CHAPTER XIII

THE PRISONER

Herman's hand involuntarily closed over the dagger at his belt, but he realised his helplessness.

He could do nothing, for here, or within call, moving up or down the slope, and out on the waters, playing a pirate part, were scores of men, all armed--men whose business it was to fight, and who, if he had gone forth to make any remonstrance, would drive their swords into him, and laugh at his mad venture. They would do it as the natural act when one had the impudence or imprudence to confront scores who knew no law but what the lord of the castle cared to make.

He watched the strange scene on the river, and from where he stood, compelled to be silent, but with a feeling of dread, he saw, in the full flood of moonlight, that the armed men were in possession of the ship. On the upper deck a man's body hung over the handrail. The man was either dead or badly wounded. That was the only token that there had been resistance to these river pirates, for the sailors, unarmed, and only a handful against scores of trained fighters, had realised how futile it was to endeavour to save the ship.

The crew were driven into a corner of the deck, and held there like penned sheep by a few soldiers whose breastplates glanced in the moonlight every time they moved. They were ready to cut down any sailor who was mad enough to attempt to break away.

Herman's teeth chattered, although the night was warm, for the thought of William Tyndale's extremity sent an icy shiver down his spine. All the bold effort to get the good man away had come to naught. There was the deadly fear of what might follow, added to the bitterness of a frustrated plan and the thought that God's Word was not to reach the people of England after all.

He resolved to do whatever remained possible. He would wait and see what was done to Tyndale--where he might be placed by the robber lord. Then to his alert mind came the thought that he might even yet be able to get Tyndale away. But how, or what the way might be, only the good God could tell.

There was no sound of fighting. Instead, the laughter of the soldiers came over the waters. Their steel helmets bobbed here and there, and Herman knew that the men were searching the ship for anything in the way of booty--money or goods.

Presently the first things came in the shape of bales, possibly of silks, which were dropped over the side into the boats. Other bundles followed, but only what was of value, for these soldiers were experienced pillagers who spent their days and nights in this sort of work. They knew what things were of worth, and what the lord of the castle would be able to turn into gold. Boat-load after boat-load came to the bank, the booty was handed out to men on the bank, and the boats returned for more.

Herman was startled by a sound on his right hand, and, looking round quickly, he saw half a dozen men emerge from among the trees and stand out clear in the moonlight. He saw the newcomers' faces, and he dropped back farther into the shades of the forest, for one of them was Cochlaeus.

For a while these men gazed on the unexpected scene, and Herman, watching, saw how the face of the heretic hunter worked with passion--the fury of a man who thought he had but to overtake the ship, and ask for Tyndale, and he would have him in his power, but now discovered that the Englishman was beyond his reach.

They were near enough for Herman to hear what was said.

"Is this Schouts' place?" Cochlaeus asked, pointing towards the castle, and speaking in hoarse and passionate tones.

"Yes," said the Dean; "so that there is danger for us as well as for those who are on board the ship."

"Danger for us?" exclaimed Cochlaeus, in amazement. "Danger for me, an emissary of the Church?"

"Schouts cares no more for the Church than for the meanest man on board the _Marburg_. He has no fear for God or man."

Cochlaeus gazed at him incredulously, and when the Dean and the others drew back among the trees, he stood clear out in the moonlight and waved his clenched fists, in the impotence of his disappointment.

"Come back!" the Dean exclaimed, fearful lest this man might do something yet more rash, if he had not already betrayed their presence by his mad gestures. "You do not know this robber lord. He would flout you or the Lord Cardinal, anything and anybody that belongs to the Church, as readily as he would beat down one of his own soldiers who dared to disobey him!"

The Dean stepped forward, and, with a strong grip on the Churchman's arm, drew him away forcibly among the trees.

"I pray God we were not seen," Herman heard the Dean say.

What Cochlaeus and his companions did after that Herman could not tell, but as time went on, and he heard no sound to indicate their presence, and saw no more of them, he concluded that they had gone back.

Convinced that this was so, he watched for Tyndale, wondering whether the robber lord would only concern himself with booty and let the men on board alone.

The boats went to and fro, until the _Marburg's_ hold must have been emptied of all that was worth carrying away; and now Herman was eager to know what would follow. The man whose body had been hanging over the handrail began to revive, and he staggered over to a coil of rope on which he sat with evident pain. He was apparently waiting for the worst. The moonlight falling on the face made Herman aware that it was the captain of the ship.

Someone went to him--a tall man, clothed in the garb of a nobleman, and giving one the impression of immensity. He must have been Schouts, the predatory lord of whom the Dean had spoken. The captain lifted his face as if to answer a question, and it was crumpled and lined with pain, and ghostly in its paleness; and even while Schouts was speaking, he fell sideways, and lay on the deck like one who was dead.

