-glass mark ten moments of time, where has flown Mistress Penwick, so speak, speak quickly, Constance!”

His voice and manner brooked no delay, and her ladyship thinking that even now Katherine was Cantemir’s wife, spoke out with a semblance of injured dignity that melted under Sir Julian’s scathing contempt to silly simpering. The noble character of Sir Julian seemed to silhouette that of her ladyship in all its ugly blackness.

“She is, I presume, by now, the Countess Cantemir made so by an Abbe at the monastery.”

Pomphrey was a-road; the clatter of bit and spur brought a smile to Constance’ face, and she cried forth with all the venom in her poor, foul being:

“Two mad fools, both gone crazy over a convent wench, who is now my Lady Cantemir my cousin, the wife of a fortune hunter!” She fled within doors like one pursued and stopped not until she reached her own chamber.

Midnight approached phantom-like, and as stealthily Lady Constance crept to the postern door. Behind her fell a shadow athwart the floor, a shadow that was not hers but of one that moved as warily. She listened as she held the door ajar, fearing to look back. As she thrust the door wide, a figure from without moved toward her.

“Who is there?” she whispered.

“Monmouth!” was the answer; and out she stepped, well pleased to be free from that shadow she felt was pursuing her. Her hand was immediately taken and eager eyes sought the ring. It was hardly visible, so dense was the shadow of the trees.

“Come this way, Lady Penwick,” came in a voice that was not that of Monmouth’s, which had sounded so much like music to her a few, short hours before, or that had spoken the word “Monmouth” even that moment. She, drawing back in her uncertainty, was captured by strong arms, a hood was thrown over her head, and she was lifted and carried in hot haste to a chaise, and helped therein without much formality. As her escort leapt in behind her, there swept in the other door another figure, also intent upon being accommodated by a seat in a London equipage; and before any one was aware of a de trop comrade, the doors were shut with a bang and horses started at a gallop. Under cover of the noise her ladyship’s vizor was lifted and she, half smothered, drew breath and stared about her in the darkness.

“Thou didst bring thy servant with thee, Lady?”

“Who doth dare inveigle me from the protection of my cousin, Lord Cedric?”

“I, my lady; a simple gentleman of his Grace of Monmouth’s suite, and at his order.”

“Ah ” ’twas long drawn and somewhat smacked of satisfaction. “Who is this female?”

“Is she not thine?”

“Nay, not mine. She doth play the hocus,” said her ladyship.

Who art thou, then, woman; how came yonder door to pamper thy whim? The surprised guardsman rapped smartly upon the window, then pulling it up leant out and asked for a torch. As there were none a-light, he waited some moments; as he did so, there came an answer from the figure opposite,

“I am Mistress Penwick’s waiting-woman.” The answer was satisfactory to the guard.

“’Tis Janet, as I live,” interrupted Lady Constance. She was not sorry to have a companion of her own sex, and Janet would make herself generally useful, if the ride was long and her ladyship should fall ill, as she was certain to do. She knew also Janet’s motive for following her. She was interested in nothing but her mistress.

As the road seemed rough and endless, Constance became anxious of her destination and began to inquire, as if in great anger, why she was thus taken and for what purpose. All questions being answered perfunctorily, she relaxed into silence. At last she asked broadly,

“Where are we to stop for refreshment, man; I am near dead with fatigue?”

“We stop at Hornby’s Inn, my lady, there to meet his Grace.”

Janet sat quiet, nor did she speak again until she stood before Mistress Penwick at the inn, where she sailed in as if nothing in the world had happened, but inwardly she fairly wept with joy to find her nurseling happy and unharmed.

The rain was falling heavily as Lady Constance entered the room where sat Katherine with the two Dukes. Dawn seemed to have gone back into night, for ’twas so dark candles twinkled brightly and lighted up the maiden’s face as she spun a story of convent ghosts. Hate flung open gates through her ladyship’s eyes and fell a battery upon Katherine’s face. ’Twas but a thrust of a glance, but their Graces noted it as they arose to greet her. Katherine was answering in an undertone Janet’s questions as Monmouth spoke aside to her Ladyship. Constance was not to be delayed, even by his Grace, and she hastened to the table and greeted Katherine as Lady Cantemir.

