CHAPTER X

ROYE AND THE INQUISITORS

After that hearty greeting, Tyndale and Roye walked to and fro on the river-bank, so absorbed in the pleasure of their meeting that they forgot the danger of moving about in the clear moonlight. Herman, growing anxious, called to them that they were running needless risks.

"I forgot!" exclaimed Tyndale. "It was such a joy to see William Roye that everything went."

"'Twas a dangerous absent-mindedness," said Herman, almost sharply, looking round while he spoke, to make sure that none were near enough to observe them. While he did so, Tyndale hurried to the bush, followed by his companion, and they hid themselves in the shadows, with the others.

"Now, my dear Roye, explain yourself," said Tyndale, almost peremptorily, sitting on the grass in a place so dark that one could scarcely see the other. "Why did you stay away so long? I have been working feverishly and unceasingly all these weeks, and the Lord's work has tarried because I have but this one poor pair of hands to do the work of two."

"Hush, master," the response came quietly. "In some degree I am to blame, but not so much as it would appear."

Tyndale answered half reproachfully, for now that the pleasure of meeting had given place to reflection, he felt that the man for whom he had sent so urgently had failed him, and hindered his task. So many weeks had gone.

"I cannot but blame you, whatever your excuse!" he exclaimed.

"Oh, master, do not say that. Let me explain. Your letter found me, and I read it by the light of a street lamp. Perhaps it was the act of a madman, but a lad gave it to me by night when I was out walking. He dogged my steps until we were in a quiet street, and he caught up to me and whispered:

"'Are you William Roye?'

"'Yes, but why?' I asked, rather startled, for I thought I was an unknown man among strangers.

"'Then I have to give you this,' and he thrust your letter into my hand, and seemed to vanish in the darkness. I knew at once that it came from you, for I know your handwriting so well. I broke the seal and began to read, but by the time I got to the end and saw your name I was startled. I chanced to look up, and saw two black-robed figures coming towards me."

Roye stopped, and clasped his hands convulsively, as if the memory of it, even, was overwhelming.

"Were they Familiars?" asked Tyndale eagerly.

"Yes, master. Hear you me, Master Tyndale?" he exclaimed hoarsely, his voice little more than a whisper. "They were Familiars. You know what need I have to dread them, yes, and to curse them," he went on, wringing his hands, his breath catching with a sob. "Did they not, or the City Guard for them, which was all the same--did they not come to my home and take my darling Gertrude from me to that dark dungeon of theirs?

"But these men came on me unexpectedly in the street; and they came with that horrible, weird tread, almost soundless, and so the more fearful. I stood where I was, beneath the street lamp, transfixed, holding the letter in my hand, and staring at them, open-mouthed.

"They must have seen that I was desperately frightened. Oh, fool that I was! I was betraying myself to those black-souled, black-robed night-hawks, and there was the letter trembling in my hand!

"They drew level with me, and I watched, praying that they might pass on; but they did not. One spoke to the other, though I do not know what he said, and in a moment he thrust out his hand to clutch at the letter.

"In an instant I was alert. Had he got hold of it the consequences would have been terrible. They would have known where you were hiding. The address was on the letter, and that black-hearted villain, Cochlaeus, would have been on your track."

Roye stopped, and there was silence, Those who listened were spellbound, for they realised the possibilities. Those Familiars would have come straight to the door of Herman's house!

Margaret's brain reeled at the thought of what might have come to her lover and his mother. She caught at Herman's great hand convulsively, and he, travelling on the same road of thought, bent down and kissed her fingers softly.

"Go on," cried Tyndale, almost querulously, for the suspense was hard to bear. "Go on, Roye! Why do you pause and tantalise us? Who knows but that the man, Cochlaeus, may even now be at Herman Bengel's door!"

While he spoke, Tyndale drew off his cap, and wiped his face, which had gone damp with fear.

"I crave your pardon, Master Tyndale," Roye answered quickly. "I was somewhat overcome with the thoughts that are rushing through my soul. But I will tell you all.

"I stepped back when I saw the Familiar's hand come out, and I held the letter behind me. But the man followed me, saying sternly, 'Give me that paper.'