The other swung round on his heel after gazing at the prostrate man for a few moments, and, tramping along the deck, moved down the ladder into the waist of the _Marburg_. Before many minutes had passed a man's loud voice rang out, and the soldiers on board began to search in obscure places for something.

Were they looking for Tyndale?

The unspoken question was answered quickly. Two men came along the lower deck, and between them walked a bearded man.

It was William Tyndale.

He did not walk cravenly, although he moved slowly and with bowed head. The soldiers, with their swords drawn, took him to Schouts, whose weapon-point rested on the deck. Something was said, although Herman heard no sound of voices, and the robber lord, turning his back on his prisoner, walked to the ship's side, the prisoner following. One by one the men came down the rope-ladder into a boat, Schouts first, then Tyndale, and after him the two soldiers. As soon as they were seated, the boat was pulled to the landing-place.

Herman hurried to the spot where he had stood for his first glimpse of the grass slope. It was in his mind that he might see Tyndale more closely, and who could tell whether, in God's mercy, something might happen whereby he might effect his escape? It was a wild hope, but he did not set it aside.

He passed the hollow where the horse stood quietly and tiredly, and reached the place just as Tyndale made his way among the heaps of pirated merchandise. There were half a score of armed retainers about him now, and the hope of rescue passed.

Looking out on the river, while Tyndale was kept standing to wait for further commands, Herman saw the sailors moving away from the spot where they had been penned in by the soldiers. He heard the sound of the winch, as they slowly raised the anchor which had been dropped on Schouts' demand, and before long the sails were bellying in the wind, and the ship moved up the stream.

A call came on the night air, and the company, of which Tyndale was the centre, began to move. He came slowly, as though he were ill, but the soldiers, apparently realising this, suited their pace to his. Schouts moved up the slope without waiting, but halted close to where Herman stood, to call back to the men to begin to carry the spoil to the castle.

Tyndale drew level with Herman's standing spot, and, scarce knowing why, the young man went in and out among the trees and bushes, anxious to watch the prisoner. It was a perilous venture, for a false step might cause him to make some sound, and the captain of Tyndale's guard, expecting an attack, might send some of his men into the forest to search. It could scarcely mean less than death if they found him, and what excuse could he make but this, that, having occasion to pass on through the forest, he had found his way barred by the soldiers? They would laugh his explanation to scorn, perhaps, and run him through with a sword or carry him to one of the dungeons in the castle.

The castle gate was reached at last. The drawbridge was already down, but the portcullis had to be raised before any of the party could pass in. Herman so stood that as the moonlight fell on the face of the prisoner he saw how he cast a wistful look around him, as though this might be the last he would ever have beneath God's open heavens. Hopelessness, too, so Herman thought, was on the tired man's face, and the traces of bitter disappointment because the work on which he had been engaged might never be completed.

When Tyndale stood at the drawbridge, waiting for it to be raised, Herman heard sounds behind him, like the stealthy movements of men, and felt alarmed for his own safety. But another idea came. Was it possible that some were approaching with the intention of attempting Tyndale's rescue? But who would be so mad when, at the clangour of the castle bell, a hundred armed men would be on the spot?

Knowing that he could not be seen, he waited to discover the meaning of these movements, and what he saw surprised him. One man took his place behind a tree not more than half a dozen yards away. Another drew away from a bush and stood beside the first comer. Others crept up from the dark shadows, but not so near, within call, but standing well out of sight.

"That is Tyndale," Herman heard one say, and the voice belonged to Cochlaeus.

The voice of the other who answered was the Dean's.

"Then if he crosses the drawbridge, and the portcullis falls, Tyndale goes out of your power. But let him go! Now that Schouts has him in his robber den he is as good as dead. God alone knows what he may do to silence him, for I count Schouts equal to anything. You have but to think of the man to know that he is barbarity personified."

Cochlaeus spoke back in low tones which vibrated with exasperation.

"What care I for that? We want this fellow, Tyndale, in our own hands. We can only feel safe to know that he is in our care, and that, when the torture he deserves is over, we shall effectually silence him. For ever!" Cochlaeus added, almost aloud, in his virulent hate of the Englishman.

He dropped into silence when the Dean spoke sharply at his rashness in speaking for a hundred ears might catch any sound in the still night.

The portcullis rose when the drawbridge dropped, and the gate was already open. A moment's pause followed, before a word came from the captain of the guard, and the soldiers, springing from inertness into full attention, moved across the bridge with their prisoner. Before many moments had passed Tyndale had gone out of sight.

There was a hollow sound of tramping on stone inside, another command, and before the footsteps died away the gate was closed with a heavy clang, and the portcullis dropped.

Tyndale was shut up in the castle. But to what? Was it to death?