“Nay, not so!” said the maid; whereupon Constance gasped, covering her defeat by a great show of wonder and surprise. She fell to questioning, her inquiries being overthrown by Buckingham, who adroitly turned the conversation upon another matter.

Monmouth was wild with delight over the prize he had captured, and as they sat at meat he was pondering upon where he should hide the beauty, for he feared his father’s predilections, and ’twas sure he would not run the risk of any such mischance and he tossed about in his mind the advisability of taking her to London. As these thoughts crowded upon him he grew grave and frowned. Constance, feeling her disappointment most keenly, saw the tangle upon the Duke’s brow. It arrested the quick pulsing of her own discontent and turned her mind into a channel of evil even more treacherous than any ideas that had assailed her heretofore. It meant, in case of defeat, her own downfall. She would barter, if need be, her own soul away. Of such character were her ladyship’s ambitions. She was impatient for the final bout that was to settle all things.

Even the haughty Duke of Buckingham was moved by Mistress Penwick’s youth, beauty and innocence. And yet he thought ’twas pitiful she should go unclaimed by Court. Her secret must be had at whatever cost, and seeing the maid was neither dismayed nor at loss by being thrown with the king’s son and the famous Buckingham, ’twas certain nothing less than extreme measures would draw from her her secret. Whether these measures were foul or fair was not of much consequence to him. If the maid was to favour any, he would withdraw, giving place to Monmouth, providing of course ’twas in his power to do so. And that ’twould be his power he did not doubt.

Mistress Penwick saw Monmouths frown also, and looked up at him smiling and asked,

“Thou must not ponder upon ghosts. When do we journey, your Grace?”

“When thou art well rested and say the word.” His face broke into sunshine and the maid could not fail to see the admiration that fell upon her from his Grace’s eyes. She flushed rose red. He caught her hand as they arose from table, and pressed it warmly, and with a tenderness that was apparent to Buckingham and Constance. Should he press his suit upon her now or wait? He thought best to wait, as Janet quickly came to her mistress at a motion of the hand that the Duke reluctantly released. He allowed her to pass to her chamber without his escort. Constance passed unnoticed by him from the room, and being well-worn by her long ride, also went above stair, where she tumbled upon her bed in tears, most unlike Katherine who was rubbed and swathed in blankets by the faithful Janet.

Sir Julian Pomphrey had sent to the castle and procured conveyance and Ellswold’s physicians for the young lord, who lay very white and weak at the monastery. Owing to his serious wound, they had moved very slowly, reaching home near three o’clock in the morning. The Duchess was greatly shocked by Cedric’s condition and most indignant with Mistress Penwick and Constance.

The matter was blown about by servants, and before the dismal rainy day was ended, all Crandlemar knew of the goings-on at the castle and were greatly stirred that their lord had been so used by the Catholics. ’Twas inflammable matter that meant the possible uprising in arms of the whole village. It was said the Protestants were aggrieved that Lord Cedric had thus long allowed the monks freehold, and now that he was helpless they would take it upon themselves to drive them away at the point of the sword and see if, by so doing, greater fortune would not fall to them, for such bravery would certainly bring them to their lord’s notice and mayhap he would build up many of his houses and do better by them than heretofore.

Over the ale mugs at the village inn ’twas whispered by the landlord that the day before two men, wearing masques, had left the place together, one bearing under his saddle-bag a monk’s robe; and a crucifix had fallen from his pocket as he mounted.

The men grew more and more excited and fell to pledging themselves to clean out the ancient monastery before another day should close.

A pale young man in fashionable attire sat apart, drinking deep and listening with satisfaction to the village swains and their elders’ talk; his eye in imagination upon the dark passage in the monastery that hid the trapdoor and no doubt the treasures of the cloister that lay beneath.

’Twas Cantemir; he had escaped unharmed from the clutches of Buckingham and Monmouth. The former had caught him hastening from the monastery and seizing compelled him to give the information he sought and to give up all papers on his person; which he did cheerfully. Finding him a cowardly knave, the Duke flung him from him with disgust. Buckingham had heard, to be sure, that the maid they sought was a hostage; but whether this was true, or would lead to matters of more consequence, he had yet to learn.