"'Tis mine!' I cried, and now I remember how my voice rang out on the night.

"I marvel at my boldness, but in those moments I thought, not of my own peril, but of the consequences to my master if I gave up the letter. I thought how your safety would be imperilled, your life, indeed, and God's work brought to a standstill."

"Go on, dear Roye," came Tyndale's urgent words, and the others seemed in their imagination almost to hear the footfall of the City Guard, and the loud knock on Herman's door, and then his mother answering it to find herself faced by Cochlaeus and the soldiers.

"'Give me that paper!' the man reiterated, and suddenly, when he came forward with a swift step, he snatched at it. But, thank God! I hindered him. The consequences, if he got it into his possession, awoke in me a boldness at which I have trembled a score of times since then. Had there been time for cold thought I might have given it to him meekly, obsessed with that unconquerable force that is behind the minions of the Inquisition. But the impulse came, and I acted on it. The menacing hand--thin and claw-like--went very near the letter. It had almost clutched it; but I lifted my own. See, Master Tyndale! Mark what my fist is like."

Roye held it out for the others to see, and as it was so stretched forth the moonlight fell on it. It was tightly clenched, and Margaret gazed at it, wondering who could stand up against a blow from it.

[Illustration: "THE FAMILIAR FELL LIKE A LOG ON THE STONES AT MY FEET"]

"I lifted my fist, Master Tyndale, and brought it down on that black mask. My whole strength went into the blow, and I heard the man gasp. His hands went up in self-protection, for I struck him again. The first blow awoke me. The second came because I thought of my darling Gertrude. I struck a third time, and he fell like a log on the stones at my feet, and lay still--dead, perhaps. I do not know.

"The second Familiar came forward with a cry of rage. He shouted to me that by daring to strike his companion I had outraged the Church, and, screaming out his words, he flung himself upon me. I still had my child in my mind, and as I stepped aside I struck at him. He staggered sideways, but recovered himself, but when he came at me again, he fell back with my blow, and lay across his fellow."

Margaret and her companions breathed more freely, for it seemed to them that the Familiars had failed to get possession of the letter; but she longed to know what happened.

"What followed then?" she asked, laying her hand on Roye's arm.

"What followed! I hurried away lest I might be seen; but as I went down the street with the letter in my hand, two other Familiars met me. The light of a street lantern fell on the white paper, and I realised that the same thing might happen here as with those other two. What should I do? If I tore it up those men might gather up the pieces, and with patience they could put them together again, and read it all. Then they would see Master Tyndale's name, and the place where he lodged.

"The Familiars were some distance away, standing beneath a swinging lamp to read the names, perhaps, on the sheet they held--the names of some poor creatures doomed to the torture chamber. I tore off my master's name, and, thrusting the piece of paper in my mouth, I ground it between my teeth and swallowed it. Then I tore out the address, and swallowed that as well. Even then I was afraid of the consequences. God alone could tell what they might have got from what was left who found it, so I turned down an alley, and in the darkness swallowed it all."

Roye stopped. Margaret laughed low in sheer relief, for now no Familiars could be at Herman's street door. Herman chuckled, while Tyndale rubbed his hands with satisfaction.

"Still I do not understand your long absence, William," he said presently. "How does it account for the weeks that have gone by without your coming to my lodgings?"

"Why, master, of course," said Roye, who seemed to have forgotten the purpose for which he was telling the story of his adventures. "I ate the letter, but in my haste I had taken no note of the address. I wanted to know what you were writing to me. I only knew the name of the city, not the name of the street."

He heard the subdued laughter of the girl at his side, but was not much disconcerted.

"A natural thing, William," said Tyndale.

"It was, master. The great thing, first of all, was to prevent discovery. Then I was confronted with a real difficulty--the task of finding you. I came at once to the city, and all through the weary days since then I have gone through and through the streets, not daring to ask for you, but hoping as well as praying that I might find you."

"I saw you!" exclaimed Margaret.

"You saw me?" the man retorted incredulously.

"Yes. Do you remember the night when the rain poured down, and you sheltered in an archway? I came while you were standing there. Had I but known!" Margaret added earnestly.

"Was it you?" asked Roye, in surprise.

"Yes, and I was even then going to the house where Master Tyndale lodged."

