Part 21 (1/2)
After a little, Sir Cedric, acting as our leader, sent word to the Abbot whom we had not yet seen, that here was a group of a score and more of palmers who now paid their first visit to the far-renowned Abbey of Moberley and who wished to have speech with the reverend master of the house ere they departed. This message, with its accompanying compliments, accomplished its intent; and soon William De Bellair, in all the robes of his office, entered the hall from an inner door and seated himself in his great chair on the dais.
If ever the character and history of a man were written on his face, 'twas so with the false Abbot of Moberley. My gorge rose within me at the sight of his red and bloated countenance that told so plainly of a life the very opposite of that led by a true monk and churchman. His mean and s.h.i.+fty little gray eyes were all but covered with folds and wrinkles of fat, yet quite sufficiently revealed a nature compounded of fox and pig. De Bellair was one of a group of dissolute Frenchmen who had won the favor of the King and the hatred of true Englishmen by supporting our lawless and grasping sovereign in all his schemes for the seizure of power and wealth. It was against them nearly as much as the King that our banner of revolt had been raised; and in our Articles of Stamford we had already named a half dozen of the worst of them who must be deprived of all offices and banished from the Kingdom. 'Twas no blame to the Church that such miscreants profaned some of her holy offices. In defiance of her rights of ancient usage, they had been thrust by their royal master into the places they disgraced, oftentimes in reward for services which would not bear recording.
”Reverend Father,” said Cedric, bowing low, ”we congratulate ourselves upon our visit to this ancient and honorable abbey; and we have here some gifts and tokens to bestow upon thee as the head of this worthy brotherhood.”
De Bellair bowed deeply in acknowledgment of this greeting. When he raised his head again, what was his amaze and horror to find that he that had addressed him so respectfully had sprung upon the dais, pulled from his shoulders the palmer's cloak, and now rushed upon him as a hound upon his quarry. In an instant the long gray robe was flung o'er the Abbot's head and arms, and despite his struggles and cries a rope was speedily bound about his middle, pinioning his hands to his sides.
Then he was lifted bodily and hurried toward the courtyard door. Some of the monks set up a hideous outcry, and one or two sought to intercept those who carried the bound and struggling Abbot; but where they thought to deal with unarmed pilgrims, they found themselves confronted with two and twenty stout fellows each of whom had drawn from beneath his flowing cloak a short-bladed sword and flourished it in most menacing way. They fell back before us, overawed, and understanding nothing of what had pa.s.sed. Only one of the monastery people did preserve his wits at this amazing juncture, and this an acolyte youth of sixteen years. Slipping out of the hall and through the rear of the Abbey, he ran, as we afterwards learned to our cost, with might and main to take the news of this mad foray to the castle's governor.
In the outer yard we spent some time in adjusting more firmly our captive's bonds and in cutting slits through the cloak that bound his head so as to allow him to breathe but nowise to see and scarcely to make himself heard with calls for help. Then hoisting him with difficulty (for he was a gross, fat man) upon a stout charger whereon one of our own men rode behind him, we turned away from the Abbey and rode at such speed as we might on the road by which we came.
Our progress was slow at the first, for our prisoner sat most unevenly in his bonds; and we had no mind to let him fall by the way. And we had no more than fairly set out on the road when he began to shout and halloo in such wise that d.i.c.kon o' the Wallfield, who rode behind him, was fain to bring him to understanding of his hopeless plight by a sharp p.r.i.c.k from his poniard's point. Thereafter he was silent; and we made better way; but withal most precious time had been lost. The night had already fallen, and with another quarter hour we might have won safely away. But as we approached the fork of the road we heard a thunder of hoofs coming from the castle. The riders were nearer the joining than we, and ere we could gain the bridge we heard their horses upon it and knew that Sir John Champney's men were drawing up in battle array to meet us. As we surmised even then, Sir John had divided the force that he so hastily summoned to punish the supposed outlaws who seized the Abbot for a ransom, and had sent one party straight to the Abbey and led the other to this point to intercept us.
In the light from the great moon now rising, we could see that their numbers were more than twice our own. They were variously armed, as was to be expected with men who had been so abruptly summoned forth; but there were lances and steel caps enow and some had coats of mail. We sorely wished for the good broadswords we left behind at Stamford or the cross-bows with which a dozen of our party were so skilled. But now was not time for hesitation or for choosing of courses. Well we knew that in a trice the other party, riding from the Abbey gates, would be on our track and we would be taken in front and rear. With a mighty shout we rode down upon the bridge, trusting all to the darkness and the fury of our attack.