Buckingham, after a few hours sleep, left Hornbys Inn, returning to the village of Crandlemar. He wore no masque this time and boldly entered the inn to refresh himself and prepare for a visit to the castle. He took little heed of the slender young man who now lay, very much drunken, upon a long bench; but ordered the best wine and sat down before a table that was already accommodating some half-dozen men. He appeared not to hear their excited whispers, and feigned preoccupation until he was quite sure his manner had been noted, then as if modesty held him, he spoke,

“Is there not in these parts a monastery upon the estates of the noble Lord Cedric of Crandlemar?” He hardly raised his eyes, so indifferently did he put the question.

“There is, sir,” one said.

“Then where hath flown my lord’s religion?”

This struck consternation upon the group; for twas certain they loved their patrons good name, even though he did forget their importunities, and this sudden thrust struck home. One whispered aside,

Perhaps tis one come to spy upon our lords intentions and take him to the Tower. At this one honest, brave man arose and leant with rustic grace across the table toward the stranger and said,

“His lordship lies ill yonder,” pointing over his shoulder toward the castle, “and we loyal subjects to his Majesty, claim the right to drive from Protestant soil the shackles of Catholic freeholds, and ’tis our intention to come upon them what say you, fellows, to-night?”

“Aye, aye!” rang from nearly a score of tongues.

“’Tis well,” said the cavalier, “for to-morrow might have been too late.”

“What might that mean, sir?”

“It means that Catholic lands and holds are sometimes confiscated and in some cases the boundary lines are not known, and some good King might send some noble lord to the Tower to search for the required limitations of his demesne.”

Every man’s hand sought a weapon and eye met eye in mutual concourse.

“To-night, then, to-night we’ll put to rout the enemy!” they cried.

The cavalier, pleased with the reception of his hint, asked for his horse.

He arrived at the castle to be most cordially received by the Duchess and Sir Julian. If Buckingham was ever unbending, it was to Sir Julian.

As they met, Buckingham bent lower than his wont to hide a guilt that was not perceptible to any one else but Julian, and the latter was not slow to note it. The Duchess, not knowing who had carried off either Constance or Mistress Penwick, was very free in her conversation and spoke at once of Lord Cedric’s injury and of the naughty beauty that had driven him to it. Buckingham’s countenance was changed by the assumed expression of either surprise or regret, as was necessary and suited.

Upon his arrival he was not allowed to see either the Duke or Cedric, and as his business called for a speedy return to London, he must leave early after supper, adding that he regretted the importunity of the hour, as it detained the king’s business with his Grace of Ellswold.

This of course changed the physicians’ minds, and Buckingham was allowed to have converse with the Duke and finished that he came to do at the castle.

But Sir Julian had somewhat to say, and ordered his horse to accompany the Duke on his return journey.

This was not unlooked for, and Buckingham, fearing no imbroglio, intended to hasten Sir Julian’s speech, as there was no time to spare. They started forth ’neath the dripping trees.

“Where is Mistress Penwick, George?”

“With her nurse, Julian.”

“And where the nurse?”

“At Hornby’s.”

“Where is Monmouth’s place of hiding her?”

“That is more, I dare say, Julian, than he knows himself.”

“How long will they remain at the inn?”

“Until I return.”

“Then ?”

“Then, London way is my desire, and I doubt not ’tis Monmouth’s also.”

“Dost love me, Duke?”

“Aye, as always. What is thy desire?”

“Canst thou keep the maid safe for thirty-six hours?” For a moment there was no answer; then calmly and cold came the word “No.”

“By God! is it so bad that you, you George, cannot take care of her?”

“’Tis the worst of all!”

“Is she safe then now now?”

“If the eye of the nurse doth not perjure its owner, I would say she was safe for all time.”

“Good

“But, Pomphrey, one would wonder at thy devotion to Cedric?”

“I loved him, first.”

“That does not say thou lovest thy second love better, eh?”

“By heaven, I love her, there thou hast it.” Buckingham gave vent to his natural inclination and laughed boldly.

“Then, follow her. We may presume she will be safe kept ’til London gives her rest and wine and finds a locker for her nurse.”

“Then my errand is finished. I will bid thee adieu.”