"If I had but known!" the man exclaimed, repeating Margaret's words. "Then, master, I had proved my loyalty to you and your great work, and my honest wish to serve you."

Tyndale did not answer, for something came looming out of the darkness, when a heavy cloud had cast dark shadows on the river--the form of a slowly moving ship. She slid out into the moonlight, and as she took clear shape, Herman knew her by the peculiar figurehead at her bows.

"'Tis the _Marburg_!" he exclaimed.

Hurrying to the bank, and taking great risk while doing so, he sent a plaintive and monotonous owl note travelling through the air. He did it again and again until a man in the ship's bows held up his hand by way of answer to the call, and disappeared.

Before long a boat came noiselessly, the oars being muffled, and presently she struck her nose against the bank.

"Is Master Tyndale ready?"

The question came cautiously from a man in the boat's stern. Happily the clouds had again gathered, and none, had any been watching, could have seen Tyndale step from among the bushes and make his way to the bank.

"I am here. Are you not very late?"

"A bit," was the sturdy, but whispered answer. "It couldn't be helped. That fellow, Cochlaeus, has been prowling about the harbour for the last three hours, and, not content with asking who was on board any of the ships that meant to leave to-night, he went aboard every one of them, and rummaged about in the cabins and down the holds, tapping everywhere where there was a possible place for a man to hide in. The _Marburg_ came in for special attention."

Tyndale stood on the bank and listened, and the moonlight, playing on his face, revealed the intensity of his anxiety.

"Did he find anything? Was he suspicious about those precious bundles?" he asked.

"No, master; his whole aim was to lay those long lean fingers of his on flesh and blood. And something laughable happened, although some of us sweated with anxiety at first. Cochlaeus got down into the hold, where there were some casks, and these he tapped with his staff, as he tapped every mortal thing there was. Some of them sounded hollow, and he turned them over, but when he came to one and turned that on its side, a man sprawled out."

Cochlaeus caught at him.

"'Ha! Master Tyndale, I have you at last!' he cried jubilantly, but a moment later he screamed aloud. It was Heinrich, the simple lad in the city, who, for some freak, had stolen on board to have a free ride up the river, and hid himself thus, that none should know.

"He was frightened when he saw that it was Cochlaeus who had gripped him, and in his frenzy of fear he snapped at the hand of the heretic hunter, closing his teeth upon the long bony fingers, making him scream with pain. But Heinrich would not let go. Not he! He seemed to take a delight in making the Deacon of the Church of the Blessed Virgin dance about, and he bit the harder. Ah! how he bit! and some of the sailors laughed till the tears came, hoping that the simple lad would bite the harder, to part repay the brute for the sorrow and pain he had caused to so many who had come into his power.

"When the Captain came, wondering what the laughter and the screams meant, he persuaded the boy to loosen his teeth; but not until he had clenched his teeth for a final bite.

"'I'll bite harder if ever he lays hands on me again!' Heinrich cried, looking at the Churchman, and there was a mad light in his eyes."

The sailor dropped his laughter, and became serious.

"Poor lad," he muttered. "And yet I am glad he showed his teeth to that fierce tormentor, and made him think, perhaps, of the poor girls, and the mothers, and the men he has tormented in those ghastly cellars of the Holy Houses. But come, Master Tyndale. The ship is moving down the stream, and will not wait for us."

Tyndale stepped into the boat, dropping his wallet at his feet before he sank on the seat.

"Come, William," he said to Roye, whose foot was on the gunwale.

"Nay, William, if that is what they call you," said the sailor, holding up a refusing hand. "I only take Master Tyndale."

"But you must take him, friend!" exclaimed Tyndale, bending forward eagerly. "'Tis William Roye, my amanuensis, and if he does not come with me my work will be greatly hindered."

"Then in Christ's name, good man, come and be welcome. All who have a hand in spreading God's truth may have a place on board the _Marburg_, and I know the Captain will approve."

A few moments more and the boat shot away from the bank into the stream, and was lost in the darkness, which was providential when so many eyes might be prying into the doings of the night. For the clear shining moon had gone behind some dense clouds and shrouded the river and the meadows and the city near by in blackness.