In a moment we were in the midst of a b.l.o.o.d.y melee on the bridge. Our men thrust back their hampering robes, and hewed and slashed with deadly effect; but those opposing us were no weaklings nor novices in war. Sir John Champney slew two of our men with downright broadsword strokes and another was pierced through throat by a lance. I rode in a closer press of fighting than I had seen since the Battle of the Pa.s.s; and once or twice was near beaten from my horse, though some of those that rained their blows on me fared worse indeed. Then Cedric came face to face with Sir John Champney, received a broadsword stroke on his uplifted, mail-clad arm, and countered with a blow that sent his enemy to earth.
Instantly the cry arose that Sir John was slain. Most of his followers were French and Flemish mercenaries; and now they melted away before us, fleeing to the fields on either side of the bridge or leaping to the shallow waters below. We paused long enough to learn that our men who had fallen were past all help; then rode forward at a gallop up the moon-lighted way, with our prisoner still safely bound and in our midst.
By the eleventh hour we entered again the wood where we had transformed ourselves to palmers; and 'twas the work of but a moment to change us back to knights and men-at-arms. By midnight we were safely in the town and had our prisoner properly bestowed. Then Cedric and I parted for the night,-I to go to my bed, and he, as the morrow showed, to labor by candle-light all through the hours of darkness.
At nine the next morning I was by appointment at Cedric's lodging, and found that he had just despatched a messenger to the true Abbot of Moberley with an urgent request that he come at once since most important news awaited him from the Abbey itself. This message speedily accomplished its object, and the Abbot, standing not on ceremony, came hurrying to the lodgings.
[Ill.u.s.tration: _WITH A MIGHTY SHOUT, WE RODE DOWN UPON THE BRIDGE, TRUSTING ALL TO THE DARKNESS AND THE FURY OF OUR ATTACK_]
We greeted him most courteously, and, when our guest was duly and comfortably seated, Cedric stated that riders had come in from Moberley the night before with the news of a most surprising happening. A band of a score or more of pilgrims returning from the Holy Land had entered the Abbey, and, doubtless being wroth at William De Bellair because he had forsworn himself by abandoning his vow to go an Crusade for the recovery of the Holy Sepulcher, had seized and bound him, and, overawing the monastery with weapons, had carried him away by force.
The Abbot listened to this tale of violence with sparkling eyes and with no hint of censure for those who had so roughly laid hands upon a cleric dignitary. When it was finished, indeed, he could scarce restrain his glee. Rising and smiting the table roundly with his hand, he cried:
”Ha! Well served! Well served indeed, for a creature that calls himself monk and abbot, forsooth, when profit is that way to be gained but who forgets all monkish obligations when a layman's way of living better serves him! The palmers are right indeed, and I devoutly hope they may keep him for aye as far from Moberley Abbey as his conduct hath ever been from that of a true churchman.”
Cedric then resumed, in slow and measured voice:
”It so happens, Reverend Abbot, that I have several friends among these palmers, and to some extent they rely on me for advice in this matter.”
”Ah! Is it so indeed?” questioned the Abbot, eagerly. ”Then I trust that thou, as a true friend of the Church and her rightful servitors, hast given advice to hold this fellow they have taken-at least till the King be brought to terms and our brotherhoods be free again to fill their offices without dictation.”
Cedric slowly shook his head.
”Nay, my advice has not yet been given. 'Twill require some further meditation to be sure that 'tis wisely bestowed. But, Reverend Abbot, if thou wilt but climb the stair that I shall show thee here and apply thine eye to a hole in the wall at the right, near the top, I warrant thee a sight well worth thy pains.”
So saying, Cedric rose and throwing open a small door at the rear of the room, indicated a dim and curving staircase that rose beyond it. The Abbot, after a searching glance at his host as though he feared some stratagem, quickly mounted, looking eagerly the while for the eye-hole in the wall. Both of us remained below; and Cedric, turning to a cabinet withdrew from it and placed upon the table a huge scroll of many sheets of freshly-written parchment.
A moment later, the churchman returned with brightly glowing face and twinkling eyes, and when the stairway door was closed again, exclaimed:
”Sir Cedric De La Roche, thou'rt a true friend to the Church, and thy services shall be well remembered. 'Tis William De Bellair, beyond all doubt, who sits in yonder inner room, and 'tis two archers of Grimsby who guard him. Full well do I know who led that band of palmers; and I say again thy fortunes shall not suffer for it.”
Cedric bowed and smiled.