Sir Ludar Part 36

Yet I came home that night ill at ease. Fresh news had arrived already that other men had been taken in the country--amongst them, certain who had been in attendance on the Scotch Queen. Yet, ask all I would, never once could I hear of Ludar by name, or of any man resembling him.

A month later we 'prentices had another holiday, this time to witness the end of that terrible business on Tyburn Hill. 'Twas a horrible sight--I would I could forget it--to see those traitors die, foul as their crime had been. Yet what sickened me the most was to think that Ludar perchance might presently follow to the same fate, if indeed he had not already shared it.

But no news came. The weeks slipped by. Men ceased to talk of Babington, and spoke rather of the coming trial of the Scotch Queen for her life. And presently a time came when they even ceased to speak of that. And all the while, never a whisper came to me of Ludar.

Now you are not to think that all this time I had forgot the message contained in the poet's letter concerning Captain Merriman and the maiden. Far from it. I haunted Whitehall after work hours in the hope of seeing or hearing something of them. But all in vain. It would have been easier to hear of Ludar, I think, than to get any news of an Irish maiden and her step-dame at Court, or of a swaggering captain.

"What is that to thee?" said most whom I asked; and others p.r.i.c.ked me out of their company with their swords.

But late in the year, chance put in my way what all my pains had failed to procure.

I remember, it was that same day that the news came to town that Mary Queen of Scots was condemned to die. London went mad with joy at the news. For our pity of the woman was swallowed up in joy that the evil destiny of our country was mastered, and that our gracious Queen was to be freed at one stroke from all her enemies. Be that as it may, we burned bonfires that night in Moorfields, and I had my mistress' leave to take Jeannette with me to see the sport. For by this time the sweet maid's lameness was nearly cured, and, like a prisoner newly uncaged, she loved to spread her wings a bit and go abroad.

Had the arm she leaned on been that of Peter Stoupe instead of mine, I wondered if she would have mended as fast as she did? I was a vain c.o.xcomb those days, and thought, no. Yet, for anything she said to me or I to her, we were still 'prentice and young mistress. Only, the duty I owed her was my great joy; and the service she had a right to claim of me, she sometimes prettily asked as a gift.

'Twas a wild, weird scene--those hundreds of citizens lit up by the fierce glare of the bonfires, whose roar mingled with the shoutings, and whose heat was less than the loyal fires which blazed in our bosoms. I could feel Jeannette's hand tighten on my arm as the rabble surged closer round; and presently, seeing her tired and frightened, I made a way for her through the crowd.

As we reached the skirts there reeled against us a drunken man who, had I not caught him in my arm, would have fallen against my young mistress and done her some hurt. He was not so drunk but that, when I set him on his feet and gave him a kick or two, he was able to stand upright and talk. And at the first word he uttered, I recognised the voice of my old acquaintance, Tom Price, the Captain's man; whom I had seen last with his master the day Alexander McDonnell fell outside Dunluce.

So dark was it away from the fire, that but for his voice I might not have known him. Certainly he, as he then was, could hardly know me.

"Patience," whispered I to Jeannette, "here is a man can give us some news. He shall not hurt you; only I must speak with him. Hold close to me."

And to guard her better, I put an arm around her, while I parleyed with the sergeant.

"Come, comrade," said I, concealing my voice as best I could, "'tis time you were in quarters. The Captain will be calling for thee."

"Captain me no captains. Stand thee still, steady--when came he--ugh?"

"He'll be here to look for thee I warrant, an thou go not home."

"Got back? what for? when came-- Harkee, comrade--keep it snug--he'll not find her--he, he! he'll not find her."

"Not he," said I, making a guess. "We know where she is, though. Eh, Tom?"

"He, he! do we! So doth that other varlet. But, keep it mum, comrade-- the wall is none too high, but my Captain may climb it."

"Ay," said I, "but he must needs find it first. Eh? That will trouble him, eh? honest Tom."

"Honest! thou art right, comrade. Ere he learn where she be I'll-- I'll--harkee, friend I like not that other varlet. What needs she with two of us? Am not I man enough? eh? thou and I, without him? By my soul, comrade, I will slay him."

"So, he is there, too, where she is?"

"Ho, he! Jack Gedge in a convent? ho, he! Ne'er such luck for him, or thee, or me; eh? ho, ho! Jack in a convent? No, but, comrade," here he took my arm and whispered, "he ne'er quitteth the city, and no man can get at her but he knows it. 'Tis a very bulldog. Hang him, comrade, hang him, I say."

"Ay, I am with you there," said I. "What right hath he to stand betwixt her and honest folk like you and me?"

"Harkee, friend. This varlet, they say, was appointed to the service by one--hang the name of him--an Irish knave that made eyes at her. You know him--"

"Ay, ay," said I. "Lubin, or Ludar, or some such name."

"Thou hast it. Ludar. Well, as I told thee, this varlet is appointed to the charge by this Lu-- Say it again, comrade."

"Ludar," said I.

"Ay, Ludar. Well, this varlet, as I--"

"And where is the villain now?"

"Why, as I told thee, dullard, he lurks in Canterbury city hard by the convent--and though 'twas I helped her there--I or thou, I forget if thou didst a.s.sist--I say, though 'twas I--or I or thou--or I and thou-- helped her there, this dog now keepeth guard like a very bulldog."

"Well," said I, trembling to have so much news, "may be he doeth no harm. The lady oweth more to thee than him."

"Ay--'twas a deft trick, spiriting her thither--and the Captain little knows 'twas honest Tom Price baulked him. Not but--harkee,"--here he whispered again--"not but the lady did not make it worth the while, eh?

I have a n.o.ble of it left still, comrade. As I told thee, the Captain knoweth naught. He! he! he hath followed her hither and thither. But, mercy on us, he'd as soon look in the Fleet Ditch as in Canterbury.

Harkee, comrade, that other varlet is a knave. Hang him, I say. 'Twas thou and I helped her there--he knew naught till--how a plague found he us out? Honest friend, I pray thee slay me this dog."

"Where in Canterbury shall I find him?" said I.

"Thou knowest a certain tavern, or inn, or hostel by the sign of the Oriflame, neighbour. Well, 'tis but a stone's-throw from the convent; and I warrant the sot will be not far away. Fetch me his head, comrade; and I vow thou shalt share my n.o.ble. Get thee gone."

That moment Jeannette gripped my arm and pointed to a figure which slouched away from us towards the fire. I got but one glimpse of him.

He may have been anyone; for the crowd was spreading fast. Yet Jeannette and I both fancied the form was like that of Peter Stoupe, whom we had already seen once in the crowd that evening.

"Poor Peter," said I, "no doubt he envies me my charge of you, Jeannette."

She disengaged herself from my arm, and put her hand on my sleeve.

"Let us begone," said she, uneasily. "I am sorry I came here."

So I left Tom Price sitting on the gra.s.s, singing to himself; and full of my great news, yet troubled at Jeannette's speech I walked with her silently homewards.

As we neared Temple Bar, I could not refrain from questioning her.

"You are silent, Jeannette?" said I.

"The better company for you," said she.

"Are you tired?"

"Yes."

"And vexed?"

"Yes."

"Because Peter--if it was Peter--saw me with my arm around thee?"